Marlow laughs.
“That’s enough, young woman,” Ruth scolds sternly.
“What is she doing here?” Rhett asks.
“You pipe down, Rhett,” Ruth says firmly. “The poor dear fell over.”
“Leave it to my weird luck to make a grand entrance,” I mutter.
“Are you okay?” Chase’s mom asks as she helps me up.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Collins.”
“You can call me Ruth.” She pats me gently on the back.
“Pippa always was a klutz. Or maybe she just wants attention. Did you ever tell Mr. and Mrs. Collins about the email you accidentally sent to the whole school?” Marlow chuckles. “I thinkI have it here somewhere.” Marlow swipes the password on her phone.
I can’t help but notice it’s simply 1-2-3-4. If she does have the incriminating email, I argue with myself about sneaking onto her device later and deleting it.
“Here it is. Wow. I saved it for all these years. Let’s see. ‘Dear Chase,’” she starts. “You were always so formal. Prissy Pippa. Ooh. That’s a good one.”
I rub the rug burn on my arm where I landed on the carpet. “Marlow, don’t you think you humiliated me enough in high school?”
“Humiliated you? Hardly. It was all in good fun.” She brandishes an innocent smile.
“Then what exactly are you trying to do right now?” I ask, standing my ground.
“Have a laugh.”
“At my expense.” I’m done being Miss Manners.
“Come on, if you can’t laugh at yourself then—” She shrugs. “Well, that’s just sad.”
I’m plenty familiar with laughing at myself, so I don’t cry. But Marlow has been out of line for too long. As far as I’m concerned, she just stepped over it.
Marlow presses on. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘My Dearest Chase—’” She bursts into laughter. “I can’t read it. It’s so cringy. She wrote him a sonnet professing her love. It’s absolutely ridiculous.” Marlow snorts. “Okay, here I go, if I can keep a straight face and keep from laughing. ‘Oh, handsome boy, you inspire my sight. How I adore the way you sprint on the rugby pitch. Bouncing into my dreams day and night. Ever the one to scratch my heart’s itch?—’”
I recall the deep embarrassment, frustration, and righteous indignation when the email surfaced school-wide as areply alland had somehow been associated with me, even though I didn’t write it.
Yes, I penned The Crush List, but not a sonnet.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. Rumors spread like wildfire at Hinnifin that it had been from me—probably because I’d been the one to originally send the notice to students as deputy activities director, requesting votes for the next school spirit day theme.
I march over to Marlow, face-to-face. “Chase did inspire my heart, but I didn’t write that. If I were going to write a sonnet about Chase, I would’ve just recited it to him.”
“Enough,” Rhett interrupts, as red as a swollen tomato, ready to burst.
I startle and realize it was a mistake coming here.
“Why don’t you freshen up in the guestroom, Pippa? Upstairs, third door on the left. I need to have a word with my husband.” Ruth gestures to the stairs and then glowers at Rhett.
I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, bouncing from one exhausting social experience to another, and am all too happy to retreat.
Upstairs, I find the room easily and take a quick shower, washing the rainwater from my hair and then smooth some moisturizer over my arm where I’d hit the rug. I wipe my face and breathe deeply. The citrus scent is refreshing, but beneath that is another odor. I sniff the bottle and wonder if it’s gone off. Considering the Collinses probably only come here a few times a year, Ruth may not replace products in the guest bathroom when items expire.
I close my eyes, wishing away Marlow, Rhett, and what has become a complicated and ugly situation. But no amount of wishing will change things. Instead, I pray.
Shortly after, the scent of rosemary and other fresh herbs filter through the window over the back deck. I smell the grilland imagine it’s nearing dinnertime. Not wanting to be rude, I reluctantly go downstairs.
