chapter 6
For the rest of the weekend, Harper managed to insert Emmett’s name into every single one of our conversations.
While making microwave popcorn: “Yeah, let’s do extra butter. Emmett’s really cute, isn’t he?”
While sunbathing on my dock: “My shoulders feel burnt. Do you think Emmett has a girlfriend?”
While eating ice cream sundaes at the counter at Goody’s: “Does this chocolate sauce taste different to you? I wonder if Emmett will go out with Gabriella.”
That one in particular made me snort into my waffle bowl. Normally, Harper was too preoccupied with school and sports to bother with dating so the odd time she did like someone, she acted like a twelve-year-old with her first crush.
“Only if he’s desperate,” I said.
“What? She might be opportunistic and shallow, but you have to admit she’s pretty. A lot prettier than me.”
“Harper, you’re gorgeous.”
She licked some whipped cream off her spoon. “Right, because big noses and thin lips and flat chests are so attractive.”
“You are. Embrace it. Guys are attracted to confidence too, you know.”
“Says the girl who looks like a voluptuous nineteen-forties pinup model,” she said, nudging me with her elbow. “Confidence has always come easy to you, Kat.”
It didn’t always come easy, but I understood why Harper struggled so much with her own insecurities, so I let it go. My self-esteem would probably be shaky too if one of my dads virtually dropped out of my life like Lawrence had dropped out of Harper’s. He’d never been the involved-father type, even when he and Aunt Carrie were still together. I remembered how he always used to shoo us out of the room when we were kids, like our voices and happy giggles annoyed him. When Aunt Carrie finally left him after his third consecutive affair, it was a relief to everyone but Harper, who’d assumed the breakdown of her parents’ marriage was somehow her fault. The way Lawrence treated her did little to dissuade her from the theory. Nowadays, she was lucky if she heard from him once a month.
Still, regardless of how Harper saw herself, anyone who didn’t recognize her as the beautiful, great catch she was didn’t deserve to clean the dirt off her Nikes. Even cute, grumpy Emmett.
On Sunday evening, Dad left to go back to the city for the week. I hated to think of him all alone in our condo in the evenings, eating greasy take-out and watching the Turner Classic Movies network without me. But knowing him, he’d spend most of his time at the office anyway, working overtime so he wouldn’t have to take many calls over the weekend. Pop worked a lot during those five days too, partly as a distraction and partly because Dad wasn’t there to remind him to step away from the computer every few hours and “join the land of the living.” With Dad gone, that particular job had been reassigned to me.
The next afternoon, I slid open the screen to the deck and stuck my head outside. Pop sat in one of the plastic lounge chairs, his laptop propped on his legs. “Yoo-hoo,” I called.
“Hmm?” He typed feverishly, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“We’re out of milk,” I told him as I stepped outside. “And paper towels. And bananas.”
“Bananas?” he said vaguely, his fingers still dancing over the keys.
“You know, the long, yellow fruit I like to cut up and put on peanut butter toast? Pop?”
He stopped typing, finally, and let out a relieved sigh. “Sorry, Kat. I just had to get that sentence right. Now what were you saying?”
I moved closer and peered down into his mug of tea, which sat on the deck beside him. Still full. He hadn’t so much as paused to take a drink since nine o’clock. “We need a few groceries,” I said, picking up the cold mug. “And you need a break.”
“Apparently I do,” he said, squinting at the laptop screen. “I actually typed the word bananas.”
Thirty minutes later, the two of us were strolling down the aisles of Erwin’s one and only supermarket. The place was pretty deserted, even for a Monday afternoon.
“You feel like grilling some chicken breasts for dinner tonight?” I asked when we reached the paltry meat section. Erwin’s stores weren’t exactly famous for their large selections.
“Hmm?” Pop replied.
I knew from experience that it always took him at least an hour to emerge from the foggy, fictional land inside his head, so I never took offense to his occasional negligence. “Chicken,” I repeated, steering him and the cart to the poultry display.
“Right. Do you want to grill some for dinner tonight?”
I patted his arm. “Great idea, Pop.”
He didn’t fully resurface until we hit the cereal aisle where I attempted to toss a box of Lucky Charms into our cart. “Over my dead body,” he said, intercepting me and putting it back on the shelf. He replaced it with a box of Shredded Wheat. “There. This one has lots of fiber.”
“Pop, why do you insist on feeding me so much fiber? It’s not like I’m constip—oh!”
