Chapter 15
Vic closed the door behind Cal, clicked out the lights when she heard his van start, then sank to the floor and sat in the darkness.
She’d seen the shadow cross his face, clocked the second when he saw her differently, where she shifted in his eyes from a potential romantic partner to someone who was .
. . too much. Too much drama. Too much intensity. Too much crazy.
Worse, worse, worse—he looked hurt. Confused. And of course he did!
She’d wrecked their fledgling friendship before it had even started. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t flirted . . . If she hadn’t kissed him . . . It was the kiss that had done it. No wonder he’d gotten his wires crossed.
You think? muttered Angel.
Whatever. A kiss is just a kiss, quoted Devil, smirking.
Except it hadn’t been just a kiss, or rather, it had been—but it was the way he kissed her, the way he responded to her kissing him.
So much passion, but . . . gentle, somehow.
Controlled. Or maybe her inner freakout had started even earlier.
Maybe when he’d so sweetly asked before he kissed her.
Even in this day and age of consent, blah, blah, blah, she’d just thought that was an urban legend.
She should’ve known then it was a bad idea.
Vic wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her burning face against her knobby knees.
She knew what would happen come Friday. He’d politely text to cancel with some bogus excuse, like a family emergency or an urgent job had just come up.
Or maybe he would go through with the visit because he’d already extended the invitation—and then he’d quietly disappear.
Why was she so screwed up? So, they’d been flirting. So, he was a nice guy and didn’t treat her like garbage from Day 1. Why did that throw her into such a freakish state of anxiety?
Because you never learn. Was that Angel or Devil’s cheap shot? Sometimes it was hard to tell.
Quit lying to yourself.
Okay, okay—
She knew exactly what had triggered her need to bail: the stirring of her old, stupid self, the one who pretended to be casual and up for anything but was really always looking for love like the old sappy song.
It had been her brain lighting up when they kissed. He really likes me, she’d thought. Maybe he could love me.
Yep, way, way too soon, she’d felt like Cal really cared about her—and she knew by now, finally, that was an old trap.
She always thought a new guy was the one, the one who genuinely cared, the one who might finally love her the way she’d love him if he’d let her.
She hadn’t been lying. He did deserve someone who wasn’t .
. . her. She also hadn’t been entirely truthful.
It wasn’t just him she was protecting. It was herself.
Vic tidied the kitchen, getting rid of the pizza evidence, rinsing the used pop and juice bottles and putting them in recycling.
It took no time at all. Her brain was chewing over the evening.
She couldn’t turn it off. She checked the time on her phone.
Almost 11:45. Late. She should go to bed.
She had work in the morning. She started down the hall, then paused.
11:45 wasn’t that late. She wasn’t tired.
She was wired. The Second Chance Shop didn’t open until 10:00.
She could go for a walk, burn off her anxiety and stress, and still have plenty of time for rest. Better rest, in fact.
Yes, she’d definitely sleep better if she walked for a bit.
Maybe she’d go to 7-11. It was close. She could pick up something for lunch tomorrow.
Don’t do it, Angel warned. You’re setting yourself up for a fall.
It’s 7-11, not the mall or something tempting. It’ll be fine.
It won’t be fine. I know you.
She is us, dipshit. And we’re her. And it will be fine. She hasn’t taken so much as an extra mint at a restaurant in weeks.
More like one week, barely.
The inner argument didn’t diminish Vic’s desire to walk. It increased it. Who knew if she’d even bother with 7-11? But if she did, she certainly wouldn’t take anything.
Vic quietly made her way to the boot room, where she slid into a pair of sherpa-lined sneakers, zipped on a lightweight parka, and grabbed gloves just in case.
Do not go to 7-11.
Fine, Vic shot back. I won’t.
The lights were incredibly bright in 7-11. Were they always so bright?
Vic made a mental list of what she’d purchase.
She hadn’t had junk food in a long while.
Just never got around to buying any. Her head swiveled as she took in the rows of primary-colored packages of every kind of sugar-laden, salty and crunchy, or soft and chewy snack a person could imagine.
She’d get . . . salt and vinegar kettle chips and maybe a chocolate bar of some kind?
I thought you were buying lunch at the store that you weren’t going to go to.
She grabbed the chips and chocolate, then hesitated by a cooler and selected a six-inch clubhouse. It was probably disgusting, but whatever.
On the way to the orange counter where the till sat beside a stainless-steel hot bar of deep-fried food, Vic got sidetracked by a spinning rack of a huge variety of keychains.
You don’t need a keychain.
I’m not buying a keychain.
Don’t take a keychain.
I won’t!
