Читать книгу Another Little Piece Of My Heart - Tracey Martin - Страница 9

Chapter Four

I stare. I can’t help it. How is it possible that almost exactly two years to the day after I made the hardest decision of my life, I’m here locking eyes with Jared in an aisle of a tiny grocery store in a town I’d never heard of in a state I’d never been to until yesterday?

Is it a wild coincidence, or did the alien gods think it would be funny to give me a metaphorical ass kicking? I sure know which of the two it feels like.

Jared’s face suggests he’s pondering the same question. He’s got his sunglasses perched on his head, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. I remember every pore in his chin. I can tell he hasn’t shaved since yesterday morning—that’s how well I remember. He still wears that plain silver band on his right thumb, and that black leather cord around his neck. Only now the cord has a small leaf on it. Once, he wore a silver Buddha, a charm I gave him for his birthday. Guess he got rid of it when I got rid of him.

I jab my nails into my palms until the pain clears my head.

“Sunblock?” I repeat. I wait for the floor to swallow me up. For the ceiling to part and a thousand angels to point and snicker. Any of it seems about as likely as this.

The guy who asked the question glances between me and Jared. He thinks he’s had an epiphany.

“He’s not who you think he is.” The guy punches Jared in the arm. “They just look alike.”

It’s not a bad attempt on the guy’s part. If I was merely some crazy fan girl, maybe it would even work. But I’m not. I’m inhaling Jared even now. I spent enough time with my face pressed into that soft spot of skin where his neck meets his shoulder, enough time wrapped in his sweatshirts or my face buried in his pillow that his Jared-scent is unmistakable. I’m having a hard time breathing because of it.

It’s the shock, I tell myself. It’s only the shock of running into him this way. It’ll pass. My lungs will reinflate.

“Sorry, I’m new. I think I saw it—”

“Claire?” Jared’s staring at me.

I cross my arms. “Jared.”

A dumbfounded expression sweeps across question-boy’s face. “Oh, so you guys know each other?”

“Knew each other,” I say pointedly. “A long time ago in a state far, far away.”

Damn the Star Wars reference. Jared was a huge fan of the original trilogy, and it just slipped out. He catches it, too. His lip twitches as he looks between me and his friend. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you guys met at some parties back in high school.”

I throw question-boy a cursory glance and come up empty. Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. Maybe if I could really see his face, I’d remember. But I can’t. All my brain can focus on is Jared. His friend is just a blur of human-like features.

Jared stuffs his hands in his pockets, as though trying to make sure we share as little common air as possible. “So how are you?”

Ready to pass out? My emotions run the gauntlet from confused to furious, then back again with occasional forays into something that feels a lot like grief. It must be the shock.

“Fine.” I make sure to put some anger into my voice, or try to. I’m not sure how successful I am. “I think the sunblock’s—”

“What are you doing here?” His gaze sweeps around the store and lands on my blazer.

I could ask the same question of him. Why is he here, in this town, in this market, making my already screwed-up summer even more screwed up? What did I do to deserve this? But I don’t ask because I don’t want him to think I care.

Scratch that. I don’t care. I’m not the least bit curious about the jerk who made himself famous by singing lies about me to the whole world. Nope, not at all.

My inner monologue needs to stop protesting so much so I can believe myself.

I take a deep breath, fighting for control. “I’m working. What does it look like I’m doing? I think sunblock’s down the next aisle with the shampoo.”

Thankfully, I’m right. I show it to them then hurry off because Jared has this look about him that makes me think he wants to say something else, and I don’t want to hear whatever it is. My sanity feels incredibly fragile. Shatterable. I always had the worry that one day I might run into Jared back home, but I was supposed to be leaving that worry behind in Connecticut. I wasn’t prepared for this.

Down the next aisle I collide with Ben. He has an application for me to complete and some tax form. I take my time, not wanting to be at the register when the guys pay.

How must it feel to be Jared now, I wonder as I write the address of my uncle’s beach rental on the application. To go from rags to riches while the ex you hate go from riches to rags? Part of me wants to hit him over the head with one of those stupid Grammys. Or maybe run him over with my red fucking Miata.

That, in particular, might save me some awkwardness later. I mean, what if he’s vacationing at Eliot Beach, too? What if he keeps coming to this store? How can I avoid him?

Running him over might be a solid plan.

The only thing that gives me some comfort is the belief that there must be a song in all my angst. Unfortunately, I have no time to think about it. I need to concentrate on my training.

By the time I get home, I’m too exhausted to write. Six hours of unexpectedly standing around on my feet takes its toll. I’m also starving because two peaches wasn’t much of a lunch.

Yawning, I trudge up to the attic. If I can’t channel my emotions into an I-hate-Jared song, then an I-hate-Jared conversation will have to do. And Kristen will only be too happy to help. That’s what best friends are for—pointing out all the flaws in your exes and vindicating you of any responsibility for the disaster that was your breakup. Obviously.

Kristen answers on the third ring. “Greening’s Morgue. You kill ’em; we chill ’em. What’s up?”

Ordinarily, Kristen’s sense of humor works wonders on my mood. But not today.

“How about what’s down, like the temperature in Hell. Kris, you’re never going to believe this. Jared’s here.”

“What? Who?”

