AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Speaking of stars ... your sister mentioned a theme? Starry night?” He sounds stiff, like he’s trying to hold back judgment.
I laugh because their theme is worthy of every eye roll it gets. “It was the theme of their senior prom. Supposedly it’s sweet.”
“Aah, well. What the customer wants, the customer gets.” His voice takes on a professional tone. He shuffles papers, and I try to picture the man I met on the roof-deck sitting behind a desk.
We iron out a few of the details over the phone, but because Tessa was very specific about the table and dance floor layout, we plan to meet to go over the space.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then,” I say.
“You got it. And Hope—I really am sorry about your husband.” He hangs up. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it as my earlier agitation begins to make sense. Will was the only person who didn’t know about Brandon, who didn’t see me as the young widow who needed pity.
Now that’s gone.
My phone lights up with a new text. It’s Tanya.
It takes me three reads to understand.
Maeve’s the real deal. I’m sure. Please don’t tell Logan I told you.
8
WILL
Darren’s phone is disconnected. Given the state he was in the other day, that’s not entirely surprising. It does, however, make finding him difficult.
The first two bars I try in town haven’t seen Darren in months. The third, owned by Chase Marshall, one of Darren’s former varsity-basketball teammates and one of the few guys I didn’t make the mistake of mentioning by name in my widely read and poorly received op-ed, directs me to an apartment building that’s typically reserved for community college kids who still go home to do their laundry.
He’s not there, either, though one girl confirms he used to hang around the building.
“Maybe he was selling weed. I’m not really sure,” she says flippantly, as if Darren wasn’t once the poster child for straitlaced living—up at 5:00 a.m. for a run, breakfast smoothie, honors classes, and then an afternoon on whatever sport the season dictated.
Thinking about that Darren, broad shouldered and full of future, hollows out my stomach the way thinking about my dad hollows out my chest. The difference is I could have helped Darren.
If I stayed. I had seen the direction my brother was heading, and I left anyway.
Would he really steal from Mom?
No.
Maybe.
My next step is the downtown section of Kingsette. Aside from the 7-Eleven on the corner, it looks exactly as it did a decade ago. Saloons and pubs housed in brick buildings proudly bearing the dates they were established advertise karaoke on Friday nights and ladies’ night on Tuesdays. Happy hour is still from 5:00 to 7:00, because Kingsette gets to make its own rules about what an hour means. Just like it gets to make its own rules about what passes for nightlife.
LA was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be bigger and brighter and significant. It was at first. But then, it wasn’t. Something was missing. The pockets of glamour and glitz hid the fact that LA was identical to everywhere else—just a little too small, too dull, too insignificant.
Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m hoping to find something that doesn’t exist.
The restless feeling that defined my last year of high school creeps into my legs like muscle memory.
When the strip of shops ends and no sign of Darren appears, I head toward the sound of the ice cream truck idling in Kingsette Park.
The foolish spark of hope that guided me here is snuffed out as quickly as it flared. Darren’s not here, not ordering a Spider-Man popsicle, because he’s not ten anymore. I buy myself a mint–chocolate chip ice cream sandwich and head into the park for shade and a new plan.
On the far right, a group of women argue about how best to decorate the gazebo for the town’s upcoming bicentennial celebration. Delilah and Annette round out the circle.
I pull my hat down over my eyes as I veer left, and nearly crash into a girl wearing a bright-red beret and matching paint-splattered apron. A rainbow-colored feather is threaded through the loop of her overalls. She looks vaguely familiar, though I’m sure I would remember the shock of pink hair she’s sporting.
“I know you,” she says, as I recover my balance and clumsily sidestep the picnic blanket and cooler she’s laid out for herself. “You’re the reason half the town stopped gossiping about me.”
