Page 59 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Yes way.”
Our compass led us right to our old dumping ground—the place we hid an adolescence’s worth of alcohol. We made eye contact over the empty booze. For a long moment, we held each other’s gaze. Then, in perfect unison, we dissolved into laughter.
—
WE GAVE UP ON ORIENTEERINGin favor of sitting on the hilltop and staring out at the lake.
“If we’re near our old stash,” I said. “You know what else that means we’re nearby?”
“Of course.” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Manuel smile. “The Fort.”
We fell into a warm, comfortable silence. As I listened to his steady breathing, I became aware of the closeness of his hand to mine. I felt a strong urge to reach over and take it. Instead, I asked, “What does a biomedical engineer do for his summer job?”
“Well”—Manuel looked down at his hands, which were playing with loose pebbles—“I’ve spent the last three summers interning for the pharmaceutical empire known as none other than…”
My jaw fell open. “Beck Pharma? Are you serious?”
“Your mom and dad’s influence helped out a lot with that one, no doubt. Though Wendy would be aghast if I ever so much as insinuated I didn’t get the job on my own.”
I laughed, but it sounded more like a shocked cough.
“This summer, I did my time at Beck Pharma in St. Louis, drove up to Chicago, spent a week with Che and Juli, and hitched a ride up here.”
“Who…?” I trailed off, recognizing the question’s rudeness as I spoke it aloud.
“Invited me?” Manuel guessed.
I nodded.
“Take a wild guess.”
“Let’s see…could it be…my mother?”
“Ding, ding, ding!”
I rolled my eyes. “Shocker.”
He pushed my shoulder lightly, just a second of contact that sent sparks rippling all the way across my chest.
“You know,” I said, trying—and failing—to ignore the sparks altogether. “I wonder if, in any of the many books Wendy Beck has read on How to Mother Someone Else’s Child, she ever reached the chapter on White Savior Complex.”
Manuel laughed. I felt a spit droplet flash wet on the back of my hand.
Shit.
It might not have been real. It might have been a phantom droplet, like so many before it. But the movement came to me instinctually—I raised my hand up to my mouth and blew on it. To dry the droplets. To chase them away.
When I lowered my hand, Manuel caught it, long fingers wrapping around my wrist. “What did you just do?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, tugging.
“No me mientas, Eliot. You just blew on your hand.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, Ididn’t. I don’t do that anymore.”
