by Jenn Bennett
“He was chasing a rabbit,” a gravelly voice says. “Until the rabbit started chasing him.”
I stand up slowly.
Lucky appears out of the shadow of a tree.
Like a phantom.
He came. Thank goodness, he came.
Dressed in long shorts and a black T-shirt, he hovers for a moment, as if he’s unsure whether he wants to come any closer. As if he might just keep walking right past me.
As if looking at me hurts too much.
It feels like a fist punching into my ribcage and squeezing painfully, wringing out anything left.
“You got my postcard.…” I gesture toward the boatshed. “Wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“I did have to consider whether or not I should.” In dappled sun reflecting off the water, I can see the white scars on the side of his forehead and the missing part of his eyebrow when he reaches out to take Bean’s leash from me, careful not to touch my hand.
God. This is so hard.
He’s so intimidating.
And I miss him so much.
I open my mouth and feel tears prick my eyes. I try to swallow them down, but it’s no use. “Going to need you to press the button on the invisible wall now,” I tell him in a small, cracking voice. “Because I was wrong, and I need to tell you I’m sorry.”
He huffs out a breath through his nostrils and looks at the water as his small black dog sniffs around the gray rocks lining the edge of the shore. “No.”
“No?”
“You do it. I don’t own the wall.”
“We both own the wall,” I say, crying around my words. “Both of us. If we want to talk to each other, we can. But it’s not just talking and being teeth-gratingly honest. It’s listening, too—and that’s partly where I screwed up.”
“Is it?”
I nod, swiping away tears, but they’re coming too fast. “If you don’t want to listen to me, then you don’t have to. And if I don’t want to listen to you, then I can be a fool and talk over you when you’re trying to tell me that you didn’t give Adrian that photo.”
“I tried to tell you,” he says in a soft, emphatic voice.
“I’m so sorry. He told me it was you, and I made connections that weren’t there. I jumped to conclusions. I stumbled over my own feet. Everything I knew was turned upside down in one day’s time with my family, and it felt like nothing I knew was right, and … I just got scrambled.”
He exhales a long breath, jaw working to one side. I can’t tell if I’ve hurt him more or if he just can’t forgive me. That thought makes me feel empty and hopeless.
“Josie?”
“Yes?”
“Can I be teeth-gratingly honest with you?”
“Yes,” I say, bracing myself. “Please, Lucky. I wish you would.”
For better or worse, I would rather him be honest than not talk to me.
Bean sits near a dilapidated dock post as Lucky’s gaze shifts from the shoreline to my face. His eyes are glossy, and his brow lined and tense. “When I saw you in the car driving away from the bookshop that night with your family, I was already having a nervous breakdown that you might be leaving town—I didn’t know what was going to happen. My parents were furious about us taking the boat out so far to the island, and everything was completely chaotic, and all I wanted was for you to tell me everything was going to be okay. That’s all I wanted. But instead …”
“I raged out on you,” I say, slumping.
“In the heat of the moment, I didn’t fully grasp what you were going through with your father.”
“I don’t want to use him as an excuse. I don’t want anything to do with him right now. Maybe one day I’ll feel differently, but right now, I think he’s wasted too much of me and my mom’s energy. I wish I’d never bought into his lies, but I did. I bought into his, and I bought into Adrian’s, too.”
“Right, Adrian.” Lucky scratches his clenched jaw. “After our fight, well … I knew I didn’t give Adrian that photo. And it made me mad that you’d listen to him, but okay. I can understand it, I guess. Maybe? The thing that really hurt me in my bones was that you didn’t trust me when I asked you to.” He makes a fist and taps his chest with his free hand. “I’m talking deep.”
“I am so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m ashamed.”
“Never,” he says, taking a step closer to duck his head and catch my gaze with his. “None of this is anyone’s fault. Okay, maybe your father can take some of the blame.”
“And Adrian.”
“And Adrian,” he agrees. “And mistakes were definitely made by several parties, myself included. But what I’m trying to say is that there’s room for a lot of things between us, but not shame.”
