All I can do is nod. He’s back to sounding like a stranger, and it intimidates me. Confuses me. Hurts me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven-twenty-three."
I nod and quickly turn away...because I think I’ll cry if I let myself see him walk back to Kimberly.
Jolie looks at me searchingly when I get back to her. “Everything okay?”
I’m not sure how to answer that, but what I’m suddenly sure of is that my friend knows something. It’s fairly easy to tell when you get to know Jolie well enough.
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
“There were reporters around earlier. I overheard people talking about them. And I think that’s why he allowed himself to be seen with Kimberly.”
“I see.”
But...I don’t.
Not really.
Was that what he couldn’t tell me? Was that what he didn’t want me to understand? Why he would rather have the reporters see him with Kimberly...and not me?
I DON'T SEE HIM AGAINfor the rest of the festival.
By four o'clock, the sculptures are melting into abstract puddles, and the vendors are packing up, and I’ve just finished loading empty cider containers into Gail’s truck. My face is still pinkfrom the cold, my hair is falling out of its ponytail, and I’ve just noticed this huge cider stain on my shirt when I turn around...and find myself face to face with the last person I had hoped to bump into.
Kimberly.
She's still in white. Still perfect. Her makeup hasn't budged despite the cold, and her hair looks like she just stepped out of a salon.
“The two of us need to talk.”
I only nod. That’s something I had to learn quite painfully in the days I watched my father’s trial. Sometimes, silence is just better all around—
“Santino isn’t for you.”
And there she goes again.
She clearly isn’t the type to pull punches, and I kinda find that admiring...even if I often end up being her punching bag.
“I know you won’t believe me for saying this, but I’m saying this for your own good. Do you know there were reporters around earlier?”
That I nod clearly catches her off guard, but she quickly regains her composure and looks at me with pity. “Then I don’t need to spell things out, do I? You’re like a new toy to him, but that’s it. He knows you’re not good enough for the real things. The things that matter to someone like him.”
She steps closer, and I have to fight against the urge to step back.
“In two weeks, he’s going back to Europe, and it’s me he’ll take with him, not you. So spare yourself more heartbreak, and just stop clinging to him.”
Chapter Seven
TWO DAYS.
That's how long I manage to keep the distance.
Two days of showing up at the café, pouring coffee, taking orders, smiling with my mouth but not my eyes. Two days of serving him his omelet at seven-twenty-three and pretending I don't see the way he watches me. Two days of being invisible again, except this time I'm
choosing it.
Because choosing to be invisible is safer than letting him see me and finding out I'm not enough.
