Summer of Supernovas (35 page)

So, could honoring her memory really be as simple as being
happy
?

Gram must see the revelation in my eyes because she nods, a contented smile playing at her lips. Then her gaze drifts to the envelope I clutch in my hands. “Honey, the answers you’re seeking can’t always be found in the heavens above. Sometimes life requires a leap of faith. For you, maybe, just maybe—that leap means staying right here on the ground.” She kisses my forehead before shuffling out of the kitchen.

I sit, blinking. “But…what does that even
mean
?” My grandmother is a fortune cookie, a walking, talking cookie. What am I supposed to do with that? I drop my head to my arms.

Suddenly Gram’s voice, clear as a bell, chimes from the hall. “It means if you love him, you’ll get off your duff and tell him. Child”—she chuckles again—“they don’t call it falling for nothing.”

Then it all clicks. And I know exactly what to do.

L
ucky day, my foot. First, I lose hot water midshampoo after my morning epiphany with Gram. And now—
arg!
I lay on the horn behind the line of unmoving cars. Yes, I’m being one of those annoying people.

Hilarious that I’ve waited all these weeks to acknowledge that I am head over heels in love with Grant, and now a little log-jammed traffic is making me lose it. But it’s not the traffic; it’s knowing that only a mere mile or two stands between us.

I could run there faster…in Irina’s heels…
uphill.

“Oh, come on.” I slap my hands on the wheel. “What is the holdup?” I check my hair and lipstick and puff out another impatient breath. I dab my underarms with the remaining napkins I find in the glove box. All I need is to start pitting out while declaring my love to Grant. Traffic finally starts crawling across the bridge to the east side.

I whiz by one ginormous house after another, my anxiety growing with the size of the homes. I spot the familiar line of cypress at the end of the cul-de-sac and pull into the long drive.

I want to throw up. Instead, I pop a mint and try to focus on the words that will come out of my mouth when the door opens. What will I say?

Hi, Grant, the lobotomy was a success and, ha-ha, turns out I was in love with you all along.

Or maybe something straightforward like:
Feel free to ignore the kiss-off note I left while you were sleeping on my couch.

Well, there’s no denying it. I suck more than a black hole.

My mind is reeling all the way up until the front door is yanked open.

“Um…hey.” Which is the best I can come up with, now that my tongue has triple-knotted itself.

Charlotte stands in the doorway wearing a splotched painter’s apron, hair piled atop her head. “Wil?” She blinks. “Well, this is certainly a surprise.” But the shock of finding me on her doorstep quickly fades. “Sweetheart, we’re so relieved to hear your grandmother is home again and making a full recovery. You must be overjoyed.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. She’s getting stronger every day.” My grin wavers. “Charlotte, er…I was actually hoping to talk to—”

“Grant?”

My eyes round. “H-how did you know?”

Charlotte takes a paint rag from her apron pocket, wiping at a smear of crimson near her temple. Her lips lift in a sad little grin. “I think you may have been the only one who didn’t. But”—her frown deepens—“he just left. Didn’t he say goodbye?”

“Left?” I echo.

“Yes. He wasn’t planning to head up north until August, but then—”

“Wait! He’s…gone?” I blink.

“Well, yes, but he’ll be—”

“What about Seth?” I ask, realizing I didn’t see his car in the driveway either.

“He’s staying with a cousin in Chicago for a while. Things have been…difficult.” Charlotte places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Honey, it was an impossible situation. Someone was bound to be hurt.” She lets go. “Maybe it’s for the best that you all take a little time and gain perspective. You’ve been through quite an ordeal this past week.”

But I don’t want perspective; I want Grant. My heart deflates. Grant’s gone and I never got to tell him how I really feel.

“Um”—Charlotte’s brows draw together—“can I ask why you’re carrying a bouquet of Brussels sprouts?”

“They’re for…no reason,” I finish quietly with a shake of my head.

Her lips purse as if working through a complex equation. “You really care for him, don’t you, Wil?”

“Yes,” I murmur, rotating the sprout bouquet in my hand. “But I guess it’s too late, isn’t it? Everything’s just so mangled and…I’m sorry to have bothered you, Charlotte.” I turn and start back to the car. Clamping my lips together, I swear not to bawl hysterically like the last time I left the Walkers’.
Don’t cry.
And with each footstep I chant:
Pillar of strength, pillar of strength, pillar of—

“Wil! Wait!” Charlotte calls, jogging from the veranda. “Look, I don’t know if this helps, but Grant did say something about stopping at that Italian sandwich shop downtown.”

Perking up, I feel my first glimmer of hope since arriving. “Valentine’s?”

A tiny smile appears. “Yes, I think that’s the one.”

“
Oh!
Then…I—I have to go.” There’s still a chance! If I drive like a maniac, there’s still a chance I can catch Grant. Sunday is a busy day at Valentine’s and the line is usually epic. I have to catch him.

But before I do, I launch myself into Charlotte’s arms, almost knocking her over. “Thank you,” I gush into her hair.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Charlotte matches the force of my embrace and then stiffens. “Oh, Wil, the paint.” We separate, both inspecting my yellow dress.

