This makes something in my chest contract and ache.
“Like I had a choice about leaving?” I argue. “Even though you were still in the hospital, I know you heard what happened—surely everyone in town heard about the domestic disturbance at the Nook. The big Saint-Martin mother-daughter fight … ring any bells? I literally was in my pajamas when we left town. It was the middle of the night. I was given no warning. It was well past visiting hours, so I couldn’t drop by to tell you goodbye. And besides that, I thought my mom was going to be arrested. Or my grandma. It was a nightmare. So, you know, I’m sorry that my family is screwed up, but I was twelve, and I had no control over that, and I cried all the way out of town.”
I texted Lucky from my mom’s phone—I remember Mom allowing me to do that—because unlike him, I didn’t get my own phone until I turned thirteen. I also tried calling the hospital the next day, but the phone in his room just rang. “And once we got to Boston, I emailed you, but you never replied. Not once.”
“Pardon me for being in agony and covered in bandages.”
“Do you think I don’t remember? My best friend was stuck in the hospital with terrible burns. I was worried sick about you and came to see you in the hospital every day. Remember? I didn’t know what was going to happen with your burns, and no one was telling me anything because I was just a kid. And then when mymom and I left town, it was late at night, and I couldn’t reach you. Then you didn’t answer the next day, or the next—and I thought, okay, maybe he can’t reply because he’s having surgery or something. Maybe he’ll respond when he gets home. So I kept trying to contact you—for weeks. Weeks! But you never replied, Lucky. You just … vanished.”
“No, Josie.Youvanished. I was still here. You left.”
“My mom left town and took me with her,” I repeat. “I wrote you to explain. You didn’t write back.”
My chest aches, thinking about it again, and I’m surprised how much it still hurts.
“Look, I don’t want to dig up the past,” he says, suddenly agitated and intense. “The department store window is aboutnow. It’s about the present. It’s about pride.”
How did this get so serious, so fast? He’s mad now.Reallymad.
He throws up a hand. “And you don’t get to just flounce in here and decide that you’re feeling generous today, shutterbug.”
“You don’t get to call me that,” I whisper. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“Then don’t treat me like I’m trash. Don’t demean what I did. It wasn’t disposable. I didn’t do it so you could bide your time and swoop back in to take your licks.”
Okay, nowI’mupset. Angry. Scared. And something else … I don’t even know what. All I know is that if I want to fight with someone, I can do that with my mom. I don’t need Lucky 2.0, aka a complete stranger, to make me feel like I’ll never be good enough.
Every molecule of my being is vibrating with energy. “Then why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you do it?”
He blinks at me, black lashes fluttering. He’s so close, I can see the pale network of burn scars on one side of his face. The apostrophe of his marred eyebrow. The deep hollows of his cheeks. The way his sharp eyes are scanning my face … and the hesitation behind them.
He’s hiding something; I just don’t know what.
“Got to get back to work,” he says, jaw tightening. “Juggling two jobs now, so time is a little tight.”
“Lucky,” I plead.
“Don’t want your pity, Saint-Martin. Keep it. I’m fine.”
Part of me wants to scream. He’s bitter that he’s taking the blame for something he didn’t do, yet he doesn’t want me to turn myself in to the police. He’s mad that I didn’t tell him I was grateful, but he doesn’t want my pity?
I squeeze my eyes shut and admit, “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I’ve never screwed anything up this badly. I want to fix this. Let me fix this.”
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me. Contemplating. Silent.
“I’ve really got to get back to work,” he says after a moment, in a gentler voice, encouraging me to stand. “And you better go before my parents see you up here and start giving me shit. You aren’t theonly one who’s getting bombarded with questions about us hooking up, and ‘no girl is worth ruining your life for,’ all that.”
My cheeks grow warm. “But that’s …” I sputter something that sounds nearly like a complete word, but my brain glitches, and I can’t quite get it out. I try again. “Ridiculous.” There! Got it out. “I mean … right? No life-ruining. No hooking up. I mean, obviously.” I manage a hollow laugh, suddenly nervous. “We don’t even know each other anymore.”
Sharp and serious, his eyes dart over me from beneath a fan of dark lashes—the quickest of looks, buried in a blink.
That look makes me want something I shouldn’t want.
“Better go now,” he says. “Let’s not give them a reason to speculate any more than they already have.”
