He pushes aside a wave of golden-brown hair, mussed from wearing a helmet. “You can’t show up on my doorstep like this. You know that.”
“Why won’t you even look at me anymore?” My voice trembles with barely contained emotion, my face no doubt a splotchy, mascara-streaked mess.
He hesitates. “You know why.”
“I saw you coming out of the café today.”
“Cath . . .” He leaves his door open a crack and turns to face me, those warm hazel eyes softening. He glances around us, checking for prying eyes. “She’s a kindergarten teacher and we dated for years. If she’s willing to give me another shot, it says something about my character.” He shrugs. “I need to help my reputation right now.”
His reputation isn’t what’s suffering. “Are you sleeping with her?” A fresh wave of tears threatens.
“Please don’t cry, Cath. I’m sorry.” His throat bobs with a hard swallow.
“Do you still love me?”
His gaze slowly drifts down over my frame—the midday summer heat making my tank top and jean shorts cling to my body—before lifting to meet my eyes again. “You know how I feel about you. I will always feel that way about you.”
I take a deep breath, brush my tears from my cheek. “I miss you so much.”
He hesitates, his eyes flickering to the house next door again, the only vantage point with a clear view of us, thanks to a crop of trees in front. “I miss you, too. But we shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”
Chapter 19
“Seriously, I didn’t need a police escort to go shopping,” I insist to Keith, barely avoiding the town worker as she waters flowers. It’s the first days of June, and the tulips that graced the planters have been replaced by bright bursts of petunias, marigolds, and lime-green coleus, flowers that will adorn Main Street in the coming summer months. And then, like clockwork, they’ll be replaced by indigo and golden mums and orange pumpkins to mark autumn and, after that, thick evergreen boughs, red ribbon, and twinkling white lights. Really, there isn’t a season where this stretch isn’t tended to with the utmost care. The valley could be suffering the worst drought in Pennsylvania’s history and I’ll bet this worker would still be out here every Saturday morning, watering, keeping Balsam beautiful and the tourists coming in.
And, truth be told, we may actually be facing a drought soon enough, as we’ve gone from unseasonably cool to stifling hot in a week’s time, the weather forecasts calling for highs of midnineties by this afternoon.
“Then you shouldn’t have tried that lame ‘I have nothing to wear’ excuse on Lou.” Keith taps the rim of Brenna’s baseball cap, pushing it lower over her face. This is the first time she’s been anywhere with me besides a car ride to school, and I’m not entirely sure there won’t be a photographer lurking, given that today is this Key to the City ceremony they’re forcing me to attend.
I roll my eyes. Keith showed up on my doorstep with coffee and donuts at a quarter to ten, exactly fifteen minutes before Threads, a boutique clothing shop and the only one in Balsam, was to open. Apparently Lou called him last night to ensure I got out and bought something for myself. She didn’t call Misty, I’ll note, which would have been the more obvious choice. I think Lou still worries about my safety.
There’s absolutely no need. I’ve gotten plenty of curious looks, but no one has said anything to me beyond a hello.
I hold Brenna’s hand extra tight as we head for Keith’s truck, trekking carefully over the cobblestone street that marks the center square of Balsam. My other hand grips a shopping bag holding a dress that I hope is appropriate for this afternoon’s event. No one seems willing to tell me much about it at all, except that I’m to be ready at three thirty and we’re going to Lander’s Mill, a museum on the outskirts of town.
“Can we get ice cream? Please!” Brenna begins tugging my arm toward the Sweet Stop. “Please, please, please, please, please!”
Normally I’d say no, that it’s too early in the day for ice cream and the five bucks they charge for a double cone is robbery. But I just treated myself to a dress that cost me more than I’ve ever spent on an outfit. And she’s such a good kid, never complaining about all the things we can’t afford.
She squeals as I lead her toward the door.
“I’ll wait out here. Nothing too messy, Squirt, or you’ll be cleaning my seats!” Keith calls after her.
She’s not listening, already pulling me in past the red-and-white-striped awning.
We pass a table of giggling teenagers who immediately silence. I hear hushed whispers of “That’s her!” and heat crawls up my neck. It’s a ridiculous reaction for a twenty-four year-old woman in the presence of girls who can’t be more than sixteen, but it somehow brings me right back to high school.
“Okay, Brenna, hurry up and pick please.”
“Um . . .” She lifts onto her tiptoes to see inside the ice cream chiller.
“Face off the glass,” I quietly scold, offering an apologetic smile to the teenage boy behind the counter who waits for our order with a lackluster expression. Poor kid has to wear a silly white cone for a hat; I’ll bet he’s not happy with that.
“Cotton candy . . . pineapple orange . . . chocolate chip . . .”
I struggle not to roll my eyes as Brenna reads each label, just as she does every time she’s choosing an ice cream flavor at Diamonds, where we have a whopping five options. In the end, I know she’ll pick Dutch chocolate, because she always picks Dutch chocolate.
At least there isn’t a line.
I let my gaze wander over the various counters—over the decadent handmade chocolates and French macarons, over the blocks of fudge and cupcakes—and I inhale, relishing the scents of icing sugar and freshly brewed coffee. I haven’t been in here in years. My parents used to bring us once a year on our birthday, as a special treat. I always looked forward to it.
“Catherine?”
I spin on my heels at the voice.
“It’s me! Krystal? Remember? From English class?”
“Hi.” Yeah, I remember Krystal from English class.
October 2010
The push isn’t hard, but I’m drunk and caught off guard. I stumble into Dixon Teller, who merely shrugs me off. Assuming it was an innocent bump, I wipe the spilled beer from my jacket and get set to move on.
“Why are you even here?”
I guess it wasn’t an innocent bump.
I turn to meet the voice.
Krystal. Quite possibly my biggest enemy. She sneers as I pass in the hallway, loudly whispers behind me in class. It’s like she’s made it her mission to make my life hell. More than it already is.
Cold green kohl-lined eyes spear me with hatred. “No one invited you. No one likes you. No one wants to touch you. You’re a whore.” And then, as if to emphasize her point, her mouth twists. And she spits. The beer-tinged gob lands on my cheek.
Something inside me finally snaps.