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  My stomach dropped. I appreciated his offer, but that now meant I had to confront George and give him the news. And if his wife was the killer, that would put me on her hit list. I started to feel dizzy and flushed, like the wine had gone straight to my head even though I’d only taken two sips. “And if he’s the killer?”

  “Then you’ll have me to protect you.” He mopped up some sauce with a spare scrap of tortilla. “But let’s not make any plans until I’m sure I can get the car.” He took a sip of his wine and perused the track list like it was a menu at a fancy restaurant. “I don’t know half of these,” he confessed. “But the Smiths track is a nice touch. A classic in the pining genre, if I do say so myself. I think I put that on a mix tape I made the girl I sat behind in History.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Nope,” he said, blushing a little. “If I recall correctly, she threw the tape at me in the lunchroom, called me a loser, and walked away laughing with her girlfriends. Haven’t thought about that sting in a while.”

  I poured a little more wine in his glass to balm the pain. “We’ve all been there,” I said. “Dan DeRosier, like most seventh-grade boys, wasn’t exactly thrilled by the mix tape I gave him before our field trip to Hersheypark. I found it stuck in a fence with all the tape unwound.”

  Now it was Sid’s turn to refill my glass. “I’ll drink to that,” he said. “Cheers—to all the great music no one understood. Their loss.”

  “Eh, it wasn’t so great,” I admitted. “I think it had Sting’s ‘Fields of Gold’ on there. I wasn’t quite as sophisticated a listener as I am these days.”

  “I love ‘Fields of Gold’!” Sid argued. “It’s a romantic song!”

  “Oh, Sid,” I said. “Sid, it is so corny! Next you’re going to tell me you like ‘Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman.’”

  “It’s not my favorite, but it’s not that bad.”

  By now I was laughing so hard I could barely speak. “It has a lyric about seeing a woman’s unborn children in her eyes. That’s so creepy.”

  “Oh, so when Peter Gabriel sings it and John Cusack’s standing outside your window with a goddamn boombox, that’s romantic, but when Bryan Adams says it, it’s creepy.”

  “Yes.” I gestured with my glass. “Because Bryan Adams sang ‘Summer of ’69’ and he is gross.” I was ignoring the fact that Catch had put “All for Love” on a mix for me. His memory was not going to darken this perfect moment.

  Sid got up to turn over the record. “I guess I have to erase ‘Heaven’ from your mix tape,” he said, rummaging through the crate. “Maybe you’d prefer something a little lyrically deeper, like ‘This Is the Time.’” He held up The Bridge like evidence at a trial.

  “That’s not fair!” I shouted. “That record was forced on me!”

  “Was it, Miss Bennett? Or are you just trying to cover for the fact that you lied to the good people of Barter Street about your tastes in music?”

  I grabbed the lyrics to “Wither Without You” and held them up. “This song, Your Honor, should prove my innocence,” I said. “Mac forced me to buy that record in exchange for finding out who wrote this song.”

  “A likely story.”

  I wanted to kiss him. The urge came on strong and sudden; we were laughing so hard and his grin was so perfect and genuine and beautiful that I just wanted to grab his face in my hands and kiss him hard.

  But instead, fearing rejection, I snatched the record out of his hands. “And what’s this? Cyndi Lauper cowrote and sang backing vocals on ‘Code of Silence’? What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. McNeill?”

  “I’d say we should finish our dinner,” he said. “I think we’re getting too silly.”

  He went back to the table and I went into the kitchen to cut and plate the lemon tart I’d picked up for dessert. When I came out, he was still standing, reading over the lyrics.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “Like the kind of song you sit by the radio for, hoping your crush will dedicate it to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The last track on KitKat’s mix,” I said, taking a bite of my tart. It was still a little frozen in the middle. “I can’t find it on iTunes or Pandora or anything. Makes me sad that she never got this. I think he really loved her.”

  “With a song like this, yeah,” said Sid. “He deserves a chance to mourn for her.” He took a bite of his own slice and reached over to squeeze my hand. “And you’re the only person who can give that to him.”

