Page 65 of Paging Dr. Summers

“It’s just, Papi is worried that we fell in love too young and that Alejandro ...,” she hesitated to go on.

“Doesn’t make enough money?” I guessed.

Lola cringed. “That sounds so terrible, but kind of, I think. Papi’s parents are very strict and judgmental. I don’t love being around them. Papi has tried not to be like them. I don’t think he likes how he grew up, but he would never say that. He’s grateful his parents gave him such a good life. I think he just wants to make sure I will continue to have the kind of life I’m used to.”

I looked around her closet, realizing it was half the size of my entire apartment. “It would be hard to give this up.”

“I would for Alejandro,” she whispered. “But Alejandro feels guilty about it. Like he’s not worthy or something.” The ache in her voice was apparent. “Of course, I don’t feel that way. Alejandro is such a hard worker. His family’s concrete business is successful, but they aren’t Ivy League graduates like all the Harringtons are expected to be. Most of Alejandro’s family didn’t even go to college. There’s nothing wrong with that,” she made sure to say. “But Papi’s parents wouldn’t agree.”

“They wouldn’t like me, then.” I giggled, even though I felt awful for Lola and even a little ridiculous myself. It confirmed my suspicions that Maxwell didn’t want some unemployed lowlife hanging out with his daughter.

It made me question whether or not I should go through with the interview. Maybe Logan was right. There was a cost associated with his help—my dignity, knowing that he’d only helped me because he didn’t think I was good enough to be friends with Lola. But was I seriously going to throw away an opportunity like this? Did I just need to swallow my pride?

“It would be their loss,” Lola grumbled. “Besides, I don’t care what my grandparents think.”

Suddenly, I felt like I wanted to go home and talk to Logan. I grabbed my stomach. “I’m feeling a little funny. Would you mind if I came back later to try on the clothes?”

“Oh, chica.” Lola jumped up. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

“You’re sweet. I’m sure it’s something that will pass quickly.” At least I hoped it would. I really didn’t want to miss this opportunity, but I wasn’t sure if I could live with myself. I had to talk to someone not related to Maxwell about this.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, standing up slowly. I felt bad putting on a sick act. But I was ill about all of this, so I wasn’t really lying.

Lola walked me out of her room and down the hall lined with stylized black-and-white photos of her gorgeous family. Mom and I had never had professional photos taken. But I loved the ones of us together from her old Polaroid camera. I had them all in an album.

Knowing what snobs Maxwell and his parents were, I was surprised he’d ever liked my mom’s band. They weren’t exactly classy. The fact that he still listened to them was shocking, I thought as we passed his office. But it reminded me ...

“Hey, would it be weird if I took some pictures of the Roxannes concert posters and articles your dad has? I want to show them to Logan.” And who knew if I would visit this house again. I would continue my friendship with Lola, of course, but if I declined the interview, I had a feeling Maxwell wouldn’t want me to come around any longer.

“Are you going to ask the doctor to make a house call tonight?” She playfully nudged me. “I’m sure he’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

He definitely had that effect. “I’m sure he will.” I tried to sound cheerful about that prospect, but I was sure it had come out flat. The looming decisions and consequences hanging over me had me feeling, well, ill.

Lola tried to enter her dad’s office. “That’s weird. He hardly ever locks this door. And it’s pointless, anyway. I’ve known how to break in since I was six. This was where my parents hid all my Christmas andbirthday presents. I always peeked,” she admitted with no remorse while she pulled a bobby pin out of her hair.

“Are you sure you should do this?” It felt wrong to break into her dad’s office, especially knowing he probably thought I was a miscreant or something.

She waved away my concern. “He probably didn’t mean to lock it.”

I didn’t know how you accidentally locked a door, but before I could say another word, Lola had that baby open. Color me impressed.

“Go on in.” Lola gestured toward the French doors.

I tiptoed in, feeling guilty and worried about what I might see. What if Camila had just given him some boudoir photos or something and that was why he’d locked the door? That could scar Lola, and it wasn’t exactly anything I wanted to see either. Worse, what if they had some boudoir photos done together? Please no.

Mr. Harrington’s expensive cologne lingered in the air as if he’d been there recently. Did that mean he was still home? I’d seen him briefly when I’d arrived. It made me feel more nervous being inside his office.

I glanced around to see if I could find what I was looking for. Oddly, his otherwise tidy mahogany desk held the posters and articles I was looking for, strewn across it as if he had been looking at them and had to hastily exit. Additional posters from other venues the Roxannes had played around the country piqued my interest. Why hadn’t he included these when he’d shown me the rest of his collection?

“I’m checking his closet just in case,” Lola joked. “Maybe they got me an early birthday present.”

I laughed while I pulled my phone out of my bag to snap some pictures. While I rearranged the posters and articles, something beneath them caught my eye. I found a manila envelope with a few letters spilling out. I was going to ignore them, as it was none of my business, except handwriting I would recognize anywhere caught my eye, and it quickly became my business.

I inched a few of the envelopes out of the enclosure, just enough to confirm that my mother’s hand had penned Maxwell’s name and address on each letter. Huh. Maxwell had never mentioned they were pen pals. Maybe it was like a fan club thing. Or ... maybe not.

I inched the letters out farther, exposing a Polaroid photo of a baby—me wrapped in my favorite pink floral blanket I’d slept with until I was seven years old. Mom had washed it so many times it had literally fallen apart. Why would my mother send Maxwell a photo of me?

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