He nodded. “Like having to imagine the life you know while adding in this other person who’s never been there before.”
“Exactly,” I said. The newness of acorns and London being gone and promised kisses didn’t change one thing about us: Asher was so easy to talk to. I felt myself blush at how much I’d already said tonight—admitting I basically needed Marisol to dress myself properly and that trying to show the real Darcy Wells meant having to start thinking about the man who half created her.
Saying it makes it real. And I was.
I trapped a clump of sticky rice between my chopsticks. “My mom and I—like I said, our home isn’t...right. But it’s all I’ve ever known and she has a job she likes and I’ve been able to slay school and prepare myself for some kind of future. What I’m trying to say is, she...we’ve gotten through, despite...”
The hoard. Asher’s brisk nod completed my thought before I dragged it out myself.
I went on. “My father wasn’t there for my first Disney trip or my first day of kindergarten. Mom and I and sometimes my grandparents clocked all my milestones alone. But now, there’s this figure in the mix who was there all the time, even while he was on the other side of the world. He’s real, even though I pretended he wasn’t. Like make-believe.”
“And now it’s almost like trying to Photoshop in a person’s face who missed the shot,” Asher said.
“Or an entire childhood of shots. What would it have been like to have a father drive me to get my wisdom teeth out? Or to have someone around who fixed stuff, so I wouldn’t have to rely on Marisol’s brother to cover for maintenance?”
“Wait, what?”
Oh. Fix. Maintenance.
Now I’d done it and couldn’t hit Rewind. I’d gone too far, and the reason was currently adjusting the collar of his black polo. It was stupid to peg all the blame on to him, but really, Asher was simply too Asher. Too kind, his eyes too focused and accepting, his heart too warm and patient.
Then there was the soft fullness of his mouth and his tightly strung back, swallowing up the metal café chair. From across the table, he’d drawn me miles ahead into saying words I used to protect with all my life.
Okay. It was okay. Asher already knew about the hoard; he could know about the side effects. I breathed in deeply. Then I began with how we’d kept managers and workers out for years and ended with, “So now that Marco’s moving, I want to handle this latest fix-it issue myself. So if you know some good tutorials for installing low-flow faucet aerators, send them my way.” The parts had arrived on our doorstep.
“YouTube has tons, but that sounds like a fifteen-minute fix for me.”
Which sounded like hell on earth for me. Felt like all the fish I’d eaten were schooling through my stomach walls. “We’re fine, but I appreciate it. I can learn to do a few handy things for myself.” I couldn’t meet his eyes. I poked through raw veggies and saucy rice.
“Darcy, why do all that when—”
I waved it off. Waved him off. “I should actually make good on Marisol’s overselling of our skills.”
Could I? I’d have to. There were too many steps between Asher knowing about my mother and our life, and Asher seeing the hoarded grit of my apartment. I was still getting used to him. I inched my face up and found him studying the few remaining chunks of ahi poke in his bowl.
“About your father,” he said after a minute of silence. He cracked a smile, righting the awkward tilt of my universe after the last five minutes. “I mean, you said he’s always been make-believe. So maybe, in the spirit of obeying the Oracle of Marisol, you could start by talking about him as real. You could even imagine him and think about what he’d be like. Out loud.” He opened his palm over the table, inviting me to close the space. I did, and he threaded our fingers and squeezed. “Do you have any idea what he looks like?”
“Not now. Only a guess from twenty-year-old pictures. But this is all good. Me, getting used to the idea of him.”
He tipped his chin. Winked. “My mom is into this power of declaration technique. Especially when I was early in my recovery. She urged me to say stuff like, ‘I’m Asher Fleet and I will get through PT and walk normally again.’ Or, ‘I will get off all these meds one day.’”
“‘I will fly again’?” I offered softly.
His upturned mouth landed in a flat line. “I say that one every single morning.”
