So, no. It was not a physical thing at all. It was internal. Every girl he’d ever chosen was broken. No matter how brave she was or how tall she carried herself or how defiantly she looked at the world. He could spot a broken girl a mile away. It was all in the eyes.
And this one, this friend of Rory Miller’s, she was the most shattered of them all.
As I crested the hill onto Main Street on Thursday morning, I crossed my fingers, hoping the singing boy would be back in his spot, belting out a reggae version of “Sweet Dreams” or something. Hoping I’d imagined what I’d seen at Tristan’s. But he wasn’t. Instead, a young woman in gray yoga pants struck a twisted pose beneath the fireworks banner, lifting her face toward the sun.
My shoulders slumped, and I turned my steps toward the general store. Maybe I’d try the blueberry pancakes Darcy had ordered yesterday. They’d looked amazing. Maybe that would cheer me up and get me ready for this conversation. I wanted to ask Olive what I’d said that had sent her running to the bathroom last night, but I was nervous about bringing it up. Hopefully it was nothing. Hopefully I’d just imagined that, too. As I yanked open the door, I told myself that was the case, just to take the edge off my nerves.
Glancing at the counter, I was relieved to find two unfamiliar waitresses bustling around the coffeemaker. I didn’t want Krista there busting in on our breakfast. I took a seat facing the door so I could see Olive when she came in.
“What can I get you, miss?” an elderly woman in the general store uniform asked, approaching the table.
“Just orange juice for now, please. I’m waiting for a friend,” I told her.
She popped the tip of her pencil against her pad. “You got it!”
I settled into the cushy seat and read over the menu, item by item, just in case there was something better than blueberry pancakes to tempt me. The door opened and I looked up, but it was just one half of the couple we’d seen eating here yesterday, the preppier, blonder half. I watched the door, waiting for his boyfriend to join him, but no one else appeared. The guy moved to the counter and greeted the waitress with a smile, then ordered a cup of coffee and a bagel.
I read over the menu again, word for word. Still no Olive. I checked my watch. She was only seven minutes late. My juice arrived, and I gulped it down, my stomach growling. I read the menu over again. The door opened, and I looked up once more. This time, it was Tristan. He was wearing a damp bathing suit, and his white T-shirt clung to him in wet splotches. His hair was slicked back from his face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and the startling blue of his eyes.
My heart did this odd sort of hopeful-yet-dread-filled somersault as I remembered our conversation last night. I started to open my mouth to say hello, but he took one look at me, turned beet red, and backed out.
That was new. I glanced around, embarrassed, until I realized that no one had even noticed him or his retreat. They’d have no way of knowing I’d been the one to scare him off anyway.
The guy at the counter got his bagel and started to eat. I sipped my juice and tried not to think about how hungry I was. The waitress approached my table and cleared her throat.
“Can I get you anything else, hon?” she asked.
I smiled up at her. “I think I’ll just wait for my friend.” We both looked at my now empty glass. “Can I get a refill, please?” I asked.
“Sure.”
She took my glass and returned with it brimming. “Enjoy!”
I waited another fifteen minutes, wishing I had a cell phone so I could text Olive. Had she forgotten about our breakfast date? Or had I possibly offended her so much last night that she’d simply decided to ditch me? I drained my OJ again. Checked my watch. She was over half an hour late. Clearly she wasn’t coming. Finally, I pushed myself up, fishing a couple of dollars out of my wallet.
“Giving up?” the waitress asked, hovering over me.
“She probably just slept in,” I told her with an awkward smile. “I’m going to go check on her, and hopefully we’ll be back.”
“All right, then,” the waitress said with a pitying smile, like she didn’t believe I’d be back. As I pushed open the door, the bell overhead tinkled and the waitress lifted a hand. “Have a good day!”
I tugged the scrap of paper with the address of Olive’s boardinghouse out of my bag pocket. Twenty-two Freesia Lane, Room 2A. I glanced around, realizing I had no clue where I was going. Then I saw the redheaded guy from Tristan’s party hook a right down the side street with the park. I started after him, figuring I’d ask if he knew the street, and stopped in my tracks. The sign directly over my head read FREESIA LANE. I just hadn’t noticed it before.
“Great. She has to live on the spooky park street,” I said under my breath, shoving the scrap of paper in my pocket.
Swallowing back my nervousness, I turned down the street. Luckily number twenty-two was only a few houses in, a block away from the park. It was a tall, skinny white house that cast a long shadow over the street. Its wrought-iron flower boxes burst with red impatiens. I paused on the sidewalk for a second t
o gather the courage to go inside, hoping she wasn’t trying to avoid me.
I strode up the front walk, the floorboards of the porch creaking beneath my feet. When I tried the door, it swung open easily, the old hinges letting out a high-pitched wail. There was no one in sight, all the lights were off, and there was a distinct chill in the air despite the heat of the day.
My skin tingled and my chest felt tight. I checked over my shoulder, half expecting to see Steven Nell lunging toward me. But all that was there were the silent, lifeless row houses across the street.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside.
“Hello?” I called out. A tall, narrow staircase led up to the second floor, and faded tan-and-green flowered paper lined the walls. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
There was no answer. Somewhere from the depths of the house I heard a humming. The tune was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I licked my lips and swallowed hard. Olive came and went from this house every day. There was nothing to be afraid of. I grasped the chipped handrail and crept slowly up the stairs. After a few steps, I started feeling like I was in the middle of some horror movie and jogged the rest of the way casually, refusing to play the part of the nervous schoolgirl.