“Hey,” I say, clenching the object in my hand, while my heart beats like hummingbird wings. “Good morning.”
She rises to her elbows, giving me another view of that thin cotton shirt she sleeps in. This time she’s not cold though, her skin pink and warm. Her breasts strain against the tight, thin fabric, and my body reacts accordingly.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s homecoming,” I say, suddenly feeling foolish. “And I couldn’t do one of those big public proposals, like writing your name in cupcakes on the football field, and I couldn’t go grab you after the big win last night and kiss you under the goalposts.” I lift up the flower, a big, fat, orange Gerber daisy I bought down at the market that morning on my run. Her eyes soften when she sees it. “I can’t give you a corsage tonight, or walk in with you on my arm, the kind of thing that lets everyone know that you’re taken, that I’m taken, but I want you to know that you’re mine. And I’m yours, even if only four people know it.”
She lifts a hand out from under her blanket, revealing the pale skin of her stomach and tiny shorts low on her hips. Her hand slides down my cheek and across the back of my neck. I swallow, letting her make the move, pulling me forward, and when our lips meet, it’s like a dam breaks.
Her mouth is as warm as her body, her lips soft. My body hums being close to her. It’s all I want, all day, every night, but I’m playing it as cool as I fucking can to earn her trust. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer—to her bed.
“Lie next to me?” she asks.
I hesitate, because that’s not why I came here, but I’m eighteen and my body pumps more blood down than up. I kick off my shoes and climb in, engulfed by her warmth. Immediately I sense a difference in the way she touches me, the way her body responds. Her hands, her hips, her mouth. It’s more forward, more engaged, less timid.
I suspect it has something to do with the matching shit-eating grins she and Ozzy wore all last night.
Something’s changed.
“There were a lot of years I thought about you coming in that window. First as a friend, then different—more like a fantasy. I don’t think I ever really thought it would happen.” Her hand presses against my lower belly, and I lean my head back into the pillow, willing self-control.
Fuck it.
I roll into her, ready to respond with my mouth, my hands, my body.
Fate has other ideas.
Both our phones vibrate at the same time, chirping identically. We both freeze—accustomed to this kind of warning—the alert to something bad. The last thing I want to do is stop, but our eyes lock, and we know there’s no putting off reality.
She reaches to her bedside table for her still-charging phone. I pull mine out of my hoodie pocket and read the message.
Ozzy: Just posted on Janice Hill’s ChattySnap feed.
A link follows.
We shift to a sitting position, bodies side by side, and I open the app and click on the link. It’s a new report, Janice Hill standing in front of the Thistle Cove Stadium. Bright lights and purple and gold marking homecoming celebrations.
Janice holds the microphone close as she speaks to the camera. “Friday night proved that traditions, not tragedy, rule the small town of Thistle Cove. The undefeated varsity football team easily won their game, taking them one step closer to securing a region win and moving on to the state finals. But floats,
parades, and touchdowns can’t mask the grief that’s consumed the community for the past month. Reminders of what—and who--they’ve lost with the disappearance of Thistle Cove Sweetheart Rose Waller hit especially hard on a night like tonight.”
The camera cuts to the fifty-yard line, where I’m forced to see an image of myself next to Mr. and Mrs. Waller. The whole thing was a blur—I’d hardly been paying attention. Mr. Waller spoke about community strength and Mrs. Waller, Regina, linked her arm with mine, holding on like I was a life preserver. In her free hand is a bouquet of pale pink roses, in honor of her daughter. I know Kenley left during the halftime program, so she watches it now with narrowed, studious eyes.
“You’re kidding,” she says, mostly to herself as the camera pans to a makeshift shrine down on the track. Rose’s megaphone and pom-poms, complete with picture. Mrs. Waller leans the bouquet against the megaphone. “God, that’s…”
“Too fucking much.”
She nods. “No wonder Juliette was wasted last night."
The camera shifts to Mr. Baxter. “When Rose went missing, I offered a reward for information in helping find her. I’m now changing that reward of ten thousand dollars into a scholarship fund for troubled young women in the Thistle Cove community.”
“Ezra Baxter’s generous contribution is just one of the things that makes Thistle Cove an amazing town.” Janice says, comes back on screen. “The past and present continue to meld in this thriving community. Football victories, a centennial celebration that’s bringing alumni back into focus.”
A flash of Waller, Chandler, and Baxter standing by the endzone, hands fisted, showing off their state rings.
“But events like this remind us that Rose isn’t the only teenager that’s suffered a terrible fate in this town. We’ve been reminded of Jacqueline Cates, another young woman that went missing one fateful night. She was found days later, strangled and beaten, left for dead by the side of water’s edge.” Janice turns her camera on Chief McMichael. “Chief, what can you tell us about this nearly thirty-year-old cold case?”
He looks her in the eye. “Not much, but if anyone has any information about a crime, we’re always open to hearing about it.”