Beach Thriller(23)
Holly looks sad. “My mother died a few months ago—more like three months and seventeen days, not that I’m counting.” She offers a faint smile. “It’s not the same as what you’re going through, but I understand what it’s like to lose someone close to you.”
She hugs me. It’s a little awkward, but also … kind of nice. Hugs were a scarce commodity in my house.
Holly doesn’t know any stores that sell a necklace like mine. I head upstairs to change into the pajamas she gives me, neatly folded and smelling freshly washed.
When I come back down, Holly does a double take, like she’s seeing a ghost instead of a scrawny seventeen-year-old in pink floral jammies. They’re definitely not my style, but I don’t think they look shockingly bad on me.
“Those belonged to my sister,” she explains. “She passed away as well, but a long time ago.”
I want to know more. Was she sick? Was there an accident? But Holly doesn’t offer, and I get the sense she doesn’t want me to pry.
* * *
The next morning, Holly is down in the basement doing laundry while I sip coffee in the living room with Chester on my lap. I’m surprised to feel so at home. Last night, I slept like the dead.
Something tells me that Holly is grateful I’m around. I’m like a remedy for loneliness, a diversion from her troubles. I don’t know exactly what troubles she has, but she’s got them. There’s a weightiness about her, one I can relate to. Either way, I don’t think she’ll be kicking me onto the street anytime soon, so I can relax a little.
Holly is still downstairs in the basement, but she left the door open. I can’t help but overhear as she takes a phone call.
“Really, Dan? I can’t even afford my shampoo,” she says.
Who’s Dan? There’s a pause. “Sorry, but I like good-quality shampoo—you know, the organic kind, cruelty-free and vegan.” Another pause. “Well, I’m fucking delighted Head and Shoulders works for you, but that’s not really my point, is it?” Pause again, then Holly huffs in exasperation. “No, I haven’t started a thriller yet.”
I light up. I love thrillers. I imagine us turning a corner of the living room into an office. Holly types away while I edit her work. Then, voilà! We become the authors of next summer’s biggest read! Okay, she’s the author … but the point stands.
Holly trudges upstairs, laundry basket in hand, to find me with Chester, curled up in her comfy chair, reading a book I found lying around.
“I need to ask you something, Jade,” she says. Her tone is officious.
Uh-oh. “Shoot,” I say.
“Are you being honest with me? About your parents, your aunt, why you came to Beauport, all of it? I need to know the truth if you’re going to stay here.”
I take a deep breath, centering myself. I fix her with the most pointed, unwavering, convincing stare I can muster.
“I swear,” I say, my voice as steady as a steel beam. “Unfortunately, it’s all true.”
* * *
A few hours later, I head toward the boardwalk, happy it’s within walking distance. I hit the local pharmacy with a goal in mind. It’s a typical chain and not too crowded. Most shoppers are families with sick kids or beachgoers who forgot their sunscreen.
I wonder if Holly and I will enjoy a day at the beach together—that could be fun. I can count on one hand the number of beach trips I took with my parents. There’s nothing like living by the ocean, inhaling the salty air, and feeling the sea breeze in my hair. It’s a dream come true.
For a moment, I dare to believe that anything is possible. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and how wild is it that I’m staying with a published author? We even shared some laughs over breakfast. No doubt, we’ve come a long way since the broomstick incident. I was surprised how smoothly our conversation flowed. It’s as if we’ve known each other our whole lives.
I’m so grateful she’s letting me stay with her, which is why I can’t ask for money as well. But I have super painful cramps, and I’m in desperate need of Advil. I could offer to work around the house for some cash, but based on the call I overheard, Holly can’t even afford quality shampoo. Nope, I’m on my own—as usual—so I have to be resourceful.
When another cramp hits, my guilty conscience creeps into the back seat. I prepare to do what has to be done—steal.
Shoplifting isn’t exactly rocket science. I don’t need a degree in criminal behavior to get what I want. I just need guts, determination, and very fast fingers—all of which I have in abundance. I give myself the usual justifications: The system is unfair to people like me. Inflation makes it hard to afford the basics. Corporations, like the pharmacy chain I’m stealing from, exploit workers. They also fuel the opioid crisis and overcharge insurance companies. Sorry, not sorry.
My old therapist would label this type of thinking rationalization, but it tamps down my guilt, though not my anxiety. That’s a good thing. A little case of the jitters before breaking the law keeps you on your toes. The cocky criminals are the careless ones, and I can’t afford to make mistakes.
I march down the cold and flu aisle, trying my best not to draw attention to myself. Go figure, the dusty carpeting makes me want to sneeze. A familiar tickling overwhelms me, but I manage to stifle the urge.