this town and rumors. They may be based on things people have witnessed, but assumptions get made, and sometimes those assumptions are dead wrong. Like, for instance, you say that you and Lucky aren’t a thing, but everyone saw you getting arrested together—”
“That was coincidence,” I insist. “He just happened to be at that party, and when I left … It’s a long story.”
“See? Same. Lucky’s been nothing but kind to me, which is more than I can say for other people.”
She steps forward when the line moves, then says, “Lucky is flat-out one of the sweetest guys I know. People have said shit about him for years, and I’m not saying he’s an angel, but for what it’s worth, he’s a genuinely decent guy and a good friend.”
I’m a little bowled over by her earnest endorsement … and by everything she’s just told me. Not sure if relief is the right word, but I mull it over as Bunny steps up to the counter, orders, and leaves with a bag of green apple fritters, mouthing words of encouragement that I initially mistake as “Good Lucky.”
And was he? Good, I mean? She made him sound as if he’s a paragon of manners—a cherubic choirboy, humble and full of grace. Savior complex. Maybe that’s the only reason he took the fall for me … because he’s addicted to helping old ladies cross the street, and I’m just another person for him to save.
Nope. Don’t buy it. He’s hiding something, and he’s lying to his family about saving my ass. He let them think he broke the window, just like I let my mom think he did it.
I did it to avoid trouble.
Maybe he did it to attract trouble.…
Because, now that I’m thinking about it, Bunny’s whole rainbows-and-glitter endorsement of Lucky’s overall wholesome goodness does make me question all the other rumors about him. Like, all of them. If he isn’t the reprobate that I once assumed him to be, and if our trip to the police station wasn’t just another notch in his notoriety …
Then maybe he isn’t really the bad boy.
What if he’s only trying to be bad?
What if he’s ruining his reputation on purpose?
SUNSET CHARTERS! FISHING—SIGHTSEEING—HISTORIC HARBOR TOURS—ROMANTIC CRUISES—CASH UPFRONT—NO REFUNDS: Metal sign by Goodly Pier advertising a pay-by-the-hour boat charter service that ferries tourists around the harbor. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 10
My trip to the doughnut shop was both a revelation and a restorative. A restorative, because Evie accepted my peace offering of the honey dippers, and we’re officially now speaking again. A revelation, because now I can’t stop obsessing over my new Lucky theory.
And I have plenty of time to ponder over it at work the next couple of days at the Nook, where we are steadily busy but not so slammed that I can’t think. Evie and I do pretty much everything in the shop except the detail-y management stuff. We ring up customers. Cash out drawers. Pull returns. Yell at stupid punk kids to stop trying to steal graphic novels. Find books for customers who only have a vague idea what color the cover is, but they know for sure they saw it mentioned on a morning news show last week. Threaten to call the cops when elderly “Tugs” McHenry comes into the store, before he can try to masturbate on books in our restroom.
Again.
“I need to know everything you know about Lucky 2.0,” I tell Evie as I stand next to the Nook’s printing press while she’s bent over a rolling metal book cart near the romance bays in the Nook’s fiction section. “I’m interested in everything that happened to Lucky after we left town.”
“Aren’t we the curious cat.…” Cradling two books against a T-shirt emblazoned with a design of two mummies kissing, she still wears the gauze wrap around her arm from her car accident, matching fashion to injury.
“Basically, fill me in on ages thirteen to seventeen, but mostly the last year or so,” I continue, trying not to look out the window toward Nick’s Boatyard. “Who his friends are. What he reads when he comes in here. Why he’s been in detention so much. Who you know for a fact he’s dated. No rumors. Only first-hand knowledge.”
A slow smile spreads over her face. “My, this is interesting. Perhaps the Saint-Martin curse is racing through your veins? Are you having erotic dreams that end in bloodshed?”
I hold up one finger. “No. Stop this. Don’t even joke, Evie.”