Page 7 of Here We Go Again
“You’re freaking out,” he says calmly. “The fall wasn’t that bad. But I’m back at Evergreen Pines, and—”
She jerks the car into reverse and pulls out of her parking spot. “I’m on my way.”
She takes another frantic sip of her iced latte just as she sees a flash of orange bumper out of the corner of her eye.
Between Joe and the coffee and the layoff-induced rage, she doesn’t react quickly enough. There’s a sickening crunch, a lurch. She slams on her brakes harder than necessary, and her right hand instinctively flies out to protect some invisible person in the passenger seat. As her hand flings forward, her iced latte jerks sideway, and she feels the cold sensation all down her chest before she realizes what’s happening. Sticky iced coffee saturates her cardigan, drips down her stomach, and pools into a puddle in her crotch.
She sits there, stunned. Then she bolts out of the car, her rage all funneled toward a new source.
An orange Volkswagen Passat smashed against her driver’s-side rear door. Becauseof course.
Only Logan Maletis would hit her car while she was driving ten miles per hour. The bumper of the rusted Passat is snug against the back of Rosemary’s now dented car, but Logan’s crime against emissions appears to be perfectly intact.
Rosemary looks around at the wreckage of her car—the wreckage of her life—and comes to two conclusions.
One: bad things do happen at Applebee’s.
And two: she’s going to kill Logan Maletis.
Chapter Three
ROSEMARY
The driver’s-side door opens with an ancient groan, and a leg swings out of the car, checkered Vans landing on the damp asphalt with a thud. The white squares on the Vans have all been colored in with a rainbow pattern that blurs slightly in the rain.
What kind of thirty-two-year-old woman draws on her shoes?
Logan Maletis, that’s who.
Rosemary tries to take another set of four deep breaths, but then she looks at her crushed car, and the oxygen hiccups in her throat.
The rest of Logan finally follows her shoes: long limbs, denim overalls covered in bleach stains; one of her tropical shirts, which she seems to think are appropriate for every occasion; a white T-shirt that’s drenched in pink liquid. Was she drinkingalcoholwhile driving?
Her long face is framed by thick, chestnut-brown hair chopped bluntly at her shoulders, and a giant smirk slashes across her expression.
As a rule, Rosemary doesn’t look at Logan’s face. Too many memories live in those features. But she can tell her smirk is one of perfectly calm indifference. Rosemary’s anxiety spikes and she clenches her fists, her long nails digging in sharply.
Returning to Vista Summit four years ago had been the smartthing to do. Logical. Safe. After everything that happened in New York, it made sense to be closer to her mom—to return to a town the size of a fishbowl, where things are predictable and contained. That didn’t mean coming home again wasn’t hard, and coming home to find Logan Maletis not only still lived in Vista Summit but worked at the high school where Rosemary had just accepted a job, was a level of poetic injustice Rosemary still isn’t ready to unpack.
“You hit my car!” Rosemary shouts.
Logan tilts her head to the side and studies the place where their vehicles have melded together. “Huh,” she says. Rosemary can barely hear it over the sound of theMamma Miasoundtrack blasting through her open car door.
I can still recall, our last summer…
Rosemary can still recall her last summer with Logan Maletis by her side, and she’sstillpissed as hell about it, eighteen years later.
“Huh?” Rosemary echoes. “Huh!Look at my car! It’s like the set piece in anAvengersmovie.”
Logan steps closer to the wreckage. “Nah. That’s a scratch. I think you can just buff that out.”
“Buff it out?You smashed into me!”
Logan rolls her hazel eyes. “It was an accident.”
“Youaccidentallydidn’t look behind you when you were backing up?”
“Look, it takes two to fender-bender,” Logan retorts, “and you clearly weren’t paying attention either.”
