Shuffle, Repeat(75)

I follow Marley into the kitchen and provide her with writing implements. She scribbles a note to Mom and glances up at me. “Hannah says you’re not going to prom tonight?”

“I’m not into it.”

“That must be a generational thing. Oliver is meeting some friends there, but he doesn’t seem excited at all. I practically had to drag him to get a tux.”

I have a sudden, overwhelming surge of desire to see Oliver in his tuxedo. I can imagine how he’ll look, all tall and blond and old-school movie star—

No. I mentally pack the image into a box labeled “Nice Try” and stash it away. Instead of thinking about Oliver, I reach out my hand to his mother and accept the note she gives me. Then I walk with her to the front door, where she thanks me. “Sorry to barge in unannounced.”

“No problem. Have a nice evening.”

I close the door and glance down at the note in my hand. It’s not anything exciting.

Hannah—

Thanks for the read.

Still on for coffee Monday?

—Mar



But for some reason, I keep staring at the note. And staring at it. There’s something about it. Not what it says, but how it says it. The neat, slanted handwriting.

I pound up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I rush to the bulletin board hanging on my wall. Holding Marley’s note up to it, I compare.

I was right. Marley’s handwriting is the same—like, the exact same—as the handwriting on my father’s birthday card. The one that came with the flowers he sent me. The one I cling to when I’m lonely or sad or angry. The one that was supposedly transcribed by the local florist.

Local florist, my ass.

Marley Flagg wrote that card.

? ? ?

Marley has already backed down our driveway and pulled onto Callaway when I slam out the front door. The behemoth takes off. I know it’s pointless to try to catch it, but I try anyway, racing down the driveway and into the street, waving my arms and screaming, “Mrs. Flagg! Wait!”

It’s the only way I’m going to find out the truth.

I chase her for a couple houses’ worth of road before slowing to a stop, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears covering my face….

And miraculously, ahead of me, the behemoth also stops. I drop my hands to my knees and try to catch my breath as the big car makes a slow U-turn and Oliver’s mom comes back for me.

She’s coming back with answers. Answers that I already know will break my heart.

? ? ?

“Did you write this?” It’s the third time I’ve asked the question, but Marley still hasn’t given me an actual answer. We’re standing on the front porch and I’m waving the florist’s card in the air.

“I’m calling your mom.” Marley dives a hand into her huge bag and scrabbles around in it.

“No.” I move to stand directly in front of her. “You owe me.”

“What do I owe you?” Marley says, not in a snotty way but like she’s confused, like she has no idea what I’m talking about.

“I covered for you. I knew about your marriage problems for months and I didn’t say anything to Oliver.”

“I appreciate that—”

“It ruined everything!” I’m getting more and more worked up with every passing second in which I am not given the simple courtesy of being told the truth. “You put me in a really bad position. Oliver is my friend and I should never have known more about his family than he did. That’s messed up and it’s not fair. It wasn’t fair to me and it definitely wasn’t fair to him, so please tell me the truth about why you faked that note from my dad. Enough, already!”

For a second, I think I’ve gone too far and Marley is going to yell at me, or tell on me, or ground me. But instead, she fixes those huge blue eyes on mine. “Oh, sweetie.”

“What? ‘Oh, sweetie’ what?”

Marley steps closer. She reaches for my hand and I allow her to take it, because even though I’m mad, I’m also a little terrified of hearing whatever she’s going to say next. “Your dad…” She stops and gives a little sigh. “Oh, honey, your dad is such a screwup.”

Words of denial and defense leap to exit my mouth, but I clamp my lips together hard and I keep them inside. I keep everything inside.

And I listen.

“It’s not your fault,” Marley tells me. “It’s not your mom’s fault, either. Hell, it’s probably not even his fault. It’s just who he is—one of those guys who never sees what’s right in front of him. He loves you, June. I believe that and so does Hannah. But your dad…he does the best he can. It’s just that your mom’s best is a lot better.” She squeezes my hand gently. “We had lunch together on your birthday, your mom and me. Your dad texted while we were in the restaurant, asking your mom to pick something up. Something for you.”

No. No-no-no-no-no.

“He had forgotten about your birthday until that morning.”

Until I sent him a picture of my decorated locker.

“Your mom said she’d take care of it, and we went to a florist for the prettiest bouquet we could find.”

Dad will visit. He’ll visit. He said he would.