I shrug, shouldering the disgust I feel at my own actions with a familiar facade of indifference. The smirk on my face only adds to the charade as I jerk my chin toward the stairwell behind her. “You know where the exit is.”
She physically recoils a step. I watch the shock of my callousness make impact. A flurry of emotions plays across her features, giving me a front-row seat to the exact moment she decides I’m not worth it; that her parents were right all along: she really is better off without me in her life.
Great, I tell myself, swallowing hard. I’m glad she’s finally up to speed.
“Fuck you, Archer Reyes,” she says in a stark whisper. “You can go straight to Hell, as far as I’m concerned. And you can stay there.”
With that, she drops the pie. Two seconds of free-fall, then— crash. The ceramic dish slams against the tile floor, shattering on impact with a clatter that sounds like gunfire. I don’t even look down as chunks of flaky crust and cinnamon-coated apples fly in all directions, covering the walls around us like blood spatter at a crime scene, flecking my bare feet and sweatpants with crumbs.
I just watch her go.
Watch her pivot on her heels in an angry whirl, hair flying around her slim shoulders in a curtain of gold. And when she’s gone, when the sound of her stomping down the stairs has faded, when the slam of the front door echoes up to me on the landing… I sink down beside the ruined remnants of the pie she baked especially for me, put my head in my hands, and try to breathe around the black hole of misery yawning inside me. Try to remain conscious as it widens from my chest to my limbs to the top of my skull. As it stretches to fill the air of the dingy stairwell. The apartment beyond. The building itself. As it reaches up into the sky, blackening the horizon in every direction. Encompassing everything, until the whole damn world goes dark.
And in that unending darkness…
I feel the last bit of light inside of me sputter out and die.
NINETEEN
josephine
I hate him.
I thought I hated him before, last summer, when he left me behind with a broken heart. But then, my rage was tempered by heartbreak, dampened by despair. In retrospect — and in comparison — that anger is the palest of flames. A flickering ember, next to the raging inferno that blazes through me as I drive away from Archer’s apartment.
My hands are a death grip on the wheel. I can barely see the dark road in front of me through the tears. Scrubbing at my face with my sleeve, I fly through a stop sign without fully braking. I pay minimal attention to the route I’m taking back to Manchester — winding my way south along the coast, a narrow road that takes me over the drawbridge at Blynman Canal, past the historic spires of Hammond Castle, through the sleepy streets of Magnolia.
It’s dark outside. Quiet. The kind of lazy summer night you’re meant to spend lying in the grass counting fireflies or sipping cold tea on a creaky porch swing. In another life, I would’ve taken Cupid out for a sail under the stars, drifting from constellation to constellation in the slow currents, the waves a rocking lullaby against the hull. But Cupid is rotting somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic — along with all my other hopes and dreams.
I drive faster, pressing the gas pedal almost to the floor, eager to put as much space between me and Archer as I possibly can, as quickly as I possibly can. Thick humidity hangs in the air, only a light breeze to stir it. With the convertible’s top down, my hair whips into a messy tangle, erasing the extra care I took to curl it this afternoon. Strands stick in the thin layer of gloss I applied to my lips.
Trying to look pretty for the boy who hates your guts.
Feeling like an idiot of the highest order, I swipe my thumb roughly across my mouth, wiping all traces of my foolishness away.
It doesn’t take long to get home. Before I know it, I’ve reached the turn to Crow Island. But as I think of Cormorant House awaiting me on the other side of those high stone walls — dark and empty, a perfect echo-chamber of all the thoughts I am desperate to escape — I find myself rolling right past it. Heading into town. Heading anywhere, really, that might offer a small distraction.
I choose my route at random. Left, then right, then left again. I don’t expend any thoughts on my destination. I also try not to examine my own feelings too closely. I know if I do, I’ll be facing an unpleasant reality; namely, that I’m almost as angry at myself as I am at Archer. My own stupidity is hard to swallow.
How could I be so idiotic?
How pathetic can I possibly be?
Showing up unannounced.
Baking him a pie.
A freaking pie.
What did I expect? That a few slices of hand-baked dessert would somehow mend all that is broken between us? That he’d see me standing there on his doorstep, fall to his knees, and beg forgiveness for destroying our friendship?
God.
Archer was right.
I really am naive.
There’s one big problem with a town this small: pretty much everything closes as soon as the sun sets. Europe, this is not. There are no late-night eateries, no all-hours dining options for night owls to indulge their cravings. The only shop in Manchester-by-the-Sea that stays open past seven is a small convenience store in the middle of town, owned and operated by the same family for as long as I’ve been alive.
Its narrow aisles don’t offer much in the way of variety, but I’m not looking for a Michelin-Star experience at the moment. I grab a jumbo bag of gummy bears from the candy section, swipe a ginger-berry juice from the cooler, and head for the cash registers with my puffy, post-crying eyes downcast. A middle-aged man rings up my purchases in silence as I search for a ten dollar bill in the depths of my purse, blessedly abstaining from smalltalk.
The sound of the bell over the front door makes us both look up from our tasks.
Two identical blonde girls walk — strut might be more accurate, actually — into the tiny shop, their matching, chin-length platinum bobs almost translucent in the harsh convenience store lighting.
“—so I told him, if he expects me to go all the way to Ibiza, I’m flying private or I’m not flying at all,” one of the girls is saying.
“Naturally,” the other adds.
“Like, if he really wants to see me, he’ll send the jet. I’m not flying first class like some sort of peasant.”
“First class is the new economy.”
“Put that on the family crest.”
They dissolve into giggles. Their laughter dissipates when they spot me standing by the cash register.
“Oh my god!” Odette squeals.
“Oh my god!” Ophelia screams.
“Josephine Freaking Valentine!”
“Back from the dead!”
“Back from Switzerland,” I correct lowly, but neither of them seems to be listening as they race toward me at top speed. Before I can brace for impact, they’ve thrown their arms around me — ensconcing my frame in a huddle of long limbs and a cloud of expensive perfume. They don’t pause long enough for me too answer a single question before firing off another.
“Where have you been hiding?”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were back in town?”
“Chris Tomlinson said he saw you but we didn’t believe him!”