Always, Forever by Nancy Ohlin

Author:Nancy Ohlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

23.

There is a bright full moon in the sky as Max walks me to Kerrith Hall. Which is good, since it gives me something to focus on while I fight back tears and wait for him to dump me.

He hasn’t said a word since we left the restaurant. His parents went back to their hotel, and Franklin went back to Chapin Hall. Mr. De Villiers gave me a hearty handshake and wished me “all the best.” Mrs. De Villiers said, “Nice to have met you,” in a past-tense way that implied there would be no future dinners. And Franklin patted my arm and told me not to forget about Marilyn and Tony on Monday. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about the upcoming movie, Some Like It Hot.

But from Max? Nothing. We just walked toward Kerrith like we did after the Corn Roast and our date at the dancing duck restaurant, except not speaking at all.

We pass the stone fountain, the library, Lanyon. The quad is more crowded than usual, with students and parents wandering around like tourists. Max stuffs his hands into his pockets and gazes out at the distance. I fill the uncomfortable silence with my own inner chatter, replaying the evening like an awful, but mesmerizing, car accident: the do-over, the do-over of the do-over, hobbling into the restaurant in Yoonie’s Cinderella shoes, practically falling on my butt at the De Villierses’ table, Mrs. De Villiers’s tidal wave of scorn and rejection, my failed Oprah moment as I spilled my broken-home sob story.

Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers are probably having their own postmortem recap session right this second: What is Max thinking, dating a girl like that? Surely there’s someone more appropriate for him at Thorn Abbey. More like Becca Winters . . .

“Did I ever show you The Eternal Spirit ?”

“I’m sorry. The what?” I’m so startled by Max’s out-of-the-blue question that my voice comes out in a squeak.

“Come on.”

Max takes my elbow and guides me off the main path, away from the busy quad. Pretty soon, we are alone on a narrow dirt trail that snakes behind Lanyon. We proceed single file. I don’t remember this from Devon’s unofficial tour.

The trail winds through a grove of hemlock trees. It’s dark back here except for the thin gauze of moonlight that filters through the branches. Something stirs in the underbrush and skitters away into the night. I jump back and give a little yelp. Max doesn’t seem to notice and plunges ahead, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.

And then, suddenly, we are in a small mossy clearing. With two old-fashioned gravestones. And a marble statue of a young woman.

I gasp. Becca is buried here?

But why are there two gravestones?

“Um, Max? W-what is this place?” I stammer nervously. I don’t know why he would bring me here.

“This is where the Thorns are buried.”

“The Thorns?”

“You know. Augustus Thorn and his wife, Aurora. Thorn Abbey used to be their private estate ages ago, before it was a school.

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