Connor nods. “I suspected.”
“Well, Lily and I were twelve and her father left us in the museum area.”
The memory floats to the surface. I smile and add, “He thought we’d be occupied by tasting all of the sodas.”
Lo looks to Connor. “But Lily had a better idea. She said the real factory was a street over.”
Connor’s brows shoot up. “You went to the actual factory by yourselves? How’d you get in?”
Lo cocks his head at me. “Want to take this, love?” His hand sinks down my inner-thigh.
My breath hitches, not able to form actual words.
“No?” He grins and adds to Connor, “She told them her last name and said her father wanted her to take a mini-tour. When we went in, we darted off in another direction.” He ran so fast. He always does. I struggled to keep up, and he’d slow or run loops around me. As the security started gaining on us, he lifted me on his back. I held tightly to his neck, and he sped towards a giant, spinning vat of dark liquid. We hid out for a little while, and when the footsteps died in the distance, he concocted a masterful plan.
“Did you get in trouble?”
Lo shakes his head. “No, her dad has a heart of gold. He was actually flattered that we wanted to see the factory. If he’d known what I did, maybe he wouldn’t have been too kind. I found some alcohol around the place.” Correction: He took out his flask. “And I dumped it into the syrup.”
“Shut up,” Connor says. “You spiked the soda recipe?”
“They probably couldn’t taste it. There wasn’t really that much compared to the amount of syrup, but I take pride in the fact that a handful of people got a little something extra because of us that day.” He turns to me, and I think, maybe, he may kiss me. He has that look in his eye, the one that trails the fullness of my lips, the one that could tip me over the seat and give himself over to me. And then his phone beeps, breaking the connection.
I sigh, a little deflated. It’s not mere coincidence that the phone all of a sudden rings. My parents and sisters have been trying to wish him a happy birthday since this morning, but Lo would rather listen to the incessant beeping than confront them—or have a prolonged conversation with Rose.
“Just answer them,” I urge.
Lo glances at the screen, and I peek over his shoulder, seeing a photo of his father.
His face sharpens. Unlike my family, he never rejects his father’s calls. Sometimes I think it’s more than fearing the wrath of Jonathan Hale. I know, somewhere deep down, he loves his father. He just doesn’t know what type of love it is or even how to process it. Lo puts the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
In the quiet of the limo, I hear Jonathan’s rough voice through the speaker. “Happy Birthday. Did you receive my gift? Anderson said he left it in the lobby with the staff.”
“Yeah. I meant to call you.” Lo glances warily at me and takes his hand off my leg. “I remember you drinking it when I was younger. It’s great.” His father gave him a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch, Decanter or Dalmore or something. Lo tried to explain the value of it to me, but it whizzed right over my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect and wrong the present is and if his father knew it too.
“The next time you come over, we can break it open,” he tells him. “I have a couple cigars here too.”
“Sounds good.” Lo shifts his shoulder, closing me off.
“How has the day been for you so far?”
“Okay. I aced an econ exam.”
One of Connor’s eyebrows arch, disbelieving.
“That so?” His father also sounds unconvinced. I must have been the only one who had any faith in Lo’s grades. Now, I think it may have all been misplaced.
“I can’t really talk now,” Lo tells him. “I’m with Lily. We’re headed to a Halloween party.”
“Okay. Be safe…” He pauses, as though he has something else to say. After a long moment, he adds, “Have a great twenty-first, son.”
“Thanks.”
His father hangs up, and Lo acts casual as he pockets the cell. He tightens his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer. But his muscles stay taught, a subtle difference that also punctures the amusement in his voice. “Maybe you should just tell your sisters that I said thanks. Send out a mass text or something.”
“Why can’t you do that on your own phone?”
“Because they’ll reply back and then I’ll have to reply to that, which sounds exhausting.”