by Kelli Warner
“Stop!” The word explodes past my lips, shattering the suffocating memories into a million shards and thrusting me back into my cold, empty reality.
I’m gasping for air when my eyes reopen. Then, I’m frozen by a new horror. The wide eyes of two dozen young dancers and their teacher—the apparition of my mother replaced by a woman I’ve never seen before in my life—stare back at me in surprise and confusion. I’m mortified.
“Sorry!” I cry out in a high-pitched voice that I don’t recognize as my own. My cheeks burn and the pressure to escape is so urgent that I begin to back away, bumping into the doorjamb in my scattered state.
“Paige, stay and watch my class!” Lily calls. I shake my head, trying in vain to swallow the large lump that remains wedged in my throat.
“I can’t,” I manage. “But have fun. Your mom will pick you up.”
As I rush for the exit, two women ask me if I’m okay. I brush them off with a nod and a curt smile and shove open the front doors. I can’t get outside fast enough. The instant the cool breeze touches my cheeks, I cling to the railing and drop onto the cement steps to catch my breath.
What the hell was that? I have never experienced such a debilitating panic, not since that horrific night at the hospital. That horrible, horrible night. There had been no warning that merely walking into a ballet studio would set it off. I shudder as a chill rolls down my spine, prickling the skin on my arms and neck.
What did I expect would happen? That my mother would actually appear? That the last two months could simple dissolve away and everything would go back to the way it had been? Even though that’s what I want, so badly it hurts, it never occurred to me for a second that my mind could create that—whatever that was. Tendrils of icy sadness consume me, seeping into my bones with the undeniable realization that ballet, something I’ve sacrificed time, friends and opportunities to pursue, endured physical pain beyond measure to immerse myself in, and my most sacred connection to my mother now riddles me with unforgiving anguish and despair. My insides feel like a washcloth that’s been run under scalding hot water, then rung out again and again until it no longer resembles its original shape.
I brush my forehead with the back of my hand, wiping sweat from my brow. Pathetic. That’s me. Crumpled on the cold concrete, heartbroken and helpless, assaulted by my own memories—pathetic.
The heavy metal doors of the gym behind me open and a group of guys spills out onto the steps, talking and laughing as they head for the street. I shift so that my back is against the railing and drop my head, allowing my hair to fall forward over my face. Tilting slightly, I watch their feet bound down the steps behind me. When I’m confident that the pitiful girl huddled on the steps has gone unnoticed, my shoulders relax and I exhale. The last thing I need is—
“Hey!”
My heart stutters, and I’m staring at a pair of athletic shoes.
“Paige? Is that you?”
At this point, I’m not sure if this day could get any worse. Tapping my forehead with the heel of my palm, I lift my head, a beyond-fake smile perfectly in place. “Hey there.”
Dane Sloane takes a seat on the steps on the other side of the railing. “What are you doing here?” He’s wearing black athletic shorts and a hoodie that’s pulled up over his head. He rolls his keys around in his hand.
“You know, just, uh—”
“You do martial arts?” he asks in disbelief, gesturing over his shoulder.
“No, my sister takes ballet over there. I just dropped her off.”
“So, you’re waiting for her?”
“No, I—” I have nothing. No response. No excuses. Just the truth, as embarrassing as it is. I turn my head and meet Dane’s curious eyes with a shrug. “I’m kind of having a bad day. Just taking a break.”
He nods, like he totally gets it. “That’s cool.”
“Dane!” a guy from the street calls. “You comin’?”
“You should go,” I encourage him.
To my disappointment, he ignores my words and shouts back, “Go on without me; I’ll catch up!”
“No, really, you should go with your friends,” I say, nearly begging him. “I have things to do anyway.”
“It’s fine. You look like you could use a friend.”
That’s sweet, but I’m not sure he qualifies for that role, seeing as we barely know each other. Then again, I’m not really in a position to argue.
“Do you want to take a walk?” Dane asks. “The waterfront is just a couple of blocks that way. There’s a great coffee house down there.”
“No, really, I have things I have to do,” I repeat, standing and brushing a hand across the back of my pants. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d be good company right now. But thanks anyway.”
“We can grab a cup to go,” he offers. I try to think of another way to decline his invitation, but I can’t come up with anything before he adds, “Come on. A little caffeine will perk you right up.”
I sigh and concede with a smile. “Sure, why not?”
We walk the first half block in silence. Dane’s tall; I guess I never paid much attention to that before. But then again, why would I?
“So, you do martial arts?” I ask, trying to kickstart the conversation.
“Kickboxing,” he corrects. “It’s not a bad way to spend my time since I got suspended.”
Oh, yeah, that.
“I’m not allowed to work out with the lacrosse team until next week, so this is the next best thing to stay in shape,” Dane says.
“I don’t want to pry,” I say, which is precisely what one says before the prying commences. “But what was that fight about anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”
A muscle in Dane’s jaw ticks like I hit a nerve. “Matthews was just stirring up trouble,” he says, like it’s no big deal and could have happened to anyone. “I’m not sure why I’m the one who got suspended. Coach benched me for the next two games.” His words sting with bitterness.
