Page 9 of Pieces Of You

She sighs. “This is why you don’t rely on men to do anything.”

I scoff. “So… it’s notme,specifically. You hate all men?”

She shakes her head, her loose black hair shifting with the movement. “No, I hate the idea of dependency.”

“Jesus Christ,” I huff out, my brow bunched. “It’s just yard work. The mandied.”

“People die all the time,” she states, tone flat, distracted with reading the notes.

Dang. “You’re a little cold, don’t you think?”

“I’m actually really hot,” she says, lifting her eyes from the folder and toward the dashboard. “Do you have AC?”

“It’s busted.”

With a groan, she starts undoing the buttons of her blouse while simultaneously tugging the ends from beneath her skirt. I struggle to pay attention to the road because I’m too busy focused on her. Beneath her top, she’s wearing a tight, white tank, the straps of her hot-pink bra visible.

Dudes and boobs. Why we’re so fascinated with them is an enigma, but I have to admit—

“It’s rude to stare,” she mumbles.

I shrug. “You have a nice rack.”

She turns to me, and I expect her to scold me. Instead, she chews her lip and says, “Thank you.”

What the fuck?“You’re welcome,” I say, but it comes out as a question.

She nods toward the windshield. “Focus on the road, you pervert.”

“Right.” I do as she says, realizing that this girl is far more complex than I’d expected. Maybe we’ve both jumped the gun with the judgment of each other because she’s cold one minute and hotter than hell the next.

Either she knows exactly who she is and what she’s doing, or I’m way,wayoff my game.

It takes onlyten minutes to get to the house, where we’ll be spending one afternoon a week for an entire semester. When we pull into the driveway, the first thing I notice is how much work there is to do in the front yard alone. Almost every visible area is covered in weeds and out-of-control vines. It’s nearly impossible to see the paved path to the front door, but I manage, and waiting for us at the entry to the closed-in porch is an older woman.

“Hey, look.” I motion to where the woman’s opening the door. “It’s your best friend, Gladys,” I quip.

“Her name’s Esme,” Jamie mutters.

“I know.” I sigh. “It was a joke.”

“I know,” Jamie echoes. “It wasn’t funny.”ColdJamie’s back. Good to know.

Once the truck comes to a complete stop, she starts to open the door, but I stop her with my hand on her arm. “Be nice, okay? She’s…old.”

Her entire face scrunches in annoyance. “I am nice.”

Theaudacity.“Are you, though? Because you just told me she was a loser for relying on a man, and you gave zero fucks that her husband had just died.”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, shaking her head. And the girl might just be insane. Like, certifiable. I’m getting goddamn whiplash from being around her.

I say, slowly, enunciating every word, “You literallyjustsaid it.”

“No.” She shakes her head again, seeming agitated that she even has to talk to me. “What I said and what youheardare two completely different things.” She yanks her arm out of my hold, and a second later, she’s out of the truck and walking toward the porch. I rush out to join her because the last thing I need is someone’s grandma complaining about some crazy, unstable high school girl ripping into her about her dead husband while I stood by and did nothing.

When I catch up to Jamie, walking only a step behind her, Esme waves, smiling from ear to ear. Then calls out, “What’s poppin’, bitches?”

Jamie stops so suddenly I almost run into her. Whatever look must be on our faces has Esme’s smile fading. “Isn’t that how kids talk these days?”

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