Brooke let out a soft laugh, then looked back at me. “Are you kidding?” she asked. She shook her head. “I read it all throughout my childhood, and even in college, I’d spend hours online, catching up on strips I’d missed. Reading all about this family who were always there for each other, all together in their perfect house. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And then to get to meet you all this weekend—not only Danny’s family, but the Grants.”
“Sorry we didn’t live up to expectations.”
“It’s not that,” Brooke said, raising her eyebrows at me. “It was better, in a way. I got to see the real thing.”
“Are you going to make it?” I asked, as I pulled in front of the tiny stretch of terminals.
She glanced at the dashboard clock. “I think it’ll be okay.” I shifted the car into park and started to get out and help her, but Brooke waved me off. “I’m fine.” She got her bags out, closed the back door, and walked back over to the passenger-side window.
I lowered it, and she leaned forward slightly. “Thank you for the lift,” she said. She turned to walk away, but then came back again. “And whatever you decide about college—you need to actually make a decision. You’ll feel better when you do.”
“Hey,” I called, just as she was starting to turn away again. I knew I hadn’t asked her anything about herself this weekend, or bothered to find out the most basic things, which was now seeming like a huge missed opportunity, since I would probably never see her again. But there was one thing I wanted to know. “Brooke. What kind of doctor are you?”
She just looked at me, then smiled. “I’m a psychologist.” She held my eye for a moment longer, then gave me a nod. “Good luck to you, Charlie.” She turned and walked through the automatic doors into the airport, not once looking back.
I watched her until she disappeared into the terminal. Then I shifted the car into gear and headed to the donut shop.
CHAPTER 28
Or, If It Weren’t for You Meddling Kids . . .
* * *
WHEN I ARRIVED HOME, I tried to park in the driveway, but there was a truck parked at the very end, preventing this. So I’d looped around the cul-de-sac and come back around to park on the street—and as I did, I saw a hatchback stopped in front of the house. I got out of the car just as the hatchback pulled away—and Mike was standing there.
“Hey,” I called.
Mike looked over at me. “Hey.” I looked where the hatchback had gone and realized that it was Jesse who had dropped him off—and for the first time ever, I was happy I hadn’t seen him. “Why are you out and about?”
“Donut run,” I said, reaching into the backseat and pulling out the four pink bakery boxes.
“I can help,” Mike said, reaching for the top two.
“Do you just want first dibs on the tiger tails?”
Mike smiled. “You got me a tiger tail?”
“I got six of them. Whether or not you get one is up to you. So you stayed at Jesse’s again last night?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his pocket and held his hand out to me. “I think you left these there.”
I looked over and saw that he had my earrings in his palm—the ones, I now realized, I’d left on Jesse’s coffee table. “Oh,” I said, taking them with my free hand. “Right.” Mike was looking at me levelly, and I figured there was no point in even pretending anymore. “Was that when you found out? I wasn’t sure if you heard Siobhan on the phone. . . .”
Mike just rolled his eyes. “Um, I didn’t need to hear Siobhan on the phone. Or to see you guys the night of the rehearsal dinner. I’ve known forever that you liked Jesse.”
I glanced over at him, surprised, and my feet tangled. I quickly steadied the donut boxes. “You—have?”
He shook his head. “I know you, Charlie. I didn’t just get here.”
“Well, there’s nothing going on. Not anymore.”
“Good.”
“I had a feeling you’d be happy.”
“No, it’s not that—it’s just, I’ve seen how Jesse is with girls. And you deserve someone who’ll treat you better than that.”
I blinked, trying to hold back a sudden tide of emotions. “Oh. Um . . . thanks, Mike.” I glanced over at him. “And just for the record, you deserve someone way better than Corrine.”
Mike groaned, even though he was smiling. “Oh, that’s long over. Don’t worry.”
“Good.”
