I scoff at the mere thought of it. At the overly dramatic plot devices employed in Mom’s books. The ones that make romance out to be an act of life or death. I guess in medieval times it kind of was.
The sound of the bell over the door rings out. Natalia walks by the front window wearing a caramel-colored, fur-lined parka that complements her skin tone.
Hector saunters over to the counter to settle the bill with Noelle. I look at him out of the corner of my eye to make him squirm.
“Good morning,” I say with a bit of sass before sipping again. I feel like that shady Kermit the Frog meme from a few years ago. “Didn’t mean to walk in on your date.” I know I’m being coldly coy, but I can’t help it. It’s too tempting to pass up, running into him like this.
“That wasn’t a… I mean, she and I, we’re not…” He doesn’t get a chance to finish because Noelle interrupts to hand him back his change. As he adds a tip to her jar, she flashes me an almost reprimanding glare before making herself scarce.
“Should we head out together?” he asks. His voice is barely audible underneath the caught-in-the-act discomfiture.
“Let’s do it,” I say. I leave a bundle of cash tucked under my saucer, and before I exit, I scurry back to add a little extra for all the juicy info.
Chapter 14
Movies and TV shows make storage units out to be grisly places where criminals and the testy elite hide their spookiest skeletons. Storage Unit Express is far from the kind of place you’d need to be scared walking around in at night. It’s well lit and in a prime location for Havensmith students to store their twin XL bedding and wacky floor lamps over the summer months.
When we pull into the Havensmith Hollow business district, lanes upon lanes of bright-orange metallic doors fill an asphalt lot. It looks like a seaside motel, but only for your luggage.
The white tag on the key Grandma gave me reads C7. We follow the signs on foot as I regale Hector with talk about my morning. The businesses. The noes. The few hard-won yeses. I wait for his verbose praise, but he seems on edge since the coffee shop, so all he does is nod.
The sky is overcast, sending streaks of filtered light down upon us, as if the sun were a disco ball and the clouds were its refractors. Melted snow leaves behind pesky puddles I hop, skip, and jump over so as not to ruin the Chelsea boots I picked out for today.
Hector sets himself up for the pass, so I toss him the key and let him fiddle with the lock before sliding the door up and open.
It’s like the Smithsonian of cardboard boxes inside. Aside from the stray, overly plastic standing snowman or the racks of folding chairs left in the back, there’s nothing holly or jolly about this scene of decrepit winter wonderland displays.
“Did he leave a list of what’s in these boxes?” I ask.
“Afraid not.” Hector steps in, and I follow after him, only a bit afraid that the door will slide closed behind me, leaving us locked inside. I subdue my anxiety by inspecting the collection further.
“They aren’t even all labeled.” Whining won’t do us any good, but there must be at least a hundred boxes in here. It’ll take all day to inventory this garbage.
“Guess we’re going to need to do this the old-fashioned way.” He shoves his gloves into his pocket before hoisting a box into the center of the space. In a clear Boy Scout maneuver, he flicks open a pocket knife from his key ring and does surgery on the packing tape.
The flaps fly open like a jack-in-the-box. Tons of white foam and glittery fluff shoot out of the overstuffed box and into Hector’s face. He does a near-perfect pratfall.
“Are you okay?” I’m concerned, but basking in the one moment where I get to laugh athimfor a change.
“I’m good, dude.” Though he sits there a couple seconds longer, bemused.
“Looks like you weren’t kidding about being a scaredy-cat.” I recall his horror at the SpectraLite mask.
“What? No. Not a scaredy-cat,” he says, defensive.
“Fine. Wuss in Boots?” I ask.
He groans, shakes his head, and goes back to his box.
I wander toward the back. Some of the boxes weren’t as expertly closed, so I dig around inside a few smaller ones. I find vases filled with tacky, transparent marbles and an assortment of snow-kissed fake flowers. In the next box, there’s a strange, detailed ceramic cat with a pair of hand-knit mittens slung around its neck. I don’t need to look further to know what I’d find: a bright copper kettle and brown paper packages tied up with string.
“Oh. My. God. Please tell me the theme was not My Favorite Things.”
Hector chuckles. “Pretty sure the gala was for the town arts council last year. And come to think of it, in the spring the community theater group did a production ofThe Sound of Musicso…I hate to break it to you, but it looks too perfect to be untrue.”
“Is there anything we can salvage in here?” There’s a box just marked PHOTO BOOTH that’s full of bent phony props and a wrinkled wrapping-paper backdrop. It makes me sad that Jack even thought to save this stuff.
Honestly, I’d fund the event myself, like Kendra suggested, if I weren’t locked out of my accounts. Mom and Dad wouldn’t even know the money was missing. If I could spare no expense, my usual sixth sense would be kicking into full gear. I’d have dozens of decorative ideas, but I’m like a dried-up well surrounded by this much dust and so many depressing visuals.