My heart lifts and catches in my throat. “What about forgiveness? Is there room for that?”
“You told me to trust you. That was the last thing you told me when you were leaving in the car that night with your mom.”
“I remember.”
“No one hurts me like you do.”
A knife-like pain stabs my heart. “I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone less.”
“Josie?”
“Yes?”
“Can we just agree to smash the invisible wall for good? It’s done nothing but keep us apart, and I don’t want it up anymore. I’d rather be hurt than feel nothing at all. But right now, I’m just tired of missing you. Are you tired of missing me?”
“So very tired,” I whisper.
“Then I need to tell you one more thing. Come here and listen.”
Lucky reaches for my face, and I lean my cheek into his hand, solid and warm and familiar. Gravity tugs me into him, and his arm comes around my shoulders. He winds himself around me and pulls me closer, and we cling to each other. He’s heavy against me, a brick wall, and nothing has ever felt so good.
He doesn’t speak, but he says everything I need to know. That I’m forgiven. That it’s okay. We’re okay. That there’s a bond between us that’s changed into something different and stronger.
My best friend. My lover. My boy.
The one person in the world I can talk to without even saying a single word.
NOW LEAVING BEAUTY. HAVE A BEAUTIFUL DAY AND COME AGAIN SOON: Roadside sign on the highway north of Beauty, Rhode Island. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 26
October
There’s a long-held belief in my family that all the Saint-Martin women are romantically cursed: unlucky in love, doomed to end up miserable and alone.
But as my grandmother would say, that’s a load of bull.
The only thing we’re cursed with is terrible communication skills, and that has nothing to do with any kind of witchy hex. Somewhere along the line, one of the Saint-Martins was a lousy communicator, and she taught the bad habit to her daughter, who then led by example and taught it to hers. And now here we are, three generations of women all facing the fact that we’ve been repeating the same mistakes that our stupid ancestors passed down to us.
All we can do is wake up. Be better. Admit when we’re wrong, try to fix our mistakes, and smash all the invisible walls we can.
Who knew that would start with smashing a department store window?
Sometimes doing the wrong thing can point you in the right direction.
Sometimes being a little bad can turn out good.
And sometimes the places we think are portals to hell are actually just things we fear.
“Ugh. I’m not sure if this is the best idea.…” Mom frets near the old printing press in the Nook, brushing the front of her dress for the umpteenth time. “Maybe I should change. Or just leave town forever. Maybe I should just do that?”
“No,” Evie says from behind her paperback, perched on our non-squeaky stool behind the bookshop register. “That color looks good on you. It’s too brisk outside for the other dress. You’re just nervous, which is understandable. But it’s just a date.”
“Not even a date,” I assure her. “A
double date isn’t a date.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a date,” Lucky says as he leans against the printing press, flipping the page of a book about ironwork in Victorian England. He looks up to see us all staring at him. “Hey. I’m just telling it like it is. It’s a real date. Drew is ridiculously nervous too, if that helps. He’s been pacing around the blacksmith studio chanting positive affirmations, driving me up the wall.”
Mom clutches her stomach. “I’m going to be sick. I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can,” he assures her. “My parents will be there to hold up the conversation.”
The double date was Evie’s idea, and the only way my mom would agree to go. Funny that a woman who’s spent the last few years right-swiping anonymous strangers would be terrified. But she deleted her online dating apps, and right now, I’ve never seen her so nervous.
“It’s going to be fine,” I tell Mom. “All we’re going to think about is what a fun, easy-breezy time you’re going to have at the fall Renaissance Faire—”
“Revolutionary,” Lucky corrects. “This is Beauty.”
“At the Rev Faire,” I say. “A fun, easy-breezy time, laughing at people dressed in Revolutionary War costumes mingling with people dressed in Renaissance costumes, eating giant turkey legs, and cheering on jousting contests. It’s all perfectly weird and wacky, and you’re just … reconnecting with an old friend.”
“Who may or may not still be madly in love with you after all these years,” Evie says.
