Author: Kristan Higgins

Well, she wasn’t about to give the mean girls—or Rick—or Liam—the satisfaction of seeing her picked up in front of the Whitfield Mansion. The bathrooms were directly across from the kitchen, and she slipped in through the doors, ignoring the looks from the staff, and simply walked out the back.

It was raining. It might’ve been May, but the temperature was in the low fifties, and before long, her teeth started to chatter. The mansion’s long driveway was bordered by woods thick with dripping pines. Dreading the idea that people coming to the prom would see her, soaked, dress ruined, hair and makeup a joke, Posey chose the woods. Her shoes—her first pair of heels—sank into the muddy ground, and she twisted her ankle more than once. The now-sodden gown flopped around her legs like a dying bird, making her skin raw. How much had her parents spent on this night? Four hundred dollars, maybe, for her gown and shoes and special-order bra, her hair, the necklace and bracelet her dad had given her just last night? They’d been so proud, so excited…and now look.

A car turned into the mansion driveway, and without further thought, Posey leaped behind a tree and crouched down, hating herself for doing it, unable not to. Hiding in the woods in a ruined prom dress, all because Rick Balin had dumped her.

And Rick, she knew with absolute certainty, would never have done that without Liam Murphy first planting the idea.

Nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.

There was a 7-11 on the main road, about a mile from Whitfield Mansion’s entrance. By the time she reached the store, she was shuddering with cold. She fished a quarter out of her purse and deposited it in the pay phone outside and called her brother.

“Henry?” she whispered when he answered. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I need you to come get me. And can you bring me some dry clothes?” Then she started to cry in earnest.

She hid in the potato chip section, dripping onto the floor, until Henry came. Then she changed in the 7-11 bathroom, and her brother took her out to a diner two towns over, and she sobbed out the whole story over a hamburger club with extra fries, from her love for Liam to the comment about Guten Tag’s cleanliness. For once, Henry’s lack of conversational skills was a blessing.

“I’m sorry, Posey,” was all he said. But he reminded the waitress that she’d need extra mayo on the side and didn’t protest when she told him they needed to stay out till past eleven, knowing that Max and Stacia wouldn’t be able to stay awake that long no matter what.

“You can’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?” Posey asked as they pulled in front of their house. Their parents’ windows were dark.

“Okay,” he said. Then he hugged her—such a rare event—and waited till she was showered and in bed before going to bed himself, just in case she needed anything. The next morning, she told her parents she’d had a great time, but ended up with a headache, and called Henry to come get her just before the end of the night. They bought it.

Emma called that same day. “I told everyone I was really disappointed you’d gotten sick,” she said, her voice horribly kind. “I told them what a great friend you’ve been, and it was just crappy luck that you got one of your migraines. But also that you were totally cool about Rick and Jess. You were only in it for the dress anyway, right?”

Posey understood. Emma was using her popularity as a shield, and if anyone was going to make fun of Posey, they’d suffer her disapproval. Not that anyone would really believe the story. But back at school, no one openly made fun of Posey, and though she’d been dreading hearing echoes of Liam’s words, she wasn’t subjected to them again. She stopped going to Sweetie Sue’s for ice cream, because she just didn’t want to see the pity in Emma’s eyes.

She didn’t see Liam until five days after the prom, at the restaurant, where for the first time ever, he initiated conversation. “Heard you got sick at the prom.”

Why would he talk to her now? “Yeah.”

“You okay now?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was calm and cool.

Then she packed her books, told her parents she’d see them at home. For the last month of her sophomore year, she told her mom she was better able to do her homework back at the house. She found herself studying harder, raising her hand more often, walking through the halls with an edge she hadn’t had before. She barely saw Liam, and that August, he left for California.

That moment when she’d crouched behind the tree…it did something to her, something that made her grow up and toughen up. But one question throbbed in her brain for a long, long time. Why? Why would Liam say something so hateful? How could he—who had tamed a stray and starving cat—be so cruel to a girl who had only ever wanted to be his friend?

CHAPTER SIX

“A LOT OF US REMEMBER Liam from way back, of course.” The president of the chamber of commerce stretched her lips in a smile so insincere that Liam actually winced. Maya Chu. Yep. He’d slept with her—or came close, he couldn’t quite remember—back in the day. “So we’re thrilled—thrilled, I tell you—that he’s back. Yeah. Super to have a new business in this building. So, best of luck and all that, Liam. Here’s to the success of Granite Motorcycle Garage or whatever.”

Grand openings were just not his thing in general, but being introduced by a woman who clearly wanted to stick a pin in his eye—or some other soft part—kind of put a damper on things. But the garage looked great—all the machinery set up and gleaming, a few cool bike designs, matted and framed, hanging on the wall. In the far bay was the big Chevy truck and trailer he used to pick up and deliver bikes, his logo stenciled on the side. And there, right in the middle of the garage, currently being fawned over by a dozen or so people, were two custom bikes he’d built in California and his own special-edition Triumph.

But Nicole was supposed to have come right after school, and she wasn’t here. And wasn’t answering her phone. As he shook hands and accepted congratulations, he mentally reviewed her schedule. Lacrosse practice on Monday and Tuesday, debate team on Thursday…nothing on Friday. So where was she?

