“It's all over your shoes!”
He shrugs.
“The universe has been telling me to replace these for a while now, I guess this time it wanted to guarantee I'd listen.”
I throw my hands up, protesting. “But you love those shoes!”
“Hey,” he says, staring intensely into my eyes. “It's okay. They're just a pair of ratty-old shoes, they don't matter, but you do. Are you okay?”
I nod, attempting to hold the walls up that I've built around me, but they crumble, releasing my tears. An immense sadness spreads from my toes all the way to my brain. I bite my tongue, trying to hold everything in, but instead, this acts as a trigger and before I know it I'm sobbing uncontrollably.
Ian stops cleaning up the mess and pulls me into his arms. “It's going to be okay. Your mom is going to be okay.”
He can't know this for sure and I know it's a lie, but it's a lie I need to hear. He rubs my arm, back and forth, until I get my breathing under control again, then reaches up and wipes under my eyes.
“I-I think he's . . .” I take a deep breath and then force the words out. “I think he’s . . . my dad . . . is cheating on my mom.”
“Oh, Emily,” Ian says, resting his head on top of mine. “I'm so sorry. What can I do?”
“W—would it be okay if you stayed with me for a while? I—“
I can't look at him, worried he'll reject me. “I don't want to be alone right now.”
“I told you, I'm not going anywhere.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s Monday—just before midnight—I’m curled on my bed watching Honest Trailers on YouTube when there are two soft knocks on my door. The raps are so quiet, I’m not sure I’ve even heard them; I turn my attention back to the Wreck-It Ralph Honest Trailer, but my mind races to Ian. I can’t help but be hopeful that he’s standing on the other side of my door.
A week ago when I got sick all over Ian’s shoes I thought it would send him running to the hills . . . that’s certainly something Mason would have done. Instead, though, Ian has become the one constant in my life I know I can rely on no matter what. If I’m having a bad day, falling into a slump that I can’t seem to pull myself out of no matter how hard I try, I know Ian will be there right beside me to help me through whatever I’m facing.
A few more seconds pass. I wait for a voice . . . anything, but nothing happens. I shift uncomfortably in my bed. Maybe, it was next door. I’m just getting ready to click on The Little Mermaid Honest Trailer when I hear it again.
Knock Knock.
Okay, there is definitely someone on the other side of my door. I swallow, before slowly creeping out of my bed towards the door. My heart hammers in my chest as I walk forward on my tiptoes.
Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a horror movie?
I let out a shaky breath and then lean forward, my nose a few inches from the door. “Hello?”
“Penny for a Guy?” the other side asks, and then after a moment's hesitation from me adds, “It’s me, Ian.”
His accent is smooth and pleasing to my ears and I’d recognize it anywhere, under any circumstance. Whenever Ian speaks I feel myself sliding into a completely new world.
“Em?”
My heart speeds up once again when I realize I’m not dreaming, and that Ian is literally outside my door at midnight. I run my fingers through my bed-head, attempting to fix my lion mane of a hair mess, and take a steadying breath. Despite this, as I turn the handle, my hand trembles and my heart accelerates.
“Penny for a Guy?” He asks again, holding a creepy doll out that looks like a replica of the Wicker Man.
I raise my eyebrows at him waiting for an explanation. He reaches for my hand and my heart soars. “Come on.”
I look at him mystified, excited and a little scared. “Aren’t you worried we’ll get caught?”
He flashes me a wicked grin .“Come on, Emily. Live a little.”
Ian leads me to the Baldwin Hill Academy Gardens and then stops in front of a beat-up metal trash can. A pile of wood, some lighter fluid and a box of matches are sitting next to the trash can. Ian starts piling pieces of wood into the trash can, and then completely drenches the pile of wood in lighter fluid.
I admire the backside of his physique as the light from the flames dance across his skin, lighting him up and casting shadows as they flicker. I find myself unable to tear my eyes from the curve of his biceps, how they stand out in the shadows—like a series of rolling hills. My eyes follow the long, slender lines of his arms and lead me to the strong lines of his back. His arms and back tense and then relax as he adds more wood onto the already blazing fire.
Ian glances at me and then does a double-take, which only makes my blush deepen. The wind rushes through the trees and sends a shiver up my spine.
“You’re shivering,”
“Oh. I’m fine.” But he’s already walking towards me, removing his jacket.
He swings it up and around my shoulders, in one swift movement, and my body weakens in pleasure. It smells like oak trees and vanilla and Tide detergent.
It smells like him.
“So, uh. What are we doing?”
Try as I might, I am not the adventurous type. My kind of adventure is curling up in bed reading about other adventures but I’ve never done anything like this before . . . it’s thrilling and I like it.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November?” Ian asks me and I raise my eyebrows because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Like V for Vendetta?”
“Not exactly.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The movie is based loosely off the events of The Fifth of November, but it wasn’t solely just one terrorist plotting to take down Parliament; there were a bunch of conspiracy nuts planning to overthrow the government. Guy Fawkes was the one who got caught though, and he kind of became the face people associate with the gunpowder plot.”
“So, what’s with the creepy doll?"
