Chapter 8
EIGHT
TEN YEARS AGO
Madeline
“You look so nice,” my mom says when I walk into the kitchen, her voice rising buoyantly as if her cheer might rub off on me.
I shrug, though I’m secretly hoping her words are true.
I chose a fitted green tank top and beach-glass earrings because they match my eyes, and then paired them with a simple pair of jeans so I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
Back home on Sandy Harbor, I would have asked my mom if my hair looked okay and to weigh in on what shoes to wear.
She’s been a single mom to Josie and me since I was a toddler, and the three of us have always been close.
I’ve never felt the need to act like a snarky teenager like some of my friends do around their parents.
Well, I’ve never acted like a snarky teenager until now.
I know my mom is hurt by the shrugs, eyerolls, and one-word answers I’ve been giving her for the past few weeks.
But I’m hurt that she made us move away from the only home I’ve ever known with no explanation.
I’m not willing to go along with her feigned cheer, pretending like everything is normal .
“If this Adam guy didn’t completely fall for you in the parking lot,” my mom continues, “he definitely will today.”
I fight the urge to slide into a chair at the kitchen island so she can help me dissect the moment when Adam offered to give me a tour of Maple Ridge.
Was he asking me out or just being friendly?
Every day this past week, he met me in the parking lot to walk me to class, and at this point, I’m pretty sure he’s just using the crowded hallways as an excuse to take me by the arm.
I’m tempted to ask my mom what she thinks, but instead, I silently pour myself a mug of coffee and pick up the newspaper as if I actually care to read it.
My mom sighs. “Madeline, I know you’re still upset that we moved here. But it sounds like you’ve met some nice people and are settling in well.” She steps closer to me. “I really think you could have a great year here in Maple Ridge if you’re open to it.”
I look up from the Washington Post , taking in the green eyes and reddish hair that she passed down to me.
She’s not putting on her fake cheer right now.
And I miss having someone to talk to. “The thing is,” I say cautiously, hoping that maybe we can have a real conversation about this for once, “it’s not that we moved here.
I mean, not completely. It’s that you won’t tell me why. ”
“I did tell you. And I know it’s hard for you to understand.”
All she told me was she had a job opportunity, which might have been enough information when I was five.
But I’m seventeen, and she uprooted my whole life.
I deserve more than that. “Nurse practitioners are always in demand. If you wanted a better job, couldn’t you have waited a year until I graduated?
Or found something closer so we didn’t have to move? ”
She turns to fill her mug with coffee, and I can’t help feeling like she’s avoiding my eyes. “There was no guarantee this job would be here in a year. ”
“But another one would have.” I fight off a wave of anxiety that’s been plaguing me since my mom first broke the news that we were leaving Sandy Harbor.
“Is it the money? Are we broke, or in debt?” I’m sure that being a single mom hasn’t been easy for her, but I never had the sense that money was tight.
We moved into a nice, middle-class house in Maple Ridge, but it’s a rental, and the sale of the Sandy Harbor beach house is covering our expenses until the salary from her job starts paying in a couple of weeks.
Maybe I’ve been too self-centered to realize that she’s struggling.
“I don’t have to go to an expensive college, you know.
And Josie didn’t need to go to Berkeley. ”
But my mom just shakes her head. “You girls don’t need to worry about college.”
“Then why are we here? If it’s not the money, then it must be something else.
Because I can’t believe that you’d uproot my whole life just for a better job.
” I cross my arms over my chest to brace myself against the frigid air blowing through the vent.
On Sandy Harbor, we could leave the windows open, and the sea breeze would cool the house.
But in Pennsylvania, everyone apparently uses air conditioning.
“Sometimes things happen for a reason, and you don’t understand it until later. I really think if you give Maple Ridge a chance, you’re going to like it here,” my mom says. “What time is Adam picking you up?”
When I shiver again, it’s not from the cold.
I picture Adam’s smile as I pull into the parking lot every morning, and the way his blue eyes linger on me as I step out of the car.
He’s been the silver lining to this whole situation.
