Page 41 of Haunted

“Why would I be a—oh. No, I’m not a flight attendant,” he says.

“Well, we absolutely have to get together. Girls night. I’ll call Deedee and Tamara.”

His back straightens. “I don’t know these people. I’m sorry, but I won’t have time to catch up. I really have to go now, so—can I pay, please?” That last word has an edge to it that could cut glass.

As she runs his card, she notices me hovering behind him.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, I get it. You’ll be busy.” She winks at him.

“Excuse me?”

“No, nothing. Just, you know. Reunion with your old flame.”

“With who? With Lance Broussard?” His voice is incredulous. “Are you kidding me? Why would you think that?”

She looks over his shoulder at me and gives him a look so smug and condescending I catch myself eyeing the harpoon on the wall. And she isn’t even leering at me. “Well,” she says, and arches her eyebrow, like she’s caught him out.

“I haven’t heard from, talked to, or thought of that clown in almost a decade.”

I absorb that. Nine years, and I’m “that clown.”

“Mmhmm,” she says. It’s a single, condescending sound, and even though a second ago I was bleeding from being “that clown,” her certainty that Jonny Bishop has spent the past ten years scribbling my name in his diary makes me furious on his behalf.

“Krista, I just want my food.”

“I’m sure you’ll be eating well tonight.”

His self-control snaps. Not loudly. His voice barely rises. But frustration radiates from every line of his back. “What is wrong with you? I didn’t even graduate from Farley. I don’t go by Parker. And I don’t want to reminisce about the good old days when my family were incinerated in their fucking car. I just want to get my food and eat in peace. Is that so much to ask?”

Oh hell. Krista’s exactly the sort to make a tearful scene and then sit on the sidelines while strangers tear apart her victim. I watched her do it in high school. Even now, I can see her eyes narrowing, calculating the angle that will make her the wronged party.

I put my hand on Jonny’s shoulder. It sends a ripple of electricity from my fingers straight up my arm.

He rounds on me. For a fraction of a second his face opens—not shock, not anger. Humiliation. Raw and total, and it shatters and re-forms so fast I almost miss it.

“Is it the catfish that brought you back home or the coleslaw?” I say. “For me, it’s always been the hush puppies.”

He stares at me. Then he grabs his bag of food and walks out.

“Jonny!” I push through the front door into the parking lot, where he’s already unlocking a gray Mazda. The food is sitting on the roof. He’s got the door open and one foot in the car.

“What the fuck?” he says.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

He peers at me like I’ve said something in a language he doesn’t speak. “I’m fine,” he says, in a voice that could rip me apart.

He goes to get in and I push the door closed. “You don’t sound fine.”

He grabs the food off the roof and glares at me. “Since I have come back to this place, I’ve been stared at like a zoo animal, cross-examined like a witness for the prosecution, and invited to walk, traipse, skip, and stroll down memory lane. I didn’t need you to handle that for me. I can handle it myself.”

“I know you can. I just didn’t want you to have to.”

He snorts. “I’ve been on my own, taking care of myself for a decade. I can manage some passive-aggressive twat-waffle without you jumping in to save the day. As always.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Please just fuck off, Broussard.” He wrenches open his door and slides himself and his food into the seat.