I look up and meet his eyes. His steady gaze reminds me so much of Archer, it makes the breath snag in my throat. “Yeah?”
“Cars are made to be driven. Not to sit idle, waiting around for someone to finally appreciate them.”
Miguel strokes his hand gently across the tan ragtop. Unlatching it with care, he folds the cloth back into place, exposing the convertible’s creamy, camel interior. The wooden steering wheel. The gear shifter, sticking out of the floor.
I whistle appreciatively, excitement sparking to life. I’ve only driven the Porsche twice before, and never beyond the gates of Cormorant House. The circular driveway provided a perfect makeshift learning course for lessons last year — first in Miguel’s beat-up truck, then with my father’s fleet.
Archer was infinitely annoyed that I mastered manual transmissions so much faster than he did. Ever since we got our licenses, he’s wanted to sneak the Porsche out for a clandestine drive up the coast. If he knew I was about to do it without him, he’d be apoplectic.
Not that I care.
“For what it’s worth,” Miguel says suddenly, drawing my attention back to him. “That same advice applies to human beings, JoJo.”
“What?”
“You can’t spend your days waiting for life to happen to you, safe in a weatherproof hangar. You have to get out on the open road. Crank the windows down. Let the wind mess up your hair. Maybe end up on a route you never saw coming.” He winks playfully. “Then again, I’m just a handyman. What do I know?”
“Miguel—”
But my words fall short; he’s already walking away. “Get going now, kiddo. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Miguel was right — it is a beautiful day. Warm and sun-drenched, the air rife with the promise of summer. I take the winding route to Exeter Academy, following the Essex Coastal Scenic Byway through salt marshes and small inlets, past pebble beaches and crystalline coves. I shift gears, letting the Porsche fly when I reach a secluded straightaway. Above all, I try not to think about Archer.
At this, I fail miserably.
I can’t help it. This is the first time in a decade we haven’t carpooled to school. In our younger years, Flora would drop us off together. Even after I got my license last summer, I never considered asking my parents for a car of my own. Why would I, when I had Archer to take us everywhere in his truck?
How naive of me to think there’d never come a day when his passenger seat is the last place on earth I want to be.
The Exeter parking lot is already filling up when I arrive. I pass row after row of shiny new cars — one black-on-black Ford F-150 conspicuously missing from their ranks — and finally locate a free spot in the very back, by the track that loops around the baseball field. In the distance, the first bell rings, a ten minute warning till the start of class.
I’ve barely shut my door when a massive yellow Jeep Wrangler screeches to a stop in the space beside mine. Ryan Snyder ambles out of the driver’s seat, the grin on his face somewhat undermined by the nasty shiner around his eye.
“Sup, Valentine.”
“Ryan!” I gasp. “Your eye!”
“Eh. Looks worse than it is.” He grins wider. “You still think I’m handsome, don’t you?”
A blush spreads across my cheeks. “Um. We should probably head inside. The bell’s about to ring... “
He chuckles as he walks to my side. Before I can protest, he promptly removes the stack of textbooks from my arms.
“Oh! You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His blue eyes are practically sparkling in the morning light. He glances down at the books. “What do we have here? AP Biology, AP Chemistry, AP Physics… Someone’s an overachiever.”
“More like the daughter of overachievers.”
“Parents have high expectations of excellence, huh? I can relate. I’m a triple-legacy at Yale. Never had much of a choice about my college plans. I think my first onesie had Handsome Dan on the front.”
I steal a peek at him as we cross the parking lot. Ryan Snyder may look like a J. Crew model in that dark green blazer, but he’s clearly got brains lurking beneath his chiseled beauty. You don’t get into Yale on familial connections alone — even if you are a third-generation shoe-in.
“I’m sure your parents are proud of you.”
“I guess.” He shrugs. “I wanted to go to Dartmouth but I’m not the one paying, so...” He trails off. “Anyway. I don’t think I had a chance to ask you the other night… where are you headed in the fall?”
