Page 21 of Stealing Sunshine

BRYCE

My parents hate my car.They’d prefer I drive a gas-guzzling SUV with bulletproof windows and tires meant to handle rough-as-fuck terrain than a small electric one. Being protective and judgmental are their love languages. I pieced that together when I was just a kid and have been rebelling since. Purchasing a small black car that would most likely crunch like a hard tortilla shell in a collision drove them mad, and I like watching them sweat a bit. I’m pretty surethatis my love language.

When I pull up along the curb outside my house, I linger longer than necessary just to avoid joining the people I know are already inside. The old truck in front of my car is Johnny’s, and the dainty blue one across the street I recognize instantly as Daisy’s, but I don’t know the vehicle in front of it. Or understand how someone could be blind enough to park in front of a bright red fire hydrant. It’ll get towed if an RC sees it, but it’s not my business.

It’s unsettling having so many people at my place while I’m not there, but I can either get used to it now or let it eat me up inside.

Fuck it.

I get out of the car and lock it twice before slugging my wayup the sidewalk. The front door is unlocked when I turn the handle and push my way in.

“Maybe you could ask her to give me a free tattoo. She gave Poppy one, but when I asked, she told me to stop talking,” Johnny shouts, his voice slightly muted, as if he’s in one of the rooms down the hall.

I don’t see anyone as I shut the door and kick off my boots, so my muscles loosen slightly. There aren’t a bunch of boxes all over, and from what I can tell, all of my things are still in their rightful place. My black couch doesn’t have any colourful throw pillows on it, and the skull-shaped candle I impulse ordered online the other night is still on the fireplace mantel.

Wandering into the kitchen, I search the counters for anything new, but they’re bare of anything besides a fruit bowl with a single banana inside. Curiosity fills me as I leave the kitchen and start down the hall toward the mix of voices.

“You’re not unpacking my clothes, Johnny.”

“Why? I’m just trying to help.”

“Go put my tampons beneath the sink, then.”

A heavy sigh. “Fine.”

I wait in the hallway, a few feet from the open bedroom door. There’s a slam of a cabinet, and then a voice that doesn’t belong to either Daisy or her brother appears.

“Am I allowed to help with your clothes, or am I on tampon duty too?”

Kristen Newberry, Daisy’s best friend, isn’t someone I’m very knowledgeable of, but I still recognize her voice. I’ve heard it around the diner and at Johnny’s family barbeques that I’m always brought to.

She’s a stranger in my home, but then again, isn’t Daisy one as well?

With a stretch of my neck, I walk into the spare room and get my first look at the people there. Kristen’s the first I see. She’s stretched out on the bed, wrinkling the comforter I washed lastnight. Two suitcases are beside her, but only one is open, exposing the clothes inside.

It’s damn near impossible to keep my eyes from snapping to the pile of hot pink panties and nude bras inside the left of the suitcase. They’re just there. Obvious and free for everyone to see.

I clear my throat and look at Daisy when she swings around from her place in front of the dresser. Her smile is wide and genuine, and I swallow twice.

“Hi, Bryce!”

I swallow again. “Is the room fine?”

“It’s great. I wasn’t expecting it to be so spacious,” she says.

“Yeah. The place is pretty big.”

“Jeez, Brycie. Why are you still wearin’ that? You’re scaring me,” Johnny states, exiting the ensuite bathroom.

Daisy looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Johnny! That’s so rude.”

“It’s true,” I mutter.

The high-collared button-down blouse and pencil skirt that falls to my ankles feel like a prison jumpsuit more than a work uniform. Every day, it seems to grow harder and harder not to rip them off and burn them in a field.

“The clothes look uncomfortable.” Daisy slides the dresser drawer shut and moves closer.

Kristen stares at me, a subtle, calculating gleam in her eyes. It’s not enough to annoy me, so I let it be. If she’s anything like me, she’s trying to send a warning in regards to her best friend.

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