All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

fortunate to have her level of talent at Cobalt. I’d never want to work with anyone else.” There. How was that for framing my words? Pretty clear, I’d think.

He looked up from his phone and studied me. “I’ve never doubted her talent. But I figured you’d want her to edit all the footage you’ll be giving her on that teen halfway house. Was I wrong?”

So . . . I hadn’t told Ethan about the failed interview with Silas, either. And I certainly wasn’t going to try now. I didn’t have the first clue how to reframe that kind of rejection into a “success mindset.” Silas hadn’t only dismissed my application that day, he’d dismissed me—before I’d even had a chance to brainstorm a list of possible life skills classes I was certain he would approve, if only I were given a second chance. Maybe that was the key. . . .

“Molly?” Ethan’s face cocked to the side, his quizzical gaze on me. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no. It’s just The Bridge isn’t a halfway house. It’s more of a home for older teens who simply need a hand up to take their next step in life.”

“That’s a perfect sound bite. Use it,” Ethan said approvingly. “When’s your first post scheduled?”

“I’m, um . . . I’m actually still working out some of the logistics.” As in hoping I could persuade Silas away from Team Anybody Else to Team Molly. “But yes, I’d want Val working with me on this project.”

Just as soon as I could get Silas Whittaker to agree to a second meeting with me, which I would. Now that sounded like a success mindset.

I whipped out my phone and started typing up a syllabus in my digital notepad.

7

Silas

Whoever said guys were messier than girls hadn’t spent much time poking around the dark side of a female-dominated restroom. Though the personal accommodations at Lavender Cottage seemed more than sufficient, given there were three full bathrooms in a house of twelve women, somehow their facilities were in constant disrepair. Predominantly the issues had to do with drains. Leaky. Clogged. Backed up. All of the above.

On my knees, and eye level with the problematic pipe, I clawed my way through a wall of feminine product boxes under the sink. With a careful sweep of my arm, I pushed the boxes to the back corner, only to uncover an apocalyptic supply of lotions and fruity shower gels.

While there was so much I couldn’t control inside this messy and complicated world of teens in transition, I could wrap a leaky pipe with plumber’s tape. If only every issue we faced could be resolved so quickly.

“Ya know, the next time I start to doubt if I’m doing enough for the greater good, I’m gonna remember this moment: my big brother swimming in a sea of tampons.”

I jerked back and bashed my head on the underside of the sink basin. “Ouch. Jake?”

I emerged from the cave of estrogen and rubbed at the sore spot on the back of my skull. He laughed. There were people who winced at the sight of others in pain. Those people were not Jake.

He lifted a clear bag of wrapped sub sandwiches. “I bought us lunch.”

I sat back on my haunches, eyeing him warily. “Why? I thought you were still framing that fourplex up north.”

“Permits got delayed.” He shrugged. “Such is life as a crew lead.” Jake reached his giant hand into the bag and grabbed one of the sandwiches.

“Don’t even think about opening those up in here.” The very thought made my skin crawl. I stood to wash my hands and pumped an abundance of soap into my palm. But in typical Jake style, he did not heed my warning. It was a wonder that I managed to supervise twenty-four human beings for a living when I couldn’t control one Jake Whittaker if it killed me. “You are truly disturbed.”

He laughed. “If you think this is bad, you should see how my crew eats on the jobsite.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Most of them don’t even wash their hands first, Silas.”

I stretched my neck from side to side and reached for the pink hand towel hanging on the rack before thinking better of it. I’d seen the way these girls cleaned a bathroom. Another point to the gender cleanliness myth. I shook my hands over the sink, working to keep the droplets of water in the basin.

Jake pulled out a napkin stamped with a red logo. “Here, use this. I swear I didn’t blow my nose on it first.”

I peered at the twenty-four-year-old man in front of me, who still often acted as if he were fourteen. “Who raised you?”

Jake beamed. “The same people who were crazy enough to raise you, brother.”

I waved him out of the bathroom. “Go on, we’ll head outside.”

I trailed his six-foot-six frame down a hallway clearly not meant for people of his stature. When Jake shot up those last six inches during puberty, passing me and everybody else in our seven-member family, I warned him about the dangers of being conspicuous. He would no longer be able to hide in a crowd. He’d be visible everywhere he went, and with that increased visibility would come bigger expectations and greater responsibilities to uphold. Because at some point in his life, his height and presence could easily make him a target if he wasn’t mindful of his actions and the company he chose to keep.

As a Hispanic man who moved with his all-white adoptive family to northeast Washington during my teen years, I knew a little something about being different. I was the only non-white face in our high school for nearly two years, until the administration began an international exchange program. Now, of course, things had become much more diverse in our region, but even so, it still wasn’t uncommon for me to be the only minority in a room.

As the long dorm-style hallway widened into the open-concept floor plan, I had to give the young ladies credit. They