“Think it was suicide?” Paige finally asks meekly, like she feels bad even suggesting it.
I don’t have time to answer, because a car miraculously pulls out of the parking spot right in front of the shop, and I’m able to cut off a yellow Mustang to snag it. I could adopt a kid internationally for roughly what this spot will cost me, but it’s worth not having to walk. I want to shake off Paige as quickly as possible so I can be alone and think.
“Thanks for the ride,” Paige says. As we exit the car, I can’t help noticing that we both crane our necks to see the site of the accident a few blocks down the street. But either they cleaned up quickly, or it was farther from the shop than I remembered, because there’s no sign of the chaos of moments ago.
“Ind!”
I squint against the sun and spot Devon climbing out of his BMW a few cars behind me.
Well, this is super. Just great.
Devon jogs up the sidewalk, sun-kissed hair flopping around his tanned face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he nears.
“Why, you want me to go?” He gives me that crooked grin and slips his fingers in the belt loops of my skirt, playfully tugging me closer to him.
“No, I just thought … well, Bianca said you were going for burgers or something.”
“The rest of the team went,” he says, brushing a feather-light kiss onto my cheek. “I’d rather be with you.”
His lips move to my mouth just as a double-decker bus drives past, blaring facts about Melrose Avenue through a loudspeaker to the tourists snapping pictures out the windows. I push against Devon’s chest to stop him.
“Who cares about them,” he says, dismissing the tourists with a wave.
“It’s not that,” I say.
“Then what?” He peppers my neck with kisses.
Paige clears her throat.
Devon’s eyes flit to my neighbor, who is still standing awkwardly beside us because that’s how she rolls.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks.
“Paige Abernathy.” She stretches a hand out. “From your fifth-period history class. And also from the last six years of school.”
He shakes her hand and laughs.
“No, seriously,” she says.
“Oh.” Devon’s cheeks get pink, and he scratches his head. “Uh, sorry about that. I don’t know what to say—”
“Yeah, no big deal.” She pushes her shoulders back. “I wouldn’t notice me either if I were the captain of the football team.”
This. Is. Too much.
“Okay!” I grab Devon’s arm and tow him behind me. “Bye, Paige.”
“Wait, what about what happened—”
“Sorry, have to go work now.” I don’t look back, but I know she’s probably staring openmouthed as a fish as I retreat toward the shop.
“Wow, I feel terrible,” Devon says out of the side of his mouth. “I seriously didn’t recognize that girl at all. How do you know her?”
“My neighbor,” I say, leaving out the part about being friends once, long ago.
The bell above the door jingles as we enter the shop and are greeted by the aroma of Murphy Oil Soap and old books.
Mom looks over her shoulder from her perch on a stool in front of the bookcase, feather duster in hand. She’s wearing a black blouse, a black-sequined skirt, ripped leggings, and approximately one ton of silver jewelry in the form of necklaces and bangles; as far as my mother’s wardrobe goes, it’s about the least embarrassing ensemble she could be wearing for an impromptu visit from Devon.
“Hey, Ms. Blackwood,” Devon says.
“If it isn’t Devon Mills! So great of you to visit.” Mom hops off the stool and tosses the duster onto a stack of books, wiping her hands on her skirt. “And look, you’ve even brought my estranged daughter with you.”
She crosses the small shop, heels clacking on the wood floors, but stops in her tracks when she gets a better look at me. Her gray eyes pass over every inch of my face, like she might find the answer to her question there. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I run my thumb under the strap of my bag.
Mom knows me too well to believe me, but she lets it go for now. “Okay … ,” she says cautiously. “Well, I better get going. It’s my turn to host the Wicca Society meeting and the house is a mess.”
I cringe and refuse to meet Devon’s eyes. He’s been to the shop tons of times (in fact, he’s intimately familiar with the storeroom), but I’m just as mindful of all the laughable things he’s seeing now—the ritual candles, the silver chalices, the altar cloths, the pentacles that hang from the low ceiling—as the first time he came.
“Will I be okay leaving you two alone?” Mom asks, which makes Devon laugh and me turn forty-two shades of red. “I’m kidding, but, Indigo, could I speak with you for moment?”