Page 73 of Crumbling Truth
“No,” I agreed.
Though I knew most teens these days could probably manage that kind of photo editing from their phones, this felt distinctlymore targeted than the previous acts. Whoever was behind this went to a lot of trouble to not only create the images, but to hand deliver them to Esther’s parents in the next town over. The other pranks had been generic bullying moves, even if the box of peanuts was more inherently dangerous.
“Your parents don’t approve of the food truck, obviously.”
She scoffed. “Understatement. They don’t approve of any part of my life. Not only did I not follow their chosen path, my marriage was a failure, owning a food truck isn’t a respectable career to begin with, and I chose a business name that they find crude. I’m an all-around disappointment.”
“No,” I said, rolling us so I could cup her chin in one hand. I kissed the tip of her still-cold nose and added, “You, Esther Malek, are the epitome of success. You not only survived a marriage that would’ve crushed most people, you managed to build an entire life for yourself after that. You have a job that helps countless kids to never have to feel the kind of isolation you did when you were young. Your business is thriving because of how amazing you are.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. I caught it with my thumb, then smoothed her hair back from her face. It was true, every word of it, but I managed to choke down the others that came to the tip of my tongue, the ones that said I was well on my way to falling in love with her.
Esther cleared her throat, like maybe there were words she had to swallow, too. “I’d guess there are other people who hate the truck. All this could be some weird attempt to shame me into closing it down or changing the name.”
I chewed on that for a minute. “Has anyone else ever complained?”
“No, not to me. Dolores Brody down the street bitched to your mother about the truck being parked in the driveway last year, but you know your mom. She quoted the town’s by-lawsthat allow it verbatim and suggested Mrs. Brody read up on such things before ‘spewing vitriol,’ I believe were Anita’s exact words.”
Grinning, I said, “Oh, man, I would’ve paid to see that. Mrs. Brody is the worst. She was always the one who ratted us out when we ran through her lawn as kids.”
“Still, there might be others, I guess.” She sighed softly. “I can’t see Mrs. Brody scouring the internet for nude photos, nevermind having the skill to put my face on them. If she owns a computer, it’s probably from the late nineties.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, trying to imagine the little old lady down the street sitting in front of a boxy computer monitor as she hatched her evil plan. After a second, Esther joined in, giggling helplessly against my chest. While we laughed, the tension ebbed slowly from our bodies, leaving us both languid by the time the giggles ceased.
“God, I’m happy to be back,” I said without thinking.
Esther froze for an instant, then relaxed again, her lips tickling my ribs when she murmured, “I’m happy you’re back, too.”
That wasn’t exactly a declaration, not something I could ascribe any deep meaning to, but it feltgood. I let it buoy and bolster me, both my own feelings on the subject and hers, too.
If I had anything to say about it, we wouldn’t need to be apart again anytime soon.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Esther
WhenIawokeonSunday morning, I felt strangely detached, almost disconnected from reality. A showdown with my parents had definitely not been on my mental bingo card of strange occurrences this holiday season.
Of course, a few weeks ago, sleeping with Anita’s eldest son hadn’t been on the list, either.
We spent the day in a bubble of contentment, aside from the brief intermission when Theo went outside to talk to Chief Roberts about the photos. Given the realistic impression those pictures gave of my naked body, even if it wasn’tactuallymine, I was grateful to be allowed to skip that particular conversation.
The week started off blissfully uneventful, as well. Christmas was only ten days away and we received our first invitation to a holiday family dinner from Sofia on Monday evening. She was sweet and completely unsurprised when we declined, especially because she’d heard about my parents showing up at the house.
That night, another four inches of snow fell over the town like a blanket of pristine white.
After breakfast, Theo went into the mudroom and returned with a pair of brand new snow pants in my exact size. He tossed them to me with a mischievous grin, saying, “Time for that snowball fight. Winner picks tonight’s movie.”
“You’re on,” I taunted as I pulled them on.
It had been a very, very long time since I’d last worn snow pants, but the swishing sound the fabric made as I walked over to where Theo knelt before a bin of hats and gloves was like an echo of childhood.
“Your little mittens are adorable, but they’re not going to cut it. Try these on,” he said, passing me a pair of stiff gray gloves.
I let him help me like a toddler getting ready to go sledding, trying to remember the last time someone zipped my coat or tucked my hair under a warm hat. He must’ve seen it in my face, because once I was bundled up, he kissed the tip of my nose and offered a tender smile.
“You look precious,” he said.
“Well, enjoy it while it lasts. I doubt you’ll find me so precious when I’m pelting your ass with snowballs.”
