He went dead still in an instant, staring at me, the words sinking in, and then I saw a flash of panic cross his face. He pushed me back quickly, gently, raising his hands as though to ward me off, as though I were something dangerous to touch, as though I burned him. “Lolly, no. We can’t do this.”
I scrambled back against the log, hair and clothes disheveled, breathing hard. “What?” I asked, utterly confused.
“I’m sorry.” He inched away, putting some distance between us. He ran his hands through his hair, a sure sign he was distraught. “I lost control. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“What?” I asked again. My voice sounded harsh in my own ears. I couldn’t believe what was happening, that he was saying these words after he’d kissed me like that.
He deliberately looked away from me, out over the water, breathing hard and struggling to compose himself. “Lolly, I’m leaving tomorrow for college. I’ll be on the other side of the country. And you’re still here, still in high school. This isn’t a good idea. The timing is all wrong. And there’s Jessica. She and I are together. We care about each other. It’s not fair to her, this—” He gestured between us, at the scooped-out hollow of sand between us where we’d just lain with our bodies pulsing for each other. “—this isn’t who I want to be for you or for her. It’s not honorable. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Fifteen seconds before his hands had been splayed across my back while he devoured me with his lips, and now he was apologizing? I’d just declared my love for him. I thought he’d do the same. “What are you talking about?” I cried.
He looked at me and his expression told me all I needed to know. Resigned, steeling himself for a hard task. He was staying with Jessica. He was not going to be with me. This had been a mistake. A mistake he was already regretting. My anger was instantaneous, a struck match, fueled by equal parts humiliation and disbelief.
“So that’s it then? You’re really going to kiss me like that and go back to her? You just told me you’ve liked me for five years!” I hated the protest in my voice. I knew I’d already lost.
He crossed his arms over his knees and stared out at the water. I knew that determined set of his jaw so well. Too well.
“I’m sorry, Lolly. If things were different... if I weren’t going away for school, if you were done with high school. If I weren’t with Jessica.”He gave a frustrated groan. “Lolly,” His tone was pleading, his gaze on me earnest. “This can’t happen. Not now. If we pursue this, if we try to be together right now, it’s going to end badly, I know it. And I care about you too much to do that. You are worth more than this. Our friendship is worth more than this to me. Can’t you see that? And I can’t do this to Jessica either. It’s not fair to her. We have to walk away. I have to walk away.” He gave me one anguished glance, but I pointedly looked away. I would not acknowledge that this was costing him something. It was his choice. I was furious, spurned and rejected and horribly, deeply disappointed. I’d loved him for so long, but it wasn’t enough. He was not choosing me. Tears stinging my eyes, I stood, and brushed sand off my shorts.
“I want to go home.”
He drove me home in miserable silence. I was biting the inside of my lip, willing myself not to cry. I could still taste him, and the dissonance was torture.
He pulled up outside my house, the engine loud in the stillness of the night. “I’m sorry, Lolly,” he said again. Nothing else.
“Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I don’t want to hear from you ever again.” I slammed the door hard and stalked up the sidewalk without a backward glance, vowing to do whatever I had to do to forget I’d ever given Rory Shaw my heart.
18
It was a dull graylate afternoon at the diner, in the lull between lunch and supper, and I was closeted in my office, slogging through a pile of paperwork and humming along to the country station turned down low on the radio. It had been two days since I’d confided in Eve about the lemon drops, and I was still waffling about what I would use my next lemon drop for.
I kept thinking of my mother, trying to imagine what it would be like to see her again. I felt giddy with the possibility, but nervous too. It was almost painful to think about. I wanted to be with her again so badly, but would I be able to enjoy just one day, knowing it would be the last day I would ever have with her? It felt like an emotional minefield. Was I brave enough to risk it? I wasn’t sure.
For the next hour I filed papers, opened mail, and organized bills to pay, trying to get on top of my admin to-do list. Through the door I could hear Dad and Julio loudly rehashing the Seahawks’ fall season as they prepped for dinner in the kitchen.
“Russell Wilson is a legend,” Dad yelled across the kitchenadmiringly. “And he runs like greased lightning.” I could hear him vigorously chopping something.
