Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Adelaide
Istay at the café long after Zander leaves.
In some manic bout of inspiration, I find myself scribbling pages upon pages in my bright pink notebook.
I don’t have all the research together for book four—I cannot tell you how hard it’s been to dive into everything Camp X when the mission itself was hidden from the public—but as of right now, I do have the romantic plotline.
On my way home, I stop by The Dam Drunkard and grab a personal pan pizza.
I add it to my food haul; the two remaining pastries Zander and I didn’t finish at the café.
All I want to do is go home and type my notes into my laptop, then maybe get some more words in.
My brain is overloaded in lusty feelings so I know I can get a good romantic scene on paper.
This is further solidified when I get to my front door and find an envelope tucked under the cork doormat I painted with multi-coloured daisies.
I bite back a smile as I pick it up, recognizing Zander’s messy printing from when he signed my book last week.
Wanting this moment for myself, I shuffle over to the white iron bench on my porch, place my food boxes down, and flatten my skirt as I sit.
I run a finger along the seam and slip a piece of Peggy Browning’s stationery out of the envelope.
A giggle escapes me at the cute vines of ivy bordering the paper.
I hold it out and squint like an old lady so I can actually read it without digging in my tote for my glasses.
Silly Goose, it reads.
I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking about you and I needed you to know you’re on my mind.
I know it’s been brief. I understand you may not feel the same.
I just wanted you to know I think you’re the ray of sunshine I need in my life.
I won’t ask you to check yes or no, but Lucy and I would love to have a date with you at your earliest convenience.
Message me when you get this, so long as I haven’t scared you off.
Zander
I find myself grinning at the paper. No one has ever written me a love letter. Or a like letter, I guess. I laugh as I note the postscript.
P.S. I’m not a stalker. Gran told me the big yellow house is yours. Hope it is. Disregard this weird letter if someone other than Adelaide lives here.
I fish around in my tote that reads Buy Me Books and Tell Me I’m Pretty until my fingers land on my phone. The muscle memory from the past week takes over as I scroll to Zander’s contact.
Adelaide
Idk, I think you might be a stalker
I see the three dots of his impending response, but my front door opens before it comes in. My phone’s screen goes dark and I shove it into my tote. Willow steps onto the porch. She glances down at the mat, then over to me. I stand.
“Were you expecting something?”
“Yeah, you,” Willow says and slinks back into my house.
I debate staying on the porch and avoiding whatever terrible mood she’s in today, but as a mosquito bites at my ankle, I decide I’ll have to grin and bear it.
I’ve changed a lot about this house; made it my own.
But the one thing I will never touch is the stained glass in my front door.
It’s nothing special, just pastel geometric shapes instead of a plain, frosted window, both on the door and framing the door.
It’s welcomed me home every day since I was a child.
And it’s welcoming me home now as I step into uncertainty.
I sigh as I drop my keys into the bowl next to the front door.
Stepping into my front foyer is like stepping into a little piece of my mind.
Or, at least, what I try to project as my inner world.
It’s bright and colourful, full of patterns and flowers and pieces of art I’ve created with my own two hands.
It makes me happy and that’s all that matters.
Willow, however, is offended by everything I change within these walls.
The days of the house being beige and boring are days I will never go back to.
Willow waits for me in the kitchen. I place my pizza down on the counter, then duck into my photo-covered fridge to give my pastries a home.
When I turn around, she’s inspecting my pizza.
She scoffs and drops the lid, leaving it ajar.
It’s a basic pepperoni pizza, albeit pretty greasy and with stuffed crust, but there’s no need to insult it.
“Did you need something from me?” I ask, sliding a piece out of the box.
She licks her lips and pauses, as though she has terrible news she simply can’t bear. I fold my pizza and tip it into my mouth, holding a hand underneath my chin to catch any mess. And still, she says nothing, just studies me.
“Okay, don’t hate me,” she says.
I chew, thoughtfully. “What’d you do?”
The last time Willow started a conversation like this, she admitted to trashing my mailbox, having run over it with her car. I still don’t know if it was intentional. She replaced it with an ugly bronze box, same as the one I replaced when my dad gave me the house.
“Nothing. It’s not about what I did.” A corner of her mouth ticks up, then she bites her bottom lip. “You have no idea, do you?”
I drop my pizza onto the box’s lid and lick sauce from my thumb. A smug Willow is never a good Willow.
“Out with it.”
I can see how hard she’s trying not to grin. She’s positively shaking with knowledge that I don’t yet have. Her blue eyes glisten, rounded cheekbones strain at the force of the devious smile she finally lets through.
