Chapter 6
“Think fast.”
A set of car keys flies by my head as I step out of the den the next morning.
In what may be my first instance of ever performing two tasks at once, I duck and yelp simultaneously.
“We need to work on your reflexes,” Mom declares.
I gape at her. “I literally just woke up.” Assuming you can call staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling all night sleeping.
I’m pretty sure I dozed off a good dozen times, only to jerk awake certain that I could hear the sounds of Dale the squirrel’s nails scratching through the room’s walls or see the rays of Theo’s flashlight sweeping across the windows.
“And why are you throwing keys at me when I have yet to be caffeinated?”
“So you can run into town to fix that. And get us some breakfast. We’re going to need fuel if we’re going to start whipping this place into shape.” I don’t know what cartoon princess has possessed my mother’s body, but she’s far too chipper at eight in the morning in a new time zone.
“Since when are you a morning person?” I mutter as I bend to grab the keys.
Stretching her spine, she grimaces. “Nothing is quite as motivating as trying to sleep on an air mattress in your forties.” She hands me some cash and herds me with a palm on my back through the house to the front door.
“Large coffee,” she insists, slapping my purse into my arms and pushing me out the door. “And many carbs.”
Snorting, I make my way down the steps. Thank god my paranoia that Theo might still be lurking outside inspired me to get dressed before I left the den.
No one in Harlow’s Rest needs to see me in my pajamas—a History Nerd T-shirt with tears in the armpits and some T.
rex joggers. That would activate weird-girl status for sure.
When I get to the SUV, I shove the money in the side pocket of my purse. You’d think my mother grew up in the Stone Age, the way she’s always trying to use cash to pay for stuff. Does she think I’m going to walk in somewhere and order?
Forget that. I’ll drive two towns over to order online if I have to.
Fortunately, a quick internet search reveals that, for all the town’s colonial history, the stores and restaurants in Harlow’s Rest understand technology just fine.
A bagel-and-doughnut shop on the edge of town (aptly named Carbs with Holes) has a shockingly high 4.
8-star rating with over five hundred reviews, and an online ordering menu smack in the middle of its landing page.
The universe has finally decided to take some pity on me.
Good bagels and no human interaction, plus plenty of coffee options.
Practically paradise. Taylor would one hundred percent be setting up a tent outside and relocating to this place if she were here.
Bagels are her one true love. No one tell Nadya.
I order both Mom and myself vats of coffee, hers a boring black with two sugars, mine something called a Caffie, which is apparently supposed to taste like melted coffee ice cream, plus everything-bagel sandwiches with the works (egg, bacon, sausage, cheese).
At the last second, I add one glazed doughnut and one chocolate frosted because I need to make sure this place understands how to do the important breakfast staples if it’s going to be my pre-class morning destination in the fall.
My stomach twists. I shouldn’t already be thinking this way—as if I’m completely fine with abandoning my old life. It shouldn’t be that easy.
The drive through Harlow’s Rest is mostly a tour of farmlands and modest neighborhoods full of houses that look like they could be two hundred years old.
There are lots of small parks and courtyards with benches, and everything is well kept.
The internet’s promise of copious historical monuments and memorial signs was not the least bit of an exaggeration.
I count twelve in my short five-minute drive.
Carbs with Holes is nestled in a compact strip mall off Route 44.
On one side of it is a pizza place called Colonial Pizza (at the risk of sounding like a pedantic nerd, I want to tell the owners that pizza wasn’t introduced in the US until the 1900s), and on the other side is Treat Yourself, a luxury salon.
Farther down there’s a used bookstore, a liquor store, and a Dunkin’, which is somehow still packed despite the highly rated bagel place three doors away.
There’s no accounting for taste.
Grabbing my purse, I slide out of the SUV.
The sign above the door to Carbs with Holes showcases a bagel bursting with cream cheese linked with a chocolate frosted doughnut festooned with sprinkles in a delicious version of the infinity symbol.
The shop’s name is written across the image in balloon letters.
