Save the Date(124)

Mike just rolled his eyes. “Um, I didn’t need to hear Siobhan on the phone. Or to see you guys the night of the rehearsal dinner. I’ve known forever that you liked Jesse.”

I glanced over at him, surprised, and my feet tangled. I quickly steadied the donut boxes. “You—have?”

He shook his head. “I know you, Charlie. I didn’t just get here.”

“Well, there’s nothing going on. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

“I had a feeling you’d be happy.”

“No, it’s not that—it’s just, I’ve seen how Jesse is with girls. And you deserve someone who’ll treat you better than that.”

I blinked, trying to hold back a sudden tide of emotions. “Oh. Um . . . thanks, Mike.” I glanced over at him. “And just for the record, you deserve someone way better than Corrine.”

Mike groaned, even though he was smiling. “Oh, that’s long over. Don’t worry.”

“Good.”

We were halfway up to the house when I heard the familiar sound of a bike coming down the street and the whoosh then thwack of a paper flying through the air and landing on a lawn. I turned around, and sure enough, there was Sarah Stephens on her pink bike, throwing papers as she rode down the street.

“What?” Mike asked, clearly wondering why I’d stopped.

“It’s the papergirl,” I said, walking a few steps back to the end of the driveway. “We’re finally early enough to catch her in the act.”

“Of what?”

“She’s been refusing to deliver our paper for months now.”

“That story line was real?”

I turned to Mike, surprised that he’d kept reading it this whole time—that he hadn’t really turned his back on us after all.

Mike nodded to the street. “Here she comes.”

I turned around, ready to catch Sarah skipping our house. I only wished that my hands weren’t full of donuts so that I could record it on my phone and my dad could finally have proof for the Sentinel.

But Sarah rode up to our house, reached into her bag, and a newspaper, tucked inside its plastic sleeve, arced over and landed perfectly, faceup, almost directly at my feet. I stood there, feeling beyond confused, and Sarah rolled to a stop, eyebrows raised beneath her pink helmet. “See?” she said, sounding vindicated as she dropped a foot to the ground and pointed at the paper, like I somehow might have missed it. “I told you I’ve been delivering it.”

“But . . .” I just looked at Mike, then at her. I realized Sarah wouldn’t have seen me until after she’d thrown the paper, so it wasn’t like it was for my benefit. But then what was going on? “You’ve really been delivering them the whole time?”

Sarah threw her arms up in exasperation. “What have I been telling you?”

“So then what’s happening to the paper?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t, like, track its progress. I’m just supposed to drop it off. That’s literally my whole job.”

“But somehow we’re not getting it. So . . .” I suddenly had a thought about what might be happening, but dismissed it immediately. Surely nobody was that petty. Right?

We must have heard the sound at the same time—footsteps approaching, twigs and leaves crunching. It was really loud in the quiet of our early-morning street, and it sounded like someone was coming our way fast. And because I wanted to see if it bore out my theory, I hustled, still carrying the donuts, around to hide behind the Where There’s A Will truck that was parked at the end of the driveway, and motioned for Mike and Sarah to come too.

“Come here. Quick!” I hissed.

“What?” Mike asked, even as he ran with the donuts. Sarah hopped off her bike and started to run, and I whisper-yelled, “Take the bike!”

She crouch-ran, holding the bike by the handlebars, then dropped it onto our driveway and knelt down next to us. “What?” she whispered.

“Maybe nothing,” I said, straightening up just enough so that I could see above the bed of the truck. “But maybe something.”

Sarah rolled her eyes hugely. “You know I have other papers to deliver, right? And they’re heavier on Sunday, so they take longer.”

I took a breath to reply when we all saw it, and the three of us simultaneously ducked down again. There, hurrying up the street in his robe and slippers, looking like he was trying very hard—and failing—to seem nonchalant, was Don.

“Who’s that?” Sarah asked, her voice barely a whisper now as we watched him get closer and closer to our driveway.

“Is that Don?”

“Yeah. It’s our neighbor,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on him, not really able to believe this was what had been happening the whole time. “He’s mad about Dad’s garden.”

“What?”

“Shh!” I was fighting every impulse to jump out and yell at Don, but I knew I had to actually see him doing it for it to count or I had no doubt he would just endlessly deny and stonewall later. I held my breath as Don looked around, then bent down, pretending to brush some dirt off his leather slipper before he grabbed our paper, then straightened up and started hustling away with it.