Page 15 of Haunted Hearts
Lydia’s quiet, studying Zeke. “You said you’re looking for a job, yeah?”
“Mmhm.” Zeke takes a bite of the apple, licking his lips as he crunches for a moment. “I mean, in theory. Gotta do something about my resume. Will doesn’t know what he’s?—”
“I’ll take a look at it.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll take a look at your resume,” Lydia repeats. She digs around in her bag for a second, then jots something down on a memo pad and hands it to Zeke. “That’s my email. Send me what you’ve got, and we’ll go from there. I know if it were me I’d want to get out from under The Hulk’s roof as soon as possible.”
“Daaamn,” Zeke says through a mouthful of caramel. He’s looking at Lydia in awe. “Right on. You’re awesome.”
Lydia shoots me a snide glance, and I can’t tell if she’s reveling in her Hulk comment or trying to rub it in that, for this moment at least, my little brother seems to prefer her to me. Both, probably. The way she looks at me before turning to choose a caramel apple from the spread on the table is infuriating. What’s she trying to do? Show me up in the skill of useless document writing? Prove my own brother thinks I’m incompetent?
Still, I’d be lying if I said I’m not alittleimpressed with the way she handled Zeke just now. How she snapped him out of his antics and, not only that, managed to get an actual answer out of him? Dang. I’m also a little—wow, it’s hard to admit—touchedthat she’d offer her time and expertise to help this jerk of a kid start getting his shit together.
Shoving Zeke away from the table, I slip a ten-dollar bill to the kid working the booth and tip my head toward Autumn and Lydia, who are still deciding whether they want pecans orsprinkles. The kid flashes me a grin to show he understands, and I turn and leave, falling into step beside my brother.
Lydia intrigues me. Her jabs at me are expected, but I’m not sure what to make of her generosity to my brother, who she just met, or that shattered look she got when she saw that couple on the dock. There’s clearly a story there that I’m not privy to, but remembering the way her shoulders fell when that guy would barely hug her back… I could’ve punched him.
She may hate me, but she doesn’t deserve that kind of shit. And if a caramel apple on a stick is going to make her day a little better after putting up with a douche like that? Hell, I’m there.
ten
LYDIA
Dad: Hey. Want to come have dinner with Shelley and me this weekend?
Lydia: Sorry, I’ve got plans.
Dad: Next weekend?
Lydia: I’ll have to see.
Dad: Give me a chance here, Lydia. I’m really trying.
Lydia: Sorry, Dad. I’ve got a lot going on.
Over the course of the next few days, Will’s team is in and out of the library. From what I can tell, it’s just a couple of engineers and some kind of interior designer, and they’re still mapping things out, so they’ve stayed largely out of my way so far. Which I’m glad of—because with every ladderthat comes through the door and every tape measure I hear snapping shut, I’m reminded of what they’re in here to do.
I haven’t seen Will Holloway himself—except in passing—since Saturday, when he showed up at the Farmers Market with that sleazy yet weirdly charming brother of his and thought he’d score some quick points by paying for a couple of caramel apples. Autumn seemed to approve and wouldn’t shut up about him, but I’m pretty sure Will must’ve seen how Dylan blew me off for that Barbie hanging on his arm and took pity on me. Had to play the hero, absolve himself of the role he’s playing in wrecking the library by paying me off.
Well, fuck him. He can’t even write a good resume. I don’t need his pity—I’ve gotthatpart down.
I don’t know how I could’ve thought Dylan’s brazen texts last week meant he actually wanted something with me. I was stupid. Likeduh, Lydia. A guy doesn’t dump you only to try to win you back four months later via X-rated texts. And when he comes to the Farmers Market with a bombshell on his arm? Evenifshe was his “friend” like he said she was, he couldn’t even hug me.
Yeah. Stupid. Stupid and pitiful.
But I’m trying not to think about it. I’m shelving books in the mystery section this afternoon, and since Nancy’s already gone home for the day, it’s just me and the books. The solitude is soothing. Aside from the faint hum of male voices somewhere in the building, the only sounds in the room are the crackle of the plastic dust covers and the squeak of my cart as I wheel it between the aisles. This place… it’s still how I remember it.
Sliding an Agatha Christie novel onto the shelf next to its counterparts, I let my gaze wander the room. A darkening pink-orange sky is visible through the panes in the dormer, and fading, golden sunlight streams in through the bay windows, flooding the reading nook a few aisles away. My throat feels suddenly tight. That reading nook—particularly the armchairthere, now bathed in shimmering golden hour light—was Mom’s and my spot.
After her first round of chemo, when Mom couldn’t get around very well anymore but still wanted to leave the house, we’d come here to read together. We’d squeeze into the armchair, and Mom would read aloud to me, her voice soft and steady as we escaped together into another world—one where Mom didn’t hurt, where Dad wasn’t sad, and where I wasn’t terrified of being alone. Sometimes other kids would come, plopping casually down next to us or hanging over the back of the chair, and Mom would read to them, too. We all loved her voice, the way she did the characters and paced her reading to match the action. All the way up until almost the end, when she started having a hard time forming words correctly, Mom always had a crowd of kids hanging around, asking sheepishly for a story.
And after she was gone…
Fuck.
After she was gone, I came here by myself. I did whatever I could to get out of my dark, lonely house, to be wherever I thought any sparks of Mom’s energy might still be lingering. I knew it was silly, but I didn’t care. I was desperate. I used to climb up into that armchair, which now felt so vast, so empty, and pretend Mom was sitting next to me, that I could still feel her warmth and the weight of her arm around me. I guess I thought I could keep her from slipping away completely—I don’t know. It’s hard to say what goes through the mind of a ten-year-old, even when that ten-year-old is you.
