Page 82 of The Best Kind of Bad

June wears on. Easy summer days filled with baseball and soft breezes give way to heat.

Energy-zapping, soul-sucking heat.

I cross the yard, wishing for rain or a stiff breeze, anything.

A cold drink will have to do. I can get something from the barn. Or from the gas station, for that matter. But then I wouldn’t get to see Marnie.

I’ve seen her passing back and forth by the kitchen window for a few hours now. Whatever she’s doing, it’s keeping her pretty busy.

I push the screen door open and step inside, feet slowing when I take in the sight of the chaos Marnie has sewn. Paper litters every surface. I can see the legal boxes the papers came from. What I can’t understand is how three little boxes produced that much paper.

“What are we doing in here?” I cross to the fridge, trying to gauge her mood. From a distance, I’d best described it as flammable.

“Dying slowly inside.” She threads her fingers through her hair and leans her elbows on the table, heedless of the piles of paper she’s scattering.

I pull a pitcher of black tea out of the fridge, smiling at the sprig of lavender floating around in it. For the past few days, lavender has been as ubiquitous as salt around here. She’s been putting it in everything.

I didn’t care for her Provençal chicken, which is a secret I will take to my grave. Lavender and meat have no business co-mingling. But the honey and chocolate tart she made was life-changing.

I sit at the table next to her, my muscles practically sigh with relief. That ACL injury has started to bother me again. The town loved comparing me to Runner. I was halfway through the football season, senior year, one more touchdown away from beating my old man’s record. And boom. ACL tear. Not only did it rob me of that title, it now dogs me into my twenties. Heaping insult on injury.

She filters through the papers, finding one in particular, and hands it over to me. Slumping back in her seat, those golden eyes settle on my face.

“What’s this?” I scan the page. It’s some sort of medical record. I’ve always struggled a little with forms like this. My eyes want to skip all over the page, jumble the letters. I readTEST RESULT: POSandPREGNANCY TEST CONSENT FORM. My first thought is that Marnie is pregnant. And that does weird things to me. Silly, prideful joy starts to radiate through my chest. Until my eyes land on the name.NAOMI NOVAK

I look up at Marnie. “What’s this?”

“She was pregnant.”

I realize Marnie’s eyes are bloodshot. She’s either exhausted or has been crying. Either way, a protective feeling surges through me. “Not with you?”

“Look at the year. That was her senior year. She was eighteen.”

Oh. Marnie doesn’t have any siblings. That she knows of. I carefully set the paper down. “And did she…”

“Keep it? Didn’t get that far.” She snags another test result and waves it limply. “She lost the pregnancy in her first trimester.”

I study her expression for a few heartbeats before reaching out. Grabbing her wrists, I pull her up from her chair and onto my lap.

She rests her head on my shoulder. “You’re filthy.”

My t-shirt is sweaty. And smudged with dirt. But that doesn’t stop her from running her hands over my chest.

I smile softly, brushing my lips over her hair.

She runs her fingertip across my chest, idly drawing circles. “I called my dad to ask if he knew about the thing with my mom.”

“And did he?”

She heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Which is a wee bit annoying. I was literally asking him about all this a few weeks ago. He told me he was an open book.”

She laughs bitterly.

“You asked about the pregnancy that time?”

“Well, no. Not about that.” She hesitates. “About some other stuff of my mom’s that I found.”

There’s a guarded tone in her voice. She’s not telling me everything, which makes me curious and maybe just a little jealous.

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