Page 26 of Synced to Us

“Jesus, you’re good.”

Her bright eyes—how the fuck are they so glittery at night?—snap to mine. “What?”

“I mean, this whole thing.” I motion up and down her form. “You’ve snapped together like a thumb puppet.”

“A…what?”

Okay, now I feel like an idiot. “Didn’t you have those little wooden toys as a kid? Little puppets on circular bases where you press a spring-loaded bottom and the legs collapse, then you release, and the animal comes back together perfectly again.”

A litany of emotions flicker behind her eerily expressive eyes as she takes stock of my explanation. None of them seem good. Her answer doesn’t match her features when she says lightly, “You’ve dated yourself. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Dude, I’m a nineties kid just like you. My grandpa used to make them for me. You’ve missed out. I bet I have a few lying around this place to show you, not that you have any interest in old toys.”

“Actually, I do.” This time, the curve to her lips is genuine. “I’d like to see it in person, since you’ve now compared me to a wooden animal that falls apart on command.”

“That’s not what I…I’m only saying you’ve cleaned up nice, considering.”

Worse. I’ve made it worse.

I cover up my blunder by turning back to the truck.

Pretty sure I hear her laugh under her breath, too.

“Let me get the other bag,” she says.

Dee moves to my side.

“Don’t. I got it.” I don’t mean for the statement to come out pissy, but, of course, it does.

Dee retreats, holding her hands up. “Have at it.”

She waits for me to heave bag number two on the ground, then reaches for one of the handles, and drags it along with her to the house. Dee’s steps are surprisingly assured as she navigates the erosion of the driveway—one hundred percent due to the talent she acquired from strolling down NYC sidewalks, a feat that didn’t transfer to descending subway stairs—but I grimace at her every step.

Ma’s drive needs tending. Desperately.

Dee stops short of the steps, and then lifts huge bag to the top of the patio—another feat of NYC I’d neglected to consider existed in her.

Jogging up the drive with the rest of her life’s clothing, I meet her at the front door.

She places her hands on her hips and inclines her head, her eyes growing mischievous when they meet mine. “Ready when you are.”

“I’m never prepared for this shit,” I say on an exhale. “Uh, before we go in…”

The playfulness fades from Dee’s face. I’m already feeling like an idiot on so many levels with this chick, but sucking the brief spurt of humor from her like a succubus? Not my finest moment.

Dee folds her arms across her chest. Waiting.

My eyes dart to hers, but I decide picking at the chipping paint around the doorframe is more prudent. “If you could refrain from telling my family what you are, I’d appreciate it.”

I swear the night sky of her irises loses stars. She answers quietly, “Sure. No problem. Though I haven’t put a label on it for a long while.”

“Good.” I clear my throat, unable to put to words why I need her to hide who she is when we’re already playing theater together, but Ma can’t know she plays with people’s money like Russian roulette. Not yet. “Thanks.”

I crack the screen door open, the hinges screaming for mercy as Dee saunters inside.

10

Dee

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