4. Kennedy
Kennedy
T he morning sun is already savage as I head down the mountain on my bike.
I slept too long, and now I’m paying the price for it. I can feel the skin on my scalp burning, and I curse myself for forgetting to put on a cap before I left. My stomach growls, and I slow to a stop in a cooler spot amongst the trees, pulling Rick’s shitty sandwich from my pocket.
Truth be told, I’m delaying. Putting off the moment when I have to face anyone.
I haven’t been into town for months. I’ve cycled through, my head down, but I haven’t set foot on the ground since—
Breathe.
Fucking Rick. Although this situation isn’t really his fault. Charles Rivers cutting his hours has nothing to do with his ability to work.
No. It’s a giant message to me.
Leave. Get out.
Clearly the timeline I’m on isn’t enough for him.
Maybe I should just issue a giant apology to everyone at once. Hire a plane to fly over the town with one of those banners.
Sorry I’m not dying quick enough.
The crappy sandwich is enough to ease off the biting hunger. My appetite is sinking by the day. I take my time with my water, sipping until I can’t put it off any longer.
For once, I actually pay attention as I slowly cycle into town. Widow’s Peak is basically one main high street that breaks off into a handful of small affluent residential streets. The further you get up the mountain, the cheaper the rates.
It’s still a good twenty years behind most of civilization, but I used to like the vibe here. The neat row of shops is each painted a different color and hawks anything from locally-made beers to handmade chocolate. The bakery opens before dawn and sells out before two every day. Dotted between are the places for people to hire equipment – mountain climbing, trail walks, even skiing in the winter months.
I let myself slow down. To lift my face and actually take it in as I make my way toward the diner. Mick’s battered-looking Stardust Diner was originally a cool homage to eighties music, but now it’s held together by peeling paint and a prayer, the place looking untidy compared to the clean buildings around it. But everyone in town under the age of eighty still gathers here for their meet-ups.
It's the worst fucking place to work if I want to stay under the radar, but there’s not a chance in hell of anyone else taking me on. My throat tightens as I pull the bike up to a rack outside and dig for my lock. Thankfully, there’s nobody around, and I duck down to at least try to hide my face as I push the door open.
They don’t properly open for another hour. I swallow the dust in my throat, my call croaky. “Mick?”
“Comin’!”
I loiter close to the door. It hasn’t changed in years, and certainly not in six months. Black and white linoleum stretches the length of the place up to the counter at the end, an aluminum bar with tall backless red and silver stools lined up in front of it. They match the battered red leather booths that sit on either side of me as I slowly make my way up to the counter to wait, passing the old but beloved jukebox against the wall on my right.
This place is full of memories.
It doesn’t take long. He comes backing out of the kitchen door, a heavy-looking crate in his hands, and I jump up to hold it open.
“Thanks.” He sets the crate down before he turns. His eyes bulge, recognition kicking in. “ No .”
I try to smile. “Hey, Mick.”
He points to the door. “Nope. No way. Out .”
“But—,”
He’s already shaking his head. Shaggy grey hair flicks from side to side. “I don’t want any trouble.”
I stand firm. “I need a job, Mick.”
He scoffs. “You never came back after your last shift.”
“You know why I didn’t. I was… in the hospital.” I stay where I am, ducking his hand as he vaguely attempts some sort of shooing motion. “You always need kitchen staff. I’ll stay out back and wash dishes. I’m a hard worker.”
I hold out my hands. “I’ll take whatever you want to pay me. Whatever shifts you need. And it’s only temporary. Just a few weeks.”
He sucks in his lower lip, eyeing me. If there’s a way to get Mick’s attention, it’s to offer him a cheap deal. “Minimum wage. Cash only.”
“Done.”
“And you won’t cause any trouble.” He stares at me. “I don’t want any of that business here. People don’t like you, you know.”
No fucking shit.
“I’ve never—,” I stop, and take a breath, even as my hands fist at my sides. “No trouble.”
He sighs theatrically. “Fine. Come back at six. I’m short-staffed.”
“Great. Thank you.” I force that smile again. It feels wrong on my face, so I let it slide off. Mick doesn’t give a shit if I smile anyway. Only that he can pay me less than anyone else. I already know without asking that I won’t get any share of the tip pool.
He only grunts. “Out. Come in through the back later.”
That, I can agree with. I have no desire to see anyone. My bandages itch, as if reminding me.
