Losing Hope

Chapter Seven

“Will that be all for you today?” the cashier asks.

I mentally run through the items on my list, ending with cookies. “Yep,” I say as I pull my wallet from my pocket to pay the cashier. I’m just relieved I got in and out without seeing anyone I know.

“Hey, Holder.”

Spoke too soon.

I glance up to see the cashier operating the line next to me, staring me down. She’s practically offering herself up on a platter with the way she’s looking at me. Whoever this girl is, her expression is begging for attention. I feel sort of bad for her, especially with the way her voice climbed into that annoying, high-pitched, why-do-girls-think-baby-talk-is-sexy range. I glance down at her nametag, because I honestly can’t place her face for the life of me.

“Hey . . . Shayla.” I give her a quick nod, then look back at my cashier, hoping my guarded response is enough to let her know that I’m not in the mood to feed her ego.

“It’s Shayna,” she snaps.

Oops.

I glance at her nametag again, disappointed that I’m giving her even more reason to keep talking. However, her nametag clearly reads Shayla. I want to laugh, but feel even more sympathy for her now. “Sorry. But you do realize your nametag says Shayla, right?”

She immediately flips the nametag up on her smock and frowns. I’m hoping this is embarrassing enough that she doesn’t look up at me again, but it doesn’t even faze her.

“When did you get back?” she asks.

I have no idea who this chick is, but she somehow knows me. Not only does she know me, but she knows I had to leave in order to come back. I sigh, disappointed that I still underestimate everyone’s penchant for gossip.

“Last week,” I say, offering up no further explanation.

“So are they gonna let you come back to school?” she asks.

What’s with the “let you” part of her question? Since when was I not allowed back at school? That has to be attached to some sort of rumor.

“Doesn’t matter. Not going back.”

I haven’t really decided whether or not I’ll be enrolling tomorrow, since I failed to do it today. It really all depends on my conversation with my mother tonight, but it seems easier just to give the people what they want, which is more fuel for their gossip. Besides, if I dispel every single thing everyone has said about me for the past year, I’ll be leaving everyone with no one to spread rumors about.

“You suck, man,” my cashier says quietly as he removes the debit card from my hand. “We had bets on how long it would take her to realize her nametag was misspelled. She’s been wearing it for two months now and I had dibs on three. You just lost me twenty bucks.”

I laugh. He hands me back the debit card and I place it in my wallet. “My bad,” I say. I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and hold it out to him. “Take this, because I’m pretty sure you would have won.”

He shakes his head, refusing to take the twenty.

I’m placing the money back into my wallet when I notice out of the corner of my eye someone in the next checkout line. The girl has completely turned around and is staring at me, more than likely trying to get my attention in the same way that Shayna/Shayla tried. I just hope this chick doesn’t start up with that same baby-talk voice.

I glance up at her to get a quick look. I really wanted to avoid glancing at her, but when people are staring you down it’s hard not to make eye contact, if even for a second. But the second I actually do make eye contact with her, I freeze.

I can’t look away now, even though I’m trying like hell to shake the image standing in front of me.

My heart stops.

Time stops.

The whole world stops.

My quick glance turns into a full-on, unintentional stare.

I recognize those eyes.

Those are Hope’s eyes.

It’s her nose, her mouth, her lips, her hair. Everything about this girl is Hope. Out of all the times in the past I thought I’d spotted her when glancing at girls my age, I’ve never been more sure than I am right now. I’m so sure about it that it completely inhibits my ability to speak. I don’t think I could say her name even if she begged me to.

So many emotions are coursing through me right now and I can’t tell if I’m angry or elated or freaked the hell out.

Does she recognize me, too?

We’re still staring at each other and I can’t stop wondering if I look familiar to her. She doesn’t smile. I wish she would smile because I would recognize Hope’s smile anywhere.

She tucks in her chin, darts her eyes away, and quickly turns around to face her cashier again. She’s obviously flustered and it’s not in the same way that I tend to leave girls like Shayna/Shayla flustered. It’s a completely different reaction, which only makes me all the more curious if she just remembered me.

“Hey.” The word rushes loudly out of my mouth involuntarily and I notice her flinch when I speak. She’s hurrying her cashier at this point, grabbing her sacks in a frenzy. It’s almost as if she’s trying to get away from me.

Why is she trying to run from me? If she didn’t just recognize me . . . why would she be this disturbed? And if she did recognize me, why wouldn’t she be happy?

She exits the store in a rush, so I grab my sacks and leave the receipt with the cashier. I have to get outside before she drives away. I can’t just let her go again. I head directly through the exit and scroll over the parking lot until I spot her. Luckily, she’s still loading her groceries into her backseat. I pause before walking up behind her, hoping I don’t come off as crazy, because that’s exactly how I feel right now.

She’s about to shut her door, so I take a few steps closer.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared to speak.

What do I say? What the hell do I say?

I’ve imagined this moment for thirteen years and I have no fucking idea how to approach her.

“Hey.”

Hey? Jesus, Holder. Nice. Real nice.

She freezes midmovement. I can tell by the way her shoulders rise and fall that she’s taking a calming breath. Does she need calming because of me? My heart is racing at warp speed and thirteen years’ worth of pent-up adrenaline is making its way through my body.

Thirteen years. I’ve been looking for her for thirteen years and I very well may have just found her. Alive. And in the same town as me. I should be elated, but I can’t stop thinking about Les and how I know she prayed every single day for this moment. Les spent her whole life wishing we would find Hope and now I’ve found her and Les is dead. If this girl really is Hope, I’ll be devastated that she showed up thirteen months too late.

