It isn't like I planned to say that, but I've been vehemently reminding her—and Wendi—that I do not even like the boy, and here Mom is, comparing Grey and me to her and her soul-mate. If my attitude was a gun, I'm pretty sure that was the trigger.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
She waves a dismissive hand at me and pushes away from the dresser. "It's fine, starlet."
Gran's nickname throws me for a sec, and before I know it, Mom's hand closes on the strap of my messenger bag and she's bringing it to me.
"I'm not the one who's got to cram all of her homework in between now and five-forty-five."
I can't help frowning as she drops the bag onto the vanity table and winks mischievously at me just before she turns to leave. Groaning, I open the bag and start pulling out my books. If I'd just kept my mouth shut, she'd have probably let me slide on the homework until I came back later.
CHAPTER FIVE
An Ill-Fated Chat
I'm already at a table in the pizzeria waiting for my order—two slices of black olives and mushrooms—by the time six o'clock rolls around. I really crammed the homework away, rushing through and finishing everything in about an hour, and then pacing my room until the clock hit five-thirty. Really, Mom had been right; I hadn't needed to leave until fifteen minutes after that, but I became antsy and I don't do well with antsy.
I'm facing the windows, looking out at the street. Even though I had walked around the block so I didn't have to go past the pharmacy—in another week I'll probably be walking by there again, no problem, but at the moment the whole pebble thing is still too fresh in my mind—I am able to see the accursed little corner drug store perfectly from where I sit.
Grumbling under my breath, I raise myself up on my palms, leaning over the table to get a better look outside. Up one side of the block, then the other—not sure which section of town Grey's house is in, so I don't know which direction he'll be walking from—and the boy is nowhere in sight. I repress a frown, shrugging as I slip away from the table to get a diet soda from the glass refrigerator. I'm aware that it's only just gotten to six o'clock, and I don't know him well enough to know if he's usually late or on time, but still . . . .
He is the one who picked the time, he is the one who picked the place, so shouldn't he at least be here by now?
Maybe he's standing me up. This thought causes me to raise a brow. Great, so now I'm frowning and raising an eyebrow. In a way, I suppose that's a relief; I can sit and eat my pizza, then just go home without worrying that for some inexplicable reason I'm going to act—again—like a complete idiot when I talk to him. I'm not really upset by the possibility of being stood up, but that's just plain rude.
Yes! That is why I'm making a face, I'm feeling insulted!
Gus—the guy behind the counter—chuckles quietly to no one at all; guess it's obvious from my expression that I've just been silently arguing with myself. That, and I'm still standing by the refrigerator. Heaving a sigh, I offer him an awkward little grin and head back to my table.
Really, I'm kinda glad it's quiet. At this time of day, most of the patrons are just coming in to pick up take-out orders, which makes me feel a little less self-conscious about sitting here like an idiot waiting for someone who may or may not show up.
The only other person sitting at a table is tiny old Mrs. Parsons at her usual front-corner table by the counter, but then she comes here for dinner—a single plain slice and a Coke—every night; has, ever since her husband died a few years ago. This was Mr. Parsons' favorite place, from what my mom tells me. I can't help but look over my shoulder at Mrs. Parsons little, hunched figure; it's sweet in a very sad way, really. Kind of reminds me of my grandfather . . . the way he can't stop talking about Gran whenever I visit with him, but it seems to make him so happy. I feel the sudden, unexpected ping of tears in the corners of my eyes, so I force myself to face forward, making a note-to-self to visit Grandpa soon.
When I look toward the pharmacy again, there stands Grey. But he's not looking ahead, not walking in the direction of the pizzeria, he's really just standing there, at nearly the same spot where Wendi and I stood yesterday. I try not to stare, but I'm fixated as I watch him examine the storefront. Even from where I'm sitting, I see him lift his arm, reaching out slowly to touch the broken window, and then, just before he makes contact, he pulls his hand away.