As if I ever fucking forget.
Still, working will at least pass the time. Better, maybe, than laying in my bed and staring at nothing. And it’s money in the pot for groceries.
Which leads me to my next stop. I leave my bike where it is, wrapping my arms around me and heading down the street with my head down.
We can’t survive on old bread. Abrams made it clear that I needed fresh food. Fruit, vegetables – things that I’m pretty sure don’t exist in Rick’s vocabulary. His cooking repertoire is limited to sloppy joes, some weird meatball dish that I’d rather he didn’t make, and sandwiches.
My sneakers scuff against the sidewalk as I walk to the grocery store. I’m sweating again, the thick sweater covering my skin doing nothing to keep me cool in this heat. I reach for my water, draining the last few drops before I pause to shove it back into my backpack.
Swinging the bag around, I look up. And freeze.
I vaguely recognize the woman staring at me. Elsie, I think her name is. Her daughter went to the local school with us. The disgust on her face is all too familiar. But it’s the other woman, standing beside her, that has the blood pooling from my face.
I remember the first time I met May Rivers. I remember thinking that she was the cleanest person I’d ever seen. Sort of… shiny, as if nothing bad could ever stick to her. Soft blond bobbed hair and a soft, pretty face to go with it. The kind of mom I sometimes wish I’d had.
As kind as her mate was an asshole.
I blink rapidly, wetting my lips. She doesn’t look like that person now. She doesn’t move, doesn’t go past me. She stands there as her friend flutters awkwardly, whispering in her ear. And her eyes that used to be a deep sparkling green – just like Theo, although Brett was more like his dad – they’re cloudy now. Almost dazed. And her clothes don’t fit properly, as if someone else pushed them onto her.
“Hi, Mrs. Rivers.” My whisper may as well be a shout.
Her friend glares at me, as if furious that I should even speak. She’s probably right. I shouldn’t. “I should – I’ll go.”
I shift to move around them, but a hand stretches out and grabs my wrist, above the edge of my sweater. May’s nails are ragged as they dig in, and I suck in a breath at the small pain. “I—,”
I don’t get a chance to finish.
The wet spatters across my face as I stumble back, only May’s grip on my wrist stopping me from falling.
There’s an audible gasp from Elsie, and then I’m pulling my wrist away, cradling it as May wipes her mouth. “I know what you did to my boy. Murderer .”
The hissed word may as well be a scream. My back slams into the wall of the grocery store, my head hitting the brickwork with a thud as shock steals my breath.
She spat in my face.
The back of my eyes begins to burn. Elsie is wrapping her arm around May’s shoulders, cooing at her and glaring at me as she begins to lead her away, back up the street. Brett’s mother glances back at me once more, the cloud replaced with anger that drains even as I watch. She sags against Elsie as the woman carefully helps her.
No. Not the May Rivers I remember.
It takes me a minute to push myself upright. To tug down my sleeve, and wipe at my face. But it feels like a brand, her anger. As if everyone else will be able to see it, spattered across my cheek.
I don’t want to be here any more than they want me here.
The small bell above the grocery shop door tinkles as I push it open. The store is well-stocked, the closest superstore in the next town over along with Dr. Abram’s clinic. Enough for me to pick up some essentials and some fresh stuff to get through the next few days.
Behind the counter, Henry, the beta that runs this place with his wife, stiffens. I pause, waiting for the refusal. But he doesn’t say anything. Just turns away as I grab a basket and head down the aisle.
I’m alone, and I wait until I’m out of Henry’s sight to stop. My bandages are itching again, the skin beneath burning with a familiar pain, and I suck in a breath as I rotate my shoulder to try and stave it off. My hands are shaking.
No. My whole body is shaking, trembling, my heart pounding, and I lean forward, bracing a hand against my chest.
It’s nothing I haven’t had before. But not recently. And not from her .
I haven’t seen Brett’s mother. Not once. Maybe, I’d hoped—
But no. May hates me as much as everyone else does.
Of course she does. More.
Murderer.
I mentally curse Rick for his fucking uselessness as I heft the basket again. If he wasn’t such a dick, I could keep hiding. Try to maintain whatever peace I can for as long as I can, until the doors of the Center close behind me for the last time.
But instead, I feel as if I’m on display for public consumption. I take a deep breath.
You can do this , I tell myself. This is nothing in comparison to everything else.
So why does it hurt so much?