Switch Read online

  Switch

  Megan Hart

  Switch

  MEGAN HART

  To my trusted crit partners, you know who you are.

  To my family, for your support and love.

  To my readers—without you, I'd have no success. Thank

  you.

  I don't write books without music. My thanks to the artists

  and musicians who make it possible for me to sit at my

  computer day after day and make worlds and the people

  who populate them. Please support their work through

  legal sources.

  Don McLean, "Empty Chairs"; Joaquin Phoenix and

  Reese Witherspoon, "It Ain't Me, Babe"; Joshua Radin,

  "Closer"; Justin King, "Same Mistakes"; Lifehouse,

  "Whatever It Takes"; Meredith Brooks, "What Would

  Happen"; Rufus Wainwright, "Halelujah"; Sarah Bareiles,

  "Gravity"; Schuyler Fisk, "Lying to You"; She Wants Revenge, "These Things"; Tim Curry, "S.O.S."

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 01

  Sometimes, you look back.

  He was coming out. I was going in. We moved by each

  other, ships passing without fanfare the way hundreds of

  strangers pass every day. The moment didn't last longer

  than it took to see a bush of dark, messy hair and a flash

  of dark eyes. I registered his clothes first, the khaki cargo

  pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. Then his height and

  the breadth of his shoulders. I became aware of him in the

  span of a few seconds the way men and women have of

  noticing each other, and I swiveled on the pointed toe of

  my kitten-heel pumps and folowed him with my gaze until

  the door of the Speckled Toad closed behind me.

  "Want me to wait?"

  "Huh?" I looked at Kira, who'd gone ahead of me. "For what?"

  "For you to go back after the dude who just gave you

  whiplash." She smirked and gestured, but I couldn't see

  him anymore, not even through the glass.

  I'd known Kira since tenth grade, when we bonded over

  our mutual love for a senior boy named Todd Browning.

  We'd had a lot in common back then. Bad hair, miserable

  taste in clothes and a fondness for too much black

  eyeliner. We'd been friends back then, but I wasn't sure

  what to cal her now.

  I turned toward the center of the shop. "Shut up. I barely

  noticed him."

  "If you say so." Kira tended to drift, and now she

  wandered toward a shelf of knickknacks that were nothing

  like anything I'd ever buy. She lifted one, a stuffed frog

  holding a heart in its feet. The heart had MOM

  embroidered on it in sparkly letters. "What about this?"

  "Nice bling. But no, on so many levels. I do have half a

  mind to get her one of these, though." I turned to a shelf of

  porcelain clowns.

  "Jesus. She'd hate one of those. I dare you to buy it." Kira snorted laughter.

  I laughed, too. I was trying to find a birthday present for

  my father's wife. The woman wouldn't own her real age

  and insisted every birthday be celebrated as her "twenty-

  and insisted every birthday be celebrated as her "twenty-

  ninth" along with the appropriate coy smirks, but she sure

  didn't mind raking in the loot. Nothing I bought would

  impress her, and yet I was unrelentingly determined to buy

  her something perfect.

  "If they weren't so expensive, I might think about it. She

  colects that Limoges stuff. Who knows? She might realy

  dig a ceramic clown." I touched the umbrela of one

  tightrope-balancing monstrosity.

  Kira had met Stela a handful of times and neither had

  been impressed with the other. "Yeah, right. I'm going to

  check out the magazines."

  I murmured a reply and kept up my search. Miriam Levy,

  the owner of the Speckled Toad, stocks an array of

  decora tive items, but that wasn't realy why I was there. I

  could have gone anyplace to find Stela a present. Hel,

  she'd have loved a gift card to Neiman Marcus, even if

  she'd have sniffed at the amount I could afford. I didn't

  come to Miriam's shop for the porcelain clowns, or even

  because it was a convenient half a block from Riverview

  Manor, where I lived.

  No. I came to Miriam's shop for the paper.

  No. I came to Miriam's shop for the paper.

  Parchment, hand-cut greeting cards, notebooks, pads of

  exquisite, delicate paper thin as tissue, stationery meant for

  fountain pens and thick, sturdy cardboard capable of

  enduring any torture. Paper in al colors and sizes, each

  individualy perfect and unique, just right for writing love

  notes and breakup letters and condolences and poetry,

  with not a single box of plain white computer printer paper

  to be found. Miriam won't stock anything so plebian.

  I have a bit of a stationery fetish. I colect paper, pens,

  note cards. Set me loose in an office-supply store and I

  can spend more hours and money than most women can

  drop on shoes. I love the way good ink smels on

  expensive paper. I love the way a heavy, linen note card

  feels in my fingers. Most of al, I love the way a blank

  sheet of paper looks when it's waiting to be written on.

