Page 26 of Sinners Atone
“Yes, boss.”
I rake my fingers through my bangs, then wiggle down the hemline of my dress. Though always polite and pleasant, Angelo is a man of few words, and I bite back the urge to fill the comfortable silence with a barrage of vapid questions.Am I heavy? Cute suit, where’s it from? Sooo, are you nervous about tomorrow?
Instead, I readjust my position on his hip and squint out into the depths of the parking lot, looking for my uncle.
Taxis arrive in a slow-moving conveyor belt, then peel off into the night with slumped silhouettes pressed up against their windows. A few feet from the veranda, a group of girls nurse empty champagne flutes and puff on cigarettes, desperate to stretch the night out a little longer.
I look beyond it all to the tree branches rustling against the black sky. A gust of wind brings thehissof a striking match past my ear, and I shiver.
“You’re cold. Rory’s got my jacket. I’ll get you another.” Angelo glances to the left and gives a curt chin jerk to someone in the shadows.
“No need.”
Despite my bare legs and the fact the heat lamps switched off a while ago, I’m far from cold. I’m hot, itchy, antsy, and riled up by the exchange I had earlier with Angelo’s rude-ass brother. For a moment, I consider telling him about it. I wouldn’t have to mention our previous encounter, just that I tried to introduce myself and was immediately threatened. But that feels like snitching, and besides, I don’t want to cause any family drama the night before his big day.
When Angelo jerks his chin again, it’s at Uncle Finn.
He strides through the parking lot toward us, two fingers looped into the heels of a pair of pink sneakers. His gaze drops to my socks and fills with disapproval.
“You’re too nice, Wren.”
My jaw tightens. He sounds like Tayce. But I keep my mouth shut. He’s done me a solid by bringing me vomit-free footwear at this time of night. I grip onto Angelo’s arm for balance, and stuff my feet into my running shoes. He makes pleasantries with Uncle Finn above my head before touching me lightly on the shoulder.
“You know I’m going to ask.”
My smile wobbles. “And you know I will politely decline. Thanks for the offer though.”
In the few months he’s lived on the coast, I can’t count how many times he’s offered me a ride.
My answer is always the same.
He nods and wishes us a good evening. We wish him good luck for tomorrow, then he strides toward a waiting car on the far side of the parking lot.
Uncle Finn’s eyes burn into the side of my cheek.
I know what’s coming. It always comes.
“Next September is going to come around quicker than you think, you know.”
Of course I know. How can Inotknow? This September hit me like a lightning-speed slap, and so did the one before it. These next ten months will peel away like steamed wallpaper, and I’ve run out of excuses.
Now I’m hot and itchy for a different reason, so time for a change of subject.
“You look nice.” I pass him my SOS bag, now weighed down by my smelly boots, and cast an eye over his wool coat. His shoulders tense, then he tightens the scarf around his neck.
But it’s too late. I’ve already seen the cashmere sweater underneath.
“Hmm. You lookreallynice,” I say, eyes narrowing. I lean in, sniffing him like a curious dog. “You smell nice too. Where have you been?”
“Don’t change the subject. When are you going to start driving again?”
We fall in step to cut across the parking lot. “Don’t change the subject by tellingmenot to change the subject. Where have you been?”
He side-eyes me over the rim of his designer spectacles. “In my workshop, measuring up some biscuit joints for my latest commission. Passing the time until my favorite niece finishes partying, because sheinsistson risking her life by walking the forty-five-minute journey home down a dark, scary road instead of driving.”
I laugh, not because I’m hisonlyniece, but because he’s lying. He’s been at the Devil’s Hollow Country Club playing chess and eating caviar on fancy little crackers.
Finnegan Harlow is often mistaken for my father, and not just because he scolds me like one. We share the same sun-yellow hair, deep-blue eyes, and wide smile—although you wouldn’t know he was capable of smiling most of the time. Even with the perma-frown denting his brow, he looks nowhere near his forty-eight years, which I guess is why he gets away with telling anyone who asks that he’s forty-two.
