99 Days(10)

“I’m not making hotel beds,” I argue. “But even if I was—”

“You don’t have to work at all,” she counters, and I have to make an actual effort not to roll my eyes at her. She used to ring this bell all the time when the book came out and all holy hell broke loose, as if somehow her cannibalizing my darkest secrets was some generous act she did for my benefit. It never seemed to occur to her that the last thing I wanted was her payoff. “That money is yours.”

“That money is Emily Green’s,” I shoot back angrily. Emily’s the heroine in Driftwood, some effortlessly beautiful sap caught in a dumb, turgid love triangle—a horrifying fun-house version of me, gross and distorted but still completely recognizable to anyone who cared enough to look. “I don’t want it.”


Vita scampers out of the kitchen at the sound of our raised voices; I set the water glass down on the countertop hard enough that both of us flinch. “I don’t want it,” I repeat, more quietly this time. My mother shakes her head. I take a deep breath, smelling pine trees and lake water through the open window. I try to remember if this place ever felt like home.





Day 10


I’m running some errands for Penn the next day on my lunch break, singing along to a Joni Mitchell CD I’d forgotten I had. It’s nice out—iced coffee weather—so I park outside of French Roast to grab a latte on my way back. I’m already out of the car when I spy Gabe in a pair of shorts and a Yankees cap, holding court on one of the benches outside on the patio, and I stop short without meaning to, because he’s drinking mocha chillers with Elizabeth Reese from the Lodge.

I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk for a second, awkward and stung and right away telling myself it’s ridiculous to be. Clearly, he can drink mocha chillers with whomever he likes. Elizabeth was a year ahead of me and Patrick and Julia at school, which put her a year behind Gabe; she did student government with him and always wore a long row of bracelets up one arm, silver and jingling. She goes to Duke now, I think. She’s pretty.

On the wooden bench she laughs and punches Gabe in one sinewy bicep, her smooth ponytail swishing—there’s nowhere to walk but right past them and sure enough, Gabe sees me and waves. “Hey, Molly Barlow,” he calls easily, tipping his cup in my direction. Elizabeth doesn’t say anything at all, just purses her glossy mouth and looks away.

I mutter a quick, embarrassed “Hey” before I slip into the dark, temperature-regulated safety of the coffee shop.

Imogen’s not working today, but I linger inside anyway, cheeks flaming, hoping the two of them will have disappeared by the time I clear out. I’m fifty-percent successful—Elizabeth’s gone, but Gabe gets up and follows me all the way to the curb. “Hey,” he says, reaching out and curling his fingers around my upper arm, gentle but insistent. “Molly, wait up.”

“I’m working.” I’m overreacting is what I’m doing—I know that I’m overreacting—but I feel close to tears anyway, tired and frustrated and so lonely all over again. Even Gabe is a lost cause to me now. It’s my fault, it’s my own stupid fault; I made my choices. But the truth is it doesn’t feel fair.

“You got time for lunch?” Gabe asks, undeterred by the poisonous cloud I feel sure is hanging low around me, heavy as cigarette smoke. “I’m thinking about lunch.”

I check my watch like a reflex. “Not really, no.”

“We’ll make it quick,” he promises. “You gotta eat, right?”

I shake my head. “Gabe . . .” What the hell? I feel sour and cranky, and I can’t even articulate why, exactly: if it’s the sting of catching so much more blowback than Gabe has seemed to or just the interested way he was looking at Elizabeth when I drove up to French Roast. It’s insane to feel jealous—I don’t even know what I’m jealous of, like maybe I’m just some horrifying green-eyed monster guarding the one person who’s seemed glad to see me since I got back here, or if maybe I possibly liked his attention in a different, more serious way. “Quick,” I warn after a moment. “And not at the pizza place.”

Gabe grins at that. “Not at the pizza place,” he says.

We walk a block over to Bunchie’s, a diner with greasy burgers in red plastic baskets and one of those claw-prize machines ringing loudly in the corner, a staple for families on vacation in town. “Can I ask you something?” I begin once we’ve ordered. It’s half past noon and the diner is noisy, the clink of cheap silverware on heavy white plates. I can hear Loretta Lynn on the stereo, line cooks calling to one another in the back. I take a breath. “Not that this is any of my business, and not that I’m, like, assuming anything, but are you dating Elizabeth Reese?”

Gabe smiles at that—he looks surprised now, himself, thick eyebrows arcing just the slightest bit. His eyes are very, very blue. “No,” he says slowly, a dimple I’d forgotten he had appearing in the crease of his cheek. He’s stupidly cute, Gabe is. All the girls used to say so, but I never saw it until the moment I did. “I . . . definitely am not, no. Why?”

“Just wondering,” I hedge, taking a bite of my burger. Then, once I’ve swallowed: “You know, in the interest of avoiding further scandal, how it follows me everywhere I go and all.”