Dark Intentions - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,55

all since I wouldn't call whatever we have an official relationship."

“I guess…” I force myself to agree.

"I just don't understand why he's so upset about it."

"Which part again?" I lean over closer to the phone, taking a sip of my water. It feels good to talk like this.

"He's jealous, and of course he wants to come."

"And you don't want him to come?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that."

I can't help but laugh.

"Look, it's a serious problem," Allison says. "I think I'm going to break up with him. I kind of like this one guy I met at Redemption."

I smile, considering the irony of the situation. "You know, you're not supposed to date people you meet there."

“Yeah, it’s probably a mistake."

"Tell me that this guy at least doesn't have a…” I’m not sure if I should say girlfriend or wife so I settle on, “partner.”

"No, he doesn't.” Allison shakes her head. "I'm certain of it."

I have told her a little bit about Dante, but suddenly I'm tempted to tell her more.

"He keeps calling me," I say.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, but ... I cried so much when I told him about my mom."

“What does that matter?”

"I feel like an idiot. I mean, I literally sobbed into the phone and just told him everything that was going on, and I haven't talked to him since."

"How long has it been?"

"Like three days."

"Oh my God, Jacqueline, c’mon. He clearly likes you. I mean, he's hanging around even though you're acting so ridiculously desperate."

"That's what I'm talking about,” I snap at her. “Why is he so interested?”

"I was joking, you moron,” Allison says, tilting her head to one side and propping it up with her hand. "Look, maybe he actually likes you.”

33

Jacqueline

The following evening, after another day of avoiding taking his calls and just replying casually over text, but saying nothing in particular, I order some food from the Denny's at the corner and take a walk over to Main Street to pick it up.

I window shop, looking into all the little boutiques and even venture in the one that sells cool vintage items found in nice flea markets; artistic glass bowls and unusual clothing that only people in New York City and independent films seem to wear. In the back, I find shelves of novels. Most are paperbacks, but there are a few hard covers as well.

I've always loved the smell of a used bookstore. There’s something about the paper that has been touched by hundreds of people before me and the stories that have been loved.

The thing about fiction is that it's not the books that you're forced to read in school that you really make a connection with. It's not the ones that need explanations and analysis, but it's really the ones that you read for pleasure. It’s all about the ones that you re-read over and over again, because you happen to love the characters or because the characters on some level, despite all of their obstacles and problems, resemble you.

That's what I've always tried to find in fiction. I've looked for books that were basically about me. I wanted to read about girls who are not particularly confident at first, gaining in that strength and growing into proud, competent women.

"May I help you with anything?" An older woman with bright purple nails and a shaved head walks up to me.

She has a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt on and the kind of fire in her eyes that's difficult to describe.

"No, I'm good. I'm just browsing."

"You're new around here?" she asks.

"I'm not from here."

"Oh, you have a family member in the hospital?"

I nod again, not really wanting to talk about it.

"We have people coming in here trying to pass the time while they wait. How is your family member doing?"

"Not good," I state. "It's kind of a wait and see type of situation."

"Oh, I'm really sorry about that, honey," she says, taking a step forward and draping her arm around me.

Suddenly all of the emotions that I've been bottling up and keeping to myself rush to the surface.

I push myself away and I try to keep the tears from streaming down my face, and when that's not possible, I wipe them as quickly as I can, looking away.

“It’s my mom,” I whisper.

She gives me a moment, not saying a word.

"You're going to be all right,” she says when I look up at her. "It's in God's hands now, whatever happens."

"Yeah, I guess. I just wish that there