  Chapter 20

  ANOTHER SAD LOVE SONG

  Sid poured the last of the wine into his glass and pursed his thin, chapped lips like he was trying to figure out a math problem in the last ten seconds of class. “When was the last time,” he began, his words paced and measured with wine, “you were really in love?” He picked up the tape off the coffee table and turned it over in his fingers. “Love like this,” he said, waggling the tape. “Love that burrows into your gut, breaks your heart, and feels like salvation on Sunday all at once?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in love like that before. Love was always an ache to me, a slow, heavy burn, and I hadn’t loved anyone since Catch had walked out of my kitchen. Even before that, I was never one of those girls who’d gotten giddy counting down the days until a one-month anniversary; I never drew hearts around a boy’s name on the paper jacket of a chemistry textbook. Love always hit me upside the skull like a sock full of nickels in a prison riot, and too often, by the time I got to my feet, the stars that had been circling my eyes were all gone.

  So whether it was the wine or “All Through the Night” or the way he was draping his other arm over the back of the couch like he’d forgotten it, like the spark of a lighter, the urge to kiss him returned, even stronger than before. I wanted to make out with him right here, take advantage of his pleasant inebriation to trick him into loving me, even for just the night, just long enough to fight back the sudden onset of loneliness.

  “I don’t remember,” I breathed, my mouth dry. “You?”

  His mouth split into a dizzy smile. “I’m in love right now,” he said.

  My heartbeat sped up. I ran my tongue across my lips. I waited for a confession that I knew wasn’t coming, staring at him like we were separated by a TV screen. I could whisper love to Paul Rudd, and Ewan McGregor could serenade me alone with “Your Song,” but, like Sid in this moment, I knew that whatever words he was about to whisper were never meant for me. Might as well get it over with.

  “With who?” I asked.

  “My beautiful Cinderella,” he answered, gesturing grandly with his glass. “It’s like high school again—we have these great talks when we’re together, but I just haven’t drummed up the courage to ask her out.” He drank like it would give him that courage. “Soon,” he said. “And I want you to be the first of my friends to meet her. I think you two will get along great.”

  My heart felt like broken glass in my chest. Where the wine made him sentimental, it turned me bitter. Bitter about KitKat and George, bitter about Catch, bitter about Sid and Cinderella.

  “Here’s what I don’t get about love,” I said, changing the subject. “If you love someone, why wouldn’t you be with that person? There are all sorts of shitty songs, like Eagle-Eye Cherry’s ‘Save Tonight’—God, I hate that song—that are all about two people in love having to break apart. Why? Why can’t people who love each other just be together?” I drained the last of my wine in one hard swallow. I wasn’t posing the question to him—I was posing it to George and Catch and every other broken heart turning out a light in some lonely little apartment somewhere in the world.

  Sid sighed and took another drink. “Circumstance,” he said, the glitter gone from his eyes. “I never understood it either until I had to leave Katy behind.”

  “Why didn’t she come with you?” I asked. He’d mentioned his ex sparingly; if anything, it sounded like he missed Shayna, the dog he’d had to leave with his parents, more than he missed he
r. He still kept pictures of Shayna on his phone.

  “It wasn’t love enough, I guess,” he said. “She had her life and I had mine and they just weren’t going to mesh.”

  I stood, grabbing the empty wine bottle and taking it into the kitchen. Maybe my grandmother had an extra one stashed somewhere, a bottle left over from a party I’d forgotten I’d thrown, a housewarming present of Two-Buck Chuck or cheap champagne. “But love is supposed to be simple,” I said, raising my voice so he could hear me from the kitchen. “It’s math. You plus me equals us.”

  I found nothing and buried my face in my hands. After a deep breath I stood up and found Sid standing in the doorway with his coat draped over his arm, our bodies just inches apart.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping tears I didn’t know had formed out of my eyes. “It’s just been a long time for me.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s been a long time for me too.” He cupped my chin in one hand and kissed my forehead. He smelled like cool water and red wine. “But it’ll happen to you the same way it happened to me—when you least expect it.”