“No pressure,” Grandma teases, breezing past us as she makes her way to the children’s section with a stack of books for storytime. “Tell him I said ‘sorry, not sorry’ about ending his stupid plan to marry you at Candy’s Honeymoon Motel on Route 138 in the middle of the night before the ink was dry on your high school diplomas. If he still wants you, he’ll have more class now.”
“I’m seriously going to be sick,” Mom mumbles.
“Don’t listen to these bozos,” Lucky tells her. “I know it’s intense. He’s just as nervous as you are, and maybe it’ll be easier than you think. If you don’t hit it off, no big deal.”
Mom nods. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not a date. It’s just walking around the woods, looking at things in tents. I can do that.”
“All the food trucks will be there,” I remind her. “Even the egg roll guys from Victory Day if you want to take your chances again. Eating things on sticks—your favorite.”
“I do love food on sticks,” she admits.
“And hey, my mom knows this is a high-pressure situation,” Lucky says. “She’s got your back. Both she and my dad will be there if you need an escape. Seriously, you’ll be okay.”
“You just need an emergency word if the date goes bad,” Evie says. “Something to signal Kat and Nick that they need to get you out of there, stat. Like … ‘huzzah!’ ”
“Do you know how many people will be saying ‘huzzah’ at a Ren Faire?” Lucky says. “I guarantee you that you’ll be hearing a million versions of ‘huzzah,’ ‘wench,’ ‘master,’ ‘ladies,’ ‘lords,’ ‘doth,’ ‘taketh’ …”
“Pray, my lord, Phantom,” Evie says to Lucky in a terrible accent, “what oil dost thou prefer for polishing thoust sword?”
“Not sure why I even come in here sometimes,” Lucky says, burying his nose back in his book. “The customer service is atrocious.”
I loop my arm around his waist, and he slings an arm over my shoulders. “Probably because we’re the only bookshop in town.”
“Oh, r-i-i-ight,” he murmurs, smiling down before quickly kissing my forehead.
Evie bats dramatic, long eyelashes at us from the counter. “You two make me sick in the best way possible. Madame Evie says the spirits are delighted—please don’t stop.”
I stick out my tongue at her playfully, and then I tell Mom, “Don’t use ‘huzzah’ as your emergency word. Use ‘cornucopia.’ Like, ‘Wow, there sure is a cornucopia of food trucks here today.’ Inform Lucky’s mom when she comes in, so she knows to help you if she hears it.”
“I don’t need an emergency word,” Mom says. “Evie, I’ll be back to close up the shop.”
“If you aren’t, you aren’t. It’s Saturday, and I’m perfectly capable of closing this shop on my own. Grandma’s here for storytime, my mom’s coming by any second, and Vanessa’s meeting me here later, so I won’t be alone.”
Vanessa from Barcelona has been meeting Evie here almost every day since their fall semester started back at community college. It’s kind of nice. Maybe even more than nice … Starting to suspect that Vanessa and Evie’s friendship might be a little like mine and Lucky’s.
Mom turns to me. “Are you guys set to go? This is a big day for you, too.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
Lucky and I are taking a little afternoon trip on his Superhawk to a town outside Providence. Turns out one of my half-sisters lives there. She’s two years younger than me, and Henry Zabka hasn’t really been much of a father to her, either. Maybe we won’t connect, but I thought … why not?
Gotta try, right?
Plus, I’m experimenting with some new pictures, and a road trip is a good opportunity for camera time. The leaves are beautiful, and the weather’s good. I’m still photographing signs—I still love the poetry of billboards and forgotten flyers stapled to telephone poles. But I’m taking Lucky’s advice and am trying to include people in the shots. It’s not as hard as I once thought. The light’s tricky on faces, but you know, as a wise woman once told me: If it was easy, any clown would do it.
“Don’t worry about us,” I tell Mom. “We’ll be back by nine.”
“Or ten,” Lucky says. “We’ll both have our phones on. Promise, cross our hearts, we will not be taking a boat out to Rapture Island or any other island.”