A sparrow caught her eye. It was enameled metal, about three inches long, with an old-fashioned look to it. It reminded her of vintage tattoo art or something. It was . . . really cool.
You don’t need it. Angel was relentless.
But you want it, Devil said.
She did want it. It was fun, a little bit edgy, but also nostalgic or something. It was almost twenty bucks! Ridiculous—but also not the point.
She didn’t really have a need for it. She couldn’t just keep filling up her room with knickknacks and random crap. But it was so cute.
You can afford it. If you really have to have it, just buy it.
But why? It’s probably, like, a 200 percent markup. Maybe more. So-called convenience stores always try to rip people off.
Vic considered several other keychains. Whoever designed them had obviously had fun with them. A cheerful red duo of 50s-style cherries caught her fancy. And a solitary spiked-heel shoe, its surface embellished with tiny, glittering faux diamonds.
They probably brought the whole lot in from China for a buck a piece.
And what if they did? There’s no crime against that.
It’s just a heck of a lot of profit per piece.
Vic rubbed the cool, sleek surface of the sparrow’s belly.
Her pulse quickened, and giddy excitement bubbled through her.
He really was adorable. It was the sort of slightly kitschy, ironic item a kind of punk midlife woman might have, someone totally comfortable in her own skin, someone who knew what she liked and liked what she was, no apologies . . .
Sure, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t take anything without paying for it ever again.
But she’d never been good at keeping her word to herself, so why start now?
Ha ha. Besides, it was just a little trinket.
And an exorbitantly overpriced trinket at that.
And the shop’s manager, or owner, or whatever, was so cheap that he didn’t even staff his store adequately.
Night shift, and the kid working the till, dealing with an endless stream of munchie buyers, was on all by himself.
And sure, she’d promised Madeline too—but that only applied to the Second Chance Shop, right? She was honoring her word there, and she’d continue to. For sure.
There were two people ahead of her in line when she went to pay, an older woman—who, come to think of it, Vic realized with a bit of a shock, probably wasn’t much older than she was—and a teenager with a shag of black hair and unfortunate, painful-looking acne.
She studied the magazines facing out from the lower display beneath the counter, waiting her turn. The kid at the till knew the kid with black hair and they chatted a bit too long, but that was okay.
“Is this everything for you?” the kid asked without looking up, scanning her chips, sandwich, and candy bar.
“Um, yes, I think so, thanks.” Vic bit her lip. “No, actually, wait—I want wine gums too.”
That did get the kid’s attention. He glanced at her, grinning as she retrieved the bag and put it with the rest of her loot. “Someone’s got a sweet tooth.”
“You’re onto me,” Vic said, smiling back.
The air outside the convenience store kissed Vic’s flushed cheeks like a blessing.
The temperature had dropped significantly while she’d been shopping, or, more likely, her own body temperature had spiked.
Either way, the cold air felt good. She strode along the sidewalk toward home, feeling a strange—though, for once, not entirely unwelcome—sense of déjà vu.
How many times had she walked this exact stretch of sidewalk, around this same time of night?
Not all her memories of Greenridge were bad.
Some of them were fun. She’d been fourteen when the 7-11 was built, actually.
It made her laugh to think of it, but at the time, it had been a big deal for the whole town: one of the first franchised chain stores to come to Greenridge.
Of course, now, like every other town in North America, it seemed, Greenridge had all the franchised fast-food joints, the mall was full of chains too, and it had more than its share of big box stores on the outskirts.
The air was fresh and her trip down memory lane was cheerful, not despair inducing. She rode the wave of good feelings all the way home.
And then it ended abruptly.
Standing in her bedroom, junk food that she probably wouldn’t bother eating laid out on her bed, sub sandwich in the fridge downstairs, Vic stared down at the stupid bird keychain.
Familiar, nauseating self-hatred welled up from deep inside, and salty regret burned in her sinuses.
What a piece of utterly cheap junk. The bird’s eye was wonky, and there was nothing artful in the paint job.
But it wouldn’t matter if it was Prada or Dior.
That wasn’t the point. She’d said she wasn’t going to—
Steal. The word you’re looking for is steal. Call it what it is, at least.
Vic’s mouth was sweating and her stomach roiled hotly.
She really might throw up. She had promised herself yet again and yet again, she .
. . what? Couldn’t resist a piece of tacky crap?
Was she certifiably crazy? Any regret she had about warning Cal off disappeared.
Who cared if he thought she was a weirdo for the way she’d acted tonight.
He should stay clear. She’d done him a favor.
She didn’t put the keychain in the box with her other . . . items. Instead, she pinned it to her bedroom wall by the door. To remind her. To shame her. What kind of a 53-year-old woman shoplifted?
The week didn’t get better from there.