Shattered by Sarah N. Harvey Read Free Book Online Page A

likes her coffee sweet.”
    He took a sip and grimaced. “No shit. Good coffee though. Thanks. Are you March?”
    When I nodded, he stuck his hand deep into the pocket of his grimy gray hoodie and pulled out a crumpled sheet of lined yellow paper. “She said to give this to you if I saw you.”
    I took the paper and smoothed it out.
    Dear March,
    I thought you might need this sonnet.
    Written below in small neat printing was “Sonnet 29” by Shakespeare. The one that starts “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…” We studied it in my lit class last year. The only thing I remembered is that bootless doesn’t mean that you have no boots. It meant futile or useless. As I read the sonnet again on the street corner, I wondered how Hazel had figured out that I was in disgrace. Outcast, cursing my fate. At the end of the poem, Hazel had written: Some things are forgivable, others aren’t. Figure out the difference. Be kind to yourself. Your friend, Hazel.
    When I looked up, I was alone on the corner.
    When I got to Castle Gifts, Mr. Hardcastle came to the door with a finger to his lips.
    â€œShhh. They’re sleeping.” He pointed to the twin stroller parked in front of the counter. Inside, two babies slept under matching blue blankets.
    â€œPeter and Mark,” he whispered as he filled the cash drawer. “Identical twins. My mom usually looks after them, but she’s hurt her back.”
    â€œWhere’s their mom?”
    â€œDead,” he said flatly. “Car accident six months ago, when the twins were two months old. She went to the store for diapers. Drunk driver hit her.” The cash drawer clicked into place, and he straightened his shoulders.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “That’s terrible.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “It was. It is. My mom is great, but she’s not so young anymore. The boys tire her out. Hell, they tire me out.”
    As if on cue, one of the babies woke up. Mr. Hardcastle sighed and rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a grubby-looking soother.
    â€œHow do you tell them apart?” I asked as he wiped the soother on his shirt and popped it in the baby’s mouth. The baby spat it out on the floor.
    â€œThis is Mark,” he said. “Born two minutes before Pete. Mark’s the wiggler. And see—he’s got a birthmark on his left hand. Birthmark. Mark. We only noticed after we named him.”
    Mark obligingly waved a tiny fist, and I saw the faint brown smudge near his chubby wrist. I held out my hand to him. He grabbed it and tried to stuff it in his mouth.
    â€œEverything goes in the mouth these days,” Mr. Hardcastle said. “And I mean everything. Keys, stones, books, my glasses, sometimes food!” He laughed and squatted in front of the stroller. Mark smiled and drooled and kicked his blanket off. Pete slept on.
    Mr. Hardcastle stood up and released the brake on the stroller. “See you at six,” he said. As he pushed the stroller toward the door, Pete woke up with a wail. “And so it begins,” Mr. Hardcastle said with a grimace.
    â€œI could close up,” I said. “I know how to cash out. Then you wouldn’t have to come back later. Or open up in the morning. I mean, if you don’t mind giving me a key…”
    Mr. Hardcastle turned and stared thoughtfully at me. Pete started to cry. “You’d have to make the bank deposit,” he said. “And take the float home. Can’t leave money on the premises. Too many junkies.”
    â€œI’m okay with that. Really.”
    â€œMaybe for a day or two then. Until my mom is back on her feet. You sure you don’t mind?” He fished a key out of his pocket. “The deposit stuff is in the drawer. The bank’s around the corner. Just drop the bag in the after-hours slot.”
    I nodded and took the key. “It’ll be fine,” I said.
    He