“Sorry about that,” I offer.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Well—that’s not technically true. The words I ratted you out to Jay are on my tongue, but I swallow them down. There’s no appropriate place for them in this conversation. “Yeah, I know, but I’m related to the executioner, so I feel like I should say that.”
“No worries. Coach wasn’t happy about it, but it’s school policy or some crap like that. Anyway, because I can’t practice with the team until next week—” He gestures over his shoulder toward the building in the distance behind us. “That’s what I’m doing to stay in shape.”
We reach the waterfront, which is lined with historic-looking shops that somehow possess a modern-day beachfront charm. When cool raindrops pelt my jacket, Dane and I duck inside Java Joe’s Coffeehouse, and he orders for us while I grab a table by the window and frantically run my fingers through my hair, trying to put my windblown strands back in order.
Dane returns with two coffees in to-go cups, just like he promised, and a brown paper bag. I peer inside to find a chocolate chip muffin that’s twice the size of my fist.
“Help yourself,” he says.
I break off a hunk of muffin and place it on a napkin in front of me as Dane pulls the lid off his coffee and starts adding several sugar packets. I do the same.
We make small talk for the next fifteen minutes until the rain subsides and the overcast skies part just enough to let the remaining fragments of the day’s earlier sunshine bleed through. Dane downs the rest of the muffin, and we take our coffees and walk another half block while talking about nothing of great importance. He tells me he’s going snowboarding with his family in central Oregon over Thanksgiving break. I try to reroute the conversation when he asks personal questions, but he’s persistent.
“No one even knew Mr. Chapman had a daughter in high school,” he says.
Not even Mr. Chapman, I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I direct Dane’s attention to the candy display in the window of the O
ld Town Ice Cream Parlor and fight the urge to go inside and buy an obscene amount of chocolate to ease the lousy afternoon I’ve had. My eyes drift across the street to a brick shop on the corner. The sign over the door reads “Moonlight Books.” There’s a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, just as Cade had said. Hope blooms in my chest.
“Do you mind if we go in there?” I ask. I step off the curb, but a hand grabs hold of my wrist and tugs me to a stop. Dane’s frowning.
“Let’s keep walking. There are more shops a block over. And there’s beach access that way.” He motions down the street.
“But I really want to go in there. I won’t be long. Come on, it’ll be fun.” I jerk my chin toward the bookstore, but Dane takes a small step backward.
“Nah, not my kind of place.”
Not his kind of place? A bookstore? Who says something like that? Before I can ask, Dane says, “Look, I should meet up with my friends. But it was nice spending time with you, Paige. Do you think we could hang out again? Maybe go to a movie?” His charming smile is back, but not quite strong enough to penetrate my puzzled expression.
“I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” I say.
He shakes his head, his smile still in place. “No, take your time. I really gotta get going. But I’m serious about seeing you again. Can I text you?” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, taps a few buttons and offers it to me. “Put in your number.”
Slowly, I take it and do as he instructs, still confused over why he wants my number when he’s trying so hard to get away from me.
“Cool,” he says, retrieving the phone and sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”
“Sure. Thanks for the coffee. And the muffin.” I give a small wave and look up and down the street before crossing. I expect Dane to take off, but when I reach the opposite curb, I turn to find he’s still standing there, watching me. He holds up his hand, then turns and heads up the street.
Shaking my head in confusion, I turn the door handle and step inside. A bell tinkles overhead.
The shop is quaint and cozy. Two overstuffed sofas sit in the center of the room with a big, wooden coffee table between them. Several comfortable-looking club chairs are strewn about with big, red throw pillows. A combination of aromas catches my attention: new books with crisp pages and a hint of something sweet.
I’m the only one here, so I slip out of my jacket and begin to browse the shelves, running my index finger along the glossy spines and occasionally pulling one out to read the back cover.
“Hey there! May I help you?” A young woman appears from a door in the back, a stack of books in her hands.
“Just looking,” I say.
She steps behind an old wooden desk that serves as the store’s front counter. “Anything in particular?”
I give the shelf in front of me another glance. “No, not really. Actually, I’m looking for a job. I noticed you have a sign in the window.”
The woman lifts her head. “Yes, I do. Do you have any experience working in a bookstore?”
“No,” I admit, making my way to the counter. “But I love books, and I’m very responsible.” She extends her hand, and that’s when I see them. Several silver bangles adorned with small moons jingle about her wrist. I study her face. “You’re the woman from the plane.” Short, spiky hair the color of a melted Milky Way bar. Kind face. Sweet voice. Yup, that’s her.
Recognition fills the woman’s eyes, and they twinkle with amusement. “What a small world!” I realize her hand is still extended, so I quickly shake it. “It’s good to see you again. I’m Macy. Welcome to my shop.”
“I’m Paige. Paige Bryant. I just moved here from California. That’s why I was on the plane that day.”
“Mmm, I wondered why you seemed so nervous,” she says. “So, how do you like it here in Mystic?”
