I storm back to my room, get dressed, grab my backpack and camera, and head out into the bitter cold of late December. They’re still where I left them on the couch and recliner when I move out into moss and green hills and naked trees, making my way down the stony path from Mal’s cottage to Main Street.

I put my earbuds in and let the words of “Drunken Lullabies” by Flogging Molly seep into me. I kick empty bags of chips and crushed cans of soda along my way down to the village. I hate this place. I should just buy a ticket and join Cal in England.

That thought makes the noose around my rubber-ball heart looser. Now that’s a promising prospect. Staying in Callum’s parents’ house. They live in Virginia Water, Surrey. I’ve seen pictures of their estate, and it makes Buckingham Palace look like a studio in Williamsburg. Though being there does nothing for my career.

I’ve spoken to his mother on the phone. To his sister, Lottie, too. They all seem nice and kind and cheerful and sane.

Sane. That’s what Summer meant when she pushed me into Callum’s arms. I make a mental note to talk to her. I promised to call every day, and so far I’ve only managed to text her a few times. I’m already breaking my promise.

I would give up a lot to have someone to talk to right now, but I don’t want to worry Callum over nothing. I need to calm down, chug more coffee, then go back and take pictures of these clowns (Photoshopping out any evidence of Richards’ drug use).

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out, only to see my mother’s name flashing. I tuck it back into my jacket with a sigh. Clearly, I’m okay. I sent her two emails reporting as much. Can she really blame me for not wanting to talk to her? All she does is make me feel guilty about coming here.

When I get to the village, I buy a pack of gum from a newsagent. As I reach into my pocket to dispose of the change, I hear chattering behind me—two chicks who sound around my age, maybe slightly older. I don’t turn around, even when one of them clearly has a Northern English accent. Liverpool is my guess, though I’m hardly an expert.

“…can’t be her.”

“Look at her scar, Maeve. It is her.”

“She’s supposed to be American.”

“I heard an American accent.”

“Stop being ridiculous! Why would she…”

I steal a quick glance—barely noticeable, just to see what they look like.