9
Nikki
James and I walk through the library. It’s quiet, no one’s here. Being a Saturday, most people are watching sports or out doing things. The swelling around my eye has completely gone, so now I’m just left with a small bruise, the Arnica Sutton gave me helping immensely.
“Sutton was nice yesterday,” James comments as we move down the rows of books, flicking through some before we move to the next.
“I saw you guys chatting at the diner yesterday. What were you talking about?” I was going to ask him last night, but by the time we both shoveled in some lasagna and had showers, he was out like a light.
“Just stuff. He helped me a little with my project.”
I smile. “That’s nice of him.”
“Yeah. He asked about… us.” Now he has my full attention.
“Asked what, exactly?” I’m cautious. Not because I fear Sutton, but because I fear everyone.
“Just asked about my dad. He thinks you’re my mom.” James rolls his eyes, knowing that’s what most people think.
I nod, then ask, “Did you tell him the truth?”
“No. I stayed quiet, just like you’ve told me to. He said his dad was bad growing up too.”
Sutton opening up to James is nice, as is helping him with his homework, but I’m still scared for us to get too close. He isn’t the only one. I see Rochelle watching me too, her husband, the sheriff, is always looking at us when he comes into the diner as well. At least their looks are compassionate, not looks of callousness.
“Good. He can work out that you’re my brother in his own time. We don’t need to go filling in the blanks. Not with him, not with anybody.” I pause as we walk toward the magazine section, because there, on the stand, is Sutton’s image staring right at me.
“Look.” James grabs it, the magazine next to it, and the one next to that, all with him on the cover. The photos are from a red carpet. A beautiful woman on his arm, her grin as wide as his. He looks different, almost too polished, too airbrushed and nothing like the guy I serve in the diner every day. Nothing like the man who touched my cheek like I was the most delicate and most important person in that moment.
“Yep, he’s a real-life movie star.” It all feels so surreal. In my former life, I met some important people. Chairman of boards, dignitaries, senior professors, all who were at our various galas and balls that my father and his company held every year. There were also celebrities, athletes, movie stars like Sutton. Dad would probably love to have Sutton in his inner circle. That thought gives me pause, wondering if they’ve already met.
“I think we can trust him, Nikki.” James is a good judge of character. He picked up on how awful Maribel was the minute Dad introduced us. She proved him right in every way.
“Maybe. Time will tell.” I need proof. I can no longer just make assumptions that people are genuine, nice, decent humans. If our own stepmother can’t be that, then I hesitate to think a Hollywood movie star is.
“He watches you, you know.” James is also observant.
My heart beats just a little faster. “I know.”
“I think he likes you.”
I look at him pointedly. “He’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never had a boyfriend. Not that I met anyway. Why don’t you—”
I cut him off. “I think we need more Benjamin Franklin and less Sutton Silvers this morning, don’t you?”
He rolls his eyes at me again. He might be younger than me, yet with his height and maturity, he comes across as older sometimes. But I need to stop the conversation. Boyfriend? Sutton? Those two things just don’t go together. Sure, he’s hiding, just like we are. But for him, it’s temporary. He’ll go back to LA in a few months, maybe even weeks, and jump into the spotlight again, a gorgeous model on his arm no doubt, flashing his smile to everyone he meets, just like what’s on the cover of these magazines. Me? Hiding is permanent, and the plight of it all feels insurmountable.
“Fine. Let’s go to the history section.” Once he puts the magazine back on the shelf, we walk to the other side of the library. I wander after him, feeling Sutton’s eyes on me from the magazine shelf the entire way. James is right; he does watch me. Every day. And he didn’t need to drive us home yesterday, but he did. When he passed me the bag from the drugstore, I couldn’t believe it. Not only had he thought of everything I needed, but when I saw a few bags of peanut butter cups, I almost cried. Not because they’re the only treat I love, and I haven’t indulged in them for months, but because he listened. I mentioned it to him in passing, and he remembered.
He also didn’t need to give me his number. I was hesitant, not wanting to give anyone our number, but last night, when I sat with my thoughts, I realized that he gave me his too. A Hollywood megastar handed me his number. He trusts me, and now maybe I need to trust him.
“I just want to look through this one.” James grabs a book about our founding fathers and takes a seat at the small lounge nearby. He flicks through a few pages, coming to a halt when he spots the chapter on Benjamin Franklin.
As he does, I find my cell in my bag. I hardly use it. It's so the school or Rochelle can contact me, mainly. My thumb brushes over the screen. This is probably a really bad idea, but I take a photo of the magazine rack, my stomach swirling as I put together a text.
Even the library has you all over their shelves.