Inside has a similar vibe, bright colors and cartoon lettering, with white booths and tables and black-and-white checkerboard flooring for contrast. Top-forties pop croons from the speakers in the corners.
About five people wait in line at the counter, and fewer than half the tables are occupied.
The online app says my order isn’t ready yet, so I wander over to a bulletin board hanging near the door.
It’s papered with flyers for town events and job opportunities.
Right away, one for the local library catches my attention.
My heart speeds up a little as I release the sheet of paper from its pushpin and drop down at the nearest empty table to read the ad.
The library is looking for some part-time help. This is perfect. The last thing I want to do is spend the entire summer locked in that house with an HGTV version of my mother, and this could be a way to get the job experience I lost when she made us move here.
I’m studying the flyer for a second time when I sense someone in my personal space, and my nose is filled with a scent like newly washed sheets.
Without looking up, I scoot out of their way, the legs of the chair screeching loudly against the tile floor.
No eye contact is my best defense against interacting with strangers.
I hate doing that when I’m on my A game, never mind at the crack of dawn without coffee.
My movement must catch their attention, because the person drops down into the chair across from me.
I groan to myself. Of course my mother would move us to one of those small towns where everyone wants to be besties.
My fingers begin to crinkle the edges of the flyer as they tighten together into fists.
Beads of perspiration stipple my temples, and I feel all my muscles contract.
Being around people I don’t know makes me too aware of my body.
Of the space I take up. Of the fact that I’m bigger than most people in the room.
Crossing my arms, I force myself to look up.
To find Theo sitting across from me. A small pile of paper in his left hand and a smile on his face.
“You,” I declare.
He pops up from the seat like a jack-in-the-box. “Hi?” The uncertainty on his face is almost comical.
“What, are you like…haunting me or something?” I proverbially pat myself on the back for the pun. I’m rarely this quick-thinking when I’m not with Taylor or my mom.
He snorts.
My eyes narrow. “It’s not funny. I barely slept last night, and I blame you.”
His eyes shine with mischief. Now that it’s daytime and we’re inside with plenty of light, I can see that the green has splashes of gold around the pupils, almost like they’ve been touched by the sun. “Because of the ghosts?”
“Because of the creeps sneaking around outside.”
He actually gasps. “I am not a creep.”
“All the evidence suggests otherwise.” I gesture at him.
“You were slinking around my house in the dark. You were going to break in. And you just sat down here uninvited a second ago.” Though I’m doing my best to sound serious, a smile keeps threatening to crest my lips.
Why is every interaction I have with this guy so ridiculous?
Theo lowers himself slowly and deliberately back into the chair.
“See?”
“That was an invitation,” he insists. I can’t stop myself from noticing how the natural downturn of his mouth gives him a perpetually grave expression, so when he smiles it’s like turning on a light in a pitch-dark room.
“Was it?” I ask.
His grin is wider now. “I’m very sorry I did not ask permission to sit in this public, unused chair.”
I’m trying to stare him down, but really, at this point, I’m just staring.
I can’t help it. He’s even cuter in person than in his videos.
Or when he’s trespassing. There’s a small scar through his right eyebrow that makes it look cocked in question.
And he has these lips. I don’t know why I can’t stop looking at them.
Or thinking that they appear soft as pillows.
Good god. I cut my eyes to my lap. What is wrong with my brain? I’ve never kissed anyone, so why do I suddenly care so much about lips?
No biggie, I start to say, all unaffected and such. But then I stop myself. That’s one of my mom’s favorite phrases and I don’t think anyone else has used it in the last twenty years, but she got me saying it too. The last thing I need is to sound like a forty-year-old lady.
Theo’s eyes land on the flyer as I try to smooth it out in front of me. “Are you going to apply at the library?”
I shrug. “I’m thinking about it.”
“I can put in a good word for you with Loretta. She’s awesome.” He shifts in his seat. His fingers fidget with his own stack of paper, trying (and failing) to make the sides even.
“But you…you don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do. You’re Amity, the newest inhabitant of the Harlow Homestead, and you’re really protective of empty chairs.”
