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“Hiding? That’s a laugh.”
“As well as probably licking your wounds—and I’m not talking about your fingers.”
Tessa’s muscles coiled. It was all she could do not to lunge at Miranda’s throat and inform Her Highness that it was her fault that Tessa’s life was screwed up. “I don’t know where you get off.” She turned her attention back to the song she was attempting to write.
“Weston’s face looks like someone took a steel rake to it.”
Tessa hit a sour note. “You saw him?”
“Yeah, today. He was at a stoplight in town and I had to walk across the street on my way to the library and . . . well, I know this sounds crazy, but the top of his car was down and, even though he was wearing sunglasses, I had a good look at his face. One side looks like a cat clawed it to ribbons. I thought he might have been in an accident . . . or maybe a fight.”
“Bingo. The brilliant one deduces the truth yet again. You know, Miranda you should be on some game show—what’s the one where you figure out the clues?—‘Concentration’? That would be right up your alley.”
“You scratched him?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah, Sherlock, I scratched him,” Tessa admitted with a careless lift of her shoulder. “As hard as I could. And if I had the chance now, I’d do it again, only this time I’d scrape his friggin’ eyes out of their sockets.”
“Why?”
“I was mad, okay?”
“Because—”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Did he hurt you?” Miranda asked, and Tessa’s hard heart cracked a little at the concern in her sister’s voice. Yeah, she’d been wounded. She hadn’t slept all night, just stared out the window to the breathless darkness, plotting ways of winning him back only to spurn him, or thinking of satisfying ways to kill him.
“We broke up,” she admitted, bending her head over the guitar again. “You were right about him and I was wrong. Satisfied?”
“Only if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. I’m always fine,” Tessa said, hooking a thumb at her chest. “I’m a survivor.”
“He’s not worth feeling bad about.”
“Don’t start with a lecture. I’ve heard it all before, and I’ve already got a mother. Remember?”
“But you’re only—”
“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen. I know.” She gave up on the song and slid the guitar onto a table cluttered with old palettes and a dead geranium. Anger pulsed through her blood and she wanted to strike back. This time she had ammunition. “So . . . did you say good-bye to Hunter last night?”
“Good-bye?” Miranda’s eyes were suddenly in sharp focus. “Why?”
“He didn’t tell you?” Tessa scowled, but felt an inward sense of satisfaction that she was finally giving a little heartache back to Miranda, who, whether she knew it or not, was always shoveling some in Tessa’s direction.”
“Tell me what?” Miranda’s voice was low, as if she expected the worst. Well, good.
“That he was leaving.” Tessa reached into her purse for her cigarettes.
“Leaving? Hunter Riley? Going where?”
“Hell if I know.”
“No, I don’t think he’s taking off—”
“Dan said he’s already gone. Left sometime in the middle of the night.” She found a new pack and opened the cellophane with her teeth.
“For where?” Even though she didn’t trust Tessa, Miranda felt as if the earth had buckled beneath the garage. No way would Hunter have left her—not alone and pregnant. This was all a mistake, malicious gossip or Tessa’s cruel idea of a joke.
