by Jenn Bennett
“Hey, the first car I totaled was German.”
“You totaled another car?” I say, stunned.
Lucky laughs darkly. “This is Wreck-It Ralph’s third accident. The second one at that exact same spot.”
“None were my fault,” Adrian assures me. “A truck veered into my lane last time, and the first one was when I was fifteen—I wasn’t even on a public road.”
“He smashed his father’s Porsche,” Lucky says. “But it doesn’t matter at Summers & Co, because a world-class surgeon and a replacement car are always on the horizon.”
Adrian groans and shifts his shoulder into a different position. “At least I didn’t have to scour junkyards for parts to rebuild a shitty motorcycle,” Adrian says as the numbers on the blood pressure section of the screen near his bed begin climbing. “I know I’m living a charmed life. I’m fucking happy about it. Zero shame. And I know that if you had the choice, you’d be sitting where I am right now too.”
“Enjoy sitting,” Lucky says. “Because I don’t think you’ll be doing much walking anytime soon.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need to throw rocks at windows for kicks. Is that how you show your lady friends a good time? Property destruction? By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, Karras … What is it with your family and these Saint-Martins, huh? Just can’t stay away?”
What?
“I think the morphine has addled your brain,” Lucky mumbles.
“Stop it,” Evie says, dropping my hand. “Both of you!”
She’s upset. She was just in a wreck. She’s in a hospital, and she hates hospitals. I get all that. But right now, I’m really confused. “Can you just explain,” I say to her in a quiet voice, shielding my face with one hand in a poor attempt at privacy, “why in God’s name you were riding in the car of an ex-boyfriend who was drunkenly embarrassing us at a party a couple of weeks ago?”
“Josie,” Evie pleads.
“An ex who said horrible things about our entire family, including basically calling me and my mother whores in front of whole bunch of people.”
“Not my proudest moment,” Adrian calls out from the hospital bed. “But I don’t remember everything I said that night.”
“Well, I’m not going repeat what you said about me,” I mumble, refusing to look at his face. Or mention what you showed everyone. “Though maybe you don’t remember that, either.”
“Seem to recall being called an asshole by certain parties in the room,” Adrian says, directing this toward Lucky. He turns back to me to say something else, but Lucky quickly cuts him off.
“Whoa, whoa! Hey,” Lucky says, holding up his hands. “That nurse will come in here if they hear us, and you need to rest. Maybe we should do this another time?”
I start to argue, but Evie interrupts and looks at me as she says, “I asked Adrian to talk with me today, okay? He apologized for … his behavior the night of the party, and I was trying to ask him if he could talk to his father and get him to drop the whole window thing with Lucky. There. Are you happy? Is it not enough that everything he’s worked for at Harvard next semester has just been lost? You two aren’t the only people going through shit, you know.”
I’m too shocked to respond. I guess everyone is, because for a strained moment, there’s nothing but the sound of Adrian’s monitors. While I’m picking my jaw up off the floor, the nurse comes into the room with a wheelchair and Evie’s release papers. Evie signs them in a huff, ignores the wheelchair, and storms out of the room.
“Thanks for stopping by. A pleasure,” Adrian says, closing his eyes. “Now I’d advise you to leave before my father comes back and catches you in here. He’s likely to make you pay to replace all the windows in the store to match the new one, just out of spite.”
Lucky doesn’t bother to say goodbye. He just leaves the room, heading in the same direction that Evie went, and stops when he sees her striding into the ladies’ restroom. “Welp, that was fun,” Lucky mumbles. “Guess we took her mind off her hospital phobia.”
Yeah. Not happy about our methods. Upsetting Evie is the last thing I wanted. And now that I’m out of Adrian’s hospital room, I’m a little embarrassed we had an argument with a guy who just wrecked his car and broke his ankle, asshole or not.
I didn’t handle any of that well. At all.
“Sorry,” Lucky says. “But after what he did to you … If I’d known he was in there, I wouldn’t have gone in. Hope Evie’s okay.”
