While Evie gets caught up in a deep conversation with Vanessa about environmental activism and the rising temperatures in the harbor, I wander around the pool, pretending that I know where I’m going, feet matching the rhythm of the thumping music that blares through unseen speakers. And after making the mistake of wandering into the pool house—drinks and a bathroom, sure, but too many strange eyes staring at me—I head through French doors to a secluded patio around back.
It’s shadowy out here, lit only by a few globe lights, and there’s a shrub maze that shields the back patio from the pool; it’s segmented into a couple of seating areas. Plastic cups and cigarette butts litter a glass-topped side table next to a patio chair—unofficial smoking area, I suppose. I plop down in the chair and sigh heavily. This is a good moping spot for me to lick my wounds about the magazine internship. Maybe come up with a plan B. Maybe even a plan B through D.
Almost immediately, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck and suddenly realize my secluded oasis isn’t as private as I’d originally thought.
I’m not alone.
SUMMERS & CO: An early twentieth-century sign curves around the Art Deco entrance of one of the last thriving independent American department stores. Open since the 1920s, the multifloor store is known for its custom tailoring and elaborate holiday window displays. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 3
“Well, well, well,” a gravelly voice says.
I jump, startled, and peer into the darkness. Someone’s sitting, legs kicked out casually, on a loveseat-style piece of patio furniture tucked behind a tall, trellised shrub. When he leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees, the angular planes of his scarred face shift from shadow into light.
Lucky Karras.
Why is he everywhere I go in this godforsaken town?
“Josie Saint-Martin, as I live and breathe,” he says.
“I didn’t see you there,” I quickly say. “I wasn’t …” Following you? Stalking you? Always managing to bump into you whenever I step outside my door? “I didn’t realize you were out here. Or here. At this party. Here at all.” Good God, I sound like a moron.
“Oh, I’m here, all right,” he announces sarcastically, lightly lifting both hands and then dropping them. His gaze trails over the long, single braid of my hair that falls over one shoulder. “Question is, why are you here? Didn’t peg you for a partyer. Especially surprised to see you popping up at a Golden event.”
“Evie brought me along,” I say, gesturing toward the lights and sounds of the pool that seep between the dense branches of the shrubbery behind me. I try to remember the names of her friends. “Vanessa? From Barcelona? I think she’s taking a class at community college with Evie? I guess they’re friends or classmates or whatever.”
Lucky chuckles. Black lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones as he looks down.
“What?” I say, feeling defensive.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Look,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “I’m just waiting on my cousin, okay?” I intend for this to be a signal. Like, hey, move along and join the party; give me some privacy. Why is he sitting in the dark, away from everyone else? He’s usurping my loner throne, and I don’t like it.
Lucky and I had one class together this semester at Beauty High: AP English. Because our teacher would do anything to avoid teaching, we watched a lot of old movies in that class—adaptations of the books we studied—and Lucky slept on his desk when the lights went out. I let him borrow my notes once; he returned them to me at the bookshop with a couple of smartass corrections in red pen. That was most intimate interaction we’ve had in the few months I’ve been in town. Unless you count all the silent staring. Staring from Across the Street. Staring from Across the Bookshop. Staring from Across the School Cafeteria.
If you count staring, then we interact on a regular freaking basis.
Like now, for instance. His gaze sweeps over me as if he’s playing a memory game and cataloging every detail of my outfit for points: loose, brown hair braid down my shoulder; striped top; tight jeans with a tiny hole in the left knee; red low-top sneakers.
No one looks at me like Lucky does.
It’s disarming. Way too intimate. And it makes my pulse speed like I’m running a marathon. Especially since this is the first time we’ve been alone together since I’ve been back.
I don’t want to be here, alone with him. I want to be at home, trying to figure out how I can talk my way into that magazine internship. Looking for local galleries that might let me exhibit my work. Developing a roll of film. Doing anything but enduring the never-ending thump of electronic dance music and Lucky’s honey-slow gaze.
It’s been a bad day. A bad four months. Something inside me just … snaps.
“Do you have something to say to me?” I blurt, exasperated.
“Excuse me?”
“You glare at me all day long, and you’ve barely said two words to me since I’ve gotten back into town.”
“Don’t have anything to say to you, I guess. Don’t really know you anymore, do I?”
“We used to be best friends.” You used to be my boy.
“When we were twelve,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I was on math team and building robots on the weekend. I hadn’t figured out how to disable the parental controls on my phone so I could access free porn on the internet. It was a different time.” He shrugs with one shoulder.
Wow. Okay …
“If you’re trying to shock me, you’ll have to do better than that,” I say, a little miffed.
“Thought we were besties who could say anything to each other. Can’t have it both ways, Saint-Martin.”
“My former best friend wasn’t a dick.”
“Your former best friend has been through some dark shit,” he says, face tightening into sharp planes that make the ragged scars on his forehead stand out, white against olive. “So you may want to slow down before you get all high and mighty, pointing the finger of judgment in my direction.”
I know what he’s talking about. Of course I know. I glance at the black cat tattooed on his hand. “I’m sorry about the fire and everything you went through. I know when I left town, we didn’t, uh, end things on the best of notes.…” I feel ill at ease, talking about this now. Sweat blossoms across my brow, and I have a fierce yearning to bolt out of my chair and flee this party, to never look back.
He blinks for several moments and looks at his hands. “Yeah, well, I was a stupid kid, and I was already hurting, physically and mentally. It was easier to shut you out. I guess I thought I was punishing you, but I didn’t realize that it would punish me, too. Because when you left, I didn’t have anyone.”
I’m caught off guard by his confession. Some part of me wishes I had my Nikon with me to hide behind, because it would be easier … safer. I’m not used to anyone confessing anything to me. Ever. I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to speak to someone openly.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to communicate with a human being.
We stare at each other for a moment, then I say, “Thought maybe you hated me.”