“I’ve already considered him. He’s out. End of list.”
“Are you sure about that? He did swear revenge, and it would explain why Poppy took an instant dislike to you.”
Ouch. “She did not dislike me instantly, and I’m telling you it wasn’t the driver.”
“If not him, then Harriet the Spy’s your best bet.”
“Harriet’s a spy?”
“Not a good one, but yes. She probably saw the whole exchange through binoculars and spread the word before your Uber hit the four-way stop.”
“She has binoculars?”
“Multiple pairs. And at least two treehouses. She claims it’s for birdwatching, but most people think she’s Miss Informed’s top source. I’d wager you’ll make next week’s column.”
She groaned. “Fine. I withdraw my accusation. Temporarily. Pending further evidence.”
He stared at her, expression unreadable, long enough that he caught her wince when thunder cracked overhead.
He tilted his head. “You okay with storms? They’re forecasting a big one tonight.”
“The thunder just startled me. That’s all.” Not true. In her head, she was back on that threadbare living room carpet, rain pelting the windows like it had a score to settle. She could still smell the burnt dinner, hear the sharp clap of thunder that came right before her father said,“If you’d given me a son instead of a sniveling daughter, none of this would have happened.”
Her mother hadn’t cried. Just stayed quiet, contained, like she knew showing emotion only made things worse.
Frankie had cried. Demanded he take it back.
He hadn’t. He’d stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand, jaw like concrete. “Apologies are for girls. For the lily-livered.”
Then he’d left. No forwarding address. No birthday cards. No phone calls.
She’d been eight.
And she’d decided if she acted more like a boy, he might come back. So she stopped crying over skinned knees. Quit playing with dolls. Quit believing in fairy tales. She learned how to cut with her words and never apologize. Just like him.
Thanks to Mr. Uptight’s meddling, and the therapist she now grudgingly respected, she could finally admitthat part of her had been forged in that moment. Not all of her. But enough.
Thunder rumbled again. She barely suppressed the flinch.
“Good to know,” Marcus said, not sounding convinced.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked as he moved toward the door.
He turned, leaning on the frame. “Depends on which version of you we’re talking about.”
“There’s only one.”
“I’m not so sure. There’s the charming, breezy, probably-owns-more-lipstick-than-books version who had the town eating out of her perfectly manicured hand. And then there’s the one who glares like she could set drywall on fire.”
“Let me guess, you prefer the charming one?”
“Honestly? I find her exhausting.”
“And the other?”
“The prickly one’s interesting.”
People had called her a lot of things.Interestingwasn’t usually one of them.