“No argument here,” Julio called back over the sound of running water in the sink. “But how about Tyler Lockett? I think he’s about as good. He’s underrated with the big dogs.”
I tuned out as they started dissecting the Seahawks’ strategy on offense. An unopened letter from the property tax office of King County caught my eye on top of the ever-present stack of mail on my desk. Probably the new annual property tax estimate for the diner. It only climbed higher year after year. Seattle had been booming in the last decade with the explosive growth of Amazon, Google, and Facebook headquarters in the city. Property was at a premium, and prices were eye-wateringly high. The new estimate was sure to pinch us financially even more.
Bracing myself for another thousand-dollar jump in taxes, the same as the last few years, I slid the single sheet of paper out of the envelope and glanced over the brief letter, then stopped and reread it more slowly with a growing feeling of dread. It was an announcement about a new tax policy for businesses that owned their own properties in our area of the city. Instead of taxing the business based on the actual estimated value of their property, the letter informed us that starting with the upcoming payment on April 30, businesses would be taxed based on thepotentialvalue of their property and land.
I studied the enclosed tax table in disbelief. Although the Eatery was sitting on a prime piece of real estate on the main street in Magnolia, the diner itself was a smallish, older building. Our normal property taxes, while still steep, were just barely manageable. But according to the new tax figures, we would owe almost twenty-five thousand dollars in property taxes for this year, an increase of almost fourfold. And the first half of the payment was due in just two months. I droppedthe letter on the table like it was scorching my fingers. There was no way we could cover a tax increase of that amount. It was impossible. We were barely making ends meet as it was. I closed my eyes and tried to think, heart racing. Twenty-five thousand dollars. How in the world could we manage to come up with that amount of cash?
Picking up the letter, I stared at the number again in shock. I licked my lips and sank back in the chair. There was an acidic taste of fear on the tip of my tongue, caustic as lemon juice. I had to think of something. We simply couldn’t close the diner. It was our livelihood, our legacy, the thing that held us all together. If we were forced to close, I feared it would kill my father, pure and simple. If we closed the diner, I would be breaking my deathbed promise to my mother. Yet deep down I had a terrible feeling that this letter might actually be what finally sank us.
I blew out a deep breath. Think, Lolly, think. We couldn’t give up yet. I had to figure out a way to save us. I couldn’t think of anything right now, but with a little time surely I could come up with something. I paused, considering. I didn’t want Dad to know about this letter. He carried such stress constantly. I didn’t want to add this burden to an already heavy load. Perhaps it was better to hide it away until I’d had a chance to come up with a solid rescue plan. Then I could present the problem and the solution together so it wasn’t such a shock. Feeling a little guilty to be hiding the truth from him, but convincing myself it was the right thing to do, I tucked the letter in my top desk drawer, in the back next to the Sharpies, where no one ever looked. I’d concoct a foolproof way to save the Eatery. Then I’d talk to Dad.
Seven a.m. the next morning and I was already regretting saying yes to Daphne.
“Let’s move into our first pose, the Half-Moon Pose,” the tiny,Zen-like yoga instructor said, demonstrating the move. “Inhale with your arms up over your head and tilt sideways.” Beside me, on her mat, Daphne inhaled happily and copied her. I focused on what the instructor was doing and clumsily tried to follow suit.
Daphne had cornered me at the diner yesterday afternoon, right after I’d hidden the horrible tax letter, and finagled me into coming to a yoga class at the studio where she worked. She’d cited all the health benefits, emphasized the stress relief angle, and finally just flat out pleaded with me to come.
“It’s all the things you don’t normally do. Stretch, breathe, and stop working,” she’d coaxed, using puppy dog eyes and sticking out her lower lip. Still in shock over the enormous tax bill, I agreed in a moment of weakness, figuring anything was better than sitting around, fruitlessly stewing over how to save our diner. It was just an hour, after all. An hour where I could stop obsessing about the lemon drop dilemma or the tax bill problem. Now, however, I was rethinking my hasty decision. Turns out therearesome things worse than worrying about property taxes.
Because what Daphne had neglected to mention was that this was a Bikram hot yoga class. The room felt like a sauna. I was already sweating and all I’d done was raise my arms. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the time.
