Since You've Been Gone by Morgan Matson

Author:Morgan Matson [Matson, Morgan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2014-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

chapter 19

At least I hadn’t thrown up in bed.

Under the bedclothes, something dug in my ribs as I stretched against the morning. A dreamcatcher was one thing, but a photo frame made for an unusual talisman.

The vibration of a kitchen chair grinding across flagstones had me up onto my elbows. Before I’d even heard Mrs Hedley’s unmistakable drawl, I knew who she’d be chatting to. Downstairs. In my kitchen.

I jumped out of bed, checking I’d found myself a pair of shorts last night, and content with my modest nightwear made a silent dash for the bathroom. Whatever humiliation was waiting for me down there, I wasn’t going to meet it with morning breath and Alice Cooper eyes.

I never woke to voices in the house and knowing whose voices they were made the occurrence even more unsettling.

“Holly doesn’t usually have breakfast. But I’ve tried telling her, it’s important when you’re on the go as she is all the time.” Mrs Hedley spoke in short sharp syllables. Dave was both extremely fond, and frightened to death of her. Sentiments Charlie and I had shared.

At the door the smell of toast and boiled eggs hit me as I locked sights on the sinks. Someone had washed the wine glasses and had left them to drain there. I could see two glasses, two mugs, and had absolutely no idea how to walk into my own kitchen right now.

Feign illness? Hide until he leaves?

Don’t be such a baby.

A deep breath, and then confidently, nonchalantly even, I stepped out onto the flagstones and made a beeline for the kettle.

“Speak of the devil,” Mrs Hedley said. “I thought you’d like some eggs bringing, in case you were running short.”

In a week Dave and I hadn’t made it through the last pile we’d had from her, most of which were still sat in the bowl next to the toaster, buzzing and glowing with its next consignment. She wasn’t here to make breakfast.

An acknowledging look for Mrs Hedley bought me the quickest of glances at Ciaran. For someone who had probably been interrogated already, he looked more than at home sat back into his chair, casually dipping a sliver of toast into an egg.

Nope, I couldn’t look at him before coffee any more than I could look at the several buttery rounds on standby in front of him.

The floor was freezing as I tiptoed over it to the fridge, buying myself a few more moments of obscurity behind its open door.

I needed coffee, fast, if I was going to be on my toes this morning, and as far as my house guest was concerned, well, I wasn’t sure there was a drink for that.

I shuffled back to the sink, tying my hair on top of my head. I wasn’t completely convinced it had escaped unscathed last night while I touched base with the loo.

I grabbed a new mug—inscribed with Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjos!—from the cupboard. Jesse had given it to me last Christmas. I wondered how his night had turned out.

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