“It’s—nice.” I refrain from giving her any additional commentary. “So, you’re hiring?”
“I am. But you should know it’s just part-time. Only about sixteen hours a week at minimum wage.” She looks apologetic.
My heart flutters. “That sounds perfect, actually.”
A brightness returns to her eyes. “Well, then, what do you say we take a seat and get to know each other a little better?” Macy comes around the counter and gestures to one of the sofas.
“How much do you know about Mystic Shores?” she asks, straightening the throw pillows before she takes a seat, curling a leg beneath her. I sit straight-backed on the sofa across from her.
“Not a lot,” I answer.
“Well, for starters, we’re a tourist town,” Macy explains. “Because of that, business has been a little slow since the summer ended. We’re in the off-season now, which consists of business from locals, as well as storm watchers.”
“What are storm watchers?” I ask.
“People who like to watch the waves during winter storms. Our piece of the Pacific is quite a draw. They come from all over. The waves get pretty crazy, up to a hundred twenty feet high at times.”
“Really?”
Macy nods. “There are some lookout shelters that provide cover for storm viewing, but lots of people choose to rent hotel rooms with a view,” she says. “Those visitors help restaurants and shops pad their bottom lines until the next summer season gears up.”
I glance down at my side to pull a résumé out of my bag, only there’s no bag. Shoot! I left it in my car at the dance studio.
“I had a part-time employee, but she’s a college student, so she’s not available during the school year. I tried to run the place myself, but my husband says I’m never home so—voilà! The ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window.” Macy’s smile is confident and warm.
“What would you need me to do?”
“Stock shelves, help customers find what they’re looking for and ring up orders.” She holds up a copy of what looks to be a murder mystery resting in her lap. “We offer a lot of books by local authors, as well as unique and hard-to-find volumes. Although it isn’t easy competing with those big online retailers, so I’m always looking for ways to make the shop unique. I was actually coming back from a book buyers’ conference in San Diego the day we met on the plane.”
I nod. “What are the hours for the position?”
“After school until seven on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and you’d be responsible for closing up the shop on those nights. We’d work together on Saturdays.”
The schedule is perfect, but because I don’t have the job yet, I push down my excitement and pleasantly say, “That sounds great.”
“Tell me a little about yourself, Paige. What do you like to do in your spare time? Any hobbies?”
I quickly bypass the truth and anything that might lead to additional questions I’m trying to avoid. “I like to read.”
Macy smiles. “Good answer. Are you involved in any activities that might conflict with your work hours?”
“No,” I say.
“What grade are you in?”
“I’m a senior.”
“So’s my brother,” she says.
“Who’s your brother?”
“Cade Matthews.”
I blink hard. Okay, now I’m convinced Karma is just playing with me. “Cade’s your brother?”
“Do you know him?”
“Um, not really,” I say. “I mean, I’ve seen him around.”
She sits up in her seat. “Cade’s actually here today, helping me with inventory. I’ll get him.”
“That’s okay, you really don’t have to—”
It’s too late; Macy’s off the sofa and calling toward the back room. “Cade! Can you come out here for a minute?”
Adrenaline spikes in my veins and I have a sudden urge to swan dive under the table, as if someone just set the hem of my pants ablaze—which is ridiculous on so many levels, I don’t even know where to start. I shift in my seat and smooth down my hair as the door to the back room opens.
CHAPTER NINE
Cade
The second Paige lays eyes on me, she looks like she’s swallowed something sour. She and Macy are sitting across from each other, my sister with a book in her lap like always, and Paige—well, the only way she could possibly be more uncomfortable is if someone slapped a blindfold on her and forced her to walk a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. I waver between acting surprised to see her or appearing reserved, like it’s no big deal. The truth is, I saw Paige long before she ever saw me.
I was stocking books on a shelf by the front window, a favor to my sister because she currently doesn’t have any employees, when I’d spotted Paige standing on the street corner with Dane Sloane.
I wish I could say that it hadn’t bothered me, that it was no big deal when the jerk made her laugh, and that I was utterly uninterested when he handed her his cell phone and it looked like she gave him her number. I’d like to say that I’d ignored it all and just focused on my work, but I hadn’t. I’d stood there watching them as a weird tightness grew in my chest.
It’s not that Paige was with a guy. She has every right to hang out with whoever she chooses. It’s that she’s with that guy. That jerk doesn’t deserve to be within two feet of her, and someone should warn her. When she’d crossed the street toward the bookstore, I’d headed for the back room. But now—here we are.
“Cade, this is Paige Bryant.”
Paige glances my way but quickly looks down at her hands, fiddling with her watch.
“Yeah, I know. We go way back,” I say, a hint of amusement in my tone. “This is the girl who tried to steal your suitcase at the airport.”
Paige’s face pales and then floods crimson as my words hit her like a blow from a hammer. She clutches a hand to her chest. “Oh my gosh. You’re—M. Sinclair? Macy Sinclair?” Paige asks, abashedly dipping her chin at the realization. “This can’t be happening,” she murmurs.