This time, I did the hand-squeezing. “I already believe in flying for you, but how do I believe in a father for me? What would I even lead with in some hypothetical letter or phone call? ‘So...how’s Thailand been for the last eighteen years?’ Or, ‘Is the pad thai really that much better there?’” I possessed enough words to start a hundred conversations, but I didn’t know the right words for this one. Not without actress-me scripting them out in costumes and blond wigs. “I can’t seem to get there. Not yet.”
“You don’t have to get or be anywhere yet. Try talking more about him with Marisol.” He leaned in. “And me.”
And him.
Asher continued with, “Start adding him to your declarations, like, ‘I’m Darcy Wells, and I have a father, and I’m going to crush that comparative poetry essay in AP English.’”
I laughed, then tried, “Um, I’m Darcy Wells, and David Elliot is my father, and I’m also going to crush San Diego State in the fall.” And, wow. The declaration didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt true.
“Even better,” Asher said.
“I’m Darcy Wells, and David Elliot is my father, and I will keep these jeans clean next time.”
A chuckle rumbled in Asher’s throat and a twinkle spun from his eye just before he said, “What about, ‘I’m Darcy Wells, and David Elliot is my father, and I’m having coffee with Asher Fleet at that cool Italian coffee shop around the corner on Saturday night’?”
* * *
Every December when I was little, Grandma Wells gave me an advent calendar—the kind shaped like a thin cardboard box with a snowy Christmas scene on the front. December mornings, I’d wake up and break open one tiny, perforated door to reveal a surprise, a little something. There could be truffles or hard candies. Sometimes I found stickers or miniature baubles or plastic toys. Behind the door for December 24 was always the biggest treat: a miniature ornament or foil-wrapped chocolate Santa Claus.
The past week of getting to know Asher had taken this same shape. Not red-coated and white-bearded, but advent calendar–shaped. Each day gifted a little something of him. Saturday, it was coffee—yes, at the adorable Italian place in North Park.
Another day we shared a phone call where I stared at a ceiling blackened with nearly midnight, and he said he was lying faceup on his bed, too.
Where, at least a full hour in, I said, “Okay, you’re so, so exhausted. Your words are slurring.”
“My name is Asher Fleet and I am exhausted, and these meds don’t help, but I will know the answer to my question.”
“Too hard to choose.” I yawned. “Not fair.”
“Sometimes we have to make the hard choices. So which is it? Only one forever—flan or cupcakes?”
Another yawn. “Ugh, fine. Flan.”
“Understandable. Sweet dreams, Darcy.”
“Good night—wait. No. Cupcakes. It’s for sure cupcakes.”
“Yeah?” The word was sleepy-soft.
“Yeah.”
Then yesterday, a picture sneaking through my messages during calculus brought a tear to my eye. No caption was needed for the Piper-eyed view through the cockpit window of a tropical drink sky. “You will fly again,” I declared in my head and hoped in my heart, typing the words back to him.
Now my phone dinged from Tops’ counter while I munched break-time ginger snaps and Tess filled a special order for a theater troupe.
Asher: Hi from doctor’s waiting room. Check-up. Do a crossword puzzle with me?
Today was Friday. Asher asking me to partner on a crossword puzzle moved Friday to my list of all-time favorite words. For
a few minutes, Asher fed me clues and I did my thing.
Asher: Opera anthem, four letters
Me: Aria
Asher: Fits! Stuck here. Clue is threw a party for, five letters, starts with F
Asher: I thought feast but doesn’t work
Me: Feted
Asher: That’s a word?
Asher: Shit it works with the other clues
Me: Told ya
Asher: Squirrel food, five letters ending with N
My breath hitched. I twirled the silver charm around my neck.
Me: Really
Asher: That’s six letters. Fail. Try again. Oak tree nut, five letters
Me: A-S-H-E-R (who is every kind of nut)
Asher: Winks. Hey, nurse calling me back
Asher: Last minute thing at Jase’s tomorrow night. You in?
Me: I’m in
I traded my phone for my teacup, doing another heartbeat check. I did focused breathing until the thumping slowed from racehorse to my normal book-reading rate. Lukewarm green tea slid down my throat as I pondered a calendar week where Asher proved he wasn’t impossible anymore. And I was learning, little by little, how not to be invisible.