“Jared. You know. Him.” In the silence that follows, I hear Delirium playing through the phone. Great. There’s only one time when Kristen listens to trance music. “Are you stoned?”

“Just a little. Wait.” The music volume decreases. “The Jared? Are you serious?”

“Yes! I ran into him today. It was horrible. I need comfort.”

“Good God. What happened? Tell me everything.”

That’s why Kristen is my best friend. She doesn’t care that I’m ruining her buzz.

So I fill her in on exactly what went down, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach and the scent of cooking meat that wafts through the window.

“That’s like...wow.” Kristen falls silent.

“I’m in crisis here. Can you try to be articulate?”

“Sorry. Okay, first thing first. You are not in crisis. You are having a crisis. They’re totally different. Now let’s review the coping strategies you developed to handle this situation.”

I bang my head against a pillow. “My coping strategy was to pray this day wouldn’t come.”

“Claire, that’s not proactive behavior. You were supposed to come up with strategies so you’d be prepared and it wouldn’t be this traumatic.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure blaming the victim here is not helping.”

“You’re right. That was really bad of me, I’m sorry. Okay, calm down. Let’s breathe. Deep yoga breaths.”

I inhale. Exhale slowly. “Tell me something helpful.”

“Fine. You’re unlikely to meet Jared again.”

“How do you know?” Inhale.

“It’s a big state. Not New York big or anything, but what are the odds?”

“The state is big. The town is not.”

It sounds like she blows me a raspberry. “Do you know for sure he’s staying in the town? Come on, you got hit by lightning today. How many people get hit by lightning twice?”

Exhale. “None, because they’re all dead?”

Logically, I know Kristen’s probably right. Why would Jared be staying in Eliot Beach? Unlike me he has no family here, and it’s not exactly a happening music scene. I just need Kristen to say it a few more times. Or maybe pass a little of whatever she’s smoking through the phone because this deep-breathing thing is not helping.

April screams my name, and I groan. “I’m being paged,” I tell Kristen. “Better go.”

“Keep me informed. I’m here for you.”

I hang up as April reaches the doorway. She’s still wearing her bikini top, and she’s a lot tanner than she was this morning.

“Dad wants to talk to you,” she says. “You look horrible. What did they make you do today? Hard labor?”

I had to call the house to let people know why I’d be gone all day. Word must have spread. “I was learning how to work the register.”

“That doesn’t sound hard.”

I kick off my sneakers. “It’s not difficult, but that doesn’t mean it’s not tiring.”

“If you say so. Doesn’t sound tiring to me.”

I can think of a million retorts, but I opt for the one most likely to annoy her. “Your nose is burnt.”

She glares at me so I leave to find Dad.

Aunt Anita is making salad in the kitchen. Nikki leans against the counter next to her, molesting the tomatoes and droning on about how much she loved working in New York City and how it’s the greatest place ever. Judging from my aunt’s expression, she cares more about the well-being of the tomatoes.

Her face perks up when she sees me. “He’s outside. You have a good first day?”

“Yeah.” Did I? I have nothing to compare it to.

Just like Nikki’s standing around watching my aunt make salad, my dad’s standing around watching my uncle grill dinner. I’m astounded by the helpfulness of my family.

My stomach rumbles as I step out onto the patio and eye the plate of burgers and chicken. “You wanted me?”

Dad’s not the type to hem and haw. You don’t climb the corporate ladder, he claims, by being wishy-washy. “I don’t like that you got a job without asking me today.”

I gape at him. “Sorry. I didn’t ask because I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You’re on vacation. You don’t need to work some menial job. It’s beneath you.”

So that’s the issue. My dad’s pride is on the line. “It’s not vacation. I graduated high school last month. I don’t get vacation anymore.”

“Claire—”

“Look, I want this. It’s good life experience.” He can’t argue with that, seeing as that’s part of his BS story about why I’m taking a year off school.

Still, I’m biting my tongue to hold in what I’m actually thinking, which is that he’s no model of fiscal responsibility. Despite our supposed financial crisis, he’s paying to keep Nikki around because—let’s face it—while she might once have flirted with him for free when we were rich, he’s not so great a catch anymore. He’s also paying to have the new condo’s kitchen renovated before we move in, which is why it was deemed a good idea to go to New Hampshire during the construction.

Dad claims he has a plan, that within a year he’ll have restored my college fund. I’m not holding my breath. Sure he used to work for an investment firm, but his recent actions don’t convince me that he has a clue how to manage his personal finances. As far as I’m concerned, once you have to sell off the house and the boat, you don’t drop money unnecessarily on things like kitchen remodels.

Oh, and you definitely don’t criticize someone for being responsible and getting a job.

As if sensing my imminent explosion, Uncle George interjects. “I think Claire’s doing a good thing. It’s very responsible.”

Yup, that’s me. Responsible to the core. I’ll get a job when no one else in my family can be bothered. I’ll even dump my boyfriend to make my parents happy.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t being responsible. Maybe that was being delusional. Me, wishfully thinking that if I could remove all my mom’s stress, she’d get better. But the thought counts, doesn’t it?

My dad’s lips are pressed thin. He swishes the Scotch around in his cocktail glass as my uncle cheerily changes the topic of conversation to baseball. Meanwhile, I haul my responsible butt inside and sneak a beer from the fridge. Responsibility ought to have its perks because delusional thinking sure didn’t.