He turns, finally, to cross the street and I can't pull my eyes away fast enough—can't have it look like I was watching him, now, can I? Luckily, I'm saved by Gus setting a tray down in front of me. Normally he doesn't do that, so I can only assume he thought I'd be too distracted to hear him call me to the counter. Nothing interrupts a deadlocked stare quite like an unattractive, meaty arm blocking your view.
"Thanks," I say quietly, with a wan smile.
Gus only chuckles at me again. "No more dates at the pizzeria for you, Cae. I'm not a waiter."
"But this isn't a . . . ." I call the words over my shoulder as he goes back behind the counter. "Oh, never mind."
"Just couldn't wait, could you?" Grey says straight-faced—though his tone sounds like he's smiling—as he strolls past me to give Gus his own order and grab a soda, before winding back toward the table and sitting down across from me.
I shrug, ignoring that he's now wearing crisp, black jeans when earlier he'd been wearing blue ones ripped at the knees; he can't possibly have changed because he was meeting me. He must've spilled something on the other pair.
"I was a few minutes early, didn't see the point in waiting."
I turn my attention to my food and pick up a slice. When I take the first bite, I roll my eyes up to him to find that he's watching me. Frowning, I put the slice back down, quickly snatching up a napkin from the tray and covering my mouth with it. Gran said it's not just rude to speak with one's mouth full, but unsightly. However, if a lady feels like she absolutely can't wait to speak, she must cover her mouth—nobody likes see-food.
"What?" I ask quickly, lowering the napkin again and determinedly chewing and swallowing so I am free to respond to whatever he might say next, without any complications.
He offers a small shrug of his own before opening his soda and taking a sip. "You wanted to get to know me. I assume that means asking questions, so . . . ask."
"Is it true you lived in Florida?"
He nods. "Tampa." Then he snatches a sliver of mushroom from one of my slices.
"Hey!" I snap, reaching out to catch his wrist, but I'm not quite fast enough.
He gives me a close-lipped grin, and I see his throat working—he is swallowing my damn mushroom—leaving me to scowl at him.
"Next question,” he prompts.
"Can't you wait for your own food?"
Another shrug. "I can, sure, but I thought it might be more fun to bother you a little."
He reaches out again, but this time I'm prepared and I roughly slap his hand away.
Grey lets out a small laugh as he rubs at his knuckles with his other hand. "Ow, okay—I got it. What about you? Ever live anywhere else?"
I open my mouth to respond, but pause. I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions. Oh, well, it's not like I have anything to hide in that regard.
"Nope. Maybe you haven't noticed, but that's how it is with most folks around here."
"I have, actually. Don't you think—?"
"Hey, kid." Gus' voice rings out, cutting into what Grey is saying. "Order's ready."
Nodding, he gets up and heads for the counter. I snag the opportunity to get a few more bites of my first slice in my stomach. He sits back down with his own tray and I can't help sneering at it—meatball. I'm not a vegetarian—hell, I'm not even that picky—but one food I simply can't stand is meatball pizza.
Grey's shoulders shake in a silent laugh as he picks up a slice and takes a huge bite. "So," he says after chewing and swallowing, "I guess you won't be getting me back for that mushroom anytime soon, huh?"
I have to force myself not to laugh in
response. How can I ever tell Wendi that I had a sucky time and mean it, if I let his attempts at humor work? Instead, I simply pick up my own slice and we both spend a few quiet minutes eating.
I leave my second slice on the plate, dab my mouth with a napkin, then fold my hands in front of me, trying to make it obvious that it's back to business, now. "Did you live anywhere besides Tampa?"
He nods slowly, picking up his second slice and taking a bite that nearly cuts the piece in half. "Arizona, Louisiana, and this little backwater town in central Mexico."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Mexico? World traveler, huh?"
He shrugs, setting down what's left of the slice and looking it over like he suddenly finds the deliciously greasy cheese fascinating. "Not really; we didn't stay there very long."
Something in his tone makes me feel like there's way more to be said, rather naturally edging the next question out of me. "Why not?"
