Tick-tock.

The brown clock on the library wall mocks me, slowly moving its spindly hands. One minute. Two. Three.

She's late.

Of course, she's late.

She must think I was kidding when I said I needed her to be on time. Although, who are we fooling here? People like her don't understand punctuality. They're used to others waiting for them.

My strained eyes skim through my notes. I did my part of the task, so even if she doesn't show up, it'll be okay. Dr. Garcia won't give me a bad grade. Leaving becomes more appealing as the seconds tick by.

The loud click of heels breaks the quiet, and several students interrupt their reading to glance toward the entrance. Couldn't she just wear sneakers or some shit that doesn't make noise? No. That would be too low-key for an attention seeker like Barbie.

I pretend to be engrossed in my book until the sickeningly sweet smell of her perfume hits my nostrils. "Barbie. Did you check your Rolex?" I say, pinning her with a hard stare. "Did the Swarovski shit fall off the face of your watch, and you couldn't read the time? Do you not own a phone?"

"I was—" She shifts her weight as if she were uncomfortable, but the thought of her being flustered by anything is ridiculous. Not as ridiculous as me waiting for Her Majesty, but still.

"Nah." I slam my textbook shut, rise to my feet, and gather the rest of my stuff. "Time is money, and I made it clear I wouldn't wait."

"It's been barely five minutes, you jerk," Barbie hisses. Her eyes blaze and her lips press into a thin line, but the show she's putting on is pointless.

I spin on my heel and walk away, leaving her behind. The idea of turning around to check how outraged her expression is taunts me, but I decide against looking at her. It's bad enough that we see each other on the regular because of our classes together.

One of the librarians, Jenny, gives me a side-eye. Barbie must've talked crap about me, but I don't care. I walk past Jenny's desk and exit the century-old library building, squinting at the bright sun.

It was smart of me to leave my 1969 Ford Mustang Boss in the shade of the trees. When I unlock it and slump into the driver's seat, the interior is cool.

I run a hand along the dashboard to rid it of the few dust particles and start the car. The purr of the engine makes me nostalgic every single time. I can almost hear Grandpa's throaty chuckle and see myself in the passenger seat, eyes glued to his hands on the wheel, excited for another adventure he'd take me on.

The offers to sell the Mustang have been quite a few, but it's my grandfather's legacy together with his old house I still hope to fix one day.

My phone buzzes a minute later. I fish it out of my pocket, hit the speaker button, and put the cell on my lap.

"Mom."

"Basti, are you coming home?"

"I told you I'd be there."

"When?"

My grip on the wheel tightens. "Soon."

"Where are you now?"

She's relentless. I know she misses me, but it's not like we've spent weeks without seeing each other.

"Driving."

Fuck. I should've lied. The cell slides to the side, and I lift my leg to stop it from falling onto the center console. "Do you need me to buy anything?"

Please say yes. I close my eyes for a second and refocus on the busy lane when Mom says, "No. Just drive safe."

"Always."

Heaving a sigh, I disconnect the call after Mom does. The drive home takes forty minutes. I get there an hour and a half later.

After parking in the driveway, I make my way into the house. The porch steps creak under my feet, and the front door screeches when I open it.

"Mom."

"Kitchen."

I kick off my sneakers and walk toward Mom's voice.

She's by the sink, washing a stack of dirty dishes.

"Hey." I hug her from behind and kiss the top of her head.

She huffs, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her forearm. "Where have you been, Sebastian?"

"The traffic."

The lie flies out of my mouth effortlessly. That should concern me, but it doesn't. If she didn't want me to hide the truth, she should've saved the question.

A soapy sponge lands on top of a dirty skillet, and suds mixed with grease slide down the tiled wall behind the faucet. "Again?"

"For fuck's sake, Mom, just—"

Drop it. Leave me the fuck alone.

Mom sniffles and grabs the sponge. She scrubs a random dish with renewed vigor, and regret worms its way into my insides.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

A cynical, incredulous laugh leaves her lips. "No, Sebastian. You're not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn't go there again. You wouldn't lie to me. When will you understand I worry? I'm your mother, and I worry."

"You have nothing to worry about."

