Read Online How to Knit a Heart Back Home by Rachael Herron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachael Herron
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she’d been waiting for her entire life.
“Lucy,” he’d whispered raggedly. “I never . . .”
He’d known her name. He knew her. “What?” she said, breathless.
Then the overhead light snapped on.
Whitney Court, dressed in a pale pink strapless dress with lots of tulle, danced into the room, camera flashing. “Smile, kids, this is history in the making!”
Lucy watched Owen’s face go from completely unguarded to totally closed and spitting furious in the space of half a second. It was frightening, like watching a lightning storm move in over the ocean.
Whitney was still snapping pictures, the flash bouncing around the room, making Lucy’s head hurt. She couldn’t smile. Probably shouldn’t smile. More people had followed Whitney into the room, kids laughing, carrying red plastic cups full of the toxic punch.
“What the fuck , Whitney?” snapped Owen.
“We heard you were in here with an A student, just wanted to document it for posterity,” she trilled. “Don’t worry, darlin’, it’s all in fun.”
Owen’s eyes met Lucy’s for one desperate instant, and for that one second Lucy was sure that he’d felt the same thing that she had, that his heart had been beating as hard as hers, with the same amount of passion that wasn’t just lust stirred by youth and hormones, but by something more.
Lucy covered her mouth with her hand and ran out of the bedroom just as Owen said, “Whitney, you’re a fucking bitch.”
He followed her out of the room and into the living room, Whitney on his heels.
And there, in the middle of the party, in the living room, where the only kids who hadn’t witnessed her humiliation had been, if not dancing, then swaying to the music, Lucy threw up, splashing Randall Lawson with green punch and bile.
Giggles followed, laughter turning to full-blown drunken roars. It would be legend by Monday morning and carved in stone by her senior year. Lucy’s head spun. Her eyes felt wobbly, and her legs followed suit as she stumbled outside into the front yard, desperate to go home.
“It was the lead photo in the Moments We’d Like to Forget section of the yearbook. Whitney submitted it. Me, in my fuchsia net dress, vomiting all over the outgoing seniors, the juniors watching. Me, with a whole year to go. I still can’t believe they printed it.”
Molly’s cup was suspended halfway to her lips. “But what about Owen? He took you home? And?”
“Oh, yeah. He took me home, all right. He put me in the front seat of his blue Mustang. Held my hand all the way to my house. I sat there praying for the courage to tell him that I loved him, that he meant everything to me, but instead I worried too much that he’d try to kiss me when I’d just thrown up, so when he pulled up, I ran inside and slammed the door. He left the next day, left town completely and pretty much never came back. Never called, never left a note. . . .”
“ Vile .”
Lucy took a sip of her latte and shrugged. “I thought so at the time, but really, we were just kids. Right? But you can see why I was—”
“So madly in love with him? Oh, yeah. You’re in trouble, for sure. And . . .” Molly leaned sideways so that she was looking just to the left of Lucy.
“What?” asked Lucy.
“You might want to . . .”
Lucy turned, but she already knew. The front door was still swinging, and Owen was three bar stools down from them. He leaned forward, one hand on the top of the bar, the other stuck in the pocket of his black leather jacket that looked as well-worn as his jeans.
Her heart rattled like the dice in the cups Jonas carried toward them.
Jonas thumped them down in front of Lucy and Molly. “Wanna play?”
Molly shook her head. “I always lose at Bullshit. Which is ironic, because I’m so good at it in real life.”
“Nah,” said Lucy. “Too rich for my blood.” Then she waited for Jonas to go back and serve Owen.
Instead, Jonas started washing glasses.
Owen took his other hand out of
“Lucy,” he’d whispered raggedly. “I never . . .”
He’d known her name. He knew her. “What?” she said, breathless.
Then the overhead light snapped on.
Whitney Court, dressed in a pale pink strapless dress with lots of tulle, danced into the room, camera flashing. “Smile, kids, this is history in the making!”
Lucy watched Owen’s face go from completely unguarded to totally closed and spitting furious in the space of half a second. It was frightening, like watching a lightning storm move in over the ocean.
Whitney was still snapping pictures, the flash bouncing around the room, making Lucy’s head hurt. She couldn’t smile. Probably shouldn’t smile. More people had followed Whitney into the room, kids laughing, carrying red plastic cups full of the toxic punch.
“What the fuck , Whitney?” snapped Owen.
“We heard you were in here with an A student, just wanted to document it for posterity,” she trilled. “Don’t worry, darlin’, it’s all in fun.”
Owen’s eyes met Lucy’s for one desperate instant, and for that one second Lucy was sure that he’d felt the same thing that she had, that his heart had been beating as hard as hers, with the same amount of passion that wasn’t just lust stirred by youth and hormones, but by something more.
Lucy covered her mouth with her hand and ran out of the bedroom just as Owen said, “Whitney, you’re a fucking bitch.”
He followed her out of the room and into the living room, Whitney on his heels.
And there, in the middle of the party, in the living room, where the only kids who hadn’t witnessed her humiliation had been, if not dancing, then swaying to the music, Lucy threw up, splashing Randall Lawson with green punch and bile.
Giggles followed, laughter turning to full-blown drunken roars. It would be legend by Monday morning and carved in stone by her senior year. Lucy’s head spun. Her eyes felt wobbly, and her legs followed suit as she stumbled outside into the front yard, desperate to go home.
“It was the lead photo in the Moments We’d Like to Forget section of the yearbook. Whitney submitted it. Me, in my fuchsia net dress, vomiting all over the outgoing seniors, the juniors watching. Me, with a whole year to go. I still can’t believe they printed it.”
Molly’s cup was suspended halfway to her lips. “But what about Owen? He took you home? And?”
“Oh, yeah. He took me home, all right. He put me in the front seat of his blue Mustang. Held my hand all the way to my house. I sat there praying for the courage to tell him that I loved him, that he meant everything to me, but instead I worried too much that he’d try to kiss me when I’d just thrown up, so when he pulled up, I ran inside and slammed the door. He left the next day, left town completely and pretty much never came back. Never called, never left a note. . . .”
“ Vile .”
Lucy took a sip of her latte and shrugged. “I thought so at the time, but really, we were just kids. Right? But you can see why I was—”
“So madly in love with him? Oh, yeah. You’re in trouble, for sure. And . . .” Molly leaned sideways so that she was looking just to the left of Lucy.
“What?” asked Lucy.
“You might want to . . .”
Lucy turned, but she already knew. The front door was still swinging, and Owen was three bar stools down from them. He leaned forward, one hand on the top of the bar, the other stuck in the pocket of his black leather jacket that looked as well-worn as his jeans.
Her heart rattled like the dice in the cups Jonas carried toward them.
Jonas thumped them down in front of Lucy and Molly. “Wanna play?”
Molly shook her head. “I always lose at Bullshit. Which is ironic, because I’m so good at it in real life.”
“Nah,” said Lucy. “Too rich for my blood.” Then she waited for Jonas to go back and serve Owen.
Instead, Jonas started washing glasses.
Owen took his other hand out of
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