“Never, actually. I was a little afraid they’d be bricks.”
“You didn’t try them?”
I realize how odd it is that I didn’t and frown. “Weirdly, no.”
“Maybe you don’t like cookies.”
I smile, but she’s preoccupied wrapping the foil back over my plate. I scan the mantle, which includes a poster-sized group shot of Stella with her school friends. Stella’s in the middle and there are lots of in-crowd players around her.
“There’s something about the cinnamon,” she says. “It’s amazing.”
“My mom is kind of a health nut, so it’s organic. Could be that,” I say, stepping closer to the picture. “Though half the time I think organic is just an excuse to charge more.”
She laughs then, but the sound is strained. I messed up. I shouldn’t have talked about my mom. I don’t even know what that word means when your only child dies. Does that mean it doesn’t apply to her anymore?
“Stella looks really beautiful here,” I say, pointing at the group shot.
“Stella always looks beautiful,” she says, and now she’s much closer, looking at the picture too.
It’s true, she does, but this one captures more than a collection of pretty features. She’s wide-eyed and looks like she’s on the verge of an unexpected laugh. Nick and Marlow are in the picture, Marlow’s hand wrapped around his bicep. Candace is on her left, and Tate and Aimee are on her right. And of course there’s Jackson behind her, sort of looming with his flinty eyes and too-white smile.
Everyone is looking at the camera except Tate. My heart sinks as I realize he’s looking at Stella. Pictures tell a thousand words, but I wish this one didn’t. His open body language, the affectionate tilt of his chin—even the depth of his expression are so clear I don’t know how I missed it before.
Hearing him say it was one thing, but this is different. Nick was right. Tate loved Stella. Absolutely one thousand percent adored her. I take a step back, feeling breathless.
“It was the last week of junior year,” Mrs. DuBois says. I try to find something else in the picture. Like Jackson, who looks more sinister with every passing second. I realize his arm is curved at an awkward angle behind Stella’s back. I can’t be sure, but it almost seems like he’s grabbing her butt. The photographer in me calculates the angles, while the girl in me catalogs the difference in their faces. Jackson’s canary-in-my-teeth smile against Tate’s open adoration.
“I miss her,” Mrs. DuBois says, and her words bring back an eerie echo of Tate with his stained shirt and empty eyes.
I have to say something. I started this for Stella. Because of the things I didn’t say. If I don’t say them now, I don’t think I’ll ever breathe right again.
“Mrs. DuBois…”
She looks at me with patient eyes. I feel the pressure of her desperation though. She’s hungry for some bit of comfort—some answer about Stella that I know I don’t have. I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened to her on those tracks. Not for sure. The things I do know feel worthless, but they are true, so I say them.
“I didn’t know Stella very well,” I say softly, looking down at my feet. “My locker is next to hers, and I’ve taken a lot of pictures of her because I’m on the school yearbook committee. But I don’t know that we were friends. Not really.”
“Did you take this one?” she asks, covering any disappointment.
“No. But I chose the photo for her locker.”
“The picture with her hand in her hair?” Her smile is tremulous and I can feel that mine matches it.
“Yes, that one.”
“I loved that. It was so her.”
I look at my hands, because I still feel this great awkwardness, like I should do something with them, only I’m not sure what. In the end, I put them in my pockets. “I have no idea what I should say right now. I just know that I wish I’d known her better or that I’d reached out to her when she needed somebody. I wish…so many things. Most of all I wish so much this had never happened to you. Or to her.”
She sighs and pulls me in for a brief, tight hug. “You did just fine.”
“I’m sorry?”
She wipes her eyes but looks a bit more composed. “No one has any idea what to say. Half the job is just showing up.”
Mrs. DuBois walks me to the door, forcing me to take a couple of cookies. She’s right. They did turn out pretty good.
Inside my car, the sunshine is deceptively warm through my windshield. I close my eyes and soak it in, my mind wandering back to the group photograph. To Jackson and Stella and Tate. To all the things I got wrong.
Today I got something right. Maybe if I’m lucky, I can make it a habit.
Mom calls when I’m halfway home.
“Hi, honey, is that your car in the background?”
“I’ve got you on speaker, don’t worry. Where are you?”
“Philadelphia. They’re asking me to stay a few more days. They have an approval they’re trying to squeeze through before Christmas. Seven-year-old twins.”
“You’re a modern-day hero.” I grin.
“I actually didn’t agree to it yet. The storm there is rolling this way, and I’m worried about not getting home until Christmas Eve. I don’t want to make any plans without talking to you.”
“Mom, I’m not eight. I can handle less time on Christmas Eve. As long as Santa still comes.”
She laughs, which makes me smile. “Santa’s in good shape with your Christmas list, no worries, but, sweetheart, would it be too much trouble for you to pick me up a couple of things at the mall?”
The mall? At Christmas?
“You hate the mall,” I say.
“I know, but your grandmother wants perfume. I hate to ask, but—”
“It’s totally fine. I need to pick up something for Tacey anyway.”