This time he doesn't shrug, so much as his shoulders sort of droop, his arms looking like they're hanging lifeless for the moment. "Just didn't find what I was looking for, not really."
Aha! Suddenly, I feel vindicated for all my suspicions about him. He is looking for something! But . . . I know I can't let the triumph that's bubbling up inside show on my face—then he'll know I'm fishing for information rather than merely being curious.
I clear my throat a little awkwardly and start picking at the olives on my untouched slice. "What were you looking for?"
"Same thing as anyone else." He mutters, and in an odd way, it seems more like he's talking to himself than to me. "Somewhere I feel like . . . I fit."
Okay, at this I can't help but let out a little burst of laughter.
His head snaps up instantly, his brow furrowed as he meets my gaze.
I stammer for a second, trying to recover. If he thinks I'm insulting him, he might just shut down and then I won't get any further.
"I'm—I'm sorry, that was rude." I acknowledge the laugh with a shake of my head. "I just mean . . . ya know, it's like Florida, easy to understand—even the others, especially Mexico. They have things like sunshine and palm trees, exotic themes, cool stuff and things to do. These are the soggy boonies by comparison. It just seems odd to me that you could lump Drake's Cove in with those other places in any kind of listing. And of all the towns to try to fit in, this isn't exactly the cream of the crop."
His jaw sets as he seems to consider my words.
I briefly put up my hands in a placating gesture before wiping my fingers on the napkin and then taking a sip of my soda. "Okay, look, I don't mean to come off all judgey, but it's got to be asked. Why would you think you could fit in here? Why would you want to?"
"I was following something." His voice is low and sounds non-committal as he says this.
"That's sort of an odd answer," I observe. Okay, so I was wrong yesterday—he is the one who suffered head trauma, not his parents. "You decided to come to Drake's Cove?"
"Yup."
Moving here doesn't seem to mesh with the notion of looking for somewhere to fit in, nor does it answer quite how this place would fit into the same category as a town in a warm, sunny, colorfully festive, foreign country. But he doesn't clarify beyond that. I guess he's waiting for me to ask something else.
"Well," I say, giving in; I can't really tell if he's guiding me to ask, or trying to hint at wanting to avoid the subject, but then, if he didn't want me digging into such basic things, than he shouldn't have agreed to meet me. "I guess the next logical question is, what were you following?"
Grey turns in his chair to face the street outside and angles his chin toward the pharmacy. "That spot right there . . . . According to my family's record, that's where one of my ancestors lived."
I can't help that my mouth gapes a little as he faces me again. I don't want to think that yesterday afternoon could somehow have something to do with him.
"My folks have enough money that we really can pick up and move whenever we get bored, so when I started following our family tree, they had no real problem with it. I guess you could say I was looking for my roots."
I feel completely deflated as I take in what he's just told me. Maybe he does belong here, after all. I don't remember ever hearing of an Addison family living in Drake's Cove, but maybe the relatives are on his mother's side. Maybe there's nothing unusual about him, after all, and dealing with the stuff that happens here is probably ingrained somehow, like it is with the rest of us.
This does explain him noting my reaction to his choice of hangout-spot, and his weird moment outside the pharmacy when he was coming here. But, even if those first two thoughts are more than just maybes, there's still a bit of this whole thought process that doesn't make sense.
"I don't understand, then." I murmur, trying to put all the pieces together and failing miserably.
His brow furrows again as he finally finishes off that second slice. "You don't understand what?"
Clearly, he thinks that he's answered all of my questions effectively, and actually, he has. The problem is that I know something about him that he has no idea I could know; that my questions haven't gotten me the answers that I'm looking for.
"I don't understand; if your family's from here, then you should have every right to poke around in the cemetery. Why would you be crawling around there in pre-dawn pitch-darkness?" I realize too late that I'm speaking in a fog of confusion.
After the last word of this ill-conceived question falls out of my mouth, my eyes widen and I lift my gaze to find Grey staring back at me, mirroring my shocked expression. Oh, hell . . . no turning back, now that the one thing I didn't want to mention is out here in the open.