We were halfway up to the house when I heard the familiar sound of a bike coming down the street and the whoosh then thwack of a paper flying through the air and landing on a lawn. I turned around, and sure enough, there was Sarah Stephens on her pink bike, throwing papers as she rode down the street.
“What?” Mike asked, clearly wondering why I’d stopped.
“It’s the papergirl,” I said, walking a few steps back to the end of the driveway. “We’re finally early enough to catch her in the act.”
“Of what?”
“She’s been refusing to deliver our paper for months now.”
“That story line was real?”
I turned to Mike, surprised that he’d kept reading it this whole time—that he hadn’t really turned his back on us after all.
Mike nodded to the street. “Here she comes.”
I turned around, ready to catch Sarah skipping our house. I only wished that my hands weren’t full of donuts so that I could record it on my phone and my dad could finally have proof for the Sentinel.
But Sarah rode up to our house, reached into her bag, and a newspaper, tucked inside its plastic sleeve, arced over and landed perfectly, faceup, almost directly at my feet. I stood there, feeling beyond confused, and Sarah rolled to a stop, eyebrows raised beneath her pink helmet. “See?” she said, sounding vindicated as she dropped a foot to the ground and pointed at the paper, like I somehow might have missed it. “I told you I’ve been delivering it.”
“But . . .” I just looked at Mike, then at her. I realized Sarah wouldn’t have seen me until after she’d thrown the paper, so it wasn’t like it was for my benefit. But then what was going on? “You’ve really been delivering them the whole time?”
Sarah threw her arms up in exasperation. “What have I been telling you?”
“So then what’s happening to the paper?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t, like, track its progress. I’m just supposed to drop it off. That’s literally my whole job.”
“But somehow we’re not getting it. So . . .” I suddenly had a thought about what might be happening, but dismissed it immediately. Surely nobody was that petty. Right?
We must have heard the sound at the same time—footsteps approaching, twigs and leaves crunching. It was really loud in the quiet of our early-morning street, and it sounded like someone was coming our way fast. And because I wanted to see if it bore out my theory, I hustled, still carrying the donuts, around to hide behind the Where There’s A Will truck that was parked at the end of the driveway, and motioned for Mike and Sarah to come too.
“Come here. Quick!” I hissed.
“What?” Mike asked, even as he ran with the donuts. Sarah hopped off her bike and started to run, and I whisper-yelled, “Take the bike!”
She crouch-ran, holding the bike by the handlebars, then dropped it onto our driveway and knelt down next to us. “What?” she whispered.
“Maybe nothing,” I said, straightening up just enough so that I could see above the bed of the truck. “But maybe something.”
Sarah rolled her eyes hugely. “You know I have other papers to deliver, right? And they’re heavier on Sunday, so they take longer.”
I took a breath to reply when we all saw it, and the three of us simultaneously ducked down again. There, hurrying up the street in his robe and slippers, looking like he was trying very hard—and failing—to seem nonchalant, was Don.
“Who’s that?” Sarah asked, her voice barely a whisper now as we watched him get closer and
closer to our driveway.
“Is that Don?”
“Yeah. It’s our neighbor,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on him, not really able to believe this was what had been happening the whole time. “He’s mad about Dad’s garden.”
“What?”
“Shh!” I was fighting every impulse to jump out and yell at Don, but I knew I had to actually see him doing it for it to count or I had no doubt he would just endlessly deny and stonewall later. I held my breath as Don looked around, then bent down, pretending to brush some dirt off his leather slipper before he grabbed our paper, then straightened up and started hustling away with it.
I popped up from behind the truck, and Mike and Sarah did too. “Hey, Don?” He froze, our paper in his hand, looking at me, his eyes wide. “Whatcha got there?”
“Oh.” He looked down at our Stanwich Sentinel, then up at me, and I could practically hear the gears of his mind frantically working as he tried to come up with an explanation. “Um . . .”
“Better think fast,” Mike said.
