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“Intriguing concept.” He bobs his head a few times before turning the question back on me. “What color would you be?”
My withering look promises we’ll be revisiting this subject later, but I let him off the hook . . . for now. “If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably would’ve chosen something sad . . . like gray.”
“But today?” Dash turns his mesmerizing eyes on me, and I lose myself in their depths.
“I’m leaning toward sapphire . . . with a swirl of warm brown.”
His brows draw together in a deep furrow. “What do those colors mean?”
“I-I don’t know,” I lie, as if I didn’t just describe his eyes to a T. “So, uh, what’s your favorite Bowie song?”
Dash presses a few buttons on the display, and “Golden Years” blasts through the speakers, effectively ending the conversation.
June 29
I shoplifted today. Mom and I were trying on sunglasses in a Quiki-Mart about an hour outside Nashville, when she whispered, “Put those in your bag.” At first, I thought she was kidding, then I saw her stuff a pair down her shirt. She distracted the guy behind the counter, flirting her butt off so I could pocket the pair in my hands. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. My hands shook so bad, I thought for sure the whole place knew what I was doing. But not a soul followed me as I walked out of there with my butt cheeks clenched as tight as steel doors. My heart raced so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack. I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught. Best. Rush. Ever.
June 30
We climbed into the dumpster behind a bakery just after they closed, like a pair of dirty trash bandits, scavenging for bags filled with bread, little white boxes with assorted cookies and cupcakes, and probably a whole bunch of creepy crawlies. Thank God for the adrenaline rush, or I would’ve gained like fifteen pounds. I smell like spoiled custard, but it was totally worth it.
“Dumpster diving? Shoplifting?” I drop Mom’s diary with a shuddering breath. I have no idea who this person is, but she’s not the mom who danced around the kitchen singing old Bowie songs while flipping pancakes on Sunday mornings. I glare at the diary as if it has the power to destroy me. And maybe, in a million tiny ways I can’t begin to understand, it does. For the first time since I discovered the damn thing existed, I wonder if Jeanie was right to keep it from me. Maybe I’m not ready. “I’m not sure I want to keep reading this thing.”
“Why?” Dash’s brows furrow as he glances at the journal in my lap. “What’s wrong?”
How do I explain that I’m having a hard time reconciling Mom’s memories with my own . . . that with every word I read, my perception of her changes, dredging up emotions I can’t begin to understand. That I’m caught between this unquenchable desire to know everything about her past, and the fear of what I’ll discover if I spend too much time looking. What if I somehow lose the mom I knew? How many of my memories am I willing to risk?
I lift my gaze to his. “What if I find something really . . . bad?”
“Zoey . . .” His eyes soften. “Whatever you find can’t hurt you now. It’s in—”
“Her past. I know, but . . .” My chest tightens as I struggle to find the words. “The rule-breaking girl who got drunk in Memphis and shoplifted a pair of sunglasses . . . I don’t know her. The mom I knew was always so . . .”
“Boring?” he offers, using my own word against me.
“Serious,” I say, choosing a more accurate description. “She was an assistant principal for god’s sake. When she wasn’t working, there was always some chore or school function that needed her attention.”
“You never did anything fun?”
“We did,” I assure him, as the memories come flooding back. “We went on vacations every summer. To the movies or bowling now and then. But her idea of getting wild was ordering pineapple on her pizza. She sure as hell never took us dumpster diving!”
“I get it.” He nods. “Reading about her past is rocking your present.”
“It really is.” I release a jagged breath. “But if I stop reading now, I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Dash offers a sympathetic smile. “You never mention your dad. Was he not around when you were growing up?”
“My parents got divorced when I was ten. It was just Mom, Jeanie, and me after that.”
“Do you ever see him?”
My throat thickens, and I grab my pillow from the back seat. Hugging it to my chest like a shield, I stare out the window at the cows grazing in the distance. “He used to send cards—Christmases, birthdays, things like that. On the rare occasions he was in town, he’d take Jeanie and me to dinner. But other than the flowers he sent when Mom died, I haven’t heard from him in two years. I guess he figured his responsibility ended with my high school graduation.”
“What about your mom’s funeral? Did he—”
“No.” I shake my head, my eyes burning. “He sent a card saying he couldn’t make it.”
It wasn’t even in his own handwriting.