The front of our cart had just come very close to ramming into someone at the corner of the aisle. Again? I thought when I looked up to see a pair of blue, blue eyes staring back at me, wide with surprise. Again. I’d almost crashed into Emmett Reese. Again.
“Sorry,” I said, backing up. My cheeks started flaming, mostly because I’d just remembered what I’d been about to say right before our near-accident.
Emmett continued to stare at me, perplexed, like he couldn’t quite understand why people kept trying to take him out with large, wheeled objects. “It’s okay,” he said, letting go of the front of our cart, which he’d grabbed to avoid the impending collision with his more sensitive regions. “Um . . . Kat, right?”
I nodded and smiled, pleased that he a) wasn’t yelling at me and b) remembered my name. “Good memory.” I glanced at Pop, who was watching me with raised eyebrows. “Oh. This is my dad.”
“Bryce Henley,” Pop said, sticking out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“This is Emmett,” I supplied. “His family bought the Cantings’ cottage.”
Pop’s expression turned grave. “It’s a shame about Albert.”
Looking slightly confused, Emmett nodded. As he did, a lock of hair slid down his forehead, obscuring his right eyebrow. The bright overhead lights of the store brought out all the different shades in his wavy hair—brown, lighter brown, blond, and even a few patches of auburn.
Women pay good money for those kinds of highlights, I thought. “Sorry again,” I said and then I whipped out my most dazzling smile, the one that always got me out of trouble with teachers.
“No worries.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, turned as if to walk away, and then swiveled around to face us again. “Would you happen to know which aisle the baking soda is in?”
“Aisle three,” Pop and I replied in unison. We knew the store better than the shelf stockers.
“Thanks,” Emmett said before turning left in the direction of aisle three and then disappearing completely.
“Nice boy,” Pop said as we started walking again. “What do you know about his family?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. That’s the most I’ve ever heard him say.” We rolled into the produce area and I made a beeline for the bananas. “Oh wait. His dad’s an accountant or something.”
“Interesting.”
“And Harper has a crush on him.”
“The accountant?”
“No,” I said, digging for the ripest bunch of bananas. “Emmett.”
“Ah. Even more interesting.” Pop picked up a head of iceberg lettuce and examined it for brown spots.
“But she’s too timid to do anything about it,” I went on.
“Well, maybe she just needs a little push.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking in the direction of aisle three. “Maybe she does.”
After dinner, I shut myself up in my room and, for the first time since we’d arrived, I turned on my cell phone.
I’d sent six texts to Shay so far, the first four asking for a chance to explain and the last two begging for forgiveness. Each one had gone unanswered, which didn’t exactly surprise me. The last time I’d seen her, she’d made it quite clear that she never wanted to speak to me again. It seemed she was fully on the bandwagon with the girls at school who thought I was a whore on some kind of devious mission to steal everyone’s boyfriends. That was far from the truth. For one, I had no interest in stealing anyone’s boyfriend. And two, I wasn’t a whore, whatever that subjective term meant in their minds. Yes, I’d dated a lot of guys, but I’d never had sex with any of them. Usually, they dumped me before I had the chance to consider going that far. Harper was right. Boyfriends didn’t like it when their girlfriends acted too friendly with other guys.
Even when you’re not flirting, you’re flirting, Harper had told me. I guess she had a point. I knew if I didn’t at least try to tone down my excessive friendliness, senior year would be hell. I needed to fix my reputation, and the first step would be showing everyone that I was so redeemed, so transformed, that even Shay had decided to forgive me.
I had the rest of summer to convince her to do it.
My cell phone kept wavering in and out of connectivity, but I’d always found if I stood on the edge of my bed and held it up toward the far corner of the ceiling, I’d get at least one bar. Just enough juice to send a quick text.
Shay, please talk to me. Let me explain.
To my surprise, a response arrived two minutes later.
Nothing to explain. I’m blocking you now. Leave me alone.
I tried to send another text, another appeal, but the signal had been cut off once again. Frustrated, I threw my cell on the bed and flopped down beside it, tears stinging my eyes. One party, one misunderstanding, and our friendship was over. She had been one of my last female friends, the last one to disregard the rumors and give me a chance to prove myself. And I’d failed. Horribly.
At least I’ll always have Harper, I thought, wiping the moisture from my face with my pillow. She was my cousin, sure, but also my friend. Possibly my only friend, depending on whether my classmates’ negative opinion of me died out or gained traction over the summer.
After a while, I stopped crying and started formulating a plan. Harper just needed a little push, like Pop had said, and it was up to me to give her one. Maybe orchestrating someone else’s relationship would stop me from constantly wrecking my own.