“You’re the best kid in the world, you know.”
We disconnect before I can tell her she’s wrong.
• • •
There’s a reason I usually do my Christmas shopping early. Being in the mall two days before Christmas is a special kind of misery. For starters, I’m pretty sure every person who’s ever said the word mall is in here with me. Fortunately, my grandma’s perfume was easy to find, so I’m done with that. I just need something for Tacey.
I dodge a couple of twentysomethings, shopping bags stacked up each arm. Then there’s a twitchy guy with a bag from a jewelry store and six or seven girls who are probably in junior high. I still haven’t found anything for Tacey and I’m getting beyond sick of being here.
So, decision time. She loves makeup, but one glance at the throng that’s descended on Sephora, and I ran like the coward I am. Now, I’m sitting in the atrium, wondering how bad a friend it would make me to get her a gift card and call it a day.
A girl with red hair walks in front of me and I bite my lip, pulled back to the morning with Stella’s mom. There’s holiday music and everyone’s jolly and of course, I think of Nick. For the three millionth time in the last few days.
This is stupid. There is nothing going on between us that can’t wait until after the holiday. Hell, that can’t wait forever, because no amount of apology is going to make us a perfect fit. Us together would be messy and awkward. And I still want him so badly my chest hurts.
A kid runs past, squealing about Santa. I step out of his path and pull out my phone. I’ve dwelled enough. I’ll call. I’ll call and apologize, and it will be weird, but I’ll feel better when it’s over. Then I can get on with my holiday without being sucked into a guilt spiral.
Nick picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
I cringe at the Christmas music blaring in the background. “Hey, it’s Piper.”
“Yeah, hey,” he says. I can hear him moving, shuffling around. The music dies down a bit and he speaks
again. “Sorry about that. I’m out shopping.”
“You don’t happen to be at the mall, do you?”
“Close. I’m at Sports-n-Stuff. Michael wanted new shoulder pads.”
I bite my lip, not sure where I should go from here. I know crap-all about sporting equipment and he’s busy. I need to find a point, or I need to hang up the phone.
“You were right,” I say, clenching my fists. This is harder than it was with Mrs. DuBois. “I saw a picture of Tate with Stella, and it was obvious how he felt about her. I guess it would make anyone crazy to see someone they love with someone else. Especially like that.”
I take a breath, but he’s still waiting. And I can’t hold back. “You were right about me too. I do see what I want to see. I decided that you were all the same. I don’t know how to fix that, or how to fix any of this, really. But I wanted you to know I’m trying.”
He sighs on the other end of the line, and I close my eyes, wishing I could see his face, that I could see the expression he’s wearing. I can hear music in his background, warbling on about Santa coming to town. Here, it’s “Jingle Bells.” The songs war against each other, grating my nerves and making Nick’s silence more painful by the second.
“Nick?”
“I’m here.”
Did I say the wrong thing? No. I think I said it right. Just at the wrong time.
“I shouldn’t have called so close to Christmas,” I say, trying to keep the threat of tears out of my voice.
“Where are you?”
“In the mall atrium. I know it’s loud. Look, I’m sorry I bothered y—”
“Can you just stay put for a bit?” he asks. The music’s getting loud on his side again, like he’s walked back into the heart of the store. “Just wait there. Give me ten minutes, okay?”
“But I—”
He hangs up before I can protest, leaving me completely confused. He wants me to wait here? For him?
I look around, trying to figure the chances of him actually spotting me. There are like fourteen million people crammed into this atrium. They’re eating hot pretzels and clustering around the giant maps, checking Christmas lists for last-minute gifts.
Heck with finding me—he’ll be lucky to find a parking spot. But then, maybe he just meant he’d call back. Maybe I should just text him. God, maybe I should stop second-guessing everything and go buy something for Tacey. And it better be good, because I skipped the holiday thing and she hasn’t texted or called me since.
I check my phone. And then I have this seriously annoying urge to check my face in the mirror in my purse, because apparently I am twelve years old.
I buzz the perimeter of the atrium, thinking of picking up a cinnamon roll until I see that the line is two miles long. I cut back through the middle of the atrium then, determined to stop thinking about the Nick situation and to start thinking that gift card is getting more appealing by the second.
I’m digging out my keys to leave when I feel him come up behind me. I stop dead in my tracks. He doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t speak, but I know. I just know it’s him.
“Piper.”
I turn around.
He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running. And I’m not prone to swooning—I’m practically the Antichrist of swooning—but he looks so damn good. He’s flushed and sort of sweaty, and he’s staring at me like I’m the only person here.
“I’m going to kiss you again,” he says.
I can’t say anything. I don’t even remember what language I speak. He steps closer and I swear it is a Christmas miracle that I continue breathing.
“I’m going to kiss you right here, Piper. So, if you have any lingering doubts, or any hesitation—”
I pull him down by the collar, because I’m pretty sure he should already be kissing me. His hands touch my face and every crazy, whirlwind feeling rushing through me just stops.
