Escaping Perfect (16 page)

I stalked into the diner and walked right up to Fiona, who was chatting with one of the other waitresses. She tried to turn away when I approached, but I caught her arm.

“Fiona, come on. There has to be something we can do to get past this.”

“Oh, really?” she fumed. “Does there? I've been trying to get Jasper to notice me forever, and then you just swoop in and steal him away. Thanks, but no thanks.”

She turned and shoved open the swinging door to the kitchen, which almost hit me in the face when I went to
follow. I caught it with the heel of my hand at the last second, sending sparks of pain up my arm and into my elbow. By the time I made it into the kitchen, she was slamming the door of the employee bathroom behind her. The lock clicked, and I deflated.

So much for the direct approach.

I was about to turn around and go when the small TV on the wall caught my attention. I knew I should look away before the news got any worse, but I couldn't. Because this time my dad was on the screen.

He wasn't front and center. That was my mom's natural position. But he hovered just behind her shoulder, and he looked haunted. There were bags under his eyes that I'd never seen before, and his hair seemed grayer around his ears. He stared directly into the camera as my mother spoke, but there was a distance in his gaze, like he wasn't really there. My mom had about fifty microphones shoved into her face.

I'd never seen my father look so distressed. So . . . shattered. Not even at Gigi's funeral.

But it was an act. It was all for the cameras, just like everything else in my parents' lives. It had to be . . . right?

“Honey, if you're out there and you can hear me, just come home,” my mother said, her voice cracking at the
perfect moment. “We love you, no matter what. We just want to know you're safe.”

“That poor woman,” one of the line cooks said. “To have an ungrateful daughter like that.”

My heart twisted. She was such a fake. Such an awful, horrible liar. I was sure everyone watching that broadcast saw a heartbroken mother, issuing an emotional promise. But all I heard was a threat.

Chapter Sixteen

Sometime during my meditation
the next morning—which was really not supposed to be spent thinking about such things—I realized I still hadn't paid for the boots Shelby had thrust upon me, and that fact didn't sit well with me. She'd basically handed them over as if they were some kind of payoff for staying away from Jasper, which I clearly hadn't done, and I needed to fix it. Plus, in all the chaos that my mind had become—worrying about my mother, about Jasper, about Fiona and Duncan—it was nice to have a clear-cut task to focus on. Something I could actually accomplish and put to rest. I got up, got dressed, and walked right over to Second Chances.

I glared at the stark black-and-white painting on the Book Nook's wall as I passed it.

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE.

I had started to sort of love the painter of these daily missives, but today he or she could suck it. The truth, in my case, would put me right back into solitary confinement.

My hand was on the door handle at Second Chances when I saw the
HELP WANTED
sign in the window. It was hand-drawn in big bubble letters decorated with glittery flowers. My pulse skipped ahead as I gazed through the glass at the racks of pretty clothes, the rhinestone jewelry twinkling in the sunlight. It all seemed so peaceful compared to the diner.

But then, did I really want to trade Fiona and Duncan's hostility for Shelby's? How had I made so many enemies when I hadn't even been here ten days?

I yanked open the door and stepped inside to the sound of tinkling bells. Tammy was behind the counter, placing a plate of lemon muffins atop the glass.

“Hey there, Fiddler!” she said brightly. “In the market for more sundresses?”

“Actually, I'm in the market for a job,” I said, gesturing over my shoulder at the window. “Can I fill out an application, or—”

Tammy's dark eyes widened. “No. You can't.”

“Oh.” My heart sank. “Thanks anyway. Forget I asked. I'll just—”

“No! I mean, you're hired,” Tammy said, waving her hands in a gesture of apology. “Can you start right away? Because old Mrs. Shilling just cleaned out her closets again and I have a whole mess of new stock to organize.”

“Really?” I could barely contain my excitement. “Yes! That would be awesome.”

“Well, then, awesome!” Tammy exclaimed. “Come on back and I'll show you the stockroom.”

I walked around the counter and into a long, tight closet that was filled to overflowing with clothes. There were shelves marked
HOLD FOR CUSTOMER
,
TO BE STEAMED
,
TO BE DRY CLEANED
, and
DONATE!
Shoe boxes were shoved in every available corner, and a pile of hats teetered precariously on an old chintz chair.

