Free Westlake Soul by Rio Youers

in many ways. Brusque but efficient, with moments of tenderness that could throw bluebirds into your day. And yeah, I
do
miss her . . . just not as much as I thought I would.
    The reason is simple.
    Yvette.
    She’s the bomb
,
Hub had said, and he was right.
    Light brown hair that spills across one side of her face when it isn’t tied back. Eyes that could have been chipped from some rare mineral, so full of flicker it’s difficult to tell if they’re green or blue. Her shoulders are narrow, but her arms perfectly toned. Skin so smooth it shines, and features that are often described as elfin: small mouth, high cheekbones, and those eyes—almond-shaped—of mysterious colour. She is perfect in every way. The kind of unflawed beauty that demands you stare.
    Yeah . . . my new caregiver.
    Needless to say, I didn’t release the morning she was due to start. The vibe in the house was as taut as a drum skin, with each move or word creating a solemn percussive sound, but I stayed put. I didn’t want to miss Yvette’s arrival. Mom (in tears) brushed my hair, tucking loops behind my ears, the way she used to when I was five years old. A beautiful boy with dancing eyes, and his whole life ahead of him. I wondered if that same boy cartwheeled through Mom’s mind as she ran the brush through my long hair, and then I heard a car turning into our driveway. I stretched from my body just enough to see a yellow VW Beetle pull up beside Mom’s Acura, then snapped back as Hub came sliding into the room.
    Dude, she’s here
,
he said, wagging his tail, making circles. He was so excited that he actually barked.
She’s here, Wes. She’s really here.
    Yeah
,
I said.
I know.
    I’m so pumped.
    I can see that.
    Mom stopped brushing my hair, then plucked a Kleenex from a box on my nightstand and used it to dry her eyes. The doorbell rang. Hub expressed his excitement with uncharacteristic yapping. He bolted into the hallway and Mom followed, snapping at him to shut the hell up. I sat nervously, thankful that my hair was looking good and that I didn’t have any goobers crusting the insides of my nostrils.
    You may recall me saying that, with Nadia, it was not love at first sight. She was cool to the extreme, in her tiny jean skirt and Donna Karan shades, but the love didn’t kick in—didn’t
form
—until I heard her play piano. Yvette was different, though.
Cool
wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind. She came dressed for work, after all. Comfortable slacks and a white blouse. Yet she had an inner light that made the bright yellow walls and blue ceiling seem lacklustre in comparison. It
boomed
from her, inspiring incredible feeling. Words like
tender
, and
warm
,
and
kind
, spun layers around her. This was how she was formed. Like a pearl. A perfect pearl.
    And yeah, that light fused with mine. Immediately.
BAM!
A chain reaction. I was lost to her. Would do anything for her.
    “This is Westlake,” Mom said, leading Yvette into my groovy room. She stood at the foot of my bed, professional and pretty, her hair drawn back from her face and tied with a red band. I ripped out of my body for one second to look at myself, positive that I would see some reaction: my eyes wide and excited, perhaps, or my legs trembling as something overwhelming zigzagged through me. But there was nothing. I simply lay there, as motionless as a stain, with my hair tucked behind my ears the way Mom had left it.
    “Westlake,” Mom said. “This is your new caregiver, Yvette.”
    Hi, Yvette
,
I said. How could I sound so cool?
    “Hello, Westlake,” Yvette said, smiling. She was looking into my eyes. Looking for
me
.
She recognized, right away, that there was someone inside. Another reason to love her.
    A brief, slightly awkward pause, and then Mom was showing Yvette where she would find everything she needed. Bedsheets and clothes in the closet (a modest wardrobe, consisting of shorts and T-shirts for the summer, track pants and sweaters for the