“Brown.”
“Ah. A fellow Ivy Leaguer. Hence the impressive books. You planning to study science?”
“If my parents have their way? Yes. They’ve got it all planned out. Undergraduate degree in Biology with a focus on Nutritional Science. Masters in Public Health, followed by an internship at their nonprofit. Eventually, taking over the reins and running the company.”
“And you? What’s your grand plan?”
I try to focus on his question, rather than the other students making their way to the front door. Several of them are blatantly staring at us. By first period, the news will have swept through every classroom.
Ryan Snyder was carrying Josephine Valentine’s books this morning! And he had a black eye, to boot!
“Earth to Valentine. Am I boring you?”
“No! Sorry,” I murmur guiltily. “I want to study fashion.”
“Let me guess — you’re hoping for a stint on Project Runway? Future designer to the stars? Kardashian fashion consultant?”
“Not exactly.” I roll my eyes. “The design side is interesting, but I want to learn about the whole industry. From sketching new styles to manufacturing lines to stocking the shelves.”
“That’s cool.”
“It’s not cool, actually.” My brows pull together. “Do you know how many harmful dyes and chemicals are pumped into our rivers every year, just to make the uniforms we’re wearing right now? Do you know how many people live below the poverty line, working in sweatshops to sew them together?”
“I’m guessing a lot.”
“Yes. A lot. And no one is doing anything about it.” I shake my head in exasperation. “I want to start a fashion brand that does things differently. One that actually pays the people who make my clothes a livable wage. One that creates clothing without destroying the earth in the process.”
“I’d say ‘that’s cool’ again, but I’m afraid you’ll yell at me.”
I snort-laugh, somewhat mortified by my tirade. He probably thinks I’m a total freak. “Sorry. I’m a bit on-edge today. And I tend to get revved up when I talk about this stuff.”
“Never apologize for being passionate about something, Valentine.” He glances at me again. “I just can’t believe I ever thought you were shy.”
I duck my head, hair falling around my face in a curtain. I hope it hides my blush. (Judging by the way a group of sophomore girls giggle behind their notebooks as we pass by, I’m guessing that hope is futile.)
We’ve reached the front door. Juggling my books, Ryan reaches out and holds it open for me.
“How gentlemanly,” I tease, walking inside.
“I’m trying to impress you, if it wasn’t obvious.” He’s smiling as he passes my books back to me. “How am I doing so far?”
“What fun would it be if I told you?”
With that, I turn and walk away, heading for my locker. It’s at the tail end of the senior hallway with the rest of the alphabetical rejects, crammed in between Kenny Underwood and the Wadell twins.
“You’re killing me, Valentine!” Ryan calls after me, loud enough to make everyone in earshot turn around to stare.
Unfortunately, three minutes before the final bell, the senior hallway is packed with lingering students — all eager witnesses to my embarrassment. They whisper under their breath as I walk the gauntlet. The weight of many watchful eyes rests heavily on my shoulders, an unfamiliar burden for a girl who is usually borderline
invisible. I pray my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel.
I’m spinning open my combination lock — 3-34-14 — when the Wadell twins flank me on either side, their matching pink backpacks the same shade as the gum they’re snapping in tandem. There’s not a hair out of place in their glossy platinum bobs; a far cry from my windswept mane. Driving with the top down creates more volume than the best blow-dryer on the market.
“Hey,” Ophelia says.
“Hey,” Odette says.
“Can I help you?” I grunt, distracted. They’ve made me mess up my combo. I start over.
Twice to the right…
3…
“So are you, like, dating Ryan now?” Ophelia asks.
I ignore the question.
Once to the left…
34…
“How’d he get that black eye?” Odette wonders.
Back to the right…
14…
“Everyone’s saying Archer gave it to him,” Ophelia informs me.
“And that they’re, like, fighting over you now,” Odette adds.
