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 —strutmight 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 hereallywants 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 mygod!” Ophelia screams.
“Josephine Freaking Valentine!”