Page 4 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“Julian,” I reply through gritted teeth, wishing I’d stuck through Andy’s indecisiveness in the cereal aisle.
Julian shakes off his obvious surprise, standing back up and offering his hand. My first instinct is to flip him off and go about the rest of my day, but I look down at the mess of sauce-stained cans and boxes, groan, and take the help. I brush some of the sauce off my stained shirt, grateful that I’ve never cared much about my fashion choices.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says after I’m on my feet again.
“Yeah, well, my mom died. So we didn’t feel like going kayaking.”
He frowns, shifting his gaze down to his sneakers. “Right…I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, more to myself than to Julian, while I chase down my runaway ice cream.
“You’re bleeding.”
I blink, finally turning to face him. I don’t let myself look for long—prolonged eye contact with him can’t be good for my health—but I’m surprised by the person I see. There’s no doubt that it’s Julian. He still has that mole above his right eyebrow, the scar cut through his upper lip from when I tripped him when we were ten, and the thick, dark hair blown every which way but flat. But something’s different. Or was his jaw always that sharp? And his shoulders so broad?
The thrill I’d felt at the idea of a cute boy in town morphs into disgust. That’s what I get for not keeping my hormones in check. I flinch as I look away from him, as if I’ve spent too long staring at the sun. “It’s pasta sauce.”
Julian points to my left arm, the one that’s dripping sauce down to my wrist. “No, your arm. It’s actually bleeding.”
I look back down at my arm, trying to shake off the image of this very new Julian. Between the chunks of tomato and freckled brown skin is a shallow, rough-edged wound just above my elbow.
“Oh. Right.” I pull down my rolled-up sleeve, applying as much pressure as I can with my nondominant hand. It’s notuntil I press that the pain surges all at once, ripping through my arm like a current.
Julian takes a hesitant step toward me. “Let me—”
“No! I mean, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I lunge for my basket at the same time as Julian, our heads colliding with athwack.
“Hey, I found the perfect— Whoa. What happened to you?” Andy stills at the front of the aisle, box of Froot Loops in hand.
“Nothing. Let’s go.” I push through the pain in my head and arm to kick the basket toward Andy, but all he does is stare at it.
“I can carry that up to the counter for you,” Julian offers while rubbing the red mark forming on his blemish-free forehead.
I nudge the basket out of his reach when he goes to pick it up. “No, really, that’s—”
“Thanks!” Andy interrupts, throwing his Froot Loops into the basket and kicking everything over to Julian.
I inhale sharply, glaring daggers at Andy. Okay, stay calm, he doesn’t know any better. How is he supposed to know that the Seo-Cookes are to be avoided at all costs? It’s not like Julian, or any of the Seo-Cookes, look like the Disney villains they really are. We walk to the front counter in silence, Dad and Old Bob’s conversation faltering when they catch sight of me in all my sauce-covered glory.
Maya nearly walks right into Julian, looking up from her phone at the last second. She freezes in place, one of her curls twisted around her index finger, her mouth hanging open in shock. If Julian is fazed by the uncomfortable silence,he doesn’t let it show. He sets our basket down on the counter along with a five-dollar bill for his gallon of milk. He doesn’t bother waiting for change before backing away slowly.
“Nice seeing you all.” He gives us a stiff wave and exits the store. Old Bob chuckles under his breath as he watches us pull our jaws off the floor.
Maya’s the first to snap back to reality. “He’s still here?”
“Oh, they’re all still here. Came up a few days ago,” Old Bob answers. “One of the last few families to stick around.”
“Am I missing something?” Andy asks, scratching his head.
Old Bob gives him a hearty belly laugh and leans across the counter. “Your stepfolks and the Seo-Cookes have history.”
That’s putting things lightly. Then again, it’s hard to sum up over a decade of spite.
“Speaking of the Seo-Cookes…” Old Bob trails off, hopping down from his stool and hobbling over to a closet behind the front counter.
There’s a collective inhale between me, Maya, and Dad as Old Bob unleashes the hideous creature that’s haunted us for years.
“Spill detected,” the robot announces, its unnerving googly eyes wiggling around as it makes its way out from behind the counter and toward the dairy aisle.
