Everyone in the small town of Hull knows two things. One: Jill Williams doesn't date, and two: Carson Blue is addicted to drugs.
When Carson decides to clean up his act and apply at Jill's family restaurant, she's less than enthused. Between school...
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"JILL, DID YOU finish cleaning the rooms?" Mom sweeps the last speck of dust from the bookshelf with a microfiber cloth. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I throw some laundry into the hamper. The AC rattles in the window, but the cool air is as effective as a desktop fan in this heat. Who knew adding an extra body to our home would raise the temperature so much.
"Yes, Mom," I say. "Everything's spotless. Nolan even cleaned his own room."
"Good, good. Nolan, you should come out here too. Our caseworker will be here any second."
Since Colleen went to rehab in Lexington, paid for by some of the money Grandma left behind, Mom was given temporary custody of Nolan. Full custody is her goal, but the judge wants validation from a 'licensed official' on whether or not this is a safe home environment for him, especially after what the caseworker saw of Colleen's place before. So as of today, this'll be our second inspection in two weeks. All I have to say is: thank God for Carson. He's still down there finishing the Sunday shift, and he didn't have a single complaint when I said I had to leave early. On top of that, he's upped his guitar lessons for Nolan ever since the accident.
We haven't talked about the almost-kiss in the kitchen before the crash. Like, at all. But I'm okay with that for now.
Mom ditches the cleaning and joins the two of us by the front door.
"How should I act?" Nolan asks.
"You don't have to act," Mom says. "You're happy here, right?"
He nods.
"Good. Then be honest. Be yourself."
Three sharp raps at the door make us flinch. Mom takes a deep breath, forces a smile, and whips it open. I straighten up like a soldier, as if Belinda—a woman who can't be taller than 5'2—is my drill sergeant. With a mess of scarves around her neck despite the growing heat outside, she shoves past the door, face flushed like Mrs. Claus.
"Hello, young man," she says to my cousin, not glancing at Mom or me.
Nolan blinks. "Hi."
Same as last time, Belinda drops an oversized bag filled with random files and folders on the floor and glances around with judgement in her eyes. I get it, it's her job. But I can't help but take it personally when she raises her nose at our things. She nearly trips over the end table on her way into the living room.
The investigation follows the same procedure as before: Belinda peeks around at everything, asks us a mess of questions about our lives and financial situation, then talks to each of us alone. Mom and I go into my bedroom while she interviews Nolan, but we can hear all of it. She asks about school, if he's happy, well fed, sleeping okay. He tells her he'd rather be here than anywhere else. She says that's great, but her tone is clipped with uncertainty.
Belinda asks for me next. I'm on the couch as she jots things down on a notepad from the wicker chair across from me, and I feel like I'm under arrest. I check my dry, unclipped nails. Crap, I don't look that presentable, but I couldn't sleep last night and I worked all day. What if I say the wrong—