Me too. Exhaling a couple of times to rally my courage, I start to tell Lucky that I’ll go check on her, but movement through a pair of doors near the restroom snags my attention.
Cat-eye glasses, bright retro-red lipstick. Mom.
She strides toward us, handbag tucked under her arm and face lined with worry. She’s walking alongside some guy I don’t recognize.
Lucky spies her too, and I can practically feel all the energy around him withdrawing like a turtle on the side of a highway sensing an out-of-control semitruck headed its way. “I’m gonna take off. Your mom doesn’t seem to like me much.”
“Yeah,” I say on a long exhale, “I’m going to be in so much trouble for being here with you.”
“Not sticking around for that. I’ve already filled my drama quotient for the day.”
“Wait!” I whisper loudly to his back as he turns to leave. “What about our payment arrangement? This doesn’t change anything.”
He turns his head toward me briefly, eyes cast downward. “I need to think about it.”
Before I can respond, he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and takes off down the hall. When he passes my mom and the young ginger-haired guy she’s with, he says something briefly, a stiff nod of his head, and then he’s gone, disappearing around a corner.
Dammit. None of this is going right.
Now I have to deal with my Mom, strutting in here on the arm of some young-and-pretty dude in topsiders and a pastel polo shirt, in front of God and everyone.… It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s the reason she wasn’t answering her phone this afternoon.
So, yeah. Think I’ve filled my drama quotient too. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of walking away from my supremely messed-up family.
Not yet, anyway.
NO SENIOR DISCOUNTS—YOU SHOULD HAVE THE MONEY BY NOW: Handwritten sign in the window of the kitschy and beloved Revolutionary Doughnuts in the South Harbor district. The always-packed doughnut shop is popular with both locals and tourists. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 9
My mom’s ginger-haired boy toy turned out to be a real estate agent named Hayden Harwood. After Lucky left the hospital, Mom was too worried about extracting Evie from the public restrooms to question pesky details, like why I was dressed up and carrying my portfolio. Or why the person I was specifically forbidden to hang around was very much hanging around the hospital when she arrived. You know … stuff like that.
When we got ourselves sorted, Hayden carted us girls all back into town in his insanely big, insanely expensive SUV and dropped us off at Mom’s car … which was stuck in a hotel parking garage, because Mom couldn’t find her parking ticket?
Okay …
Their story was patchy, at best. Hayden’s a whole lot younger than Mom, cockier than he should be, and not at all uncomfortable with the elephant in the room—the fact that he was Mom’s so-called “afternoon errand.” Honestly, I don’t even care. Evie’s not speaking to me, and I’m too stressed about that. So when we finally get the Pink Panther out of the garage and end up going our separate ways at home—Evie to rest in her room and me to develop film in the bookshop’s stockroom—I’m happy not to discuss the matter with Mom. I’m sure she’s relieved too, because every time she tries to talk to me, I politely find a way to excuse myself and thereby avoid any kind of Hey, kid. Sorry I wasn’t there when you girls needed me speech.
What’s the point of apologizing if you’re just going to keep doing it? Besides, if she apolo
gizes to me, then she’ll be able to ask me about my elephant in the room: Lucky Karras.
And I can lie about why he was at the hospital. I guess I’ll have to. But if she doesn’t ask me, then I won’t have to say anything. Which would be easiest for both us. I mean, after all, that’s what she’s taught me, right? If you pretend it never happened, it’s not really a lie.
That’s what she tells herself.
So that’s what I tell myself, too.
The next day, the mood at la Maison de Saint-Martin is still strained but getting better. Evie is talking to me, but she’s prickly and a little reserved. Not her usual I’d Like to Haunt a Gothic Castle reserved; she’s definitely still holding a grudge. For the first time, I realize that maybe it’s not just me that she’s mad at. I think Evie and her friend Vanessa are fighting about the wreck. Maybe Vanessa hates Adrian too; if so, I like her a little more.