CHAPTER SIX
Dropping Masks
I feel like a deer caught in the headlights, simply staring back at him and waiting on pins and needles for his reaction.
He just blinks slowly a few times and bites down hard on his lower lip.
I feel like there's something heavy pressing down on my shoulders as we sit in this awkward, pained silence for a few moments that feel like for-friggin'-ever, before I finally manage to snap myself out of it.
"I'm . . . ." I can't really apologize, because I don't know exactly how the phrasing for something like this even goes, so I simply stand up from my seat. "I'm just going to go."
Grey seems sincerely dazed as he looks up at me, but I'm already turning on my heel and heading outside, sparing only a second to fish six bucks out of my pocket and slam the money onto the counter in front of a perplexed-looking Gus. I can't imagine what Grey's response will be—if he ever manages to work one up—but I have a feeling I don't want to hear it.
When my feet hit the pavement, I hang an immediate left, and I'm berating myself for being so thoughtless as to just blurt out something like that. Sure, I know I can act stupid when I'm letting my curiosity lead me somewhere I probably shouldn't be going, but this is a new level in a complex of stupid.
"Cadence!"
Grey's shout makes my shoulders hunch up, but I can't bring myself to stop. I hear his steps rushing toward me, and since I'm not prepared to start running—that will only introduce me to stupid's previously undiscovered penthouse—I allow him to catch up. Not like I've gotten far; I'm maybe a whole four storefronts away from the pizzeria.
Rather than simply keeping pace with me, he gets a few strides ahead and then turns, purposely blocking my path.
I halt, finally, and raise my eyes to his . . . and then I can't hold his gaze, so I drop mine back to the ground.
"What the hell was that about?" His tone is harsh and impatient as he asks this, and I can't say as I blame him.
"Umm . . . ." That's all I can get out right now; I'm just not really sure how to explain it without making the situation worse.
"Are you, like, stalking me or something?"
This jars the self-conscious stupidity right out of me as I snap my head up to give him a half-sneering, half-shocked look. "Ew. What is wrong with you that you would thi
nk I'd stalk someone?"
He makes no attempt to hide the flicker of insult that dances across his face at my reaction to that idea. As silly as it seems, I suppose it might hit a boy in the ego to learn that a girl finds the idea of stalking him utterly repulsive.
"Then how could you know about that?"
I shrug helplessly as I stammer and relate how I'd come to see him creeping out of the cemetery this morning. I keep my voice low; we are in public, and I don't think this is a conversation that he'd like anyone to overhear, but in his confusion I can't be sure he's keeping mindful of this, so I hope he takes notice of my sudden near-whispering.
He draws in a deep breath as he rakes the fingers of both hands through his hair. "So, that's what this whole it doesn't have to be a date-date thing was about, wasn't it?"
I'm ignoring that when he quotes me, he adopts that weird, high-pitched tone boys use when imitating a girl.
His voice, during the parts of his question that aren't mocking me, is a bit strained and I can only blink up at him for a moment. Whoa . . . does he actually like me or something? How would that have even happened?
I cast a quick glance around at the handful of passersby on the sidewalk. Hell, we must look like a couple having an argument; this bizarre comfort-level between us makes me think of the way I'd felt, so at natural and at ease—after my initial idiotic stumbling—when I’d talked to him in class.
I clear my throat a bit awkwardly and finally work up something to say. "Yes, and I'm . . . sorry that I had to lie to you like that."
Those bright eyes of his narrow as he shakes his head. "Then why did you?"
"I had to know what you were up to," I reply without a second's hesitation—cat's outta the bag, no point in subterfuge now. "And it wasn't like I could exactly come out and ask you about it, like say, in the middle of school."
Grey's shoulders slump a bit as he apparently realizes I'm right.
"Fair point." Immediately after these words fall out of his mouth, he sets his jaw firmly, and I get that sure, he understands why I misled him, but he's still not happy about it.
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