Page 9 of True North

“How was your summer, Harry?” Another giggles.

Heavens above.

Harry doesn’t respond, simply walking past.

He must be a year or so older than us. He is definitely a senior. His dark hair is messy, his deep blue eyes land on me, and he adjusts his backpack over his shoulder. Wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his form is fully on display. Biceps, chest, and those legs. He either works out or works hard. My guess, by his calm demeanor, is the latter.

My face heats when his gaze lingers. A slight scowl tells me he wants to be here about as much as I do. The scoffs of the girls behind me see it flame red.

Shit.

“You Louisa?” he says, slowing down. “S’posed to show you your classes.”

Um, okay...

“Ah—tha—thanks?”

I hesitate but grab my books as he keeps walking, not looking back.

Crap.

“Oh my god. Do you guys know each other?” one of the girls demands.

Seriously, how did they come to that conclusion fromthatinteraction?

“I—”

The second bell screams overhead. I slam my locker shut and catch up to him. But all I can think of are those deep blues and that face. My stomach explodes with butterflies as he opens the door and nods for me to go inside.

“Meet you here after class. Don’t go wanderin’ off.”

I haven’t heard from Harry for over a decade. The last night I saw him, he dropped to one knee. And like a young, scared, desperate girl who felt the need to prove herself, I up and ran.

Home. Then to California.

God above, he probably hates me.

I did love him. As much as a seventeen-year-old girl could. That much I know.

But small-town plans were never mine.

I scoff a laugh at myself.

Look at me now. Back here. The big city drop-out.

Looks like Harry knew something I didn’t. I hope things aren’t awkward when I run into him.When, because this little town isn’t going to let me out of seeing him. My heart races at the thought of who he became. What he’d be like now. Maybe he’s married.

He probably is.

My stomach turns, sending an ache to my heart.

Dammit.

* * *

My alarm squawks at six a.m. My cue to dress and get ready for my first shift at the diner. I brush my teeth and pull on my jeans and a blue button-down shirt, hoping my uniform will be ready. I plan on changing when I arrive.

I grab my purse and keys and jog down the stairs. The restaurant downstairs is closed, chairs on tables. I unlock the front door, making sure to lock it behind me before crossing the street and heading to work. I pull my long hair into a ponytail as I walk toward Darla’s.

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