Shy Girls Can’t Date Rockstars (Shy Girls Sweet Romances #7)

Chapter 1

One

The funeral director keeps asking if I want to eat something.

“There’s plenty of food, dear,” she says for the third time, gesturing toward the tables groaning under casserole dishes and sandwich platters. “Your parents would want you to keep your strength up.”

I nod and mumble something sounding agreeable, but my stomach churns at the thought.

Everything smells wrong.

The ham is too salty. The bread is too processed. The potato salad drowns in jarred mayonnaise.

If Mom were here, we’d have real flavor because she would have made her signature herb-crusted chicken with roasted vegetables. Dad would have insisted on fresh bread from the bakery downtown, not these soggy sandwiches that taste like cardboard.

But Mom and Dad will never make anything ever again.

It’s been two weeks since they died. There was a police investigation into their deaths to determine if it was a freak accident or if there was someone to pinpoint blame on to. The coroner had to do his investigations, and in the meantime, the funeral director had too many questions for me.

I put this day off for as long as I could.

Social services have been arranging a new home for me while I continue to live at my actual home.

I’m technically supposed to be staying next door with the Patels, but I keep sneaking back home.

Mr. and Mrs. Patel seem to understand and haven’t pushed me to do anything I don’t want.

The same can’t be said for social services. I completely block out the grief counsellor they make me see. That person can’t say anything to make this better. I don’t want coping mechanisms. Coping with this isn’t possible.

I press my back against the wall of the funeral home’s main parlor.

Despite its high ceilings and ornate crown molding, this room is suffocating.

The walls are off-white and the curtains are thin to let in natural light.

As if to signal we’re all supposed to move on.

Live life even though we’re grieving those who can’t.

With no appetite, I watch people pile their plates high with mediocre food and talk about my parents in past tense. Were such good people. Had such a bright future ahead of them. Would have been so proud to see Alice graduate.

Would have been. If they hadn’t driven through that storm to cater the Henderson wedding. If I hadn’t stayed home sick with the flu. If Dad hadn’t taken the mountain shortcut to make up time because they were running late without their usual prep help.

If, if, if.

My hands shake as I reach for my phone, muscle memory wanting to text Mom that I’m okay. That the funeral went fine. That people said nice things. Instead, I stare at our last conversation from thirteen days ago.

Me: Feel awful. Sorry I had to stay home.

Mom: Rest up, sweetheart. We’ll bring you soup when we get back.

Dad: Don’t eat all the ice cream while we’re gone!

They never came back.

Through the tall windows, I spy the parking lot and envision their catering van parked out front. The van that’s now a twisted wreck in some police impound lot. The insides smeared with the wedding cake intended to make the Henderson’s wedding day perfect.

An insurance agent inspected all the catering equipment in my parents’ commercial kitchen, and put a monetary value on everything.

It was a conversation I did my best to tune out.

Mrs. Patel stood beside me, taking notes as I escaped the cold reality.

Apparently a commercial realtor will sell everything.

The industrial ovens, professional mixers, all the tools that built their business from the ground up.

These things take time, and I’m counting on it.

While all my parents’ belongings stay put, I can imagine my parents are still here.

I can just ignore the part where I need the money for my future.

I pull from my pocket the candy bar my friend Jill gave me. She did her best, staying through the service, but funerals and death freak her out. She hightailed it out of here after giving me a shaky hug and apologizing ten times.

My first bite tastes heavenly, until the flood of endorphins wears off. But I don’t care. I continue to shovel the caramel and chocolate in my mouth, hoping it’s enough to make me forget where I am right now.

“Alice?” A woman in a wrinkled blazer approaches me, consulting a tablet.

“Really?” I mumble with the last bite of my candy bar.

“I’m sorry for approaching you here, of all places,” she replies. “But you’ve given me no choice. You stopped answering my calls or opening the door when I knocked.”

Can she blame me? She’s my social worker. She’s arranging a new life for me. One that erases me from the home I grew up in. That deletes all the history I had with my parents.