Is it true that things happen for a reason?
Was I meant to come here and meet him? I’ve never been someone to believe in that kind of thing, but I’ve never felt so immediately drawn to someone the way I’m drawn to Adam. “He’s coming at eleven,” I say.
“I hope you have a wonderful time.” My mom reaches out, sliding an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a hug. And for the first time since we moved to Maple Ridge, I let her.
I peer down the street, nervously bouncing on the balls of my feet.
Yesterday as Adam walked me to class, I admitted that I really haven’t been anywhere in town except the grocery store and the high school, even after my mom bought me a used car so I could get around while she’s working.
I mostly spent the summer reading in my room and missing the beach.
Adam offered to come by today and give me a tour of Maple Ridge, and I gratefully accepted.
Maple Ridge is a mid-sized town about an hour and a half outside of Harrisburg.
From the little I’ve seen, it has a mall, a few chain restaurants, and a brewery located in a shopping center.
My mom and I live in a neighborhood with houses that come in three cookie-cutter shapes, all wrapped in brick or aluminum siding, with identical patches of grass in the front yards.
I definitely agreed to this adventure because I want to spend time with Adam, and not because I feel hopeful that this town is going to impress me, especially when I compare it to ocean swells, grassy dunes, and perfect sunsets over the bay.
But maybe my mom is right, and Maple Ridge will surprise me. I should stop being so judgmental and give it a chance.
A dark red Ford Bronco that’s old enough to be called vintage turns onto my street and comes to a stop in front of the house.
The door opens, and Adam climbs out. He gives me a tentative smile as he shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and I’m charmed that he seems a little shy.
Suddenly, my own nerves kick in. I dated on Sandy Harbor, went to the movies and high school dances with a couple of guys in my class, but everything about this feels different.
“Nice car,” I call to him as I start down the steps.
“Thanks.” He smiles and pats the roof affectionately. “It was my dad’s when he was in high school.”
For its age, the car looks well-kept with only a few hints of rust around the bumper. “It must be fun to drive,” I say as I approach.
He laughs. “After nearly taking my life in a moving vehicle, I’m not sure you’re going to get to find out.”
“Oh, come on.” I stop in front of him and cross my arms. “Am I ever going to live that down?”
He leans forward, just the tiniest bit, his tall frame filling the space between us. “Maybe… someday.”
My cheeks heat at the thought that this is only the beginning as my gaze skates over him.
He’s wearing another worn band T-shirt, and the fabric clings to his chest. I notice a scar about two inches long running horizontally along one bicep, and I want to reach up, run my finger along it, and ask him how he got it.
This date hasn’t even started yet, and already I’m thinking of all the ways I can touch him. I clear my throat and step back. “Well, I can’t wait for you to impress me with your driving skills.”
Adam rounds the car to open the door for me and then walks back to his side to climb in.
I have to admit, he does seem like a safe driver as he turns on his signal and looks both ways before easing into the intersection.
We head toward town. There’s not a lot to see beyond the grocery store and strip mall.
Adam points out an ice cream shop with great milkshakes and promises to take me there someday before continuing down the road past the high school.
At the next intersection, he turns down a quieter road that winds past a couple of old farmhouses.
Eventually, we pull up to a housing division with a metal gate blocking the road and a small brick building with a security guard sitting inside.
Beyond it are rows of houses with expansive front porches and double-sized lots.
The security guard comes to the window and nods at Adam.
A moment later, the gate slowly eases open.
Adam gives the guard a quick wave of the hand to indicate that we’re not coming in. “This is where Jason’s family lives.”
In class on the first day, Jason reminded me of the private school guys on Sandy Harbor who belonged to the sailing club, so it doesn’t completely surprise me that he lives in a gated community.
There’s just something about his confidence and the way he talks about all his sports and activities that makes him seem wealthy.
He dresses like someone who comes from money, too, with expensive brand labels on his clothes and backpack.
A Mercedes SUV pulls up to the gate, and the security guard speaks to the driver for a moment before waving them through.
“You must come here a lot if the guard knows you,” I say.