* * *
“Well now, I wouldn’t call that a Darcy-frown,” Tess said, snatching a cookie from the plate. “But something’s knocked that beautiful mind of yours real good.”
“Right. Real.” I conjured a hint of smile. “I would like to know what’s real. I want that.” The real me. A clear, uncluttered view into what drove my mother to compulsively shop. How a flesh-and-blood father might fit into my life.
Two hands over her heart, Tess wound around the counter and faced me. “Miss Darcy Wells, you do make a noble request of the world.” Her eyes homed in on the acorn around my neck. “Well, isn’t that an interesting little bauble. I’ve never seen you wear it before.”
Instinctively I grabbed the charm I’d worn all week but kept hidden under necklines until today. “It’s new.”
Her smile opened like a rosebud. “Today calls for something new, too. Different.”
“Can we nix the wig dress-up? Just for now?” More than any other time, I didn’t want make-believe coverings, even for a few minutes, not over the girl who’d text-flirted with Asher and agreed to attend a party without consulting Marisol first—who honestly had to know by now, anyway.
“No, none of that today. I said different. A while ago you asked, and now it’s time.” Slowly, Tess raised her arms to the wavy fall of deep chestnut she was wearing. She tugged, pulled, and lifted to reveal a flesh-colored skullcap. My eyes grew wider as she peeled off the cap and tossed it behind her. Tess Winston’s natural hair was beautiful—not quite blond, but not truly light brown, either. The shade reminded me of brown sugar, or the way beach sand looks just before sunset.
She reached for a brush and combed out the strands until they fell softly, barely grazing her shoulders. The layered cut was current and modern. “Real,” she said.
My mouth still gaped. “Your hair is so thick and shiny. So pretty. Why all the wigs?”
“When I opened the shop, I wore them for advertisement. But then it became a treat to play with all the different colors and styles. Eventually it morphed into my trademark. Not the wigs as much as the mystery. Yes, I enjoy the mystery the most. Now it’s better self-care than a spa day or a diary. And it’s fun.”
“Why didn’t you show me before? The real you?”
“The real me?” Her soft, lavender-scented hand around my cheek. “Honey, you met the real me ages ago.”
Twenty-Seven
As the Stars
“‘Then tell her,’ Wendy begged, ‘to put out her light.’
‘She can’t put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can’t do. It just goes out of itself when she falls asleep apart, same as the stars.’”
—J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, and Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler
The Saturday night scene at Casa Donnelly reminded me of the series of vintage Choose Your Own Adventure books I read over two weeks in the first grade. Did I board the unknown spacecraft or stay to explore the mysterious planet? Should I sneak into the cave, through the submarine hatch, or into the castle armory? I alone could decide my fate.
With his parents in Cabo, Jase’s house offered many such choices to what felt like at least a quarter of the Jefferson High senior class. While Marisol hit the bathroom, I slunk around. Each room held a different vibe, but Jase had tacked up the same sign inside every one: Respect the property. Don’t break it, spill on it, puke on it.
I hovered in the kitchen doorway, which featured some game involving Fireball whiskey, pitching mini cheese crackers into people’s mouths, and rules that were unclear from my view. The participants seemed way too amused.
The family room morphed into social media central. Phones were out and Instagram was cued up. Voices hushed. The custom lighting system was set to washed-golden-somber, so selfies came out prefiltered. Girls lounged and posed on the oversize velvet furniture like big cat zoo animals in halter tops and bodycon dresses, ankle boots dangling over armrests.
Marisol found me in there. “I poked my head outside,” she said and cracked her gum. Cinnamon. “Robbie and his debate club boys are jumping into the deep end from the top of the pool house overhang.”
My nose crinkled as a distant splash plus cheering rang out over the moody jam piping through the entire property. “Brrr,” I said, thoughts of chilly November in my head.
“You forget we’re at Jase’s. Home of portable backyard heaters, a Jacuzzi grotto, and a pool temp set to just south of volcanic. They’re fine. Unless someone cracks a skull or something.”