Well, maybe not devastated. I forgot that word is on reserve. But I’ll be pretty damn pissed.

She’s facing me now. She’s looking right at me and it’s killing me because I want to grab her and hug her and tell her how sorry I am for ruining her life, but I can’t do any of these things because she’s looking at me like she has no clue who I am. I just want to scream, “Hope! It’s me! It’s Dean!”

I grip the back of my neck and try to process this whole situation. This isn’t how I pictured finding her. Maybe I fictionalized it and played it up all these years but I thought her recovery would be way more climactic. I thought she would have way more tears and way more emotion and not appear to be nearly as . . . inconvenienced?

The look on her face right now doesn’t register as recognition in the least. She looks terrified. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she appeared flustered inside because of the idiotic way I was staring at her. Maybe she appears terrified now because I practically chased her down and I’m giving her absolutely no explanation. I’m just standing here like a creepy stalker and I have no idea how to even ask her if she’s the girl I lost all those years ago.

She eyes me warily up and down. I hold out my hand, hoping to ease some of her fear with an introduction. “I’m Holder.”

She drops her gaze to my extended hand and, rather than accept the handshake, she actually takes a step away from me.

“What do you want?” she says sharply, cautiously peering back up to my face.

Definitely not the reaction I expected.

“Um,” I say, not really meaning to appear taken aback. But honestly, this isn’t going in the direction I was hoping it would go. I don’t even know what direction that was at this point. I’m starting to doubt my own sanity. I glance across the parking lot at my car and wish I had just kept walking, but I know if I did, I’d regret not confronting her.

“This might sound lame,” I warn, looking back at her, “but you look really familiar. Do you mind if I ask what your name is?”

She releases a breath and rolls her eyes, then reaches behind her to grab the doorknob of her car. “I’ve got a boyfriend,” she says. She turns and opens the door, then quickly climbs into the car. She starts to pull the door shut, but I catch it with my hand.

I can’t let her leave until I’m positive she’s not Hope. I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life and I’m not about to let thirteen years of guilt and obsessing and analyzing her disappearance go to waste just because I’m afraid I might piss her off.

“Your name. That’s all I want.”

She stares at my hand holding open her door. “Do you mind?” she says through clenched teeth. Her eyes fall to the tattoo on my arm and my adrenaline kicks up a notch when she reads it, hoping it’ll spark some recognition on her part. If she can’t remember my face, I’m almost positive she’ll remember the nickname I gave her and Les.

Not even the slightest jar of emotion flashes in her eyes.

She attempts to pull the door shut again but I refuse to release it until I get what I need from her.

“Your name. Please.”

When I say please this time, her expression eases slightly and she looks back up at me. It isn’t until she looks at me this way, without all the anger, that I realize why I’m so flustered. It’s because I care more for this girl than any other girl in the world who isn’t Les. I loved Hope like a sister when we were kids and seeing her again has brought back all those same feelings. It’s causing my hands to shake and my heart to pound and my chest to ache because all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and hold her and thank God we finally found each other.

But all those feelings come to a screeching halt when the wrong answer comes out of her mouth. “Sky,” she says quietly.

“Sky,” I say aloud, trying to make sense of it. Because she’s not Sky. She’s Hope. She can’t not be my Hope.

Sky.

Sky, Sky, Sky.

She’s not saying she’s Hope, but the name Sky is still eerily familiar. What’s so significant about that name?

Then it hits me.

Sky.

This is the girl Grayson was referring to Saturday night.

“Are you sure?” I ask her, hoping for a miracle that she’s as dense as Shayna and just gave me the wrong name. If she really isn’t Hope, then I completely understand her reaction to my seemingly erratic behavior.

She sighs and pulls her ID from her back pocket. “Pretty sure I know my own name,” she says, flashing her driver’s license in front of me.

I take it from her.

Linden Sky Davis.

A wave of disappointment crashes around me, swallowing me up. Drowning me. I feel like I’m losing her all over again.

“Sorry,” I say, backing away from her car. “My mistake.”

She watches me as I back up even farther so she can shut her door. In a way, she looks disappointed. I don’t even want to think about what kind of expression she’s seeing on my face right now. I’m sure it’s a mixture of anger, disappointment, embarrassment . . . but most of all, fear. I watch as she drives away and I feel like I just let Hope go all over again.

I know she’s not Hope. She proved she wasn’t Hope.

So why is my gut instinct telling me to stop her?

“Shit,” I groan, threading my hand through my hair. I’m seriously messed up. I can’t get over Hope. I can’t get over Les. It’s getting so bad it’s to the point that I’m chasing random girls down in the damn grocery store parking lot?

I turn away and slam my fist down on the hood of the car next to me, pissed at myself for thinking I finally had it all together. I don’t have it together. Not in the least.

I’m not even completely out of my car before I have Facebook pulled up on my phone. I enter Sky’s name and no results come up. I swing open the front door and head straight up the stairs to get my laptop.

I can’t let this rest. If I don’t convince myself that she isn’t Hope, I’ll drive myself crazy. I open my laptop and enter her information again but come up empty. I search every site I can think of for over half an hour, but her name doesn’t return any results. I try searching by her birthday, but come up empty again.

I type in Hope’s information and immediately have a screen full of news articles and returns. But I don’t need to look at them. I’ve spent the last several years reading every article and every lead that’s reported about Hope’s disappearance. I know them by heart. I slam the computer shut.

I need to run.