“Back home, we celebrate Guy Fawkes night parading through the streets, walking door to door with some sort of Guy Fawkes doll,” he says as he holds up the Wicker Man look-alike doll, “Then we ask ''Penny for a Guy?’ to raise money for fireworks, so we can then light Mr. Guy on fire.”
“That’s a bit," I pause searching for the right word.
“Morbid? Yeah, I know. But what other holiday allows you to set a doll on fire?” He grins at me goofy, sloppily. The left side of his mouth is slightly higher, and two dimples beneath the corners of his bottom lip appear.
“What about Santa? Does he count?”
“You lit Santa on fire?”
“Well, no. But when I was seven Brenda Jones told me my mom and dad made up the whole Santa thing, and that every year my father dressed up as Santa and put the gifts under the tree.” I clench my fists. “I was so upset. I really wanted to go to her house and pop that gigantic, inflatable Santa in her front yard.”
His face breaks into a huge grin, and then he erupts into laughter.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt. “Sarah won't be happy if she finds out you're here . . . she'll tell everyone about Sophie.”
“I know, but that's not your fault.”
This is not what I was expecting him to say. My mom always says don't make mounds out of mole holes and even though I know that is exactly what I am doing, I can't stop myself. After overhearing Ian's fight with Sarah and everything that's gone on this past week, I thought he would choose me.
My heart constricts in my chest.
Why won't he choose me?
I'm on the verge of crying and am trying to take calming breaths to soothe myself, but it isn't working. Ian walks towards me, his face full of concern. “Are you okay?”
And all at once, everything that’s been going on the past few weeks hits me in one sweeping motion, like a hurricane heading towards the shore. And, suddenly I’m crying, and not just tears watering my eyes. Instead, instantly, I’m sobbing; my chest is heaving, my nose is running an
d I’m making small whimpers like a wounded animal. My shoulders tremble, my vision blurs and I’m gasping for my breath. I pull my knees to my chest, lower my head, and try to take a few calming breaths. I feel Ian’s hands on my shoulders and it occurs to me that I should feel embarrassed but I don't.
“Hey,” Ian says. “It’s okay, Emily. It’s okay.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that everything is okay, but it’s not. Nothing has been okay, not for a long time, not since I’ve left Cedar Heights. And, the small moments I’ve had, where it almost feels like life will go back to normal, vanish faster than I like and the universe reminds me once again who’s in charge.
Is this all I deserve then?
Little moments, where things almost feel right, just enough to give me hope—only to have that hope crushed over and over again? I bite my lip. I want to be happy, to not feel this huge weight of anxiety crushing my chest, but I don't know how.
Ian pulls me around to face him, his face full of concern. “Are you okay?”
As I glance into his deep blue eyes, I realize I'm wrong. Maybe I don't have everything figured out, and, who knows if I ever will. I'm sure even Ariel had her doubts about becoming a human and her heart was set on that. My mind wanders to my conversation with Mr. Allen and his wife and I realize that maybe it's okay not to have all the answers. I guess, sometimes the answers will only take you so far, sometimes you just have to get out there and live.
Go on an adventure. Try something new. Dare to live.
So I stand and then take a baby step—one foot in front of the other—and then his arms wrap around me pulling me the rest of the way. I might not be able to control the things happening around me, but I can get what I want.
I can be happy . . . or at least I can try.
I lean in closer, tilting my face towards his. Tingles race down my spine as my heart accelerates in my chest. Ever so gently, I brush my lips against his. This past week has been hell, but the one constant, the one ray of hope in my life has been Ian. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me and he groans in response. Before I can knot my fingers through his hair he pulls away.
“Emily,” he says, his voice strained. “Not like this.”
I stagger backward as if he has slapped me in the face.
What am I thinking?
Of course, he doesn't want to be with me. Not when he has her . . . she looks like a Greek Goddess and then there is me: sloppy, unkempt, poor little me. How did I ever think he would want to be with me?
“Emily, please,” Ian says, his eyes searching mine. “Let me—”
Anger boils through me and I cut him off. “Have you been with her this whole time?”
He's thrown. “What? No. Emily, it's not—“
“No?” My pulse quickens. “Then why won't you kiss me? Do I mean nothing to you?”
He looks hurt. “Don't be ridiculous. I like you, but—“
I leap in front of him, my face inches from his. “I am NOT being ridiculous! Do you think this is just a game?” I shove my hands against his chest, using all the force I have, but he doesn't budge.
I groan in frustration. “That you can pull on my heartstrings whenever you want and I'll just follow you around like a love-struck puppy?”
“If you would just let me—“
I'm crying, again.
“What, Ian? How can you call me beautiful and hold my hand, but keep running back to her?”
“Please,” his voice is soft, it sounds sad. “Let me explain.”
I cross my arms. This better be good.
“There is nothing I want to do more than to kiss you right now, but before I can do that you need to know everything.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
“I haven't seen Sarah since you found out about your mum. Things hadn't been working between us for a while, I knew I didn't want to be with her anymore, but I was too scared to make a change. I was afraid to be alone. Then your birthday happened and I couldn't deny the pull I felt towards you. I knew I had to be with you, but all you could talk about was how good things were going with your boyfriend.”