I press my lips firmly together. Yanking open my locker door, I shove my textbooks inside haphazardly. I don’t care if they fall out later; I’m desperate to escape this conversation.
Interrogation.
Grabbing a blank notebook, my lab goggles, and the first pencil I see, I shut my locker with a metallic slam and walk away without a word.
“Rude,” Ophelia declares.
“Totally,” Odette agrees.
Overhead, the tardy bell rings. I’m officially late for biology.
I sigh.
It’s going to be a long day.
Archer and I don’t share any classes together — something that normally annoys me. Today, it’s a blessing in disguise. I slug through biology lab, only half paying attention to the frog I’m supposed to be dissecting. Unfortunately — for my GPA as well as the amphibian — I end up extracting its liver instead of a kidney.
My teacher, Dr. Gilmore, seems more upset than I am. She’s accustomed to me being her star student, not phoning it in like one of the stoners.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Valentine?” She’s staring down at the liver-less frog in my tray, an indent between her auburn eyebrows. “I know you were out sick, yesterday…”
“I’m fine.”
“Well. I suppose even valedictorians have off days,” she clucks. “I’ll get you a fresh specimen so you can start over…”
I pull myself together long enough to survive the rest of the anatomy workshop, along with Chemistry and Physics. But in the back of my mind, lunchtime looms like an ever-darkening shadow. The whole senior class eats at the same time; no matter where I sit, I’m certain to cross Archer’s path.
As the clock marches onward toward noon, I fidget in my uniform, crossing and uncrossing my legs so many times, I’m sure the kid sitting next to me thinks I have a urinary tract infection. When the bell rings, I bolt from my seat like a sprinter off the blocks.
The Exeter cafeteria offers a meal service that makes most five-star hotel spreads look shabby. (Our exorbitant tuition fees, hard at work.) I typically load up my tray at the salad bar, then eat with Archer beneath our favorite tree in the courtyard — a spot we staked out at the start of senior year.
Right now, that’s definitely not an option.
I head for the parking lot instead. Sitting in the Porsche, I munch on stale trail mix, sip a grapefruit seltzer, and tell myself I’m perfectly fine.
So what if I have no other friends to sit with? At least I’m not a total loser, eating alone in a bathroom stall — which seems to happen in every high school movie I’ve ever seen.
So what if the boy I’ve loved forever doesn’t want anything to do with me, even in a platonic way? At least I never embarrassed myself by telling him how I really feel.
So what if the future I thought was certain is now nothing but a question mark? At least, in a few months, I’ll be away at college, starting fresh somewhere new.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Except I’m not fine at all.
Chapter Twelve
ARCHER
Josephine Valentine is avoiding me.
Josephine Valentine is driving me insane.
Yesterday, there was the fake-sick routine. And I get it, I really do. I was a dick that night at the boathouse; she was understandably upset.
But when this morning rolled around, I went to pick her up at her front door only to have my father inform me — quite merrily, I may add — that she’d already left. In the Porsche, no less.
She knows how I feel about the Porsche.
I pulled into the parking lot just in time to see her walking into school with Snyder, practically swooning as the fuckhead held the door open for her. I almost crashed my truck, craning my neck to keep them in my sights.
Since then, she’s turned into a goddamn ghost — never in any of the places I look for her. Not the courtyard at lunch, not her locker between classes, not the Creative Arts wing where they keep the industrial sewing machine she uses for her fashion designs. I hit dead end after dead end, never catching more than a glimpse of her across a crowded hallway.
The flash of a fishtail braid.
A fragment of her laughter.
You can’t be anywhere near her, I remind myself over and over, stalking the halls like a penned-in tiger at the zoo. Not until things with Jaxon are under control. Not until it’s safe.
But taking care of Jo is an impulse ingrained so deeply inside my psyche, it’s not easy to shake. I can’t stand the thought of her being isolated at school; left alone at the popular kids’ mercy without me there to intervene. It’s driving me to utter distraction.
