Page 87 of My Best French Wedding

She looked away. “Why?”

“I think we need to.”

“What do you want from me, Walter? Is this a step on your healing journey? I’m sure you can evolve without me.”

“I want us to be honest with each other.” He kept his voice calm, even though he knew she was trying to push his buttons. “About what happened.”

“Bad shit. Period, end of story.”

“It wasn’t all terrible, Hildy.”

“Really? I don’t remember.”

If it wasn’t for the trembling of her chin, Walter would almost have believed she was telling the truth.

28Hildy

TEN YEARS AGO

TAMPA, Fla.—Sweet freedom. She’d made it here at last.

Hildy’s first dramatic inhale filled her lungs with a smell best described as future sinus infection, but that was a minor detail, like the dingy walls and ancient twin beds. The squalor was a means to an end: independence, knowledge, control of her own life. She would sacrifice a lot more than comfort to get where she wanted to go.

Comfortandprivacy, assuming the black garbage bag on the other bed contained her absent roommate’s belongings—as opposed to actual trash.

Maybe she was sharing these narrow walls with someone who objected to luggage for political reasons. There were probably a lot of crusading-activist types here for the fellowship. You had to be interested in the world to want to report on it. Even though reporters were supposed to be neutral bystanders, most of them secretly believed their work had the potential to change lives.

Doubt flittered like moth wings at the back of her mind. Was Hildy really one of the twenty best high school journalists in the entire country? Could she hold her own with the nineteen other “rising stars” for a highly competitive weeklong summer intensivethat would make or break her college applications, and by extension her entire career?

Her family certainly didn’t think so. They’d tried to talk her out of going, right up to the moment she left them behind at airport security.

Okay, that stiffened her resolve. This was her opportunity to prove them wrong. Maybe the last chance, before they shoved her onto the conveyor belt leading to a future more in line with their expectations.

“I can do this,” she announced to the empty room. “I will do this.”

A sarcastic huff from the doorway was Hildy’s first indication she wasn’t alone.

“Great,” said a girl whose obviously dyed black hair showed several inches of blond at the roots. Hildy couldn’t tell if the look was intentional, or she was overdue for a trip to the salon. “I got the one who talks to herself.”

The garbage bag made more sense in the context of its owner. The other girl’s look was designed to be in-your-face edgy, in that classic “don’t you dare look at me” style: black nails, tattered denim shorts, T-shirt cut to fall off the shoulder, barely tied combat boots, a necklace made of… paper clips? Maybe she’d stolen them from an office supply store, in the true spirit of anarchy.

On the other hand, she’d obviously put a lot of time and effort into crafting this punk rock girl persona, which was the teensiest bit contradictory. Notice me! Stay away! There was some aesthetic whiplash happening—not that Hildy planned to kick off their week of cohabitation by mentioning that fact.

“I’m Hildy.” She held out her hand, then worried a handshake reeked of capitalism and the patriarchy.

“Hildy Who Hears Voices.” The other girl left her hanging while she studied Hildy’s clothes.Sue me for wearing a sundress infreaking Florida in July, Hildy thought. As if that revealed something about her character. This would be so much easier if they could sniff each other like two dogs squaring off at the park. Get the dominance thing settled and move on.

“Corinne.” Her roommate sighed like she begrudged the necessity of even that much politeness. But she did pump Hildy’s hand once before letting go. That seemed like a victory, however small. Maybe they wouldn’t spend the next six days giving each other the silent treatment.

“Where are you from?” Hildy asked.

Corinne flopped onto her bare mattress, tugging her garbage bag closer so she could root around inside. “Can we save the icebreakers for tomorrow? I’m meeting some friends like five minutes ago.”

Hildy waited for an invitation to tag along, smiling in case Corinne glanced over, but her roommate was busy throwing clothes onto her bed. And the floor. Since her body language did not say “ask me about my social life,” Hildy was left to guess how Corinne already had friends when the program hadn’t even officially started.

“I’m going to unpack,” she informed Corinne, who spared her adid-I-ask?glance.

Whatever. The point of this week was to work. And network, but surely there would be easier targets than Corinne, who tapped the doorjamb with her knuckles as she sped off to do her thing. Why knock on the way in when you could be different and make it a goodbye instead?