I smiled at her to assuage her worry. It didn’t work — her brows remained furrowed, her teeth continued to chew her bottom lip.
“Honey…”
I squeezed her arm quickly. “We’ll try again. Sometime soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I could feel her worried eyes on my back all the way to the exit. Worse, I could feel another set of eyes — green, intense, biting into me like wolf’s teeth — watching until I disappeared out the front door, into the chilly September night. I felt them on me the whole walk back to Aunt Colette’s dark, empty house. I felt them even after I’d showered, scrubbed my skin raw, and climbed beneath the covers in the same bedroom I’d stayed in as a kid, back when I spent my summers in Salem.
I hadn’t yet been able to bring myself to enter Aunt Colette’s private chambers, let alone disturb her things. It would be another three months before I found the courage to do so. And three more after that before I’d force myself to call Flo so we could “try” again. But I made sure, when we did, that a certain towering, dark-haired jerk would not be in attendance.
That was a year and a half ago.
I’d seen Graham since, of course. Occasionally. In passing. Once the shop renovations were complete and The Gallows reopened for business, I was a constant presence downtown. And, as a Graves, as the golden boy who’d grown into the golden man of the golden family… so was he. Salem was a city, but most days it felt more like a small town. Our community was close-knit. Everyone knew everyone, especially if you ran a local shop, like I did, and were friendly, like I was. (Toalmosteveryone.)
When our paths did cross — meaning, when I was caught off guard and unable to avoid him by ducking into an alley or hiding behind a tree or engaging a baffled stranger in conversation on the sidewalk until he passed by — I was sweet. I forced a smile. I played my part.
Gwen Goode. The good time girl. She of the sunny disposition. She of the quick smile and easy laugh. She who never let her dark side show.
Except where Graham Graves was concerned.
No matter how many times I’d seen him since that night in the bar, my anger had not waned and my feelings had not changed. There was a part of me that had iced over as a result of his harsh words and it simply….
Would.
Not.
Thaw.
No matter how many times I tried to let it go. No matter how often Flo trained her melted-chocolate eyes on me, begging for me to please, for her sake, make nice with her boyfriend’s best friend, so we could all go out for drinks without conversation growing strained or caustic looks being exchanged.
I couldn’t do it.
Not even for Flo, who I’d adored since she adopted me as her best friend the summer I turned twelve, who’d written me letter after letter during our school year separations, who stayed in touch all through college with bi-monthly, marathon phone calls. Not even for Flo, who I still adored to this day, even more so now that we finally lived in the same zip code and could keep in touch simply by walking to each other’s houses or meeting up for a glass of wine, rather than penning postcards and dialing long-distance numbers.
There wasn’t much I would not do for Flo.
And yet…
Since I couldn’t be my normally sweet self to Graham, I avoided him like the plague. On the rare instances we were forced to interact — say, if Flo and Desmond were having a party at their townhouse and we were both required to be in attendance — I did my best to smile and be civil while in his immediate proximity. It wasn’t a very convincing charade. I was no actress. (I was afreak of nature, according to certain sources, but I was no actress.)
I knew I should let it go. I knew I’d let his words fester too long inside of me. But that was far easier said than done. And no matter how many times I resolved to turn over a new leaf, to make nice with the Spawn of Satan himself, as soon as I saw that smug half-smile tug up his lips on one side… as soon as those sharp green eyes hit mine…
I morphed into a total frigid bitch.
Ice Queen.
And as soon as he saw that ice, he returned in kind. He gave it right back to me, an arctic-level chill that would singlehandedly reverse global warming if directed at the polar caps.
Captain Cold.
We were at an impasse. One that became harder and harder to undo the longer we let it linger. Now, it had been going on so long, we were buried under such a thick sheet of frost, I doubted we’d ever be able to thaw it. Not even if we tried. Not even for the sake of Florence and Desmond.
It was easier, for the both of us, to simply avoid each other and do our best to be pleasant when said avoidance was absolutely unavoidable. Which did not explain why he was standing in front of me now.
Here.