And distraction is one thing I really can’t afford. Not tonight. It’s the second to last game of the season, an away match in the neighboring town. I’m certain several scouts will be there to watch me pitch. Vanderbilt. Bryant. Maybe even an MLB recruiter. But with my thoughts so tangled up in Jo, there’s no way I’ll deliver the performance they’re expecting. I need to get my head on straight before I’m standing under the stadium lights in five hours, making an ass of myself.
In an attempt to clear my mind, I cut my last class, climb into my truck, and go for a long drive down the coast, keeping mostly to the back roads. It’s a perfect time of year. Flowers in full bloom, tree boughs hanging heavy with green. Landscapers mowing lawns, nannies pushing little kids on swings at the park.
I cruise through several coastal towns, almost on autopilot. Beverly, Peabody, Salem. The streets flow by outside my windows in a blur, barely making an impression. I don’t have any real destination in mind. I just drive.
After nearly an hour, I wind up at the lighthouse on the tip of Marblehead Neck. Shutting my engine, I sit and watch the waves crashing against the shore, spraying sea-foam into the sky. Gulls circle overhead, occasionally dropping shells to crack them open on the parking lot asphalt. Swooping down, they devour the spoils with throaty cries of victory. On nearby rocks, cormorants sun themselves, their black wings spread wide.
There’s plenty of harbor traffic on a warm day like this. Sailboats of all shapes and sizes crisscross the blue expanse, growing smaller and smaller as they head out to sea. When my eyes catch on a small red one, my heart lurches inside my chest.
Rationally, I know it can’t be Cupid — Jo’s Alerion is docked miles and miles away, at its slip in Manchester. Still, I strain to keep the small craft in my sights. As if somehow, by holding onto it, I might also hold onto the girl whose face it conjures in my mind. The girl who slips away from me a little more each day, bound for far-flung horizons where I cannot follow.
My eyes sting in the wind. I brush an escaped tear off my cheek. Breathing deeply, I wait until the sailboat fades into an indiscernible speck before I climb back into my truck and head for home.
Gull Cottage sits quietly in the clearing, giving no indication of t
he danger awaiting me within its walls. I whistle lightly under my breath as I jog up the steps, fiddling with my keys.
My parents will be working up at the main estate for several more hours. I doubt I’ll see them until late this evening, when I get home from my game.
I lift the key toward the lock. My hand goes still before I can insert it. My pulse begins to pound faster inside my veins. Every hair on the back of my neck raises in high alert.
The door is already ajar.
I was in a rush this morning. Maybe I didn’t pull it closed properly…
Except, I’m always careful to close the door. Always. If I don’t, I get a long-winded lecture from Ma on the surprising prevalence of burglaries in wealthy towns with tiny police departments.
As if we own anything worth stealing.
Using the tip of my key, I push the door open wider and peer through the crack. There’s no indication anyone is inside — no strange noises, no furniture upended.
Just in case, I slide my iPhone out of my back pocket. My palm is sweaty against the glass screen as I toggle it open. I have no one to call for help, but I feel better with it in my hand when I widen the gap between door and frame.
My pulse thuds between my ears, a steady drum beat. Stepping across the threshold, I creep into the cottage as quietly as possible. My eyes scan the room, taking inventory of every item. Searching for the smallest details out of place.
Everything looks exactly as I left it.
“Hello?” I call tentatively, taking a few more steps into the living room. “Ma? You here?”
Silence booms back at me.
My shoulders slump as the tension leaves me in a whoosh. Shaking my head at my own paranoia, I walk toward the kitchen in search of a snack.
Must’ve left the door open after all. Let’s hope Ma doesn’t find out, or I’m in for—
The thought explodes into fragments as something hard slams into the back of my skull. Pain sears through me, blinding. I fall to the hardwood. A second before I hit the floor, the world flickers into darkness.
We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1) Page 10