Midnight Sun(11)

“Good, because I don’t think I could survive that,” he says as he stands to leave. And there’s that honesty I said I wanted. It breaks my heart along with my dad’s.



I’m catching up on the latest posts in one of the rare-disease forums when Morgan sends me a text. Got the notebook, but I had to run to work. I left it at the ticket counter. I sigh. It’s so Morgan not to have enough time to do both. I have an unproven theory that she has massive ADHD, what with all the twirling around she does in the desk chair in my room—that girl never sits still—and her absolute inability to be on time for anything. She claims I’m totally off base and that she’s just a super-energetic person who tries to cram too many activities into too few hours. We’ve agreed to disagree on this one.

Still, I’m relieved I haven’t lost basically an entire lifetime’s worth of songwriting, and for all my grumbling inside my head, it’s actually not a bad thing that I have to go get the notebook myself. I need to go for a walk and clear my head. Fresh air can cure almost anything, even being the cause of your dad’s deep sorrow and royally screwing up meeting the guy of your dreams.

I pull on an oversize Seattle SuperSonics sweatshirt (the now-defunct basketball team my dad was obsessed with back in the day), a pair of ratty old jeans, and my black Converse. Downstairs, I find my dad simultaneously working on his laptop—probably inputting grades on the latest project he assigned his students—yelling at the Mariners game on TV, and eating a sandwich so stacked with meat that it’s at least three inches high.

“I’m going to run to the station to pick up my notebook. I left it there last night. Fred has it.”

Dad barely glances up at me, he’s so engrossed in his sandwich. “Text me when you get there, be careful, and come right home. Love you,” he says through a mouthful of ham and cheese. Sure, a quick back-and-forth trip is something he can handle, but any outing that holds the possibility that I might actually have some normal fun makes him a total basket case.

“Love you more,” I tell him. And even though I get frustrated with him, I mean it.

He swallows in a big gulp, and before going in for another bite, he replies, “Not possible.”



As I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me, I briefly let myself wonder where Charlie is right now, what he’s doing, and with whom, before I silently start berating myself all over again for the dead-cat-funeral debacle. It doesn’t matter what Charlie’s up to, because we certainly won’t be hanging out anytime soon.

I walk up the stairs to the train platform and head for the ticket counter. Fred’s not in his usual spot. So I peek around the corner, thinking he might have left my notebook on the bench that’s in front of where I normally set up.

I am right about that last part at least: My notebook is on the bench. Sitting in Charlie Reed’s hands. He’s flipping through it like it’s a trashy gossip magazine that’s already old news.

I don’t know what’s worse: Me babbling like an idiot when I finally meet the guy, or him manhandling what amounts to my most private thoughts. I am more humiliated than ever. I just have to figure out how to get the notebook back without him knowing I’m here, and I’ll be on my way.

I dart behind a wall and call Morgan at work.

“Help!” I whisper the minute she picks up.

“Hellooooooo, Purdue Creamery,” she trills. “How is your second date with Charlie going?”

“Wait, what?” I say, my mouth falling open. “How did you know he was here?”

“I gave him your notebook for safekeeping,” she says, like that’s a perfectly okay thing to do.

“I’m going to kill you, Morgan! How could you do this to me? I’m in a size XL SuperSonics sweatshirt! I didn’t even brush my hair!”

Morgan just laughs. “Katie, I don’t know how to tell you this but… you’re super freaking hot. I can’t even see you right now and I know you look gorgeous.”

“That’s not the actual case,” I hiss. “And if you could see me, you’d agree.”

“Katie, hold on a sec,” she says, and then I hear her practically yell, “Excuse me! Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

I truly hope she’s not talking to someone trying to order a cone; Morgan needs the extra cash from working at the ice cream shop for college. Getting herself fired would really be a problem. There aren’t many other places to work in town, and it’s small enough here that everyone would know she didn’t leave her last job of her own accord.

“Please tell me that wasn’t a customer,” I say when she’s back on the line.

“Oh, it was,” she says. “A customer, and then that annoying geek I work with, Garver. He asks me like eight jillion questions a night. What do you like to do for fun, Morgan? What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream, Morgan? How many siblings do you have, Morgan? What’s your favorite TV show, Morgan? I swear, he’s like a toddler with all his yapping.”

“That’s called being interested in your life.” Leave it to her to hate any guy who shows an honest interest in her. Morgan tends to like bad boys who only ever talk about themselves. “That’s called conversation.”

“It’s called one hundred percent annoying,” she corrects me. “And now, as for Charlie, just be yourself, Katie. He’s a nice guy. And he likes you, I can tell. Just promise me you’ll try not to ramble, okay?”