Shoppers are rushing and music is playing, but I am anchored by his stillness, by the soft, warm slide of his lips over mine.
We kiss like we’ve done it for years, maybe entire lifetimes. I know how to tilt my head and he knows when to pull me closer. I knot my hands in the back of his hair, and, breathless as I am, I feel like I’m coming back to life.
When we part, we’re both panting. “How was Sports-n-Stuff?”
“Not as good as the mall.”
“Shoulder pads are overrated.”
Nick laughs. “Nice try, Woods, but you’re still kissing a jock. What will your art friends think?”
“They’ll probably urge psychiatric evaluation,” I admit.
I love the grin he cracks, like he’s charmed by my absolute lack of tact. He really is over the moon because that’s definitely not one of my endearing qualities.
“That came out totally wrong,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks. I never even considered it.”
“I believe you. And that’s one of the many reasons I’m standing here.”
“Kissing a football player in the middle of the mall.”
“Well, right now I’m not—”
I can’t finish the sentence because he kisses me again. And I think, maybe this time, I don’t need to have the last word.
• • •
Nick makes it okay to be in the mall at Christmas. We talk and laugh until my sides hurt, and I forget about the crowds and the commercialism. Most of all, I forget all the awful things I’m tangled up in.
It’s eight o’clock when the inevitable catches up to me. I eye my phone on the table between us. Because all the kisses in the world don’t change the fact that it’s Friday night. And I owe my partner a name.
The threat churns in my gut until I push my cinnamon roll away and turn my phone over, pressing the button to bring the screen to life.
“When are you supposed to text him?” Nick asks. He finishes his roll and points at mine with puppy dog eyes.
I push it across the table. “Go for it. I have an hour.”
“You could text my name.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Sure. And what will this takedown be for? Nick Patterson—stealer of kisses and cinnamon rolls?”
His hair falls over one eye, but he shakes it back and winks. “I’m a rebel.”
“Seriously, what is with your boy scout self? Have you ever done anything wrong?”
“I don’t know. I stood up Hannah Cromley in the ninth grade. I still feel bad about that. I’ve lied to my mom. Oh, I puked in Tate’s gym bag once and never fessed up.”
“Karma got you back on that one,” I say, and we share a sad smile over our adventure with Tate.
“You could call his bluff.”
“Call his bluff?”
Nick saws off another hunk of gooey goodness. “The way I see it, there aren’t that many options. Turn in the book and your phone to the school.”
“I can’t. I don’t even know that everything in that book is legit. I think I’ve brought down enough people. I don’t need to invite more trouble over something Harrison might have misinterpreted.”
“You could take your phone in, though.”
I sigh. “If I don’t find out who’s doing this, I don’t think I’ll have a choice.”
He reaches for my hand then, fingers grazing my knuckles. “So, back to calling his bluff. Is it so crazy to just walk away? Ignore him altogether?”
“It scares me.” Because I have a best friend with some serious baggage.
“What’s the worst-case scenario?”
“He targets someone I love.” Someone like Manny. Because Manny has done things that are takedown worthy. Broke or not, changing records is wrong. But I can’t stand the idea of seeing him tortured like that.
God, that makes me such a hypocrite.
“Then send my name.”
He tilts his head, shoulders hunched. “I don’t think I can sit here and watch you target someone else. I’m trying to be open-minded—”
“I don’t think I can either.”
After Harrison? Just no. I can’t even imagine the holiday at his house now. Permafrost glares around the Christmas tree. My throat goes tight at the idea.
“Then my name it is. It’ll buy you a week to figure it out, and we’ll just have to deal with whatever your jerk partner scrounges up on me.”
He’s offering to walk into the fire for me. Why? Because he doesn’t have anything to hide. I study him across the table. Green eyes. Good heart. Some of my cinnamon roll stuck to his upper lip. No. No way in hell is he going to pay for my mistake.
I shove my phone to the middle of the table.
“You know, I think I’m going to call his bluff. My targeting days are over.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December 25 starts all wrong. I wake up at eight to a bleak, pounding rain and the sound of my parents fighting. It isn’t the silent, sniper-comment affair it’s been for the last year either. This is a real fight.
My mother’s voice is too loud and high. I can’t make out the words, but I can tell she’s upset. She’s talking more than he is, her voice rising and lowering. My dad is on the defense, his few words firing back like bullets, sharp and hard.
I sit up slowly, careful not to let the bed creak as I pull my knees up to my chest. My eyes move to the window, where the rain is sluicing through a sickly sky. The snow that blanketed the world in white is washed away, leaving everything wet and gray.
It doesn’t feel like Christmas.
I take my phone from my bedside table and there’s no text from my partner. Whatever he’s planning is still a mystery, but I’m less worried than I was. The only person in my circle of friends that feels like a potential takedown target is Manny. And that’s if the texter knows about the blackmailing stuff, which seems unlikely since he didn’t write the book after all. Either way, Manny’s in Kentucky with his family for Christmas, so today I can probably relax.
Fat joke with World War III brewing on the first floor.