There should be something I could do to stop her from nagging me. My gaze roams the old kitchen, looking for things to fix. The door. That's it. Every door hinge in this fucking house needs oiling, and Dad didn't do shit for sure.

"Listen, Mom—"

"Nora," Dad's voice booms. The sigh of relief I let out is probably audible. Sure is, judging by Mom's frown.

"In the kitchen," I yell.

My father enters the room, bringing in the stench of cigarette smoke. I've been trying to make him quit for months. As a Premed student, I know what smoking does to your lungs. He's a smart guy, so he should know too, right? But then again, the shit I do isn't much better. I'm a fucking hypocrite.

"One lies, the other one smokes," Mom says under her breath, glancing at Dad. "When are you going to quit, Ray?"

"What's gotten into her?" my father asks me.

Mom turns to him. "Fucking housework and being stuck in this dump has gotten into your wife, not that you give a damn anyway. Did you come home to say you have to work again tonight?"

Guilt clouds Dad's expression, and Mom storms out of the room.

The door slams shut behind her, but neither of us moves. We stare at each other, and Dad groans, rubbing his forehead. "I should talk to her."

"Let her cool off," I say. It's nothing new—she'll rant, then cry, and then hopefully calm down until some little insignificant shit upsets her again.

"She's unhappy here," my father says, sitting on a chair at the rickety table. "She misses her job, but there's nothing I can do."

He can't do anything because my college is too damn expensive, and being a detective in a small town doesn't pay well enough. Mom's been job-hunting for over a year with no luck. And although I earn money to pay for my shit, I'm not comfortable discussing what I do with my parents.

"So, you're gonna work at night," I say to change the topic.

"Looks like it. There's a—"

Dad stops talking as if he's realized he said too much. "Forget it," he says, confirming my suspicions. "Are you gonna spend the night?"

I run a palm over the back of my neck. "Can't. I have a quiz early. But I'll stay for dinner."

He braces his hands on his knees and lifts himself off the chair. "Good. Mom will be happy."

***

The following morning, I shoulder my way through the crowd of students to get to the lecture hall on time. I fucking overslept yet again. Unfortunately, Dr. Garcia hates tardiness just as much as I hate Barbie. I need to talk to him after the quiz. Being late won't put me in his good books, but there's little I can do now.

The only free seat is next to Elena, who must've saved it for me. You'd think I'd be happy to sit next to my fuck buddy-slash study partner, but I'd rather stand.

As I lower into the chair, Elena's hand lands on my forearm, squeezing. I flinch and pull away.

"Someone's grouchy today," she says, squinting at me from behind her hideous black-rimmed glasses. They're as far from flattering as an accessory can be, but I don't tell her that. She probably knows and doesn't care, unlike Barbie, who must wake up two hours earlier to slap all that makeup on her face.

"Just tired," I mumble, grabbing the quiz paper. For the next hour, I focus on the task, but as soon as it's done and everyone but a few students has left, I saunter to the lectern and stand in front of Dr. Garcia.

"Yes, Mr. Hutches," the professor says, busy stuffing papers into a leather briefcase.

I inhale a lungful. "It's regarding our final project."

That gets his attention, and he halts his movements. "Do you have any questions?"

"No. I was just wondering if I could do it with a different partner. Miss Van Doren and I aren't a good fit, I'm afraid."

Dr. Garcia smirks. It's condescending and not the reaction I expected or, rather, was hoping for.

"I paired you up based on something, Mister Hutches." He crosses his arms. "Do you have doubts regarding my criteria? Or maybe my competence?"

Fuck. Barbie must've worked her magic on the guy. I should've known.

"No, Sir," I blurt. "Not at all. Forget I asked."

I pivot and come face to face with Miss Professor-Whisperer herself.

"What did I just hear, Basti?" She gasps. "You complained, but they didn't listen to you? Are you gonna cry? I've got vanilla-scented tissues in my purse if you need them."

"Get lost, Barbie." I push past her and exit the hall. The annoying sound of her giggles follows me to the hallway, and the urge to get even farther away injects energy into my strides.

Ten long days, and then it's the glorious, Barbie-free summer break, followed by the Barbie-free academic year.

Can't fucking wait.