  Anything can happen in those moments before you put pen

  to paper.

  The best part about the Speckled Toad is that Miriam sels

  her paper by the sheet as wel as by the package and the

  ream. My colection of papers includes some of creamy

  linen with watermarks, some handmade from flower pulp,

  some note cards scissored into scherenschnitte scenes. I

  some note cards scissored into scherenschnitte scenes. I

  have pens of every color and weight, most of them

  inexpensive but with something—the ink or the color—that

  appealed to me. I've colected my paper and my pens for

  years from antique shops, close-out bins, thrift shops.

  Discovering the Speckled Toad was like finding my own

  personal nirvana.

  I always intend to use what I buy for something important.

  Worth
while. Love letters written with a pen that curves

  into my palm just so and tied with crimson ribbon, sealed

  with scarlet wax. I buy them, I love them, but I hardly ever

  write on them. Even anonymous love letters need a

  recipient…and I didn't have a lover.

  Then again, who writes anymore? Cel phones, instant

  messaging and the Internet have made letter writing

  obsolete, or nearly so. There's something powerful,

  though, about a handwritten note. Something personal and

  aching to be profound. Something more than a half-

  scribbled grocery list or a scrawled signature on a

  premade greeting card. Something I would probably never

  write, I thought as I ran my fingers over the silken edge of

  a pad of Victorian-embossed writing paper.

  "Hey, Paige. How's it going?" Miriam's grandson Ari

  "Hey, Paige. How's it going?" Miriam's grandson Ari

  shifted the packages in his arms to the floor behind the

  counter, then disappeared and popped back up like a

  jack-in-the-box.

  "Ari, dear. I have another delivery for you." Miriam

  appeared from the curtained doorway behind the front

  counter and looked over her half-glasses at him. "Right

  away. Don't take two hours like you did the last time."

  He roled his eyes but took the envelope from her and

  kissed her cheek. "Yes, Bubbe."

  "Good boy. Now, Paige. What can I do for you today?"

  Miriam watched him go with a fond smile before turning to

  me. She was impeccably made up as usual, not a hair out

  of place or a smudge to her lipstick. Miriam is a true

  grande dame, at least seventy, and with a style few women

  can pul off at any age.

  "I need a gift for my father's wife."

  "Ah." Miriam inclined her head delicately to the left. "I'm sure you'l find the perfect gift. But if you need any help, let

  me know."

  "Thanks." I'd been in often enough for her to know I liked to wander and browse.

  After twenty minutes in which I'd caressed and perused

  the new shipment of fine writing papers and expensive

  pens I couldn't afford no matter how much I desperately

  wanted one, Kira found me in the back room.

  "Okay, Indiana Jones, what are you looking for? The Lost

  Ark?"

  "I'l know it when I see it." I gave her a look.

  Kira roled her eyes. "Oh, let's just go to the mal. You

  know Stela won't care what you give her."

  "But I care." I couldn't explain how important it was to…

  wel, not impress Stela. I could never impress her. To not

  disappoint her. To not prove her right about me. That was

  al I wanted to do. To not prove her right.

  "You're so stubborn sometimes."

  "It's caled determination," I murmured as I looked one last time at the shelf in front of me.

  "It's caled stubborn as hel and refusing to admit it. I'l be

  outside."

  I barely glanced up as she left. I'd known Kira's attention

  span wouldn't make her the best companion for this trip,

  but I'd put off buying Stela's gift for too long. I hadn't seen

  much of Kira since I'd moved away from our hometown to

  Harrisburg. Actualy, I hadn't seen much of her even

  before that. When she'd caled to see if I wanted to get

  together I hadn't been able to think of a reason to say no

  that wouldn't make me sound like a total douche. She'd be

  content outside smoking a cigarette or two, so I turned my

  attention back to the search, determined to find just the

  right thing.

  Over the years I'd discovered it wasn't necessarily the gift

  itself that won Stela's approval, but something even less

  tangible than the price. My father gave her everything she

  wanted, and what she didn't get from him she bought for

  herself, so buying her something she wanted or needed

  was impossible. Gretchen and Steve, my dad's kids with

  his first wife, Tara, took the lazy route of having their kids

  make her something like a finger-painted card. Stela's

  own two boys were stil young enough not to care. My half

  siblings got off the gift-giving hook with their haphazard

  siblings got off the gift-giving hook with their haphazard

  efforts when I'd be held to a higher standard.

  There is always something to be gained from being held to

  the higher standard.

  Now I looked, hard, thinking about what would be just

  right. Don't get me wrong. She's not a bad person, my

  father's wife. She never went out of her way to make me

  part of their family the way she had with Gretchen and

  Steven, and I surely didn't rank as high in her sight as her

  sons Jeremy and Tyler. But my half siblings had al lived

  with my dad. I never had.