“Wow. This is—”

“Wait a minute.” Tammy's voice turned stern as she stared down at my feet. I was wearing the cowboy boots I had come here to pay for. The moment I'd seen the
HELP WANTED
sign, I'd completely spaced on my mission. “Did you pay for those?”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. How could she have possibly known I didn't pay for these boots? There was no computer in the store. No discernable security system.

“Um, no,” I said, reaching into my pocket for some cash. “That's actually what I came over here to—”

“Good,” Tammy said. “Consider them a signing bonus. Now let me show you what I need you to do.”

I felt such a rush of relief I thought I might pass out. Tammy steered me toward the back corner of the room, where brown bags filled with rumpled clothes had been tossed on the floor. As she explained about checking for stains and wrinkles, how to sort what needed cleaning and what just needed to be pressed, I realized how blissfully quiet it was. Aside from my new boss's voice, there was nothing but the faint rustle of fabric when she pulled out a skirt, or a click of button to button as she lifted a blouse.

There were no order-up bells, no shouting diners, no plates crashing to the floor. And best of all, there wasn't a TV in sight.

*  *  *

The clothes! The clothes Tammy had stashed in her stockroom were divine. Every other garment I picked up and unfolded just begged to come home with me. Going through the bags was like taking part in a treasure hunt. And hanging the clothes just right, feeling the soft fabrics slip through my fingers, doing up the tiny pearl buttons or straightening a ­collar . . . it was all so satisfying. After years of being forced into pleated skirts, button-down shirts, conservative turtlenecks, and straight-legged jeans, this was like a dream come true. I even found
myself arranging some of them into outfits on the racks. A plaid bolero jacket with a graphic T-shirt, a pair of chic crop pants, and a funky taxi-driver cap. A little black dress with a fuzzy white cardigan and a chunky faux-pearl necklace. A silk jumpsuit with stiletto heels and a glittery clutch. It was such fun I didn't even notice the time passing.

I wished Jasper was there so I could show him what I'd done. Maybe my dream was to be a stylist, or a buyer, or a designer. All I knew for sure was that in that tiny room surrounded by those beautiful things I felt at peace for the first time in two days.

“Wow, Fiddler! These are stunning!”

Tammy's voice startled me. I turned away from the jeans I was folding and saw her checking out my lineup of outfits.

“You think so?” I asked, my face warm. “I was just messing around.”

“No! This is fabulous. You have a great eye,” she said, touching the sleeve of the cardigan. “I think I'm going to put this one up in the window.”

“Really?” I said, grinning. “I'm so flattered.”

“Don't be,” she said. “Be proud. You have a real talent.”

As she lifted the outfit from the rack, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to throw my arms around her. Proud. When was the last time anyone had told me to be proud of
anything I'd done? My eyes actually prickled, even as I realized how idiotic I was being. I'd put together an outfit. No big accomplishment. But somehow Tammy made it feel better than getting a big, fat A.

She came back from the front of the shop carrying the green dress that had been in the window.

“I think that'll do it for your first shift,” she said. “So what did you think?”

“I had so much fun,” I said, placing the jeans I was still clutching on the shelf behind me. “Thank you so much for hiring me!”

“No, thank you. Really, Lia. I think you're going to be a great fit here,” Tammy said with a confident look around the stock room. “If you're free, you can come back on Monday, same time.”

“Sounds great,” I replied, though in the back of my mind I knew I had a shift at the diner on Monday. I decided right then and there to walk over and tell Hal I was moving on to another job. It had been in the back of my mind all day, but now I was officially sure. I couldn't keep working with people who hated me, and I was much more comfortable at Second Chances.

“Take a muffin on your way out!” Tammy called after me.

So I did, gratefully, carefully tearing little bits off and
popping them in my mouth as I walked down the street. I wondered what Jasper was doing right then and wished I could call him. But it was probably better that I couldn't. I didn't want to be too clingy. And besides, I was feeling better somehow. More secure. There was no way my mother was going to find me in the back room of a tiny consignment shop in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. I was safe in Sweetbriar. This was my home.

