“Then don’t treat me like I’m trash. Don’t demean what I did. It wasn’t disposable. I didn’t do it so you could bide your time and swoop back in to take your licks.”
Okay, now I’m upset. Angry. Scared. And something else … I don’t even know what. All I know is that if I want to fight with someone, I can do that with my mom. I don’t need Lucky 2.0, aka a complete stranger, to make me feel like I’ll never be good enough.
Every molecule of my being is vibrating with energy. “Then why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you do it?”
He blinks at me, black lashes fluttering. He’s so close, I can see the pale network of burn scars on one side of his face. The apostrophe of his marred eyebrow. The deep hollows of his cheeks. The way his sharp eyes are scanning my face … and the hesitation behind them.
He’s hiding something; I just don’t know what.
“Got to get back to work,” he says, jaw tightening. “Juggling two jobs now, so time is a little tight.”
“Lucky,” I plead.
“Don’t want your pity, Saint-Martin. Keep it. I’m fine.”
Part of me wants to scream. He’s bitter that he’s taking the blame for something he didn’t do, yet he doesn’t want me to turn myself in to the police. He’s mad that I didn’t tell him I was grateful, but he doesn’t want my pity?
I squeeze my eyes shut and admit, “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I’ve never screwed anything up this badly. I want to fix this. Let me fix this.”
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me. Contemplating. Silent.
“I’ve really got to get back to work,” he says after a moment, in a gentler voice, encouraging me to stand. “And you better go before my parents see you up here and start giving me shit. You aren’t the only one who’s getting bombarded with questions about us hooking up, and ‘no girl is worth ruining your life for,’ all that.”
My cheeks grow warm. “But that’s …” I sputter something that sounds nearly like a complete word, but my brain glitches, and I can’t quite get it out. I try again. “Ridiculous.” There! Got it out. “I mean … right? No life-ruining. No hooking up. I mean, obviously.” I manage a hollow laugh, suddenly nervous. “We don’t even know each other anymore.”
Sharp and serious, his eyes dart over me from beneath a fan of dark lashes—the quickest of looks, buried in a blink.
That look makes me want something I shouldn’t want.
“Better go now,” he says. “Let’s not give them a reason to speculate any more than they already have.”
“Let’s not,” I agree. “This disaster is already large enough as it stands.”
But as I head back down the ladder and sneak across the boatyard, eager to put both physical and emotional space between me and Lucky and this whole tangled mess, his words drum in my temples along with my pounding pulse. And I realize something.
He’s lying too.
His parents don’t know that he didn’t throw that rock. They don’t know that he’s covering for me. That seems significant. I just can’t figure out why.
But I’m going to.
COAST LIFE IS THE GOOD LIFE: This etched glass sign is posted by the entrance to the lone quarterly magazine headquarters in town. The brick building also houses the local newspaper and sits on the historic town common next to Summers & Co Department Store. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 7
Like most of the smaller shops on our block, the Nook traditionally closes early at noon every Wednesday for a half day—something to do with farmers back in the 1800s, I don’t know. But the Wednesday after I talk to Lucky, I’m thankful for it. If Lucky won’t let me turn myself in to the police and unburden my soul, then I’m going back to my original plan: Los Angeles or bust. I’ve just got some repair work to do. A teeny, tiny little patch.
And maybe while I’m in the process of patching, I might do a little snooping. I’ve been cooped up in the Nook too long.
I need to get out and assess the damage. And other things …
“You can use your darkroom if you need to develop any film,” Mom tells me when I clock out for the afternoon and she’s taking the till out of the register. “I won’t be receiving books in the back this afternoon.”