Mom puts on an extra-bright pink lipstick and a fake cheery face, trying to ignore the weird vibes. I can’t do that. I know what Evie tried to do for Lucky in going to talk to Adrian. What she tried to do for me. Now she’s not only physically bruised from a car accident, Adrian has messed up his rowing season at Harvard and totaled an expensive car. I mean, just look at the cost of this lie. I’m leaving a path of total destruction around my family and this community.
I’m a walking tornado.
I can’t repair that damage right now. But I can try to make up with Evie.
Revolutionary Doughnuts sits across the street from us, about a block down. I definitely don’t need to pass by Nick’s Boatyard to get there, but when I check the usual spots for signs of Lucky’s red Superhawk motorcycle and don’t see it parked—he must be working at the department store—I find my feet heading in that direction anyway and slowly stroll down the sidewalk in front of the boatyard’s front offices.
I’m not even sure why. From the sidewalk, I see his mom working at the front desk, smiling and talking with another dark-haired girl. A cousin, maybe? A toddler is running around the desk, chasing a tiny black dog, who is chasing the black cat—the one that sleeps in the window and that’s tattooed on Lucky’s hand—and they’re all laughing as both the cat and dog make a break for a door that leads into the bays out back facing the harbor. Their laughter is so boisterous, I can hear it through the window.
Sometimes when I was little, I used to fantasize about what things would have been like if Mom and Henry had stayed together, and we’d been a family—pipe dreams that every kid has. Funny, but I never once imagined us laughing like that. Now I’m almost sorry I witnessed that scene with the dog and cat and cousins, because it’s one more thing I’ll never have.
It’s easier when you don’t know.
A short walk away from the laughter of the boatyard, the doughnut shop comes into view. It’s known for having a lot of special flavors—toffee butter crunch, apple cider angels, and some puffy Greek doughnuts they call honey dippers, which are Evie’s favorite thing in the world … and the reason I’m here.
The shop is also super popular with locals, so it’s always busy, especially now, when everyone’s scrambling to buy up what remains. Once they sell out, it’s gone. They don’t keep making them all day like a chain. Hopefully I’m not too late. I head around a wooden clapboard sign painted with cartoon Revolutionary War figures fighting a battle with doughnuts instead of guns and cannons, and step inside.
I inhale the intoxicating scents of yeasty dough and sweet lemon zest as I queue up in a long line that snakes around the tiny shop. Quite a few folks stand ahead of me, so I scroll through articles about photography gear on my phone, and as I shuffle along, a girl in sandals and white shorts backs into me.
“Oops, sorry,” she says, turning around while flipping dark hair over a shoulder.
Holy crap. I know her—or who she is, anyway. Bunny Perera. The Golden Academy girl that Lucky is rumored to have knocked up a few months ago. If she ever was pregnant, she’s not anymore. The sliver of brown skin that peeks beneath her summery shirt is far flatter and fitter than mine.
I smile, a little nervous. Bunny’s not just the Girl Who Got Pregnant. Her father is ambassador to Sri Lanka, and her mother’s family owns a chain of hotels in South Asia. They helped finance a big renovation of the Beauty Yacht Club last year.
“Um, hi … Bunny?” I say.
“Evie’s cousin, right?” she says, cradling her phone.
I nod, unsure of what to say. “Josie. Saint-Martin. My mom is, uh, managing Siren’s Book Nook while my grandma’s in Nepal with, uh, Evie’s mom.” Ugh. So awkward.
“Yeah, I heard about that. And about your trip to the police station with Lucky after Adrian’s party,” she says, gold bracelets clinking as she languidly swipes on her phone, watching the screen between glances at me. “Definitely started the summer off with a bang.”
I manage a weak smile. “Uh, yeah. You could say that.”
“Hey, I’ve been where you are right now,” she says, smiling back sympathetically.
“Umm … ?”
“The town gossiping about you.”
“Oh,” I say. “It’s fine. I think Lucky got the brunt of it.”
“He’s got a habit of doing that. Sometimes I think he’s got a savior complex or something. By the way, I hope it works out between you two. He deserves some happiness.”