I walked into the diner through the back door and found Hal at his desk to the side of the kitchen. He was writing tiny numbers on tiny lines inside a huge ledger.

“Hal?” I began.

He looked up, his normally bright eyes tired. “Hello, Lia. Are you on today?”

“No. I actually came to . . . tender my resignation,” I said. It sounded so much better than “quit.”

“Oh. That's too bad.” He turned a page in the ledger and ran his finger down a column of numbers that had my name printed at the top. Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the lockbox where he kept petty cash. He counted out a wad of bills and handed them to me. “Good luck, wherever you're headed.”

That was it? He wasn't upset with me? He wasn't going to beg me to stay?

“I'm not headed anywhere,” I said. “I just got another job.”

His thick eyebrows rose in surprise. “Huh. I figured you for a pit-stopper. Figured you were off to New York or California or something.”

I shook my head, clutching my money in one hand and what was left of my muffin in the other. “Nope. I'm staying right here in Sweetbriar.”

Hal nodded, and I wasn't sure if he was impressed or disappointed. His gaze trailed over his desk and he stopped to stare at something. I couldn't tell what.

“Is everything okay?” I asked him.

“What? Yeah. Yes. It's just, have you noticed anything wrong with Fiona lately?” he asked. “You two are friends. Maybe she told you something? She won't talk to me about whatever it is, but she seems so depressed.”

My whole rib cage caved in on me. Little did he know that I was the reason she was depressed. “No,” I replied, feeling seriously crappy. “I don't know what's going on.”

“Well, I'm glad you're staying,” he said, forcing a smile. “The more friends a girl has that she can trust, the better.”

*  *  *

On my walk back to the apartment, the muffin sat in the pit of my stomach like a brick, but I tried to give myself a pep talk and reclaim my positivity. Fiona wasn't any angrier at
me than she had been this morning when I was feeling better about things. All that had changed was that I now knew it was affecting her father. But somehow I couldn't get him out of my mind. The concerned expression on his face. He really cared about his daughter. About how she was feeling. And then I saw my own father's face. The way he'd looked on the TV yesterday. Was he really worried about me—or was he worried about what this was doing to my mom and their public image?

But what if he was
really
hurting? Because of me?

I didn't want to think about this. For years I had hoped and wished for a real relationship with my father, but every conversation cut short, every dismissive glance, every formal reply to an e-mail had crushed those hopes a little bit more until I'd finally closed myself off to the possibility. If only to protect myself. I couldn't start believing in him now. Not now.

I shoved open the door to my apartment and froze. On the front page of
OK!
magazine, which was right in the middle of the kitchen counter, was a picture of me and my parents. It was a photo that had hung, framed, on the wall of my bedroom at home my entire life. Originally published in the
New York Times
, it was an image of my mother and father sitting on a couch, holding a bundled-up baby with a pink
cap on her head—me. My parents were glowing. My mother looked genuinely happy and for once was looking at me and not the camera.

It was my favorite picture of us, and of course I couldn't even remember where or when it was taken. And suddenly I couldn't look at it for one second longer. Britta's cell phone had been tossed onto the nearest couch, and I could hear her banging around in her bedroom.

“Hey, Britta! Can I borrow your phone for a sec?” I called out.

“Go crazy,” she replied.

Inside my room I locked the door behind me and clutched the phone in both hands so tightly I was surprised it didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces. As sure as I'd been that Sweetbriar was my new home, I suddenly felt a burning need to get the hell out of here. To start running and never look back. Luckily, the one person who was keeping me here was not, in fact, here. At least not at the moment.

I perched on the edge of the bed and lifted the phone. Luckily, Britta had Jasper's number in her contacts list. My fingertips left tiny sweat prints on the screen. Jasper picked up on the first ring.

“Britta?”

“No. It's me.”

“Oh. Hey, you,” he said, his voice warm. “I was hoping you'd call.”

“Yeah? Good. Want some company down in Nashville?”

There was a pause. “Are you kidding? Of course. Get your sweet butt down here.”

That was all I needed to hear. “I'm on the next bus.”