His voice becomes softer. “I thought I missed my chance. I tried giving my relationship with Sarah my all, but you were always first in my mind. I saw you everywhere; when I was in Adam's Park I'd catch a glimpse of red hair and my heart would seize in my chest thinking of you. Then your mother fell ill and I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I brought you back to your dorm and sat with you until you felt like talking. When I left to get pizza, Sarah confronted me.”
I shudder, remembering all too vividly the argument I overheard. What would Sarah have done if she made it past Ian?
“The next day, I called Sophie. I told her everything that was going on with you and me and the threats Sarah was holding over us. Sophie said she didn't want me to live with that ultimatum hanging over my head. She told me to do whatever would make me the happiest, so I did.” He reaches for my hand, I start to pull away, but a voice in my head urges me to lace my fingers with his. “I broke up with Sarah as soon as I got off the phone with Sophie.”
My heart does somersaults.
Ian is single.
“Why didn't you tell me sooner?”
“The timing wasn't right, not with everything going on with your mum,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek. “I want to be with you, Emily.”
We're standing so close, I can feel his breath on my face. His eyes lock with mine and neither of us moves. I want to touch him. I want to have his lips press against mine. I lean in closer, he mimics my response. The fire crackles loudly and we jump apart.
The following morning, I am relieved to see that all of my teachers have emailed me back. Most of my teachers said they understand and will give me until Saturday morning to turn in my missing assignments. Mr. Schmidt wasn't as sympathetic. His email said something about lemons and life and how if you want lemonade you can't wait for life to hand you lemons, but need to go find them yourself, which I translated as: life doesn't wait for you to grieve . . . or Mr. Schmidt doesn't at least.
So I am sitting at my desk with my American History textbook propped open in front of me. It occurs to me that I shouldn't skip my classes again. I've stayed up all night drinking Red Bull and praying I would finish some assignments before I need to leave for school. I'm writing a paper on the civil rights movement, but once I'm 2/3 the way down the page I realize I've been writing in my AP English notebook this whole time and groan in frustration.
My alarm goes off, letting me know I have twenty-five minutes before my first class. I put on a pair of jeans from my closet floor, a loose-fitting t-shirt and then put my hair up in a messy bun. Before leaving my dorm, I grab my headphones, the thing I want more than anything right now is to hear my mom's voice. I need to know she's okay. The line doesn't even ring before sending me to voicemail. I take a deep breath and remind myself I am in control, before calling my father.
It's time to get to the bottom of this.
He doesn't even greet me with a hello, instead, he harshly asks, “What do you want? I'm busy.”
My nerves are on edge, but I'm not sure why. I take a deep breath. “How's mom?”
“The school called,” he says, ignoring my question. The sneer in his voice is so strong I can hear it. “You didn't think I'd find out did you?”
“Dad,” I say. “I just found out about mom, I—I didn't know what to do. My teachers all let me make up my missing assignments and I was even able to complete some extra credit assignments, so—”
“This isn't about your grades!” He shouts and I almost drop my phone. “Do you think I want to pay for you to go to a top-notch school just so you can waste my money moping around in your room? How do you think that makes me look?”
“I'm sorry.” My shoulders slump as I ride through Adam's Park. “I didn't think—”
He cuts me off again. “You're right you didn't think. I try doing something n
ice for you, to help further your education and this is how you treat me?”
What the hell is he talking about?
My heart beats loudly. I crush my teeth together. “I never asked to come to Los Angeles.”
He laughs bitterly. “Do you really think you'd have any chance of getting into Harvard if you stayed in this God-forsaken town?”
I sing “Hakuna Matata” in my head, over and over again, attempting to keep my voice calm as I respond. “I don't want to go to Harvard, dad. I want to go to Emory University—it has one of the best creative writing programs and—”
“You are not wasting my money to pay for a useless degree like that.”
“Fine!” I shout back, my anger finally getting the best of me. “I don't want your stupid money! I'll pay for it myself.”
“How?” His laugh sends chills up my spine. “You don't have a job, and quite frankly I'm sick of your attitude. You're not going anywhere until you learn to treat me with the respect I deserve.”
My stomach plummets. I feel that familiar tightness in my throat that means I'm on the verge of a breakdown and am past the point of being able to calm down.
“What about Thanksgiving?” I ask, my voice is lifeless and hollow. “I want to see mom.”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to act like an ungrateful, little brat.”
“That's not fair!”
My stomach twists, sinking with all the doubts that have been filling my mind the past few weeks. Ever since I called and that woman answered my dad’s phone . . . I thought something like this would happen. That he would find a way to keep me away from mom . . . he couldn’t chance I’d tell her he was cheating and ruin their marriage . . . even if he already has.
No. He'll convince her that everything is fine and dandy and she'll continue to stay with him because she thinks Sammy and I need him in our lives.
I'm so upset I can't see where I'm going. I pull over and lean my bike against the side of a comic book shop. My fists are shaking and I know I'm speaking entirely too loud, but I don't care.
What gives him the right to treat me like I'm the scum of the earth?
The Missing Piece Page 19
