The Locket (9 page)

“That would be great,” I said, sounding way too eager. But man, would it be nice to have one of “my” people backstage.

“Then we could hang out and make fun of all the rhinestone denim.”

I laughed. “Surely there won’t be rhinestone denim.”

“Oh you
know
there will be. Mrs. Pruitt thinks she’s country music royalty because she had that one-hit wonder back in the seventies,” Sarah said, digging her keys out of a hobo bag nearly as big as she was. “The denim will be copious and the rhinestones plentiful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to suffer through that alone. You have to do it.”

“Perfect.” She smiled. “I’ll tell her I’m in tomorrow. Talk soon.” Sarah gave me a quick hug and started toward her car, but twirled back around almost immediately. “Oh, and I was going to tell you—Mitch is inside.”

“Oh?” I hesitated for a second, my hand lingering above the door handle before I remembered I had no reason to be nervous about seeing Mitch today. “Good.”

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t look too good. I said ‘hi,’ but . . .” Sarah shrugged. “Maybe he would want to talk to a friend.”

“You’re his friend.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Not his best friend.”

Cheesy or not, the words made me feel warm all over. “Got it. I’ll check on him.” I waved goodbye and headed inside, grateful to still be able to call Mitch my “best friend.”

The locket had done that, given me that gift. It was silly to worry about little things like a cracked mirror in the girls’ bathroom or a new sign outside the coffee shop. The things that mattered were all the same, and the locket was just stuck, not “trapping” me. It was Gran’s necklace. She would be able to help me take it off when she got here.

In the meantime, I was going to stop stressing. There was nothing to fear but fear itself. And denim and rhinestones.

The thought made me smile as I scanned the cozy, wood-paneled room for Mitch, but my smile vanished when I spotted him. He seemed nearly as upset as he had the first time we’d lived this day, when the tragedy of our ruined friendship had hung around him like a dark cloud, making his brown eyes look bruised.

My stomach twisted. I rethought the wisdom of dumping a peppermint mocha on my already tumultuous tummy and headed straight for Mitch’s table.

Chapter Six

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 3:54 P.M.

T
here’s something intimate about watching someone when they don’t know you’re looking. Even though I was standing two feet from his table, Mitch didn’t notice me, and for some reason I didn’t feel the need to announce myself right away. I sort of liked watching him like this, seeing him unguarded, without the goofy faces and crazy, funny Mitchell Birnbaum persona in full effect.

He looked . . . softer, older and younger at the same time.

He was humming beneath his breath while he scratched away in a battered red notebook, the same one he’d used for his songs since tenth grade. His writing wasn’t much better than the names carved hastily into the scarred table beneath his hands. I wouldn’t have been able to read a word of what he’d written, even if I’d been looking at the page right side up.

As far as penmanship was concerned, Mitch was on track to becoming a doctor just like his dad. His grades were great too, and he’d already finished a handful of college courses over the summer—things like college-level chemistry and statistics that frightened me with the size of their textbooks—and received early acceptance to the pre-med program at Vanderbilt.

Mitch was brilliant, the kind of person who was meant to heal people and cure diseases. Too bad he didn’t seem nearly as excited about doctoring as his dad. I knew he would have preferred to spend his last summer before graduation writing songs and playing with his band, not locked away in a Vanderbilt classroom.

Maybe that was what was bothering him.

“Coffee for your thoughts,” I said.

Mitch jumped and slammed his notebook closed, blushing like he’d been caught doing something far more scandalous than writing a song. “Katie, what are you doing here?” He squinted up at me and took a deep breath, irritation marking the place between his eyes with a checkmark.

“Getting a coffee. I saw you and I thought . . .” I suddenly felt bad for intruding. Maybe Mitch didn’t want company, or at least not
my
company. “But I can sit somewhere else, I don’t want to bug you.”

“You’re not bugging me. Sit down.”

“No, really, it’s not a big deal.” I was still getting the vibe that he would rather I hadn’t shown up.

It was weird, considering how much fun we’d had yesterday, and for a second my anxiety about the locket returned in full force. What if Isaac and Mitch
weren’t
the same? What if, in this new world, Mitch—who had been like me and
never
wanted to be alone—preferred to have coffee by himself?