  Then I saw it. The perfect gift. I took the box from the

  shelf and opened the top. Inside, nestled on deep blue

  tissue paper, lay a package of pale blue note cards. In the

  lower right corner of each glittered a stylized S surrounded by a design of subtly sparkling stars. The envelopes had

  the same starry design, the paper woven with silver

  threads to make it shine. A pen rested inside the box, too.

  I took it out. It was too light and the tiny tassel at the end

  made it too casual, but this wasn't for me. It was the

  perfect pen for salon-manicured fingers writing thank- you

  cards in which al the i's were dotted by tiny hearts. It was the perfect pen for Stela.

  the perfect pen for Stela.

  "Ah, so you found something." Miriam took the box from

  me and carefuly peeled away the price sticker from

  beneath. "Very nice choice. I'm sure she'l love it."

  "I hope so." I thought she would, too, but didn't want to

  jinx myself.

  "You always know exactly what someone needs, don't

  you?" Miriam smiled as she slipped the box into a pretty

  bag and added a ribbon, no extra charge.

  I laughed. "Oh, I don't know about that."

  "You do," she said firmly. "I remember my customers, you know. I pay attention. There are many who come in here

  looking for something and don't find it. You always do."

  "That doesn't mean it's the right thing," I told her, paying for the cards with a pair of crisp bils fresh out of the

  ATM.

  Miriam gave me a look over her glasses. "Isn't it?"

  I didn't answer. How does anyone know if they know

  what they're doing is right? Until it's too late to change

  what they're doing is right? Until it's too late to change

  things, anyway.

  "Sometimes, Paige, we think we know very wel what

  someone wants, or needs. But then—" she sighed, holding

  out a package of pretty stationery in a box with a clear

  plastic lid "—we discover we are wrong. I'd put this aside

  for one of my regular customers, but he didn't care for it,

  after al."

  "Too bad. I'm sure someone else wil." I wasn't surprised a man didn't want the paper. Embossed with gilt-edged

  flowers, it seemed a little too feminine for a dude.

  Miriam's gaze sharpened. "You, perhaps?"

  I waved the flowered paper aside and shoved my hands in

  my back pockets as I looked around the shop. "Not realy

  my style."<
br />
  She laughed and set the box aside. She'd painted her nails

  scarlet to match her lipstick. I hoped when I was her age

  I'd be half as stylish. Hel. I hoped to be half as stylish

  tomorrow.

  "Now, how about something for yourself? I have some

  "Now, how about something for yourself? I have some

  new notebooks right here. Suede finish. Gilt-edged pages.

  Tied closed with a ribbon," she wheedled, pointing to the

  end-cap display. "Come and see."

  I groaned good-naturedly. "You're heartless, you know

  that? You know al you have to do is show me…oh.

  Ohhh."

  "Pretty, yes?"

  "Yes." I wasn't looking at notebooks, but at a red,

  lacquered box with a ribbon-hinged lid. A purple-and-blue

  dragonfly design etched the polished wood. "What's this?"

  I stroked the smooth lid and opened it. Inside, nestled on

  black satin, rested a smal clay dish, a smal container of

  red ink and a set of wood-handled brushes.

  "Oh, that's a caligraphy set." Miriam came around the

  counter to look at it with me. "Chinese. But this one is

  special. It comes with paper and a set of pens, not just

  brushes and ink."

  She showed me by lifting the box's bottom to reveal a

  sheaf of paper crisscrossed with a crimson ribbon and a

  set of brass-nibbed pens in a red satin bag with a

  set of brass-nibbed pens in a red satin bag with a

  drawstring.

  "It's gorgeous." I took my hands away, though I wanted to

  touch the pens, the ink, the paper.

  "Just what you need, yes?" Miriam went around the

  counter to sit on her stool. "Perfect for you."

  I checked the price and closed the box's lid firmly. "Yes.

  But not today."

  "No?" Miriam tutted. "Why is it you know so wel what

  everyone else needs, but not yourself? Such a shame,

  Paige. You should buy it."

  I could pay my cel phone bil for the price of that box. I

  shook my head, then cocked it to look at her. "Why are

  you so convinced I know what everyone else needs?

  That's a pretty broad statement."

  Miriam tore the wrapper off a package of mints and put

  one into her mouth. She sucked gently for a moment

  before answering. "You've been a good customer. I've

  seen you buy gifts, and sometimes things for yourself. I like

  to think I know people. What they need and like. Why do

  you think I have such atrocities on my shelves? Because

  people want them."

  I folowed her gaze to the shelf holding more porcelain