This Is What Happy Looks Like(26)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

Mom glanced at her watch. “In a little bit,” she said, then ducked back through the door along with the dog.

When she was gone, Quinn turned back to Ellie. “What the hell was that?”

“Sorry, it’s just that Graham’s actually coming over soon, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it, and she wouldn’t be happy that—”

“So you’re lying to your mom now too?” Quinn asked, her eyebrows raised. “Seriously, what’s with all the secrets?”

“This is different,” Ellie told her. “It’s complicated.”

“How?”

She lowered her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

“Let me guess,” Quinn said. “Another secret.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Really. There’s more to it than…” She stopped and shook her head. “I wish I could explain.”

“Don’t bother,” Quinn said, standing up. “I have to go. I’ve got plans tonight too.”

“Really?”

Quinn’s eyes were cold. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Of course not,” Ellie said quickly. “What are you up to?”

“I’m hanging out with Devon.”

“You are?” she said before she could think better of it. But it was too late. Quinn had whirled around and was watching her with narrowed eyes.

Ellie couldn’t help it. For the last four years, all she’d heard about was how ridiculous Devon was. He was too tall and too skinny; his hair was too curly and his glasses were always lopsided. She and Quinn had spent countless hours laughing about the way he followed her like a shadow, and everyone at school remembered the time freshman year that Quinn’s locker had gotten jammed on Valentine’s Day. When the janitor finally managed to open it for her, a whole pile of pink envelopes came tumbling out, and for months after that, poor Devon was teased about his crush on the janitor, a stooped man in his seventies.

But clearly something had changed last night, and Devon was no longer a punch line. Just like that, Ellie felt like some sort of invisible boundary had shifted, and she found herself on the opposite side from Quinn, who was now glaring at her.

“Yes, really.”

“I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “Really. I guess I’m just still getting used to the idea of you and Devon.”

Quinn stood there on the steps for another moment, frowning at Ellie across the porch. “Well, I guess not everyone’s cut out to date a celebrity,” she said, and then, without another word, she walked off toward the road.

“Quinn,” Ellie said, but Quinn didn’t turn around, and there was nothing to do but watch her go. As she sat there on the porch, her heart sank. Even if she were to run after her, she knew there wasn’t much she could say right now. Because the problem had nothing to do with Devon and it had nothing to do with Graham; the problem was that Quinn was absolutely right, more than she even knew. Ellie had been keeping secrets from her, and the only way to make things right was to tell the truth. But that wasn’t an option.

She’d been in enough fights with Quinn over the years to know that it didn’t matter how or when you apologized. If she wasn’t ready to hear it, then it wouldn’t change anything. Quinn would come around in her own time—she always did—but Ellie had never been very good at the waiting, and even now, her stomach was already churning at the thought.

Tomorrow, she’d call. Tomorrow, she’d start her apology campaign. But for now, there was no time to worry about it. Graham would be here in less than an hour, and she still hadn’t been inside to survey the damage.

When she pushed open the screen door, Bagel came barreling down the front hallway, pinballing off the walls and scattering the collection of rain boots and umbrellas that lined them. Ellie stood on the ratty welcome mat and watched the dog kick up a dust bunny from underneath the table in the foyer. With a sigh, she dropped her bag beside the door and ventured into the kitchen.

Mom was eating a cup of yogurt at the sink, absently watching the news on the ancient TV beside the toaster. One whole counter was covered in newspapers, the dates ranging from yesterday to two weeks ago, and the sink was brimming with dishes.

“What time is book club?” Ellie asked, eyeing Mom’s outfit, which consisted of sweatpants and a plaid button-down with slippers.

Her eyes drifted over to the microwave clock. “Oh,” she said, looking genuinely surprised. “It’s right now.”

“You better go then,” Ellie said, hustling her out of the kitchen and then lingering in the hallway to make sure she made it all the way up the stairs. Then she turned to the sink, grabbed a sponge, and began to attack the dishes.

“I thought Quinn was staying for dinner,” Mom said when she appeared again a few minutes later, wearing the same plaid shirt but now with a pair of jeans and loafers.

“She had to run some errands in town first,” Ellie said, ducking her head so Mom wouldn’t notice how red her face was; she’d never been much of a liar. “We’ll be fine, though. Take your time.”

“Okay,” Mom said, grabbing her keys from on top of a pile of coupons. “Will you be sure to feed Bagel too?”

Ellie nodded and waved a soapy hand, letting out a breath when she heard the door slam shut again. She leaned against the sink with a sigh, daunted by the state of the house. When she turned her head, Bagel was sitting by her foot, tail wagging furiously.

“This is going to be a disaster,” she told the dog, who only smiled a big doggie smile and continued to wave his white-tipped tail.

By the time she finished the dishes, cleared some of the debris from the counters, tossed the ball for Bagel, and fed him a meal only marginally less appetizing than the dinner options in the fridge, there were just a few more minutes to shower and change and inspect the place before Graham was meant to arrive.

Upstairs, Ellie was about to throw on her usual jeans, but instead chose a green sundress her mom had recently bought for her, ripping off the tags with her teeth. She usually hated to wear green; with her red hair, she worried it made her look like a Christmas ornament, but as she stood in front of the mirror, she realized it looked better than she would have thought. Not exactly up to Hollywood standards, but it would have to do.

With two minutes to spare, she headed back downstairs, running through her checklist again. She wasn’t really expecting him to be on time; boys were always late, and her limited knowledge of movie stars suggested they would probably be even worse. There would still be time to tidy up, hide any embarrassing childhood photos, take down a few of the lobster knickknacks that littered the house.