Page 158 of Between the Lines

Aiden smiles, eyes still on the screen. “I’m still on the first page.”

“Your poker face is too good.”

“It’s interesting,” he says. “It’s very interesting.”

I roll my eyes and fall back on the couch. “That’s aterribleword. It could mean anything.”

“Shhh,” he says gently. “I’m reading.”

I have bugs crawling under my skin. The pitch is something I’ve worked on for days, in between finalizing most of the chapters for Aiden’s memoir. My plan is to get the pitch to Vera in a few weeks. If it’s good enough.

If I think I can go through with actually writing it. Which is still a bigif. Right now, I can’t imagine putting it out into the world, but… maybe I can find the courage.

My phone rings. It jolts me off the couch and toward where it’s lying on the end table. Next to empty boxes of Chinese.

“Shit.”

“Who is it?” Aiden asks. He’s still sprawled on the couch.

I rise and race down the hall to my bedroom. “My parents! I forgot we arranged to have a call tonight.”

There’s silence from the couch. I sit down on my bed and hit the answer button on my phone. And shit, I should have closed the door so Aiden won’t be bothered.

My parents’ faces fill the screen. They’re a bit too close to the lens, Mom’s reading glasses take up half the image. Dad’s looking concerned. But then my camera must have finally connected, because they both smile.

“Honey!” Mom says.

“You’re looking tan.”

“You’re not forgetting sunscreen, are you?”

“No, no, I’m wearing it every day.” I smile at them. “How are you guys?”

They tell me about life in Elmhurst and fill me in on Dad’s ongoing feud with their neighbor. This time, it’s about the placement of a fence.

“Riveting,” I say after a few minutes.

Mom laughs and nudges Dad. He rolls his eyes. “It’s about common decency, which is in sharp decline these days.”

“You sound like one of thoseit was better in the good old daysgeezers,” I tell him with a smile. Every time we chat,I’m reminded of how much I miss them. They’re closing in on retirement age, and I know they have plans to travel. I can’t wait to see them flourish.

“No, I know that’s factually incorrect,” Dad says. “But it’s true that fifteen years ago, Dave would never have pulled this fence stunt. He knew better?—”

“John,” my mom says with a laugh. “I love you, but I wanna hear what Charlie’s been up to. How are you, sweetheart?” She leans closer to the screen. “You’re somewhere else. Doesn’t look like your apartment.”

Panic races through me, and I remember that I’m wearing his shirt. Aiden’s shirt.

“Yes, I’m not home,” I say. My voice comes out perfectly calm and placid. I hope. It takes effort not to glance past my phone to the hallway. Is Aiden still on the couch, just steps away? He’d hear all of this if he is.

Mom wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh? Have you met someone nice in Los Angeles?”

The moment hangs in the air. I could go either way. Tell them I’m living in the house belonging to the memoir subject, or admit I’m staying over at a friends.

The first option dances on my tongue.

But it’s only a matter of time before they’ll learn justwhoI’m writing the memoir about. They’re not going to like it. And even less when they realize I’ve stayed in his home.

For a split second, I want to hang up the phone.

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