She Loves You, She Loves You Not... by Julie Anne Peters Page B

like me.
    At the house I strip and shower. The grape juice soaked all the way through, staining my bra and the front of my shorts, so I gather a load of wash and take it downstairs.
    I open the laundry closet and reach up for the detergent. Then I see this box shoved under the bottom shelf. I don’t know why I pull it out or open it.
    Yes, I do know: I’m a snoop. I plop on the cold tile floor and remove the first item. A tiny pink knitted cap. The next item: a pair of baby pajamas with little pink flowers. A frilly dress. The whole box is filled with baby clothes.
    This warmth flows through me from head to toe. She kept my baby clothes. I must’ve meant something to her if she kept my baby clothes. Right?
    I go through everything in the box. There are sizes from zero to three months, on up to eighteen months.
    Eighteen months is almost two years. Dad said she left when I was a baby, but eighteen months means she was there for nearly two years of my life.
    I feel uplifted. Elated. She didn’t just take off, the way Dadsaid or led me to believe. How many more lies did he tell about her?
    I’m still smiling inside when I go upstairs and fix myself a salad.
    I sit on the balcony and imagine her dressing me in all those baby clothes. Pink. Ugh. I hate pink. Was I walking by then? Talking? Did she teach me my first words and witness my first steps?
    Why do I have no memory of her? People block out painful events in their past, so maybe that’s what I did when she left. But she saved reminders of my babyhood.
    I suddenly remember I need to go shopping for shoes. Indoors, I find the business card Carly gave me and call her cell. She doesn’t answer, and the call goes to her voice mail. I leave her a message: “Hi. It’s me. Um, Alyssa. If you get this, or when you do, I really need to go shopping for work shoes. I thought maybe you could take me. We could go together. Anyway, call me. I guess you know the number.” I hang up. Idiot, of course she knows the number.
    I wait twenty, thirty minutes. Naturally, today of all days, her cell is off or she’s not answering. Maybe she’s with a, uh, client. It reminds me of sitting around anxiously waiting for Sarah to call. Will everything always remind me of her?
    I can’t wait anymore. I’m old enough to go buy my own shoes.

Chapter
10
    I have to drive through Majestic to get to the turnoff for Breckenridge or Dillon. The digital clock on the dashboard says it’s quarter to three. I hate shopping alone and wonder what time Finn gets off at the Emporium. Since it’s on Main Street, and I have to pass by anyway, I pull to the curb and stop.
    Nothing’s going to happen, I tell myself. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and God knows I need a friend. Finn’s working the front desk. A mom with three little kids is babbling away while Finn bags a bunch of picture books. Finn looks so serious. She rings up each sale on an old adding machine, concentrating on punching in the prices. One of the little kids toddles toward the door, and the mom shouts, “Come back here, Isaac!”
    I chase him down, sweeping him into my arms. He reminds me of Paulie when he was little, with his mop of reddish-blond hair and cherubic cheeks.
    The mom says, “Oh, thank you,” as she takes him from me.“You’re—” Her eyes slit. “Let’s go, kids.” The woman backs off like I’m a biohazard.
    I know loathing when I see it.
Excuse me for contaminating your space.
    She grabs the book bag, spilling half the books, and Finn has to hustle after her to the door. I hear the woman say to Finn, “A guy’s been in a couple of times asking about the Concours.”
    Finn’s spine stiffens. “Does he want it?”
    “He keeps coming in to look at it.” The mom scans me out of the corner of her eye, shifting the baby as she shoulders the book bag.
    “But I put a deposit down,” Finn says. “A big one.”
    “Times are tough, Finn. If someone walks in with cash, we’ll have to sell