My mom makes him swear that same thing every time we leave the town limits now. It’s mostly a joke … mostly. “And you’ll be careful on the drive to Providence?”
“Very careful,” Lucky assures her. “Helmets on.”
He points to the counter, where our helmets sit side by side. I’m no longer wearing his cousin Gabe’s sparkly tri-corn. Lucky got me my own full-face helmet—safety first—and on the back, in a compact silver font, it says SHUTTERBUG.
Mom nods. “Just take it slow around that Dead Man’s Curve on the highway where Evie wrecked.” Evie. Not Adrian. Because we don’t speak that jerk’s name anymore. We haven’t seen him around here lately, but word on the street is that he’s already moved back into his apartment at Harvard, but he’s not taking any classes. As long as he stays out of Beauty and away from Evie, I honestly don’t care.
Evie says I should turn the poster-on-the-door incident into a plus and spread my own rumor around Golden Academy that my subscription service is nudes. Get people to fork over cash, then kablam! They subscribe and get photos of all my signs instead. Fleece the Goldens.
Tempting as that scam may be, I don’t need that kind of energy in my life right now. Besides, I’ve picked up eight new online subscribers this month without resorting to trickery. I have a strong suspicion it may be members of the Karras family, but maybe one day Levi Summers himself will subscribe. I still haven’t given up on convincing him to let me do photography to pay him back for the department store window. One of these days, he’s going to say yes.…
The door to the bookshop swings open, and Kat Karras’s dark head pops inside. “He’s here, Winona. Ready to go?”
Mom looks as if she may faint. So I duck away from Lucky for a moment to walk over to her, and I squeeze her hand and smile, nodding. “You can do it,” I whisper. “We Saint-Martins are not cursed.”
“Not cursed,” she whispers back. “Definitely not cursed.”
Mostly not cursed.
But it’s okay. We can break the curse ourselves. No magic spell needed. No special charm. All we have to do is decide that we’re ready to smash down a few invisible walls.
And that’s exactly w
hat we do.
Acknowledgments
Oh, reader. This book nearly broke me. Not even kidding. It took many drafts, some blubbering, a lot of self-doubt, and the very fine skills of the Amazing Nicole Ellul, the best of all the caped superheroes—editor!—to bring this story to life. So first off, thank you, Nicole, for being so patient. I’m sure you wanted to slap me silly on more than one occasion.
Other people of note who have my gratitude: Laura Bradford, my agent. Taryn Fagerness sells my books to beautiful publishers across vast oceans. Laura Eckes created the beautiful cover for this book. I don’t even know all the countless people behind the scenes at Simon & Schuster who champion my books, but some of them are Mara Anastas, Lauren Carr, Savannah Breckenridge, Emily Hutton, Emily Ritter, Liesa Abrams, Rebecca Vitkus, Elizabeth Mims, Clare McGlade, Lauren Forte, Jessi Smith, Tom Daly, Caitlin Sweeny, Alissa Nigro, and Anna Jarzab. There’s even a team of Simon & Schuster folks in the UK who do wonderful things for me, and they include Olivia Horrox and Laurie McShea.
Fist bumps to my personal support team: Brian, Luna, Iorek, Karen, Ron, Gregg, Heidi, Hank, Charlotte, Patsy, Don, Gina the Survivor, Shane, and Seph.
The rumors are true: Like the characters within these pages, I really was a bookseller for the better part of a decade. I did everything from cleaning toilets to managing stores to making buying decisions for a national chain. So for every bookseller that has recommended my books to customers, I realize that I owe you everything. Thank you.
And if you were one of the readers that took advice from a bookseller and purchased this book based on that advice … thank you for trusting them. Book people are good people.
About the Author
Jenn Bennett is an award-winning author of young adult books, including Alex, Approximately; Serious Moonlight ; Starry Eyes; The Lady Rogue; and Chasing Lucky. Her books have earned multiple starred reviews, won the prestigious RITA Award, and been included on Kirkus Reviews and Publishers Weekly Best Books annual lists. She lives near Atlanta with one husband and two dogs.