“Whatever, dork. Sit down, already.” He smiled his usual goofy grin and shoved the chair across from him out with his foot. “You can have the rest of my mocha. I shouldn’t finish it, I’m hyped enough already.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just get some water in a second,” I said, easing into the chair and dropping my bags onto the floor, my nerves soothed. Mitch was happy to see me and was trying to share beverages. It was unusual only in the fact that it was
his
drink he was offering to share instead of
mine
.

“Really, I don’t mind. And it’s peppermint, your favorite.”

“You don’t want to share, trust me,” I said. “I just upchucked in the trash can down the street. I brushed my teeth, but—”

His smile faded. “Are you okay?” He reached out to brush the back of his fingers against my forehead, obviously not concerned about catching my puke germs. “You don’t feel hot, but do you want me to take you to my dad’s office? He’d get you in right away.”

“I feel fine now. I think it was just the pizza.” I sat back, breaking contact. For some reason, the feel of Mitch’s hand on my forehead was making me blush. “Too greasy or something.”

“But you never throw up.”

“I know.”

“You hate throwing up.”

“I know.”

“So what kind of puke was it?” he asked. “The ‘all of a sudden you throw up and feel better’ kind or the ‘sneaks up on you and—’”

“Ugh. Stop.” I swallowed hard. “Can we not talk about this? Please?”

He grinned. “Sure, if you’ll have my drink.”

“Fine.” I took the still warm mug and turned to stare at the CDs framed on the wall. They were from bands who’d recorded right here in Brantley Hills, but some of them were also names that showed up at the Country Music Awards. It was pretty inspiring, and I knew it was one of the reasons Mitch liked to come here. “So how’s the writing going?”

“Good. Sort of.” He laughed. “Not really. I think I stink like socks.”

“You do not! ‘My Menorah’ is one of my favorite songs of all time,” I said. “Really. It’s way better than the Adam Sandler song.”

“Thanks,” he said, but I could tell I hadn’t really made him feel better. “I should just stick to the funny stuff. That goes over better at the kind of places we play anyway. Bar mitzvahs aren’t a good staging ground for angsty ballads.”

“Well, ya’ll could try to get more coffee shop gigs, or maybe one of the all-ages bars. You’re getting really good.” I took a sip of the drink, grateful for the taste of sugar and peppermint and the extra second or two to figure out if Mitch wanted me to ask him about the reasons for his angst.

“We’re getting better, but Michael and Jared aren’t real into angst either. They want to go more punk rock.”

So he
did
want me to ask. “I’m into angst. What’s angsting you?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. I can tell something’s bothering you,” I said, pushing on when he didn’t reply. “Is it the med-school stuff? Do you not want to go anymore?”

Mitch looked genuinely surprised. “No, I do. I’m excited about it. Just because I’m a doctor doesn’t mean I can’t still play music.”

“Oh. Good.” Well, there went that theory. “So what’s up?”

“Nothing.” He reached for his mug, but I slapped his hand.

“You can’t drink out of this anymore. It has my germs.”

“I don’t care.” He peeled my fingers off the mug with a smile. “I like your germs.”

This conversation reminded me way too much of the one I’d just had with my boyfriend. Heat crept up my fingers to infect my cheeks. I was blushing again, and way too aware of Mitch’s hand on mine. This was ridiculous. He was my
friend
. The memories that were making me blush had never happened. I had to get a grip.

I released the mug and shoved it in his direction. “Fine, but if you get sick, don’t come crying to me.”

He grunted before he took a sip. When he set the cup back down on the table, his chin stayed down and his hair flopped down into his face. “Okay, but can I come crying to you today?”

I fought the urge to reach over and take his hand. He sounded so sad. “I told you to tell me what’s bothering you, doofus.”

“Yeah, I know . . . It’s just . . . I feel like an idiot. Like some dumb little kid who doesn’t want to share his daddy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lauren and Dad set a date.” He looked up, swiping his hair behind his ear as he pushed the mocha back to my side of the table. “They’re getting married in February.”

Wow. Mitch’s dad had only been dating Lauren a few months, and she was the first woman he’d dated since Mitch’s mom died
twelve
years ago. Poor Mitch, no wonder he was upset.

“And he’s planning to adopt Ricky,” Mitch added with a sigh.

