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Geek. Who is walking incredibly fast. And my feet are killing me; strappy kitten heels do not make for particularly good stalker shoes. I snort at the absurdity of the situation—how did I end up here? Chasing after some random guy so that—joy of joys—I can get on a bus? I don’t even know if he’s still going to New York! Maybe his angry phone call fight ended with him refusing to go to New York—or being informed that he was no longer welcome there. But if that were the case, he’d be getting back on the train to LA, right? I mean, there’s nothing in Santa Barbara. I’ve been here, I know. Cute little houses that cost millions of dollars, and a ton of antique shops and cafes that charge way too much for a cup of tea. That’s it.
    So the working theory—as much as I have one, jogging along and looking like an idiot—is that the fight was irrelevant to Goth Geek’s travel plans, and the bus just doesn’t leave yet, and he’s going to do a little sightseeing in the meantime, burn off some of that irritation.
    I skid to a stop as Goth Geek ducks into a bar. I roll my eyes—seriously? Not that I’m what you’d call qualified to be the alcohol police or anything, but how cliché can you get? He’s got a whole town to wander—not much of one, granted—but instead he’s going to head to the nearest bar and get wasted just like every other college dumbass I’ve ever known. His phone call must have gone even worse than I thought.
    I collapse on the curb and kick my shoes off, rubbing my feet. At least this gives me a chance to rest. I check my phone. Two frantic texts from Julia saying that my father called looking for me. And an irate message from my father demanding to know why Thom Derrek had been left alone in our house, and where the hell was I? I guess they’ve noticed I’m gone.
    I consider texting Julia telling her where I am and that I’m okay, but I decide against it. If my dad tries to get it out of her—and he will—she’ll fold like a...thing that folds really easily. A fan? A T-shirt?
    I rub my eyes. I must be really tired. My brain is speaking nonsense, and my decision-making skills are, shall we say, questionable. I’m also starving. I ran out of the house before we’d started dinner, and it’s getting pretty late now. I dig through my bag looking for a snack, but all I come up with is some gum. And it’s sugar-free, of course.
    I chew it anyway—maybe I can trick my brain into thinking I’m getting some food—and haul my ass up off the curb. I reluctantly put my shoes back on, and peek cautiously in the window of the bar. Yep, there’s the Geek, knocking back shots like they’re going to run out, and showing no sign of stopping anytime soon. Way to go, dude. I make a note not to sit anywhere near him on the bus in case he pukes.
    In the meantime, though, what the hell am I going to do? My un-fooled stomach rumbles agonizingly, but I can’t exactly go running off in search of something to eat—Goth Geek could head out at any moment, and I’d have no idea. I look up and down the street desperately, but there’s nothing. There’s a Motel 6, a seedy-looking dentist’s office, and a car repair shop. Not even a magazine stand or a fruit cart. How can that be? How did I end up on the one street in Santa Barbara that isn’t selling overpriced food?
    There’s nothing for it. My stomach will just have to wait. I glare at the Geek through the concrete wall of the bar and try to make myself as comfortable as is possible in a stiff cashmere top, jeans that look good but are just a tiny bit tight when I’m sitting down, and shoes that seem intent on exacting revenge for being walked on.
    I stand and wait outside what must be the reekingest bar in Santa Barbara for a full fifteen minutes before the idiocy of my situation really sinks in. Even if by some miracle the Geek emerges in a state fit to get himself back to the station, I could certainly have waited in that line and figured