“Mrs. Rodriguez, I already told you.” I swallow hard, even though my throat is closing up. “I can stay with the Patels. Mrs. Patel already said…”

“We’ve been in contact again with your mother’s sister in Victoria Falls. Miranda Knox has agreed to take you in.”

“Aunt Miranda?” The name feels foreign on my tongue. “But I thought she had already said no.”

“It’s true. We went to Ms. Knox first, because she’s your closest living relative,” Mrs. Rodriguez says gently. “Her initial decline was quite abrupt. But perhaps she’s had more time to process it now. Losing her sister must’ve struck her hard.”

“But I haven’t seen her since I was little. She and Mom...” They had a huge fight when I was four. Mom never talked about it, just got this tight look around her eyes whenever Miranda’s name came up. Like she was remembering something unbearably painful.

“She’s expecting you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But she’s not even here. How can I live with a person who doesn’t even show up at her sister’s funeral?”

“I’m sorry, Alice. I don’t have any background information on your family history. All I know is, she’s agreed to take you in and has also arranged a transfer for you to Ashworth Academy.”

“Ashworth Academy?” My voice cracks. “I’ve heard of that place. It’s like a fancy private school.”

“Your aunt has arranged everything. She seems very... successful.”

The way she says it makes me wonder what kind of success buys your way out of talking to your sister for twelve years, then suddenly opens your door when that sister dies. What kind of success makes you rich enough to afford private school tuition for a niece you don’t even know?

I excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom, sliding down the door until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor. The bathroom is small and cramped, with yellowing wallpaper peeling at the corners and a fluorescent light that flickers every few seconds.

In the mirror across from me, I look like a ghost. Pale skin and dark circles under my eyes.

My favorite black dress hangs loosely because I haven’t eaten properly since the accident.

Even my dark brown hair looks lifeless, pulled back in a messy bun because I couldn’t manage anything more complicated this morning.

My phone buzzes with another condolence text, probably with another invitation to a dinner I won’t accept. Food tastes like ash in my mouth now. Everything reminds me of what Mom and Dad could have made better.

A knock on the door makes me jump.

“Alice? Honey, people are leaving,” Mrs. Patel’s voice is gentle through the wood. “Do you want to say goodbye?”

I pull myself up and splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, I practice the smile I’ve been wearing all day. Grateful. Composed. Not completely falling apart.

When I come out, Mrs. Patel wraps me in a hug that smells like cardamom and comfort. “You call us anytime, sweetness. Promise me.”

I promise, even though I know I won’t. The Patels have their own kids to worry about. Everyone keeps saying they want to help, but I see the relief in their eyes when I say I’m fine. Grief makes people uncomfortable. It’s easier to let me disappear.

Back at the house—my house, though I guess not for much longer—I sit surrounded by boxes in what used to be our living room.

Before, our family photos covered the walls, including catering events where Mom and Dad beamed proudly behind elaborate dessert displays.

Now, it’s a bare backdrop for the couch where we used to watch cooking shows together.

The place where Mrs. Patel and I sorted things into piles: keep, donate, and throw away.

The kitchen feels hollow without Mom’s collection of cookbooks lining the counter.

It already doesn’t feel like home. Along with the photo frames, we’ve packed all my parents’ things into boxes, which Mrs. Patel offered to store in her garage.

I don’t even know if that’s still the plan.

Apparently I’m moving to a new town. Will my aunt take all my stuff? At least, eventually?

Mrs. Rodriguez told me to pack two suitcases. But that can’t be it? Do I really reduce my whole life to only two suitcases?

Most of our furniture will go to charity, along with the random kitchen equipment that fills our cupboards. Everything that made this place home is being divided up and shipped away.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I find my camera in my desk drawer. The expensive DSLR Mom and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.

“For capturing all your adventures,” Dad had said, grinning as I unwrapped it. “We want to see the world through your eyes, Sprout.”

My hands shake as I hold it. The last photos on here are from that Saturday morning, thirteen days ago. Mom laughed as she tried to balance three cake boxes, Dad making bunny ears behind her head.

I can’t even look at the preview screen without my chest tightening.

I shove the camera deep into my suitcase and zip it shut.