  I wanted to swat his hand away. I wanted to slap him across the face. I wanted to put my head on his chest and pound on him with balled fists while I howled with rage. Instead I just stood there with the empty bottle forgotten in my hand. “Don’t go,” I pleaded, lifting my free hand to his chest. “Stay the night. I’ll sleep on the couch and make us breakfast.”

  He shook his head like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I can’t,” he said, closing his hand around mine. “I’ve got someplace I need to be. Some other night, maybe, when we’ve got tomorrow off. We’ll watch The Commish and eat Trader Joe’s baked brie. Promise.”

  She’s So Unusual clicked off as I watched him close the door behind him. My heart felt like a Tom Waits song. My phone rang in my pocket and I had to set down the bottle to answer it.

  “Want to come into Hartford tonight?” Susan asked.

  Sid had left his corkscrew on the dining room table. I swallowed a rock in my throat. “Sure,” I said. “I can be there in an hour.”

  Chapter 21

  TEEN ANGST (WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW)

  I had been asleep for about three hours when my phone rang. When I’d crawled home from Hartford at six A.M., I had been too exhausted to remember to turn it off. I fumbled to send the call to voice mail, but Natalie’s voice came loud and clear over speakerphone. “You want to get some breakfast?” she said. “I’m hungover as shit and I’m, like, two blocks from your place.”

  “Your hangover and my three hours of sleep,” I groaned. “We’re perfectly matched misery.”

  “Put on a party dress and some heels and we can match better,” she said.

  She could get me out of bed, but she wasn’t going to get me dressed. I put on some water to boil for coffee even though my stomach was hollow and jumpy from the three cups I’d had at Hartford. I eyed the two ring Danishes I’d picked up at Key Food because they were buy-one-get-one-free and, with a sigh, cracked open the plastic on the blueberry. She could have a piece of the free one.

  I buzzed her up when she rang and left the door slightly ajar. She was wearing a striped hoodie over a short-sleeved dress that fit her like snakeskin, spike-heeled booties, and morning-after shadows of makeup. When we hugged, I could smell stale cigarettes and men’s deodorant.

  She smirked. “Guitar player,” she said. “I know I keep saying I’ll only sleep with bass players, but this guy was especially hot.” Baldrick rubbed up against her legs. “Aww, is this KitKat’s cat?” she asked, picking him up. “I was wondering what happened to him.”

  “I used to watch him a lot, so I figured he would be used to me,” I said.

  If she was listening, she wouldn’t have been able to hear over the baby noises she was making at Baldrick, who looked at me with increasing distress. It wasn’t until I said, “You want coffee?” that she finally put him down and paid attention to me.

  “Obviously, but I’m not going to be seen with you dressed like that,” she said, pointing to my Michael McDonald T-shirt and sushi pajama pants.

  “Good, ’cause I’m not going out,” I replied. “Today you dine at Café Jett.” I put the Danish and our coffee cups on a tray, carrying it with one arm while I held the full French press with the other hand.

  She rolled her eyes but poured a cup of coffee anyway. I added milk and sugar to mine and took a small sip. I wanted to be awake enough to talk to her, but not so wired that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep when she left.

  “Have you been out to see Bronco?” she asked.

  I nodded and took a too-big bite of pastry. I had to chew for a minute before I answered. “Few days ago. You?”

  “I’m heading up later today,” she said. “Been busy planning the benefit—part of the money will go to his bail, the rest we’re going to use to start a scholarship in KitKat’s name. That’s the tough part, all sorts of paperwork to fill out, shit like that.” She ate her own piece of Danish and licked frosting off her thumb.

  Scholarship. Maybe Natalie would have a line on our lovelorn professor Lennox. “Did KitKat ever mention dating someone in Binghamton? Someone besides Bronco?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “You know what? Check that. We were out shopping one time and she took a phone call that she wouldn’t let me hear. When I asked who it was, she wouldn’t tell me. Said it was just a guy she knew, not to worry about it. But I know a fuck-ton of guys, and I don’t sneak off into the dressing room to take their calls.”

