Untouched A Cedar Cove Novella

anything: an experiment, trying to figure out what it was that sent Shana giggling after her guy with that knowing smile on her face; that made the girls in school pour over their cellphones and ditch class to meet guys. But the experiments never worked. For all my drummer boy’s enthusiastic groping, all I felt was restless, detached. I never got it, never knew what it was I was missing out on.
    Not until Emerson smiled at me.
    Jesus. I try to shake the thought away as I turn off the dirt road onto Main Street. One smile—it’s like I’m so starved of male attention that I’m melting for the first guy to check me out. But even as I scold myself, I know it’s not true. The heat in his eyes as they trailed over my body lit some answering flame in me; nerves and synapses crackling to life with a deep pull I’d only ever glimpsed from far away. Call it desire, or lust, or just plain possibility, but it was something new. And now I’ve had a taste, I can’t help but look for him on every street as I cycle slowly through town, hoping to see that red truck parked on the corner, or his tall, muscular body strolling down the sidewalk.
    I make a slow circuit down to the harbor and back, but it doesn’t take long for me to tour the entirety of Cedar Cove, and soon, I’m right back where I started. I pull over, fastening my bike up outside Mrs. Olsen’s, a cute little diner I remember serving the biggest ice-cream floats I’d ever seen. I must have been seven years old back then, but when I step inside the front door and the bell rings out, I swear, it hasn’t changed at all. Red chequered linoleum covers the floor, and a jukebox in the corner plays old Motown songs to the blue plate special crowd.
    “Sit anywhere, honey.” An older woman calls from the front counter, so I pick a booth by the window.
    Just in case Emerson comes by.
    I pull out my workbook and busy myself until my shake arrives, sketching out plans for my summer photography projects. I want to work on my portfolio, so maybe I can do a series on the town, or something about the shoreline, and how it’s changed…
    I’m lost in thought when the waitress brings my drink. “Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. Then I look down, and realize my hands are covered in dirt from the bicycle. “Hey, do you have a bathroom here?”
    “Right in back.” She points it out for me. I leave my sweater in the booth but take my purse. I guess old city habits die hard: out here, they probably all leave their doors unlocked, and give rides to strangers.
    The bathroom is a small, two-stall room. I’m rinsing my hands at the sink when I hear a muffled sobbing noise, coming from the occupied stall.
    I stop.
    The noise comes again, ragged, like someone’s weeping, and doing their best not to be heard.
    “Hello?” I ask cautiously. “Is everything OK?”
    Another sob comes, louder.
    I move over to the door, and tap gently. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.
    “N…no.” A woman’s voice replies, hoarse. “I…I’m fine.”
    I stand there, awkward. “Are you sure? I could call someone for you.”
    There’s a pause, and then the door swings open to reveal a woman huddled on the seat with tissue paper bunched in her hands. She’s older, in her forties maybe, wearing a cheap red tank top and jeans, with mascara running down her cheeks and dark roots under bleached hair.
    She looks up at me, and her expression is so hopeless, I catch my breath. “Are you OK?” I ask again. She’s nervy, jittering, and I realize what’s wrong. I’ve seen it before, with my dad, every time he goes more than a day or two without a drink. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
    She shakes her head, inhaling and wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
    The woman gets up, and I stand back to let her past. She takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then her legs give way. I rush to hold her up, but her weight is too much for me. I lower her gently, so she’s crumpled on the floor, leaning against the wall.
    “I’ll go get someone,” I say hurriedly. She doesn’t look hurt, but her face is pale, and her eyes are bloodshot; her whole body trembling.
    “No, I’m fine, I just need a moment!” she protests, but I’m already out of the door.
    I find the waitress by the register. “I need some help,” I say quietly. “There’s a woman back there, she’s in a bad way…About this tall,” I describe. “Blondish hair, red tank