One Week (Stolen Kiss #0.5) Read Online Free PDF Page B

gate to keep out the people who didn’t fit in.
    “It’s fine,” I told Aunt Lydia. She led me to a tiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. The room contained just a small bedside table and a narrow white bed, with a pink and green striped blanket on it, and a door that opened to reveal the tiniest closet I had ever seen.
    “I haven’t gotten around to decorating this room,” Aunt Lydia said as she looked at the empty white walls. “No one ever uses it, so . . .” She shrugged and set my bags on the bed.
    “You hungry?” she asked as she turned back to me.
    I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired from the drive.” It was about five hours from Willowbrook to Asheville, and I had gotten stuck in a traffic jam near Raleigh, which added another 45 minutes.
    “Take a nap,” Aunt Lydia said. She backed toward the door, looking around as if the reunion was as awkward for her as it was for me. Things had changed over the last four years, and the close relationship we’d once had was long gone. What did she think when she looked at me? Did she think I was too much like my mother, too prim and put together? Was she disappointed in how I had turned out?
    “We can go out for dinner later. I know a great local place you’ll love.”
    “Okay,” I agreed.
    Aunt Lydia gave me a smile before she stepped into the hall and shut the door.
    I sat down on the edge of my bed, folding my hands in my lap. I tried to remember what Mark had said. This trip would be a good opportunity for me to get away from everything that held me back. A chance to forget about all the things my parents expected of me, like the Yale college application that I still hadn’t filled out, despite my mom’s insistence on early admission.
    In that moment, I made a resolution to myself: over the summer, I was going to be anyone but the Hannah Cohen whom everyone back home expected me to be.
    #
    “You like Italian food, right?” Aunt Lydia sat close to the steering wheel of her old Land Rover, which rumbled and vibrated so much, I could feel it through the seat. The car sputtered a bit as it pulled itself up the hill, away from her neighborhood.
    “Yes,” I said. “We went to Florence last summer.”
    Aunt Lydia smirked. “I’m not talking quite that Italian. This is a little mom and pop place. Spaghetti mostly, but they do have really good ravioli. It’s not even from a can!”
    She laughed, glancing over at me, and I made myself laugh, too. I had changed into a white sundress and red espadrilles and pulled my hair back with a white headband. Aunt Lydia had raised her eyebrows at my outfit when I came into the living room just before we left. She’d looked down at her ratty jeans and old tank top, then said, “Oh, I guess I’ll change.”
    “No, you don’t have to,” I’d told Aunt Lydia, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be so overdressed. Mom always insisted we look nice for dinner. Even before Dad’s bank went big, it was one of Mom’s rules (Rule #17, in fact).
    I’d tried to change back into something more casual, but she wouldn’t let me. And so we’d ended up leaving just as we were: me looking like I was going on a date, and Aunt Lydia looking like she was ready to garden.
    I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching as we slowly drove through Aunt Lydia’s neighborhood. Most of the houses looked the same: red brick and small, with grass that was drying out under the summer sun.
    A bright flash of red caught my eye as we turned a corner. A huge oak tree stood on the corner of a yard with piles of old tires leaning against the house, and a bright red plaid shirt hung from one of the lowest tree branches. The shirt swayed back and forth in the breeze, the sleeves flapping like an invisible man waving his arms.
    I could only imagine what my mother would say if she was there. Some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world. Aren’t you glad we know