  So it wasn’t just me. I wondered what other life KitKat had kept hidden from all of us. A husband? A child? A whole weekend family parked in some cul-de-sac a hundred miles from here? It was outlandish, sure, but dating a married man was hardly the scandal of the century. She could have blabbed to anyone on Barter Street and the most she would have gotten was a disgusted look, maybe. Natalie probably would have let her guest-blog on the art of being a side piece. Between her and Bronco, they knew a thing or two about how to keep an affair a secret.

  Natalie was over it. “What’s your excuse?” she asked, gesturing again to my pajamas. “You kick Sid out when I called?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She took another piece of Danish and grinned. “You know what I mean,” she said. “You and him, you’re practically married. Does he have a big dick? He looks like he’d have a big dick.”

  “We’re not sleeping together,” I said. “That would screw up our—”

  “Shut your girl mouth,” she snapped. “Just shut it.” She took out a cigarette and tapped it against her thigh. I pointed to the window and she parked herself on the radiator, lighting up and blowing a long, harsh trail of smoke through the screen. “You know you want to fuck him, so just fucking do it already.”

  “I’m not his type,” I said. “He’s got the hots for some stripper out in Queens.”

  She snorted. “You should fuck somebody,” she said, pausing her smoking just long enough to drink some of her coffee. “I should get you my spreadsheet, find you a decent lay. Heaven knows you could use it.”

  I wasn’t sure if Natalie’s bluntness was normal or a side effect of her hangover, but whatever it was, she was probably right. “I think I can probably find my own date, thanks,” I said.

  “Do that,” she said, opening the screen just enough to flick her cigarette butt out the window. “But when you do, leave your jammies at home.”

  Chapter 22

  HOLD ON MY HEART

  Maybe Natalie was onto something. Maybe a one-night stand would reset all this misplaced angst over Sid. But I wasn’t about to pick up some guy at a bar, and after Natalie had left behind her half-finished coffee and a lonesome piece of blueberry Danish, I got out the Boyfriend Box. I closed my eyes and reached in, my hand wrapping around something plush. I pulled out a bear wearing a Somebody at Rutgers Loves Me T-shirt, a present from Gabe.

  At nineteen, Gabe had gelled-back black hair like a G.I. Joe and
pants that zipped off into shorts at the knee. He had silver eyes and a Han Solo smile; spoke fluent German, Russian, and Hungarian just for fun; paid for everything; and sent me a dozen roses on all three of our one-month anniversaries.

  He’d been back from his freshman year at Rutgers and doing landscaping for his aunt in the next town over, and we’d dated the summer between my junior and senior years of high school—dating being a euphemism for making out in the red velour backseat of his Buick Century. He was the first guy to get his hands down my panties and the first guy I made orgasm.

  It was a brief and passionate romance, the only one I ever had that wasn’t marked with a mix tape or CD. All he’d had in his glove compartment were U2 albums; “Where the Streets Have No Name” became our go-to song for dry humping. Even now when I hear it, I swear I can still smell the Calvin Klein Eternity he wore, hear the highway wind blowing past open windows on even the calmest day.

  He went home to New Jersey for a week to visit his family and sent me three-page letters every day, each detailing the ache of his heart at the distances between us, the blue of the ocean that reminded him of my eyes. When he went back to college, he sent this bear as soon as he arrived on campus.

  If we’d dated another month or so, I probably would have lost my virginity to him, but we broke up two weeks later and lost touch despite our pledge to stay friends. But unlike Ryan, whom I did lose my virginity to—as did my best friend, Amy—Gabe, like Jeremy, fell into the category of “good” exes.

  Gabe’s Facebook status listed him as single; his most recent pictures were from a family trip to Germany. He didn’t look any different—like Tuck Everlasting, never aging, never changing. A private message didn’t seem like the most romantic way for an old lover to reach out, but it was all I had. I kept it brief: How are you, I’m in NYC, thinking about you, drop me a line. I wasn’t about to pour my heart out to someone who might just tell me to fuck off—if he wrote back at all.