“I don’t, Justin. I really don’t,” I sigh, and there is a moment of doubt on his face. Just for a moment, before it’s replaced with determination. He takes his coffee and leaves. I’m surprised he isn’t scared I poisoned it—I totally should have. Or at least, I should have put some salt in it—it would serve him right.
Marina returns from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes troubled. “That’s new. What was he doing here?”
“He came to apologize.” I cringe. Yeah, it didn’t go so well.
“What for?” A wrinkle appears between her brows.
“He came to my place yesterday and was an asshole.”
“I knew the tiny-whiny was the one to blame for your nonexistent eyes today.” She stares after Justin, probably cursing his next ten generations. “How does he know where you live?”
“That is a very good question. I thought maybe you told him.”
"What?" Now she looks offended. "You think I'd give him any information about you?" She shakes her head. "I hate that boy for how he treats you and wanna smack him stupid every time he opens his mouth." My eyes water and I squeeze her arm. She nods and goes back to the kitchen. "Maybe there's a reason why he acts the way he does." She sees my shocked expression, throwing her hands up in defense. “All I’m saying is that maybe somebody told him some shit. That’s all. Good people of Little Hope are known to be nosy fuckers sometimes.”
My hackles smooth out. She might be right, but it’s not like I haven’t tried to talk to him to figure out the problem so we could resolve it like grown people.
We're swamped for the next couple of hours, and I forgot about Justin's visit. Marina's the best breakfast chef our small town has ever known, and she became quite famous in the neighboring towns as well. Especially after the fire, as drama tends to attract people more than a well-built marketing strategy. We should really thank the psycho who set the place on fire. Besides that, as I’ve mentioned before: the diner needed some serious upgrades; even for a small town in Maine, it was as outdated as Donna’s blue eyeshadows. I should probably mention all of that to Freya one more time just to be sure that it’s imprinted on her brain because that woman still feels responsible for all the bad days in Little Hope.
At about eleven o’clock, Freya stops by. She floats in on the cloud of happiness of a thoroughly fucked woman, orders her usual Lonely Kurt, and sits at the bar.
“So.” A small smile appears on her face as she tries to hold my gaze, widening every time I look away nervously.
“So?” I parrot, perplexed.
“I heard Justin wanted some breakfast this morning.” She wiggles her eyebrows, smirking at me.
“Fucking small town,” I growl, grimacing, and she laughs.
“Yeah, that’s what I keep saying, but nobody’s listening.” She rolls her eyes, shoulders slumping. “So why did he come?” She asks, suddenly sitting tall in her seat, eyes sparkling with diabolical curiosity.
I look around to make sure nobody’s listening. “He came to apologize.”
She just blinks at me. “Justin? Came to apologize?”
“Yeah, color me surprised too.”
“W-wow,” she stutters. “I’m actually sort of proud of him for that.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist until you know what he apologized for.” She leans closer and motions for me to continue. “He came by my place yesterday.”
“How does he know where you live?” Her eyes look worried.
I spread my arms. “The question of the century.”
"You know I'd never tell him, right? After my history with men, there's no way I'd throw somebody under the bus like that. Especially not you. And especially knowing your history with Justin and his… weird obsession with you.” Freya’s eyes dart around as if she’s slipped something she wasn’t planning on.
"I know. And I wouldn't call it 'obsession.'" Her brows furrow at my words. “What about Alex?”
“He wouldn’t do it for the same reason. He sees the way you interact, and he wouldn’t say a word about your home where you feel safe.” Her eyes cloud with concern. “You know, sometimes I’m a little scared of Justin, to be honest. He kind of gives… aweirdvibe, maybe? You know, like he can feel… what's the right word for that? Too intense, maybe?" She bites the inside of her cheek, thinking. "And no one knows what will happen when he lets himself feel all that. Does that make sense?” She looks at me, hoping I’ll understand. And I do.
“It totally does. I know what you mean. Yesterday, when he was at my place, I was a little scared of him, to be completely honest.” I answer quietly, glancing around to make sure no one hears me.
“Did he do something?” Her voice rises, and she leans closer over the counter with murder in her eyes.
“Nothing to be concerned about, but it was intense.Hewas intense.” I comically widen my eyes.
“You’ll tell me if he does something you’re not comfortable with. Right?” Her eyes are burying into mine, holding them hostage, waiting for my confirmation. As a woman who went through hell, she’s trying to make sure no one goes through the same ever again. “I don’t care if he’s my friend. That shit will not be tolerated. So you’ll tell me. Right?”
