Save the Date(26)

“Bye, Charlie,” Jesse said. His tone was easy and vague, the way he would have talked to me if we hadn’t had that night together in his guesthouse—like I was just the little sister of his best friend, nothing more. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You—will?” I asked, but Jesse just smiled at me, reached out, and brushed my arm quickly, giving my hand a squeeze, before he turned and jogged to catch up with Mike.

I got into my car, my head spinning. I wanted to take out my phone and call Siobhan, but I didn’t want Jesse or Mike to see me doing it, especially since I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be able to have that conversation calmly or without outsized facial expressions.

So, trying to appear blasé and unfazed, like this was no big deal, I backed my car out of the driveway and turned down the street, concentrating on stopping at the lights and pausing at stop signs, trying to sort through the steady, pounding drumbeat of my thoughts.

It wasn’t until I was nearly to the Hartfield border that I realized I’d been driving the whole time in the wrong direction.





CHAPTER 7


Or, 98% of All Statistics Are Made Up on the Spot




* * *



HALF AN HOUR LATER, I pulled into our driveway and cut the engine. I didn’t get out of the car, though, just sat there for a moment as I relived every moment of the interaction with Jesse. The way he’d looked at me, the way he’d smiled at me. That he’d been thinking about me. And that he would see me soon. I wished we’d had more time, and that Mike hadn’t come by when he did, before we could make a plan.

Because all those feelings from Christmas break had come roaring back, and I couldn’t help thinking ahead. Like maybe after this weekend, things didn’t have to end. I could drive to Rutgers, it wasn’t that far from Stanwich, and next year, since I’d still be here, it would be easy to see him. . . .

I’d called Siobhan and left three rambling messages explaining the Jesse situation, but hadn’t heard back yet, and I checked my phone as I got out of the car. I’d just slammed the door when someone behind me yelled, “Hey!”

I jumped and turned, heart hammering, to see Sarah Stephens standing at the edge of our driveway, the paper in her hand and a glower on her face. “What now?” I muttered, taking a step toward her. It was odd to see her without her pink bike helmet—it was like she was missing a crucial part of her head.

“I assume you’ve seen this?” Sarah said, brandishing the newspaper at me, turned to the comics page.

“No,” I said shortly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “You haven’t been delivering the paper to us.”

“Look,” she said, thrusting it under my nose, and I immediately glanced at the upper-left corner—the prime real estate of the comics section, which my mother had occupied for more than two decades now. It was a comic I’d seen her drawing six weeks ago—all the fictional Grants were coming together for a family dinner, which was interrupted by the papergirl, Sophie Silver, throwing the paper through the living room window. “Are you telling me that’s not based on me?”

I looked away from the drawing. Usually my mother didn’t make people resemble their cartoon alter egos, exactly—she just somehow captured their essence, so even if someone looked nothing like how they were depicted in her comic, you could tell who they were. But she really had abandoned that approach with her send-up of Sarah. The cartoon version looked identical to the real-life subject, down to the oversize bobbles on the ends of her braids. “It’s not based on you,” I said automatically.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” she said darkly, shaking her head at me. “I will not stand for it.” I just stared at her, wondering if all the people trying to build up self-esteem in middle schoolers had actually gone too far.

“Good-bye, Sarah,” I said as I started to walk toward the house, lifting my phone to my ear. “Hi,” I said, pretending there was someone on the other end. “How’s it going?”

“I know you’re not talking to anyone,” Sarah called after me, sounding disgusted. “You could at least do a better job of faking it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, keeping up my fake conversation. “Interesting . . .” I pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside.

“You’re back.” My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, and he jumped up as I came in. “Charlie’s back,” he called toward the family room. “Everyone, Charlie’s back!”

“Well, that’s a nice welcome,” I said, smiling at my dad as I crossed to the fridge. I pulled open the door, but then just stared—clearly, while I was gone, someone had gone to the store. It was like staring at a solid wall of food.

“You’re back,” my mother said, and I closed the door to see her hurrying into the kitchen, looking anxious. She glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s your brother?”

“Oh,” I said, my stomach sinking, suddenly realizing what was happening and why my parents seemed so on edge. Of course Linnie had told them about Mike after I’d texted her. “So here’s the thing. . . .”

“Mike!” Linnie called as she came into the kitchen, her smile fading as she looked around. “Where’s Mike?”