“You were stealing the Grants’ paper,” Sarah said, stalking out from behind the truck, arms folded across her chest. “I saw it. And as a paper carrier, it offends me.”
Don blinked at her. “Who are you?”
“She’s our papergirl,” I said, coming out to join her. “And we’ve been blaming her this whole time for not delivering it—but you’ve been stealing our paper every day? Since February?”
Don glanced back at our house, then at me. “You don’t have any proof of that,” he said weakly.
Sarah and I scoffed in unison, and Mike let out a short laugh. “Come off it, Don,” I said. I pointed to the paper. “Are you really going to deny it?”
Don looked at me for another second, then dropped our paper on the ground. “You don’t have any proof,” he said, brushing his hands off. “Perhaps I was just coming to deliver it to you in person. But I will just say that I did not appreciate being in your mother’s comic strip.”
“You weren’t in the—” Mike and I started automatically, but he talked over us.
“And I for one am thrilled you all are finally leaving. Your father’s a mediocre gardener at best and didn’t deserve half the praise that was heaped on him.”
It was Mike who spoke, surprising me. “My father is twice the gardener you’ll ever be,” he said.
“Yeah, well,” Don muttered, turning around and starting to walk away.
“I will be contacting the Sentinel about you!” Sarah yelled after him. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this!”
Don hunched his shoulders, but he didn’t turn around as he continued walking back toward his house, and I waited until he was gone before I let out a breath. “Jeez,” I said, shaking my head.
“Your lives are really interesting,” Sarah said, picking up her bike and wheeling it down to the end of the driveway. “My parents don’t have feuds with anyone.”
“I’m sorry we doubted you,” I said to Sarah, thinking of all the times she’d insisted she was delivering our paper and I’d basically called her a liar to her face.
“It’s okay,” she said stoically, straightening her helmet. She reached down and picked up our Sunday paper—the one that, I realized with a start, contained the very last Grant Central Station ever—and held it out to me. “Here.”
I took it from her. “Thanks.”
She nodded and got back on her bike, already reaching into her bag for the next paper as she started to pick up speed. “See you tomorrow!” she called as she headed down the street, the paper for the house across from ours already sailing through the air.
Mike turned to me. “Can you believe that?”
I smiled. “Never a dull moment.” I watched Sarah bike up the street, papers arcing out and landing on stoops and driveways. “Thanks for sticking up for Dad.”
“You mess with one Grant, you mess with us all.” I smiled at him, and after a second, he gave me a tiny smile in return. We started walking up the driveway together, just as Bill came out of the house.
He was heading to the truck, with two huge canvas bags—WHERE THERE’S A WILL was printed on them—over each shoulder. He was back in his jeans and his fleece, and despite that it was just a little after seven, he looked as cheerful as ever. Halfway down the driveway, he must have seen me, and he smiled.
“Hey,” he called to me.
“Hi,” I said, walking a few steps closer, trying to balance the donut boxes and the paper. “Morning.”
“I’ll take these,” Mike said, reaching for the donut boxes. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Hungry people are waiting.”
“Save me a strawberry frosted!” I yelled after him as he walked up to the house.
“You’re up early,” Bill said as Mike passed him with a nod. He reached the truck and dropped the canvas bags into the truck bed.
“Donut run.”
He smiled. “Got it. Worth getting up for.”
“Are you leaving?” I asked. A second later, I realized this was a stupid question—of course he was leaving. The wedding was over, so there wasn’t much of a job for the wedding coordinator’s assistant. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to just keep hanging around our house.
“Afraid so,” he said. “My uncle’s organizing an anniversary brunch this morning in Hartfield. So he needs me there.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Right.”
“He’s going to send some people to take down the tent later,” he said. “I told him you have that TV thing this morning, so to maybe wait until after it’s done.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving him a quick smile. “That’s great.”
“Well,” he said, leaning back against the truck, “I know you’re staying around here, but if you’re ever in Chicago, you should look me up. Or Mystic. Or Albuquerque.”