Wait, what? I glance around, shuffling forward when the line moves, and say in a low voice, “Um, think you have the wrong idea. Lucky and I aren’t a thing. In case you still had, uh, feelings or an attachment, or, I mean, I don’t know what your situation is.…”
Her brow furrows, then she says, “No, no. You’ve got the wrong idea. I guess he didn’t tell you, huh? He’s just a friend. We were never together.”
“You and Lucky … ?”
“It wasn’t his,” she says simply, shaking her head. “Lucky’s dad does upkeep on my family’s yacht, and that’s how I know him. That’s the thing about this town and rumors. They may be based on things people have witnessed, but assumptions get made, and sometimes those assumptions are dead wrong. Like, for instance, you say that you and Lucky aren’t a thing, but everyone saw you getting arrested together—”
“That was coincidence,” I insist. “He just happened to be at that party, and when I left … It’s a long story.”
“See? Same. Lucky’s been nothing but kind to me, which is more than I can say for other people.”
She steps forward when the line moves, then says, “Lucky is flat-out one of the sweetest guys I know. People have said shit about him for years, and I’m not saying he’s an angel, but for what it’s worth, he’s a genuinely decent guy and a good friend.”
I’m a little bowled over by her earnest endorsement … and by everything she’s just told me. Not sure if relief is the right word, but I mull it over as Bunny steps up to the counter, orders, and leaves with a bag of green apple fritters, mouthing words of encouragement that I initially mistake as “Good Lucky.”
And was he? Good, I mean? She made him sound as if he’s a paragon of manners—a cherubic choirboy, humble and full of grace. Savior complex. Maybe that’s the only reason he took the fall for me … because he’s addicted to helping old ladies cross the street, and I’m just another person for him to save.
Nope. Don’t buy it. He’s hiding something, and he’s lying to his family about saving my ass. He let them think he broke the window, just like I let my mom think he did it.
I did it to avoid trouble.
Maybe he did it to attract trouble.…
Because, now that I’m thinking about it, Bunny’s whole rainbows-and-glitter endorsement of Lucky’s overall wholesome goodness does make me question all the other rumors about him. Like, all of them. If he isn’t the reprobate that I once assumed him to be, and if our trip to the police station wasn’t just another notch in his notoriety …
Then maybe he isn’t really the bad boy.
What if he’s only trying to be bad?
What if he’s ruining his reputation on purpose?
SUNSET CHARTERS! FISHING—SIGHTSEEING—HISTORIC HARBOR TOURS—ROMANTIC CRUISES—CASH UPFRONT—NO REFUNDS: Metal sign by Goodly Pier advertising a pay-by-the-hour boat charter service that ferries tourists around the harbor. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 10
My trip to the doughnut shop was both a revelation and a restorative. A restorative, because Evie accepted my peace offering of the honey dippers, and we’re officially now speaking again. A revelation, because now I can’t stop obsessing over my new Lucky theory.
And I have plenty of time to ponder over it at work the next couple of days at the Nook, where we are steadily busy but not so slammed that I can’t think. Evie and I do pretty much everything in the shop except the detail-y management stuff. We ring up customers. Cash out drawers. Pull returns. Yell at stupid punk kids to stop trying to steal graphic novels. Find books for customers who only have a vague idea what color the cover is, but they know for sure they saw it mentioned on a morning news show last week. Threaten to call the cops when elderly “Tugs” McHenry comes into the store, before he can try to masturbate on books in our restroom.
Again.
“I need to know everything you know about Lucky 2.0,” I tell Evie as I stand next to the Nook’s printing press while she’s bent over a rolling metal book cart near the romance bays in the Nook’s fiction section. “I’m interested in everything that happened to Lucky after we left town.”
“Aren’t we the curious cat.…” Cradling two books against a T-shirt emblazoned with a design of two mummies kissing, she still wears the gauze wrap around her arm from her car accident, matching fashion to injury.
“Basically, fill me in on ages thirteen to seventeen, but mostly the last year or so,” I continue, trying not to look out the window toward Nick’s Boatyard. “Who his friends are. What he reads when he comes in here. Why he’s been in detention so much. Who you know for a fact he’s dated. No rumors. Only first-hand knowledge.”
