Love You Better (Better Love 1)

“Ivy.”

“Kelley.”

“You ready? You said your brother is at the daycare down the street?”

“That’s the one,” she responds as she tugs her messenger bag from the locker and stuffs some books inside.

Ivy walks with me to the bike racks where I unlock my chain, and then, rolling my bike next to me, I follow her to the daycare.

When we get there, I wait outside while Ivy goes in to sign her brother out, and a few minutes later she comes back out with him in tow.

He’s short, like all four-year-olds, has jet black hair and the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen. He’s carrying an orange water bottle and is wearing a black shirt with a pumpkin on it and khaki shorts. When he looks up at me, his brown eyes are magnified in his glasses. He looks absolutely nothing like Ivy, and maybe it’s nerves but I just blurt that out.

“He looks nothing like you,” I say, and then wince.

“Well, he’s technically my half-brother,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s my whole brother where it counts,” she adds firmly, no room for dispute, so I just nod and smile like a dork.

“Wh-who are you?” Jacob asks as he clings to Ivy’s leg.

“I’m Kelley. I’m Ivy’s friend,” I say. “Who are you?”

“I’m J-Jacob,” he says back. “I’m her b-b-brother.”

“Cool,” I nod and grasp for something to say. He’s just standing there, blinking at me through those thick glasses. I can feel Ivy’s eyes on me, and it’s making me nervous.

“Sooo...” I point to his shirt. “You, uh, like pumpkins?” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I cringe again and can hear Ivy stifle a laugh. Real smooth, Kap.

He blinks.

“No.” Blink. “I like Hallow-ween.” He’s got a little bit of an attitude.

“Right,” I breathe out and start fidgeting with my bike handles. This is awkward. “Well,” I start again, but trail off when I find him surveying me. And then he blinks at me some more. Like a little judgmental owl.

“C’mon, Bug,” Ivy interjects, saving me from looking even more like an idiot. “Kelley is gonna walk home with us.”

On the walk to Crenshaw Village, Ivy asks Jacob—or Bug, as she calls him—to tell her what he learned in “school.” That starts him jabbering about a sand table and tornado bottles and other kid crap, but he’s got this little lisp and a thick stutter and I gotta admit that he’s kind of adorable. I always wanted a younger brother but so far Ma and Pop have told me nope.

When we get to Ivy’s house, I notice that the yard is better maintained than the neighbor’s, and there’s even some sort of orange and purple flowers planted around the front. She and Jacob walk inside, and I don’t really know what to do. I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet, so I lean my bike on the side of the porch and follow them in.

Ivy and Jacob slide off their shoes, so I do the same, and Ivy tells Jacob to go wash his hands. Then, I watch as she places a cutting board, knife, and apple on the small counter jutting from the wall in the kitchen and begins peeling and slicing the apple. She puts the sliced apples on a plate, pours a small cup of milk, and puts them on the small kitchen table in front of a booster seat.

And I just stand there and gawk at her. Because she’s doing mom things, and I’ve never seen any of my friends do parent-y things like this before. Because the parents do them. Sure, I fix snacks and junk for myself. Open a bag of Doritos. Drink a Gatorade. Throw some pizza puffs in the toaster oven. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone peel and cut an apple before who wasn’t a mom.

Jacob comes running into the kitchen and clambers up onto the booster seat.

“Don’t run in the house, Bug.”

“S-sorry, Bean,” he says through a mouthful of apple.

And I am still gawking.

Shaking my

self out of the weird sense of awe I feel, I ask her, “So, like, why do you do all this?”

She pops a brow at me, the same fire in her eyes that I saw this morning on the bleachers, and I know I said something dumb again.

“Excuse you?”