I stare at him. Why is he offering me a referral? Does he think he can bribe me into letting him in the house?
My silence seems to urge him on. “Were you named after a haunted house?” The eagerness in his face brings me right back to his videos where he wandered the periphery of my new house in awe. I swear this boy is in love with ghosts.
Or the idea of them, since they’re not real.
His fingers tap, tap, tap his stack of papers. “I wanted to ask you last night, but you ran away like I was Rumpelstiltskin and giving me your name was going to force us into marriage or something.”
“So what you’re saying is you’ve never in your life read ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’ ”
He laughs. “It’s got something to do with names.”
I roll my eyes. “In the same way that Moby-Dick has something to do with the ocean. And no, I was not named after a haunted house.”
“The town in Jaws?”
“Ew. No.”
“Ew? Jaws is a classic.”
“But it could never happen. A sea creature that size would never be able to get so close to land. And sharks aren’t like rabid raccoons. They don’t just attack like that.”
He eases his chair back slightly, the legs scuffing the white tile beneath him. “I didn’t realize I was talking to a marine biologist.”
I snort. Loudly. And then immediately want to climb under the table. I never snort around anyone but Taylor and my mom.
But he’s just smiling affably, waiting for me to go on.
“My mother’s a complete word nerd,” I finally say.
“And the first time she saw the Middle English word amite, she fell in love with it. It means something like peaceful relationships, particularly between states or rulers.” I shrug.
“She thought it was such a beautiful word and an important concept, and she was pregnant with me at the time. But she didn’t want people calling me Am-ite, so she changed the e to a y. ”
His hands keep moving, flipping through the papers, fussing with the sleeves of his plain black T-shirt, but his eyes don’t leave my face.
“You should lead with that,” he says, jutting out his hand.
He gazes at me expectantly until I shake it.
My stomach does a complete loop at the feel of his warm palm against mine.
“ ‘Amity, of the Middle English word amite, meaning peaceful relations between states and rulers.’ That way no one associates you with repulsive things like ghosts and unrealistic sharks.”
I can’t help it. I bark out a laugh and, surprisingly, feel no need to hide the sound as it leaves my mouth. “I’ll be sure to have T-shirts made.”
“Smart.” He picks up his papers and taps them on the table to align them.
“What have you got there?” I ask. He keeps moving them so much I haven’t been able to read the text.
Instantly, a white flyer slides into my line of vision.
What Really Happened in Harlow’s Rest?
The Harlow’s Rest Historical Society reveals their newest findings on the mysterious events that occurred at the Harlow Homestead.
Come listen, ask questions, and learn more about the history (and mystery) behind the town founders.
Light refreshments will be served.
NOTE: Might not be suitable for kids younger than 12.
June 17th 5-7pm
Harlow’s Rest Community Center
For a hot second, I felt almost comfortable with him, but with each word I read, tension returns to my shoulders, and my stomach curdles. This is more Harlow Homestead stuff. Public stuff. “That’s my house.”
He nods enthusiastically.
He is giving a whole-ass talk about how my house is haunted.
“This is in three days.”
“I know.” He sighs. “We really need to pack the place or the parks and rec office is not going to keep letting us take the space over at prime times. You should come.” His face brightens like this is the most brilliant idea he’s ever come up with. “The history of the house is really fascinating.”
I shake my head at him. “What, so you can encourage more people to start snooping around my property?”
His eyes flare wide. “What? No.”
“What do you think is going to happen when you give this talk? People are going to get curious. The videos are bad enough for that.”
“But people need to know.”
“Know what?”
“That the house is dangerous. You know no one who has lived there ever stays, right?”
My phone’s screen lights up with a notification that my order is ready, and I jump from my seat. I’m not letting him plant that nonsense in my head. His eyes are almost pleading as they follow my movements.
“My mom and I are going to prove everyone wrong, then.” As I head for the counter, I grab the library ad off the table. It’s not until I’m in the car and driving away that I realize I accidentally grabbed one of Theo’s flyers too.