Read Online He Belongs With Me by Sarah Darlington - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Darlington
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flip their shit when they see it.”
Steph giggled at my use of profanity. For some reason, she always found it hilarious when I tried to swear. “Yeah, but isn't that the reaction you want?”
“No, actually it isn't. I mean it's cool if people like it, but really I just want to do what I want to do and not be judged.”
Speaking of being judged…I checked my phone for the first time since arriving in New York and saw that there were three missed calls from Dad’s number. By now he'd probably used his fancy surveillance equipment, the kind that had facial recognition or something crazy like that, and figured out it was me who went joyriding all over his precious golf course last night. I'd be mincemeat come Monday. The only way to soften the blow was to come clean beforehand. I dialed the house phone instead of his cell and hoped no one would answer. I'd rather admit my crimes to the soft voice of the answering machine than to Dad's harsh, real-life yelling.
When the machine picked up, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and said what I needed as fast as humanly possible. “Dad. It's Clara. So last night, after seeing my wonderful ex-stepbrother in the flesh, I decided to blow off some steam and took off with a golf cart. Big mistake, I know. Just ask Leo, since I kind of accidentally ran him over. Don't worry, he's not dead. And your cart is fine too. That's not all. I'm in New York visiting my friend Stephany from school. I'm being safe. I already told Anita I couldn't work. And I'll be back Monday morning to face the music. I love you. Oh, and one more thing. I dyed my hair lavender. Okay. Bye.” I hung up feeling like the worst daughter on the planet. Maggie would never pull this kind of crap with him. But I wasn't Maggie—not even close.
CHAPTER 7
MAGGIE
Dad and I ate dinner out on the back patio like we always did in the summer. Sometimes Clara joined us. Sometimes she didn't. Either way, I always loved this time with Dad and never missed a meal. My old man was the best cook in all of Blue Creek—probably in the whole state.
Every September at the Harvest Festival in Roanoke, Dad always took home the ‘best pie in southern Virginia’ award for his apple pie. His big secret: grilling the apples before baking them into the pie. But tonight, as the sun sank over our view of Blue Creek and the Appalachian Mountains and my father plated a heaping portion of his famous pie onto my plate, I suddenly lost my appetite.
“Something bothering you, Maggie May?” Dad asked, noticing the change immediately. “Is something wrong with the pie?”
I shrugged.
“Should I go get some vanilla ice cream? Pie isn’t pie without vanilla ice cream.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Dad reached out and rested his hand over mine. “Was it seeing Robby again?”
Yes. A lump formed in my throat at the mention of his name. It shouldn’t have but it did.
“Let me go get you a scoop of ice cream to go along with your pie, then we can talk.” Dad’s chair scraped against the wood of the deck as he stood before going inside. The reality of seeing Robby again after so many years hadn't had the opportunity to sink in until this very moment. Our first encounter came rushing back to me as if it had happened yesterday…
Three days after my fifteenth birthday, two hours after Dad announced his surprise marriage to Monica Harvey, and ten minutes after I managed to stop sobbing hysterically into my pillow, I first laid eyes on my step-brother, Robby Harvey. From my cracked-open bedroom door, I watched him move his one suitcase into the room across the hall from mine, like he'd done this sort of thing a dozen times in the past. Just before he went back downstairs, he stopped in the middle of the hallway to speak to me. Realizing then that he'd caught me peeking, I quickly shut my door.
Still he spoke. “I'm so sorry,” his deep, smooth voice whispered. “We won't be here long. My mom has a gypsy heart and never sticks around
Steph giggled at my use of profanity. For some reason, she always found it hilarious when I tried to swear. “Yeah, but isn't that the reaction you want?”
“No, actually it isn't. I mean it's cool if people like it, but really I just want to do what I want to do and not be judged.”
Speaking of being judged…I checked my phone for the first time since arriving in New York and saw that there were three missed calls from Dad’s number. By now he'd probably used his fancy surveillance equipment, the kind that had facial recognition or something crazy like that, and figured out it was me who went joyriding all over his precious golf course last night. I'd be mincemeat come Monday. The only way to soften the blow was to come clean beforehand. I dialed the house phone instead of his cell and hoped no one would answer. I'd rather admit my crimes to the soft voice of the answering machine than to Dad's harsh, real-life yelling.
When the machine picked up, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and said what I needed as fast as humanly possible. “Dad. It's Clara. So last night, after seeing my wonderful ex-stepbrother in the flesh, I decided to blow off some steam and took off with a golf cart. Big mistake, I know. Just ask Leo, since I kind of accidentally ran him over. Don't worry, he's not dead. And your cart is fine too. That's not all. I'm in New York visiting my friend Stephany from school. I'm being safe. I already told Anita I couldn't work. And I'll be back Monday morning to face the music. I love you. Oh, and one more thing. I dyed my hair lavender. Okay. Bye.” I hung up feeling like the worst daughter on the planet. Maggie would never pull this kind of crap with him. But I wasn't Maggie—not even close.
CHAPTER 7
MAGGIE
Dad and I ate dinner out on the back patio like we always did in the summer. Sometimes Clara joined us. Sometimes she didn't. Either way, I always loved this time with Dad and never missed a meal. My old man was the best cook in all of Blue Creek—probably in the whole state.
Every September at the Harvest Festival in Roanoke, Dad always took home the ‘best pie in southern Virginia’ award for his apple pie. His big secret: grilling the apples before baking them into the pie. But tonight, as the sun sank over our view of Blue Creek and the Appalachian Mountains and my father plated a heaping portion of his famous pie onto my plate, I suddenly lost my appetite.
“Something bothering you, Maggie May?” Dad asked, noticing the change immediately. “Is something wrong with the pie?”
I shrugged.
“Should I go get some vanilla ice cream? Pie isn’t pie without vanilla ice cream.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Dad reached out and rested his hand over mine. “Was it seeing Robby again?”
Yes. A lump formed in my throat at the mention of his name. It shouldn’t have but it did.
“Let me go get you a scoop of ice cream to go along with your pie, then we can talk.” Dad’s chair scraped against the wood of the deck as he stood before going inside. The reality of seeing Robby again after so many years hadn't had the opportunity to sink in until this very moment. Our first encounter came rushing back to me as if it had happened yesterday…
Three days after my fifteenth birthday, two hours after Dad announced his surprise marriage to Monica Harvey, and ten minutes after I managed to stop sobbing hysterically into my pillow, I first laid eyes on my step-brother, Robby Harvey. From my cracked-open bedroom door, I watched him move his one suitcase into the room across the hall from mine, like he'd done this sort of thing a dozen times in the past. Just before he went back downstairs, he stopped in the middle of the hallway to speak to me. Realizing then that he'd caught me peeking, I quickly shut my door.
Still he spoke. “I'm so sorry,” his deep, smooth voice whispered. “We won't be here long. My mom has a gypsy heart and never sticks around
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