He pulls me after him, moving us along in the direction of nowhere. “It’s dim out here.”
Thought so.
Being stuck with him is the last thing I want, but while I’ve got him handy, I might as well satisfy a few of my questions. I could have googled them, but I’ve been firm on my no-cyberstalking rule. My fragile psyche has needed to believe he’s been living as a monk all this time, dreaming about me every night and regretting leaving Moonville. In my mind, he’s implemented the same rule about me, and that’s why he hasn’t reached out.
As we walk, I say, “Why’d you drop out of med school?”
“Because it sucked.”
“But you got your bachelor’s in biology?”
“Engineering, actually. Medical school was nothing like college. College was all right. Medical school made me want to shut my face in a car door.”
“So you did end up going to Ohio State, then?” I venture carefully. This might be a dangerous topic, considering our history. Our arms brush as we walk, a little tingle of electricityzipping along between us. No! Bad electricity! I squint through the canopies, suspecting errant thunderclouds might be the cause. When in doubt, blame the weather.
“Yeah.”
Unfortunately, we kept tabs on each other for months after our breakup. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have seen what he saw andIwouldn’t have seen whatIsaw, and what a load of ugliness that was. I have to flip the page to a different topic before I make myself mad all over again.
“Good. I’m glad you went.”
This was probably the wrong thing to say. He grunts, the space between us pumped full of fresh tension.
“I did end up going to Hocking,” I inform him. “For early childhood education.”
“Good,” he replies quietly. “I’m glad to hear it. They had the campus housing, right?”
“Yep.” Which was rare for a two-year college, and extra appealing to me since I so desperately wanted to get out of the house. “I only ended up living on-campus for one semester, though.” He laughs, which I expected. I plow on: “I moved into the carriage house behind the shop instead—paying close to three thousand dollars a semester to stay in a tiny dorm didn’t make sense when my grandmother gave me free board twenty minutes away.”
“There you have it, then.” His words are heavy. “Everything worked out.”
It’s my turn to grunt.
Grandma and I did have a ball together—I didn’t fully appreciate how stressful the last few years of my parents’ deteriorating marriage made life for everyone in our household until I removed myself from it and awoke one day in an environment where myfight or flight instinct wasn’t triggered by the sound of a door slamming.
I was breathing easier, surviving, but I wouldn’t have called it living. Mornings were a fog, nights hell, a continual cycle of re-remembering that my strongest support was gone, off living his own uncomplicated-by-Romina dreams.
“Where are we going?” he asks, pausing for a moment.
“Bowerbird’s Nest.”
He turns his head toward me quickly. His mouth wants to grin, I can tell.
“What?” I prop my hands on my hips. “Gilda will know the answer. If there’s someone in this town who built a house and decorated it for somebody else, she’s gonna know about it.”
His almost-grin breaks into a great big smile that looks achingly lovely on him, and very handsome. Infuriating, too. He laughs and laughs at me.
“What!” I sputter again. “It’s a good idea!”
It is.
Boisterous busybody Gilda Halifax knowseverything. She and Grandma were dear frenemies, each of them psychic, each calling the other one a fraud. Gilda passed out business cards at Grandma’s Celebration of Life, and half the eulogy was an incredibly ballsy ode to her costume shop, Bowerbird’s Nest, advertising discounts on palm-reading services when you sign up for her e-blast. She wears a locket that she swears Grandma’s ghost is sometimes curled up inside of. Now and then, I see her talking to it.
And it turns out that I was right. When we push open the door to Bowerbird’s Nest, Gilda scurries toward us with a loud “Well, it’s about time!” squashing each of us against her in a hug. It’s Gilda’s signature. Whether you haven’t seen Gilda in one day orin ten years, when she sees you, she’s going to hug you, and your eyes will water from all the hairspray holding her stiff red barrel curls together. A white woman in her seventies, Gilda reminds me a lot of Dottie. Not just because of the psychic thing, or because Gilda wears the same blue eyeliner Dottie did, but because Gilda is so woven into memories of my grandmother. Lots of bickering, but I think each always secretly considered the other to be her best friend.
“I was starting to worry you two didn’t know your Moonville history,” Gilda exclaims.
Alex laughs at my confusion. Over the next minute, I discover thatapparentlymale bowerbirds build nests for their potential mates during their bird courtship, and decorate those nests with brightly colored things. He claims to have known this already, but I don’t see how. That is simply not a common piece of trivia. The man is a liar with an ego and a half.
