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someone like Reid. “I can’t imagine how I’d be able to get him to do anything he decides he isn’t going to do.”
    He frowns. “Did he refuse to work today?”
    Thinking about the shocked look on Reid’s face when I told him the room needed a second coat of paint, I stifle a laugh. “No, he painted one room—with my assistance.” I set up the bathroom to do the tiling tomorrow. Reid seemed capable of painting without guidance by the end of the day, so maybe he won’t need constant monitoring.
    “I guess that’s something—if he actual y worked , instead of pul ing a prima donna act.”
    Eyes closed, I rol my head back and forth to stretch the kinks out of my neck after spending the day painting ceilings. “I had to sign some sort of court document at the end of the day, verifying he was there and doing actual labor. I guess he’d be in trouble if he didn’t perform the community service.”
    The concerto swel s, and neither of us speaks for several minutes. Music, to both of us, is the purest expression of emotion. When it’s inspired, it leaves tears in my eyes, leaves me breathless. For me, there’s nothing better than singing and knowing I’ve affected someone that same way.
    “So, what’s on the agenda tonight—partying til the wee hours? Drag racing on the strip? Hot date?” My father laughs at his little joke. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it—to him, I’m an incorrigible good girl. I may be the only girl in the history of California whose father encourages her to stay out later with friends.
    “Sure—al of the above. Don’t wait up.”
    “So are you stil seeing—” he snaps his fingers twice.
    “Nick?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “We were never real y a thing, Dad.”
    Nick is a guy from school who’s known for his civic-minded volunteer efforts. In other words, he’s a male me .
    Everyone’s been trying to push us together since he transferred in during junior year. We’ve been out a few times and stil hang out occasional y. He’s nice enough, and certainly good-looking enough, but I can go for days without thinking about him. So I do.
    “Is he aware of this?”
    “Dad, sheesh.” I’m amused by the fact that my father is interested in my love life. Or lack thereof. “We get along fine. He’s nice. Fun. Easy to talk to.” Everything Reid isn’t.
    Why am I thinking of him ?
    “Ouch,” Dad says, wincing. “No chemistry, huh?”
    “What?”
    “Nice, fun, easy to talk to—sounds like you’re talking about me!” He glances over his right shoulder to change lanes, winking at me in the process.
    “I could do worse than someone like you, Dad,” I laugh.
    He pretends to admire himself in the rearview mirror, waggling his eyebrows. “True. There’s no hurry, though.”
    “Definitely not.”
    I’m eighteen, so he’s right—there’s no hurry. I don’t tel him how much I want that sort of connection—a relationship like he and Mom share. The trust and respect between them is plain to see, but I know that under the surface, their relationship simmers with passion. I don’t tel him how much I worry it wil never happen for me. I don’t tel him how some days, I feel as though everything I do is an attempt to be worthy of being loved like that.

Chapter 6
    REID
    Mom meets me at the door with a drink in her hand. “Reid!” Plucking at the shirt, her eyes widen and her mouth screws up. Dropping the fabric like it’s covered in manure instead of paint, she rubs her fingers together.
    “It’s just paint, Mom. And it’s dry.” I pul the shirt over my head and keep walking towards the curving marble staircase.
    “Did you get any on the wal s?” Clearly, a smartass temperament is genetic, and I was dealt a double dose.
    “Yeah, I actual y did. I’m gonna take a shower—when’s dinner?” I cal down when I hit the second landing.
    “Immaculada should have it on the table by seven.”
    “I think I’l nap, too. I’m going out later, and I’m dead