“Ricky?”

“Yeah . . . Ricky.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You know, Lauren’s little boy? The two-year-old you helped me babysit last week?”

“Oh. Right! Ricky.”

Oh, no. It was happening again. Something was different, something a whole lot more serious than reading
The Scarlet Letter
instead of
The Firm
. Mitch’s dad was adopting a child who hadn’t even
existed
in my previous life. My mouth went dry and my tongue suddenly felt thick and numb, but somehow I managed to sound semi-normal when I spoke again. “Sorry, yeah . . . I just . . . spaced.”

“It’s okay. It’s because it’s weird, isn’t it?” Mitch asked, leaning closer, his intensity making the table feel smaller. “They’ve only been together a few months and getting married would be crazy enough. But adoption is
huge
. I mean, Ricky is so fun and I know his dad is dead and I feel for the kid, but . . . it just seems like too much.” “Yeah. I . . . It really does seem like a big decision to make so quickly.”

My stomach clenched again, but I forced down another drink of coffee. I wasn’t going to be sick. This wasn’t the end of the world. It was different, but it didn’t have to be
bad
different. Dr. Birnbaum and Mitch had been on their own for a long time. Dr. Birnbaum had to be lonely.

Marriage was a big step, but the few times I’d met Lauren, she’d seemed great. And now she had a little boy who needed a dad and a family. I obviously didn’t remember the babysitting Mitch had said we’d done, but I knew how great he was with kids. Mitch would be the best big brother in the world and his dad wouldn’t have to be all alone once his only son went away to college next fall.

This could be a good thing. A great thing, even.

“But . . . Lauren’s pretty cool, right?” I asked, treading carefully.

“Yeah, she is. Especially for a lawyer.”

“And your dad cares about her? And Ricky? They make him happy?”

Mitch sighed, a guilty sigh that let me know I was headed in the right direction. “Yeah, he does . . . and they do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad smile so much.”

“So . . . maybe this could be okay. I mean, you won’t be living in the house after next summer anyway, right?”

“No way.” He shook his head, sending his hair flying. It was getting so long. It would be down to his shoulders by winter break. I really liked it and was glad the school had finally done away with the boys-must-have-short-hair part of the dress code. “I don’t care if Vanderbilt is only twenty minutes away, I’m not living with Dad another year.”

“Then what are you bitching about?” I flicked him on the back of the hand, keeping my tone playful, just in case he was still feeling fragile.

“I don’t know. It’s just happening too fast, I guess. And Lauren’s only thirty-five.” He flicked me back, but not nearly as hard.

“Your dad’s only forty-something—”

“Forty-two, and I don’t care.” Brown eyes rolled and his lips quirked up on the left side, like they always did when he was trying not to smile. “Thirty-five is way too young for a live-in stepmom. What if I see her in her underwear or something?”

The light dawned, making me laugh. “You think she’s pretty, don’t you?”

“No. Gross, no way.”

“You do. You totally do.” I laughed again. “You want to see your stepmom in her undies!”

“Whatever.” He grabbed the mug away from me, downing the last of the contents in one big gulp. “She’s just too young to be a stepmom to an eighteen-year-old, that’s all I’m saying. And she’s so different than my real mom.”

His real mom.
Of course
that was part of this. The first Mrs. Birnbaum had been pretty amazing—a med-school student who played in a country band on weekends and started teaching Mitch guitar when he was four. I felt like I’d known Mitch’s mom, even though she’d died in a car accident before we’d moved into Gran’s house. Mitch had never stopped talking about her.

“Well, no one’s going to be like your real mom.”

“I still miss her,” he said, staring into our empty mug. “Almost more now than a couple of years ago. Maybe it’s just because of graduation getting so close.”

“Graduation is big,” I said, wishing I could think of something better to say. “It’s like the end of being a kid.”

“I can’t believe I’m eighteen and she’s been gone for twelve years.” He lifted his brown eyes and I felt my heart break a little bit. “It seems like forever.”

At that moment, he looked eerily like the little boy I’d found crying on my swing set. The one I’d patted on his back and asked to supper at my house. I’d been five and sure my mom’s cooking could solve anything. But it couldn’t bring back Mitch’s mom. Nothing could.