“That guy you’ve been hanging around with? The one the whole town’s gossiping about?” she says with a giggle. “He went to prison, Addie.”
“What’re you talking about?”
But even as I ask it, I can hear Simon’s voice in my brain. I hadn’t so much as thought of his comments all afternoon. Until now.
“Jail. Locked up. The slammer.”
“Yeah, I got it. You don’t have to throw synonyms at me.”
“Honestly, Addie, you’re all into history and research, but you can’t do it here? I literally just looked the guy up.”
I wrinkle my nose. The dig shouldn’t sting, but it does.
I do pride myself on my research capabilities.
Yet all I did with Zander was scroll through his sparsely populated Instagram.
I saw his books and events; saw comments from readers praising his writing and his looks.
Nothing raised a giant red flag for me. Maybe there wasn’t one.
Maybe his prison stint was some sort of misunderstanding.
Or maybe I’m seeing what I want and not what really exists.
“Okay,” I say while trying to get my thoughts straight.
I look down at my half-eaten slice of pizza. My appetite is gone, but I raise it to my lips anyway. I need something to do. The mix of dough and cheese feels heavy in my mouth and I nearly gag.
“Don’t you want to know what he did?”
“No,” I say automatically. Force it out around a swallow even though I’m not sure I want to stay in blissful ignorance. “No. I don’t.”
She scoffs. “Don’t be so na?ve.”
“I’m not na?ve. I just don’t want to take your word for a story that isn’t yours.”
“Isn’t that what you do for a living?”
I drop my crust into the box, pick it up, and stuff it in the fridge.
We’re not doing this. I’m not hearing this story while Willow takes some strange glee in it, and I’m not getting insulted in my own home.
I reach into a phantom pocket of my dress, aiming for my phone, but all I get is the ridges of my own crochet.
Because of course I didn’t put pockets in this dress.
So instead, I leave the kitchen and head back the way I came. Willow’s footsteps fall evenly behind mine. I want to scream. I debate the ever-present idea of kicking her out, but I’m not letting her win by knowing this topic bugs me. I care for Zander and I don’t want to admit that to her.
I yank my tote bag off the bench I made under the stairs.
The light pink top complements the forest green of the wooden banisters, brought together by the floral wallpaper I painstakingly tacked up in this little alcove.
Willow stops dead behind me, nearly tripping.
She rights herself by grabbing hold of the angled ceiling, flipping her dyed-red hair from her face.
I don’t let myself linger on her hair often, but I’m already annoyed enough.
The fact that she took my photo to her out-of-town hairstylist and asked for the exact same shade is such a piss off.
She wants to be me. And I know how that sounds. I know it makes me seem extremely self-centred, but it’s been the truth since we were kids. It just took me about twenty years, her moving in with me, and several attempts at ruining my life to see it.
“What?” I ask, shouldering the tote.
“I don’t know why you’re walking away. This is about your own well-being.”
“Really? It’s not just some weird, sick game you’re playing?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not playing any game. I’m just saying he is not a good guy and you shouldn’t be with him. Believe it or not, I actually think you’re better than him.”
“Well, thank you. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I see him.”
I brush past her and head for the stairs. I need to lie face down on my bed for a bit. Maybe I’ll be able to regain my writing mojo if I get away from her.
But she doesn’t give up easily. She follows me, once again, and when she realizes I’m not giving in, she heaves a great sigh.
“He almost killed someone.” I freeze on the fifth step. “That’s why this is so important.”
I turn toward her slowly and am met with exactly what I expect. The joy on her face, with the relaxed pull of her posture, is criminal. It sends a shiver through my entire body.
“What?” It’s the only word I can manage to get out.
“He gave someone permanent brain damage. He went to jail for two years.” Once again, that corner of her mouth quirks. A quick flash before she schools her features into a mask of indifference. “Which is not enough time, in my opinion.”
I exhale in a huff. I try to reconcile this news with the image I have of Zander in my brain. The soft spoken, watchful, sweet man I know. I can’t picture him in that state of violence.
“Okay. Thanks.”
I don’t give Willow the satisfaction of a big reaction. I just go upstairs. It’s the longest walk to my room I’ve ever had. I close the door quietly behind me and lean against it.
What am I doing?
Why don’t I believe her?
I find my phone and stare at it. Texts from Zander litter the screen. I don’t know how to respond to them. I don’t want to look him up, even though I know I should. I don’t want to believe Willow, but she wouldn’t be saying this if there wasn’t something I could find.
Zander’s sent me three messages, one joking along with me and the other two filled with anxiety over the fact I might not be joking. This man nearly killed someone?
Adelaide
Hey, can we talk tomorrow?