Page 15 of Even Beneath the Stars

"Kay. Bye, Maggie!" Finn darts off, curls bouncing.

I turn back to her. "You catch that?Orange Crush.Not a Jägerbomb."

"Nice," she deadpans. "So he's been mainlining sugar all night. No wonder he's still wired."

Christ. I cannot with this girl.

And she’s not done. "Where are your parents, anyway? Do they know Finn is—"

"Where are your manners?" I scoff. "You come into my home and you—you're just so judgmental. Christ."

She swallows, stepping back. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… It’s just really hard to see a five-year-old in this situation and not—"

"Still doing it," I point out, voice flat.

She shakes her head. "Letting him do whatever he wants, whenever he—"

"Look," I cut her off. "You don’t know a damn thing about my brother. Or about me." My voice stays level, but there’s an edge now. "So, if you want to play pool, or join a beer pong game, or if you want me to grab you another drink or something, cool." I down the rest of my Heineken. "But if you’re gonna keep shoving your opinions down my throat about how I handle my brother, then kindly just…" I crush the can, toss it into the antique jar on the credenza, and replace the lid. "…Fuck off."

She pushes off the side table. "Well, enjoy your bitchin’ party, Xavier Rockwell. And the meltdown you’ll have on your hands when Finn’s sugar crash hits in half an hour." She pauses, eyes flashing with mock realization. "Oh, wait. I guess‘the help’will handle that, won’t they?"

She stalks off before I can respond. Not that I have the words anyway.

And I take back what I said earlier. There is nothing intriguing or refreshingly cool about Maggie LeClair. She is pure annoyance and holier-than-thou judgment. My least favorite kind of person.

Chapter Five

Maggie

PRESENT (Winter, Senior Year)

"Ican't decide if the writing is terrible, the acting is terrible, or if it's just the subtitles." I lean back against the sofa’s armrest, kicking my feet onto Silas' lap. We’re on episode three ofAbsolute Boyfriend,our latest J-drama obsession.

Silas was my childhood friend and neighbor back in Allerston Lake. Now, he’s my foster brother. A gory tragedy, two years in juvie, and a stint in rehab led to his aunt washing her hands of him—until my mom stepped in and took guardianship this summer.

Even wilder? He’s dating Sandy Haven Prep’suber-bubbly keener, Jackie Delaney—the sunshine yin to his dark and stormy yang. I never would’ve called that one. But four months in, they’re still going strong. And he’s been sober for three.

He's still a broody, sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, though. That much hasn't changed.

He shifts to accommodate my feet. "Think it’s the plot," he says, stuffing popcorn into his mouth.

"Yeah…" I watch another scene unfold. "You might be right. But it’s still so freakin'addictive, right?"

"I’m barely paying attention," he deadpans. Which is a lie. Silas gets more into these dramas than I do, which makes zero sense given his whole gruff, cynical, bad-boy aesthetic. He wears biker boots and jeans, even in the summer. Is savingup for a motorcycle. Looks like he couldbench pressa motorcycle, if a situation called for it.

We sink into our show while, across our small but cozy living room, my mom ignores the melodrama in favor of her latest book, curled up in her faded floral recliner. Her whole demeanor is relaxed. Content. She's had this glow about her ever since she opened Board and Brews.

It's doing well, too. Already becoming a popular hangout spot for locals. Silas and I work there as much as we can after school and on weekends. Still, it'll be awhile before the café turns a profit. Startup costs are brutal, even with the small business loan mom secured. We're looking at months of living on rice and beans again, stretching every dollar until the café is in the green. But we did it before, and we'll be fine doing it now.

"Oh,guyyys…" mom swoons. "Things are really heating up!" She fans herself dramatically with her tattered paperback.

My mother only reads two types of books: niche non-fiction tomes about weirdly specific neurological disorders… and historical romances. One glance at the cover—a swooning woman in a purple satin gown and shirtless guy against a dramatic ocean backdrop—tells me this evening's fare is of the corny romance variety.

"Is the pirate finally boning the kitchen wench on the poop deck?" Silas asks in his signature lazy drawl.

"Silas!My God." Mom attempts a scandalized scolding but fails miserably, laughing as she adds, "And Nate is a duke, not a pirate."

"Nate?" Silas scoffs. "Sounds like an accountant."

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