“It’s okay. I’m clean.”

Charlotte doesn’t look convinced. “No, it’s in your hair. Shoot! I’m so sorry. I must still have vermilion on my face. Let me get a clean rag from—”

“There’s no time, I gotta go! Thanks, Charlotte!” I holler over my shoulder.

I dive into the Buick, then perform the worst three-point turn in the history of driver’s ed. Nothing will stop me from getting to Valentine’s in time.
Nothing.
Most of Carlisle’s construction is happening on the south side, so I’ll have a relatively clear shot downtown. This should be a piece of cake. He can’t be that far ahead if he’s just left.

These are exactly the thoughts one should never have.

The sun beats at my back as I size up the enemy. Plural—
enemies.
I’m paralyzed by fear; perspiration dots my hairline. The low, rhythmic pounding of a drum moves about a quarter of the speed of my thrumming heart.

A grease-painted monster with a rainbow Afro passes by holding a sign that reads:

SQUIRTING FLOWER CLOWN TROUPE—SHOWERING THE WORLD WITH HAPPINESS

No. Seriously. No.

This isn’t funny.

I pace back and forth at the parade’s sideline like a caged animal. How could I have blanked that it’s Carlisle’s annual Summer Sun Parade? With many of the side streets barricaded, finding parking was a freaking miracle.

Still, I’m losing precious time. And these clowns are blocking my path to Valentine’s—as if my hate for them needed more fuel.

Dozens and dozens of painted monsters parade over the hill and down the street with their squawking horns and noisemakers. I decide this must be karmic hell, and the only explanation is that I was Genghis Khan in a previous life.

I force one heel in front of the other, ignoring the constriction of my throat, ignoring the dark spots speckling my vision. I will channel Athena. I will rise to the challenge. And unlike Jessica Bernard’s seventh birthday party, this time…I will
not
wet my pants!

My pace quickens until I’m in a flat-out run, hurtling toward the carnival procession.

“Move!”
I thrust my sprouts and charge the clowns. I don’t look at their faces. I’ll lose my nerve. I look only at their baggy trousers and striped socks.
“Outta my way! Outta my way!”
I shriek, only to discover the clowns are practically tripping over their floppy shoes to avoid the produce-wielding psychopath.

Emerging on the other side of the street, I barrel into Valentine’s, gasping for breath. Mouths hang agog as I frenetically scan the little corner deli. I feel the stare of customers questioning my bizarre state and the parade bottleneck I created.

That’s
all
I need, for Gram to witness this on the six o’clock news. Her poor ticker couldn’t take it.

But my hope and the adrenaline start to wane when I don’t find Grant among the queuing patrons. I check the bathrooms. Nothing. I even ask the deli dude if he’s seen a tall, really attractive guy with music-note tattoos, wearing a gray T-shirt and Chucks with duct tape. He looks at me like I’m an extraterrestrial fresh off the mothership. As I glance down at my battered Brussels sprouts and recall the red paint in my hair, I guess I can see his point.

My shoulders droop. He probably never even came, what with all the chaos of the parade.

It’s over. I let out a shuddery breath.

My chance with Grant is done.

Gram’s fine—I’ve called twice, which wasn’t easy since pay phones are more elusive than wormholes in space. Of course I’ve forgotten to charge my cell…
again.
A lady from Gram’s garden club has brought over a casserole—the Midwest equivalent of flowers—and is keeping her company. And since Gram sounded so chipper, I’m not inclined to go home and taint the mood.

So I drive across town to Inkporium.

“Hey, Bo Peep, how’s the—” Crater breaks off, grin faltering. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” Worried my eyes have taken to spontaneously leaking, I wipe underneath them. But no, I’m not crying. I’m done crying. Life will go on. That’s the way it works, I’m told. And I’ve survived worse.

He flicks the hair from his eyes as he examines me. “Man, you look so sad, like someone stole your sunshine.”

“Oh, rough week,” I reply vaguely. “Lots of clouds.”

Crate nods, “Yeah, they kinda come with the whole package, don’t they? Heard your gram’s doing better, though. Helluva silver lining.”

“It is.” I grin, mirroring his hopeful expression. “Um, Iri still here?”

“Yep, and crabby-assed as ever. Tell her if she wants to cut early she’s got my blessing. I’ll make sure she gets the full hour of pay.”

“Thanks, Crate. Really.”

He blanches. “Jesus, you kidding? You’re doing
me
the favor.” He jerks his chin toward the back studios. “Now go release the Harpy.”

Irina stares at her phone, her lip curled in a sneer. She glances up, startled. “Oh, hey! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I, um…” I notice the cactus beside the sink, sitting shriveled and dying. “Did you forget to water it?”

She crams the phone in her purse and picks up the withered cactus, tossing it in the aluminum trash can. “Jordan Lockwood turned out to be a complete douche bag. Turns out the Suit came with an engagement ring.”

“Say again?”

“Meaning he was
engaged.
Can you believe it? I was going to be the last wild fling before wedlock. I’m just glad I waited and…” A string of Russian profanities follows.

“So…you didn’t have sex with him?”