“Hi, I’m Bruce. Bruce Schmottlach. I met you at Guten Tag the other night, remember? I also taught band at the high school, though I don’t think I had you. You played guitar, right?”

“Right,” Liam said, surprised. “Thanks for coming.”

“So, I was out for a run the other day,” Bruce said, “maybe six, seven miles out of town on Cemetery Road, and some future organ donor flew past me on a Harley, must’ve been doing over a hundred miles an hour, no helmet. That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Liam answered, glancing again at his phone. Still no return call or text from Nicole. “I wear a helmet. And I don’t ride a Harley.” Or any bike, since the accident.

“Okay. Well, whoever it was, he’ll be dead soon, and the world will be a little safer. Oops, my wife is giving me the sign. Nice seeing you, son.”

“Same here, sir.”

The man wasn’t the only one with an elephant-like memory. In the weeks since he’d been back, he’d heard from seven women who remembered him from high school and wanted to take him out for a drink for old times’ sake. He’d run into at least that many women who seemed to want to knee him in the balls, including Maya Chu, who kept shooting him the Slitty Eyes of Death.

Just about every business owner in the downtown had come to his grand opening. The Osterhagens, the woman from the yarn shop (how she paid her rent was a mystery to Liam. Yarn? How much yarn would you have to sell to make a living?), Rose, the owner of Rosebud’s, the local bar, who’d made a pass at him last week…the guy from the bookstore.

“Is this your bike?” asked a woman about his age. Redhead, short hair, gorgeous. And not interested in him, if his gaydar was working properly. He felt his shoulders relax a little.

“That’s my bike,” he answered. “A 2009 T100 50th Anniversary Bonneville Triumph. All the glamour of old, all the comfort of today.”

“Pretty gorgeous,” she said. “Lola! We should get a bike, don’t you think? I’m Kelsey, this is my partner, Lola, and we run the bakery down the street.”

“Great bagels,” he said.

“Thanks. Lola, doesn’t this place make you want a bike? We’ve been talking about it for a while. You could make us matching rides, couldn’t you?”

“I sure could,” Liam said, smiling. See? Not every woman hated him or wanted to do him. He should find more lesbians to hang out with.

“Let’s do it,” Lola said. “You’re right, babe. Life is short.”

“Shorter if you ride a motorcycle,” someone said. Ah. Mrs. Osterhagen. “But Liam, you’ll be careful, right? You don’t want to die in some horrible accident and leave that beautiful girl of yours an orphan. Poor thing’s suffered enough.”

Liam found his shirt was suddenly clammy, and his heart was squeezing in painfully slow, crushing beats. “Speaking of my daughter, I have to, uh, check in. Back in a flash.”

He ran into his office and called her cell. Voice mail, damn it. “Nicole, this is your father. Where are you, honey? It’s the grand opening, I was hoping you’d be here. Call me.” Then he called their home phone and left the same message.

He took a deep breath. He’d give this opening about ten more minutes; then he had to find his daughter. The second he left his office, a woman pounced. “Hi, Liam. Long time no see.”

Oh, shit. Another one. “Hey. How are you?” he said, wracking his brain for a name, a memory. Nada. Maybe because he’d lived in so many places, maybe because he’d been away for almost twenty years, but hell, he just didn’t have the same recall as Bellsford residents seemed to.

“So, I couldn’t help thinking about that time in Mr. Bowie’s history class, you know?”

“Um…yeah. Sure.” Nope, still nothing. But obviously he’d gone to school with this woman, even if she looked fifty—three chins, lank hair, those weird square glasses that made women look like they wanted to kick something.

“So, maybe we could grab a beer sometime, catch up? I’m divorced. No kids.”

“That’s really nice of you, but my daughter needs a lot of…you know…time. And attention.”

“Sorry about Emma, by the way.” She lifted her skinny eyebrows—We’re both single, get it? Sorry, his ass. For all her popularity in high school, women didn’t seem to miss Emma all that much. Well. Cordelia Osterhagen had gotten all teary-eyed. That had been…sincere.

“So, how about it, Liam? I still have that tattoo you-know-where.”

Eesh. “I have to run. Nice seeing you,” he said. He went out into the garage and cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, guys, thanks for coming and checking out the place. Um…we’re available for motorcycle repair, customizing your existing bike or building you something from scratch. Great seeing everyone. I’m sure we’ll run into each other around town. Thanks again.”

“Oh, and Liam, if you don’t mind…” Max Osterhagen stood on a crate. “Tonight, folks, as you might know, Guten Tag is welcoming back our wonderful niece, Gretchen Heidelberg, also known as the Barefoot Fraulein from TV! So please come by, open bar, lots of great food, and stay till you’re stuffed! And meet our famous and beautiful niece!”

At the mention of “open bar,” the garage began to empty. Finally.

One more call. But his daughter, his baby, his precious angel, the one thing he’d done right in his entire life, still wasn’t answering. “Nicole, it’s me,” he said trying to sound calm and authoritative and not in full-blown panic. “I’m on my way home. Call me if you get this. Be there in a sec.”