by Liza Palmer
“I may have met up with him later, but . . . you know, I told him no first,” Jill says, almost to herself.
The truth is, I haven’t been seriously interested in any of the legion of men Jill’s tried to set me up with since Ryan dumped me. Of course, this doesn’t explain why I have entranced none of them. It’s much easier to rebuff willing gentlemen callers than to proclaim, “I didn’t like you anyway!” after they say you remind them of their cousin. Although rejecting Jeremy had less to do with that than it did with his proclivity for saying exspecially.
I’m sure my behavior will have dire consequences. Flash forward: I’m living in some seaside cottage in my old age— possibly made entirely out of seashells. I’m clad in a faded housedress, large sunhat and Wellingtons. I make a meager living selling my seashell sculptures at the local farmer’s market for tuppence a bag. The locals make up stories about me: I’m a witch, I’m crazy or talk to myself because I’m lonely or I murdered my lover when I was younger. Okay, fine. I made up that last one.
As Emma Dunham speaks, I scan the library hoping Jill will get the hint that our little conversation is over. I think she’s moved on. Apparently someone’s put on weight over the summer. I smile at a few familiar faces. Some stare a little too long. A knowing smile here. A rolled eye there. A nervously abbreviated glance from me to . . . Ryan. In the front of the library. His leg loosely crossed over his knee. Those white and red vintage Nike Dunks twitch as he struggles to focus. The worn zip-up hoodie and corduroy pants that are a bit too loose for the school’s liking yet tolerated (for now) due to an impressive educational résumé that reads like a who’s who of top American institutions. The early morning tangle of black hair and the coffee mug he bought in Dublin when we were there last year for his summer internship at Trinity College. I look away. Clear my throat. Sip my coffee. Try to regain my composure.
“You okay?” Jill asks, her voice soft. All evidence of the pep talk slash Spanish Inquisition is gone.
“Yeah. Yeah,” I say.
“He’s been looking at you, too.”
“I have no response to that.”
“Maybe things are rocky with Jessica.”
“Things are never rocky with girls like Jessica.”
“Frannie—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
Jill is quiet.
I continue. “Exspecially since it won’t do either of us any good.”
“God, that was driving me crazy. I kept trying to say it correctly and he just never picked up on it.”
“Of-ten-times.”
“It’s like nails on a chalkboard.”
“Shhh!” Debbie again.
Jill and I smile our apologies. Emma is still talking. I focus in just as I see Ryan glance back at us. I act like I don’t notice. He swipes his bangs out of his eyes.
Going to be a great year.
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Also by Liza Palmer
More Like Her
Conversations with the Fat Girl
Seeing Me Naked
A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph by Hanna Nemeth
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
P.S.TM is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
Excerpt from MORE LIKE HER copyright © 2012 by Liza Palmer.
NOWHERE BUT HOME. Copyright © 2013 by Liza Palmer. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-200747-6
EPub Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780062101488
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