Page 36 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I wave back and gingerly make my way over to him.
“Afternoon, Miss Winter,” the driver says, giving a tip of his hat. “I drove Mr. Hamilton to his meeting a short while ago and didn’t have another appointment until driving you home.” He glances behind me at the school. “Did you get out early?”
“Wasn’t feeling well.”
He opens the back passenger door. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I slip my backpack off and a mound of tension slips off my back. “Please.”
“Where do you want to stop?” the driver asks, getting into the front seat.
“What do you mean?” I question. “Aren’t we going to Miranda’s house?”
“Didn’t Ms. Knox tell you she wouldn’t be home this evening?”
“Yes, I got the message.” My heart is in my stomach. “She doesn’t want me to join her, does she?”
“No, I just thought you wanted to pick up dinner on the way.”
“Isn’t Mrs. Gallagher…”
“She doesn’t prepare evening meals if Ms. Knox isn’t present,” the driver explains.
“Oh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to understand the logistics of his statement. “Just stop off at a gas station on our way out of town.”
The driver turns around, questions swirling in his eyes.
I nod at him. “I just want to get a packet of chips and a soda.”
The driver turns around and pulls the sedan off the curb. “Fair enough, Miss Winter. Your call.”
Eight
It’ssilentthismorning.Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your eardrums and makes you hyper-aware of every breath, every shift of fabric, and every creak of the old house settling around you.
Miranda and Ryder never came home last night.
I stayed up until almost midnight, listening for the sound of tires on gravel, footsteps in the hallway, or voices echoing from downstairs. But there was nothing. Just me and the occasional groan of old pipes in the walls.
I pull myself out of bed and pad across the cold floor to my window. The driveway is empty. No sleek black sedan. No sign that anyone came back while I slept.
They’re still gone.
My phone shows 7:15 a.m. and no messages. No text from Miranda explaining where she is. Nothing.
Just that vague message she left with the school yesterday: she needed to take an early meeting with a client and record label executives.
The bitterness rises in my chest like bile. Miranda made such a big deal about tutoring Ryder. How important it was. How his grades were everything. How I needed to help him or the showcase was in jeopardy.
But they just left.
They probably went to the city, had a fancy dinner with record executives in a hotel with a penthouse suite. Maybe they’re still there now, ordering room service and discussing Ryder’s future while I’m here, alone.
My parents took me everywhere with them. Every catering event, every consultation meeting, and every food tasting. I was always included. Always wanted. Always loved.
I wander downstairs in my pajamas, my bare feet slapping against the cold stairs. The sound echoes through the empty house, bouncing off the high ceilings and wood-paneled walls.
The kitchen is spotless. I certainly didn’t come in here last night, and Mrs. Gallagher didn’t prepare anything. Some rule about her not being here without Miranda present. So weird. Why didn’t my aunt make sure I had dinner last night? I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t have eaten it, but still.
