“I’d forgotten he had asked it until now. He thinks you like Frank. Or maybe it’s Bennett. You know, the guy you’ve been texting to find out where Diego is at all times.”
She threw her head back and groaned. “I need to fix this.”
“Maybe you should stop strategizing and just be yourself. I think yourself is pretty great. And he obviously does, too.”
She brought the sleeve of his hoodie that she was wearing again today up to her mouth to hide her smile. “You’re right. I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“What says me more than a cook-off?”
“You’re finally going to make it happen?”
“Yes. Once he tastes my cooking, he will pledge allegiance to me forever.”
My dad stood on the dock, talking to the police officer. I held a rope attached to the front of the kayak and dragged it alongside the dock toward its slip. I had paused the podcast I’d been listening to, trying my hardest to eavesdrop, but they were talking too quietly. They had to be talking about our WaveRunners being scattered. Had Frank been questioned? Were there other suspects?
I moored the kayak to the dock. It was hard to look busy when I’d already done the entire closing routine. I untied and retied a couple boats. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I sat back on my knees and pulled it out.
I deserve to be ignored.
I stared at the new text from Hunter, shocked for two reasons. One, because I didn’t think he’d text me again after being ignored. Two, I had ignored him. No, I had more than ignored him. I had forgotten about his first text. Life had been so busy, and I hadn’t thought about Hunter in days. I hadn’t even checked his social media.
My finger, which had tapped on the screen to check the message, now dropped, accidentally typing an L into the blank bar. Crap. The stupid dots would appear on his phone, like I was typing back. I had to say something now.
My first thought was to say, Yes, you do deserve to be ignored. I even typed that out. But then I deleted it. That seemed too bitter. Too invested. I was neither. So I typed, Been super busy. How have you been?
I hit SEND.
Why had I asked him a question? I didn’t want to start a conversation here. But as the flashing dots appeared in the text box on my screen, I knew that’s exactly what I’d done.
Hunter: Texas is a lot different than Lakesprings. I miss it.
Me: Nothing compares to Lakesprings.
Hunter: How did I know you’d say that?
My brows went down. It had been more than three months since we’d talked, and he wanted to act like it was yesterday? Like he still knew me so well?
Me: Guess I’m predictable.
From the other side of the dock I heard my dad saying good-bye to the policeman.
I quickly stood, tucked my phone away, and brushed off my knees. “Dad!” I called.
He stopped to wait for me before exiting the gate.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing. He came by to say they don’t have any leads.”
“Did he question Frank?”
He held the gate open for me. “No. He said he doesn’t have enough evidence to question anyone.”
“Evidence is the thing they have to have to arrest someone. Questioning someone doesn’t require evidence.”
He shut the gate behind us and locked the heavy replacement lock he’d bought after the break-in. “I’m just repeating what he said. He doesn’t have evidence to question anyone.”
“Anyone? Or Frank? I’m sure if Frank’s last name wasn’t Young that he’d be just fine questioning him. When you own over half the town, I guess you own the cops that go along with it.”
“I don’t know what to say, Kate. We got all our WaveRunners back. I think it’s time to let it go.”
I sighed. “Yep. Letting it go.” I was so not letting it go.
Speaking of letting things go, once I was in my room, I pulled out my phone to see if Hunter had responded. He had.
That’s not what I meant. You’re not predictable. Far from it these days. Hosting the school’s podcast? I never would’ve guessed that. Nice pic, btw.
He knew I was hosting the school podcast? Did this mean he’d listened to it? Was that why he’d reached out after all those weeks? And what pic? I suddenly remembered the website and the pictures that Alana and Frank had supposedly uploaded there. I slid into my desk chair and opened my laptop.
Like Alana had said, it was my school picture, taken after the lady had said, “Smile,” and I started to say, “Hold on.” She didn’t hold on. The candid shot that Frank had taken of me and Victoria was no better. I looked like I wanted to kiss the microphone. Ugh. Alana was right, this did inspire thoughts of killing her.
I shot her off a text: You approved of these pictures? I thought we were friends!
She quickly responded: You look adorable! Seriously, you’re super photogenic.
I reminded myself that murder was still illegal in all fifty states and texted: You’re lucky awkward is a good look on me.
Alana: Oh, btw, keep next Friday open. I did it. I challenged Diego to a cook-off and he said yes.
Me: What does that have to do with me?
Alana: We’re doing it at your house.
Me: Why?
Alana: Because you have a better kitchen. And we need a judge. He’s bringing someone, too.
Me: Okay. We must talk tomorrow.
Alana: About the cook-off?
Me: About Hunter.
My phone rang one second later and I answered.
“You think I can wait until tomorrow with a setup like that?” Alana asked.
“He texted again.”
“And you didn’t answer again.”
“Well …”
“Ugh! Kate. Tell me everything you said.”
I relayed the exchange to her, and she was silent for several long minutes before she said, “Huh. You haven’t screwed everything up. Your replies sounded almost distant.” She seemed impressed by this. “Maybe you’re not as hung up on him as I thought.”
“Touching the hook!” Maybe it was less than that actually. Because I realized that, aside from irritation, I’d felt almost nothing when reading her the texts.
She laughed. “There’s hope for you yet.”
We hung up, and I stared at Hunter’s texts again. I waited. I waited for my heart to pound or for the butterflies to take flight. There was nothing. I closed my eyes and I ripped that hook, the one I’d only been touching, off the wall and flung it into the toilet. Because in my mind it had been a bathroom hook, of course. Then I flushed. And since it was all in my head, it easily went down the drain. When I opened my eyes, I deleted the messages and Hunter’s name from my phone. I unfollowed all his social media accounts. I’d never felt so light.
“Kat!” a voice called to me from across the lunchtime commons.
Anytime someone used that name at school now, I knew they only knew me from the podcast. And they only recognized me from those awkward pictures on the website.
The floppy-haired boy caught up to me. “Kat!” he repeated.
“Hi, thanks for listening.” That was my go-to phrase. Most of the time it was enough. This time it wasn’t. The floppy-haired boy wanted to talk.
“Hi,” he said. “I need advice.”
“Can you call in on Wednesday?” I asked. “We like callers on the show.”
“I tried to call in last Wednesday and never got through.”