“I actually don’t know where I’m going,” I said slowly, thinking about what Brooke had said. “I guess I haven’t made a final decision.” I thought about the folders on my desk again and shook my head. “I don’t know. I’m not really that excited about it.”
Bill just blinked at me. “Not excited about college?” he asked, sounding stunned. “But why not?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I finally said, since it seemed easier than going into everything that had come out last night—including the revelation that I’d been holding on as tight as I could to something that actually didn’t exist any longer.
“I really love it,” he said. “But that’s me. I only think that you shouldn’t discount it before you even get there. I mean, who knows? Maybe college will be the most amazing time of your life. Maybe it’ll surprise you by how great it is. Maybe there will be a Journey cover band and all the supermarket cake you can eat.”
I laughed. “You think?”
Bill smiled wide. “I have no idea. And that’s the really exciting thing.”
I nodded, feeling these words hit me somewhere deep inside. He was more right than he knew—after all, Cassie Grant’s story had already ended. And starting tomorrow, I’d be moving forward without a shadow version of my life trailing after me. “Thanks,” I said quietly, meaning it and hoping he knew that. I looked at the packed truck and realized that he probably didn’t have all morning to be standing on our driveway, giving me life advice. “Well, I don’t want to keep you too long.”
Bill glanced at his watch, then nodded. “I probably should head out.”
We just looked at each other for a moment, and I found myself taking him in, all his details—his dark hair, his snub nose, the way even when he wasn’t smiling he seemed like he was about to, like it was just waiting in the wings. It was like I was trying to memorize him—in case this was the last time I would ever see him.
“Well,” Bill said, after a moment, “it was nice to meet you, Charlie.”
I smiled back at him. “You too. Thanks so much for everything.”
Bill waved this away. “I was just doing my job.” He grinned at m
e. “Though I have a feeling if I do another wedding, it’s going to seem tame by comparison.”
“I should hope so.”
I took a breath to say something—what, I didn’t know yet—when he leaned down and kissed me on my cheek, such a soft and sweet gesture that I closed my eyes for just a moment, taking it in, before he straightened up again, a sad smile on his face.
“If you end up in Chicago, let me know,” he said, taking a step backward. “We can hang out.”
I smiled at him, even though I was feeling with every step he took away from me that I would miss him, this person I hadn’t even known three days ago. “I will.”
Bill smiled wide and nodded. “It’s a plan, then.”
I nodded as well. And then, not wanting to watch him drive away, not wanting to see his taillights disappearing down the road, I started toward the house. I looked back at the top of the driveway and saw that he hadn’t moved yet, that he was still standing there, a sad smile on his face. I raised one hand in a wave, and he waved back.
And then, feeling like I needed to make myself go, I turned around and headed inside the house.
CHAPTER 29
Or, The Family Behind Grant Central Station
* * *
OKAY!” JILL, THE SEGMENT PRODUCER, clapped her hands together and frowned at the group that had gathered to stand behind the cameramen. “I’m just going to say this once more. If you are going to be here during the filming—and, again, I’d love it if you would just watch it on TV, possibly in another room, or maybe even in your own homes. But if you are going to be here, I’m going to need quiet. All right? Are we understanding each other?”
She looked at the group in the back, some of whom nodded, but most of whom didn’t really seem to be paying attention, and I could understand the look of consternation on Jill’s face as she turned back around again.
Standing around, in various stages of hungoverness, were the assorted wedding guests who’d wandered down looking for breakfast and decided it might be fun to observe us all being filmed on national television. The Jennys were in robes and slippers and had broken out some champagne in the kitchen, having decided that the best remedy for the wedding guests’ hangovers was plentiful mimosas. They were sipping them now, while Priya, who’d gotten dressed in workout clothes but had not, so far as I could tell, actually worked out, was drinking coffee from a Grant Central Station mug with a picture of Waffles on it.
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