THIRTY-FOUR

It’s 1:33 P.M.

My sister is late.

She’s late and I’m sitting in a corner of the store by myself with a cup of way-too-strong coffee that insists on burning a hole in my stomach no matter how much milk and sugar I put in it.

It’s not like I should be surprised. Growing up, Cate was known for her lateness. To everything and everywhere. School. Church. My recitals. Christmas dinner. Her own surprise party that she planned for her sweet sixteen. It used to make me so mad, like she got some sort of sadistic pleasure out of making people wait. Dr. Waverly tried to tell me people sometimes did stuff like that when they felt they weren’t in control of other aspects of their lives, but even with all of Cate’s issues, I never bought into that.

Crazy or not, control’s sort of her thing.

I snatch a newspaper off the empty table beside me and try to read. It’s local and predictably dull. Last night was the holiday light parade and today there’s a candle-making workshop downtown. Oh, and the farmer’s market has extended hours all the way up until Christmas Eve. Such events are Big Deals around here, because we’re Rich People pretending to have Small Town Values. However, there’s also an editorial expressing concern that “those” type of people are prowling around Danville again. For emphasis, this article includes a picture of a homeless family who’s been staying in their Honda Civic at a nearby park. The caption beneath the photo reads: THEY CHOOSE TO LIVE THIS WAY, and well, now, that is some nice holiday spirit going on right there, let me tell you. Jesus.

Below the fold, I also learn there’s been a spate of home robberies over the past few days. Mostly cash and prescription meds have been stolen, along with some jewelry, and despite the not-even-trying-to-be-subtle implication that the unfortunate Civic family might be involved, it’s like the bottom drops out of my gut when I read that.

Over the past few days.

I set my coffee and paper down.

I’m giving her ten more minutes.

That’s it.

Right then Scooter walks in. He’s preppy as hell in his khakis and Sperrys. He’s also got this fuck-it-all swagger to his walk that I’ve never noticed before. Not that I’ve been looking or anything, of course, since up until last week, I’ve pretty much ducked my head and avoided Scooter Murphy at all costs for the past two years. Today, however, he’s with a crowd of Sayrebrook students, including a couple of girls, and I realize I don’t know if he’s hooked up with anyone at all since Sarah. For his sake, I hope so. No, it’s not a nice thought, considering, but trust me, she wasn’t any kind of a catch to begin with. She wormed her way between us. Acted like she was better than me because of where I came from. That’s not the sign of a kind person, making others feel bad about who they are and what they have.

The group bunches up at the counter, ordering things like gingerbread lattes and peppermint mochas with whipped cream. They all have pink noses and pink cheeks from the cold. For all I know they’re coming in from an afternoon of sweaty group sex, but at the moment they look so damn wholesome. All that’s needed is snow falling outside and Christmas carolers and an open fire or sleigh or whatever it is that that song says. I look away, feeling a sharp tightness in my chest and that hollow pang of loneliness. I have an urge to text Jenny, but it’s been all of an hour since I dropped her off. I don’t want to seem needy.

I think I am needy.

“Henry,” Scooter calls out.

I look at him, startled.

“What the hell happened to your Jeep?”

My cheeks burn. Gross, I know, but I didn’t have a chance to wash it before I drove down here.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Looks like you blew chunks all over it.”

“I guess it does.”

“Must’ve been some party.” Scooter wanders over toward my table. This makes me wary for a number of reasons. One, I doubt his sincerity, and two, I can only imagine the sparks that might fly if Cate strolls up while he’s standing here.

“It was okay,” I say.

“Sounds more than okay. I heard you left with Jenny Lacouture. She’s cute, man. Real cute.”

I don’t answer. Jenny’s mine. Jenny’s not gossip.

“Guess some girls really do go for that loser virgin thing, huh?” Scooter leans into my personal space to run his gaze over the newspaper in front of me. He’s scanning the article about the robberies.

“What’s this?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

He smirks. “Sounds a lot like—”

Cate walks in.

I look at her.

She looks at me. Then she looks at Scooter.

She turns and runs.

“Cate!” I yell, and Scooter laughs in my face. He doesn’t see her. I jump up, managing to bump the table and spill my coffee. The cup flips onto the floor and the lid pops off. I push him out of the way.

I run after my sister.