I let out a brief snort as my phone buzzed from the black mini crossbody purse I’d borrowed from Marisol. The WOC—or wallet on chain, as she called it—held my license and a few bills, keys, a lip gloss, and the phone. Not even a folded book cover would fit. Tonight was one of the first times I’d ever left my apartment without at least one novel.
Marisol grinned. “He’s already here, right?”
I flipped open the bag and scanned. “Out back.” A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to me. “Do you think London will show?” Even though we’d found a bit of common ground during the play, facing a postbreakup London while I was hanging publicly with Asher was a different matter altogether.
She drew me out of “overhear and repeat” range. “I haven’t seen her yet. But London’s not going to shade a party and her entire friend group just because the host is in a perpetual bromance with her ex.” Marisol leaned in. “Look, from what I’ve heard, she’s already moved on, so she’s probably not home decoupaging his old love letters onto jars to collect her tears.”
I surveyed the room again. “Still awkward. Really, especially awkward. I’m kind of new at this, remember?”
She fake-pouted. “My baby is all grown-up.” She smoothed the off-the-shoulder neckline of my fitted cream sweater. “And how incredible does this masterpiece make your boobs look?”
Now even more conscious of my strapless bra, I ignored that and whispered, “New. At this. I haven’t even kissed him yet.”
Marisol snorted. “I’d know if you had, and you will, once you get yourself all figured out.” She fluffed the beach waves she’d created in my hair, then spun my rigid form toward the patio doors. “I’m gonna mingle around here. Now get outside and forget about London.”
I went.
Asher’s text navigated me to the firepit. I followed the pool perimeter, where the jumping crowd had switched to floating around on huge blow-up mats, turtles, and swans. I shivered just looking at them until I saw Asher. He sat behind the orange row of flames curling up from the concrete table. He angled forward, eyes widening at me along with a star-touched smile. Another kind of shiver waved through, forehead to foot.
I settled beside him. Todd Blackthorn was entertaining the fire-seekers with a story and bonus hand motions.
Asher leaned in and whispered,
“Todd’s giving us his Glamis trip highlights.”
“The desert sand dunes place?” I asked.
He nodded. “Says there was some kind of paranormal event out there, and he still has the jeebs. Also, you look really nice.”
My mouth fell open, ready with—Thanks, Marisol did my hair and makeup and remembered I had these black tall boots and the sweater was on clearance. And you look incredible, too, and smell like citrus and mint and a hot shower.
Just in time, I enabled strikethrough, editing myself. “Thanks. You, too.”
Asher slid his left arm halfway across my back, then answered my smile by drawing me closer. We’d hugged a lot lately, after dinners or coffee. Still, this felt different. Everyone could see us, which amped the reality factor. The gray flannel he wore was close to the one he’d worn at Bryn’s party. Tonight it grazed the bare skin above my neckline instead of my imagination.
“Todd, it was your brother,” Alyssa said, brandishing her purple cast. “No ghost arranged all your gear into a pattern outside your tent.”
“Swear,” Todd emphasized, and showed the evidence on his phone, which I could barely decipher from my spot. “Kade was out the whole night. He pounded all this NyQuil before we crashed.”
Alyssa grabbed the device. “The stuff’s all zigzagged. Zigzagged! This was Kade, meds or not.” Handing it back, she caught my position inside Asher’s arm. She lobbed a half smile across the fire. I shrugged like it was the smallest of deals, and attempted to embody the classic definition of demure.
As time ticked through the party, one thing was clear: I was Asher’s date. He never left my side as we munched salty snacks and wandered in and out of rooms, drinking nonalcoholic fruit spritzers. I stopped wondering where the heck Marisol was and if London was going to pop out from one of the Donnellys’ manicured hedgerows.
After three spritz drinks, my need to pee had gone from subtle signal to SOS. I excused myself, almost crying when I saw the lines in front of both downstairs bathrooms. I was shifting my weight back and forth when Alyssa sidled up and whispered, “Just pretend you missed the notice on the staircase and save yourself.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 23
