We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  “I’m Jack,” the beer guy said. He peered into my cup. “Drink up,” he said. “There’s plenty where that came from.” I took another sip and then another. Holding something gave me something to do with my hands. Drinking gave me something to do with my mouth.

  “How do you know Rachel?” Jack asked. I followed his gaze to where Rachel was still standing with Greg, his arm now around her.

  “Rachel’s my sister,” I said to Jack. He raised his brows, looking from me to her and back again.

  “I could see that,” he lied. I took another drink, a long one, feeling the warmth and heaviness in my stomach grow. “That’s more like it,” Jack said.

  People floated past. Talking to Jack. Smiling at me. Rachel floated toward me once. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were big and dark.

  “You okay?” she asked again. I nodded. She handed Jack two empty cups and he refilled them and handed them back. “Stick with Jack. He’s nice,” Rachel said.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Nice,” he said. “Thanks for that.” Rachel just grinned at him and walked away.

  “What’s wrong with nice?” I asked. My words seemed big and round, like the vowels were all misshapen from wear.

  “Nice doesn’t get girls like Rachel,” Jack said.

  “What does?” I ask.

  “Greg Stinson,” Jack said. “Every girl wants Greg.” I watched as Rachel and Greg disappeared up the stairs.

  I don’t know how much time passed. Ten minutes? An hour? It was hot and close in the room. And the heaviness in my stomach was turning into something else.

  “You okay?” Jack asked, looking at me. I shook my head, but the movement made my head wobble on my neck, like it wasn’t attached correctly. Jack took my elbow and started steering me through the living room. He knocked on a closed door, but all he got in response was giggling. “Come on,” he said. “There’s another bathroom upstairs.” He piloted me toward a door and flipped on the light, pulling the door shut behind him as he left. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to make the warm beer and the piece of lemon birthday pie be quiet. That’s when I heard Rachel. I couldn’t hear the words, just the tone. Part angry. Part scared. I pushed up from the tub, my heart beating too loud in my ears. I pulled open the door and followed the sound of her voice down the hall.

  “Stop it,” Rachel said. I stood in front of the closed door. Silence. Then, again, Rachel’s voice. More panic. “Stop it, Greg.”

  I knocked. Nothing. “Rachel?”

  “Go away.” Male. Harsh. Angry.

  “Rachel?” I called again. “Are you in there?”

  Muffled cursing. Male. Then the door. Greg. His shirt was off and his pants were undone. He blocked the door, forcing me to look around him. “Go away,” he said, glaring at me. “Your sister’s busy.” He smirked as he looked into the dark bedroom.

  “Mia?” Rachel called.

  Greg wasn’t prepared for me to push my way in, and he certainly wasn’t prepared for me to see. Rachel was lying sideways across the bed with her jeans bunched at her ankles. Her eyes were enormous, looking at me.

  I remember helping Rachel up. Helping her find her missing clothes. Helping her stand. Helping her walk. We went past Greg, down the stairs, and out the door. Away from the music and the noise and Jack calling after us.

  “Can you drive?” I asked Rachel, already knowing the answer. I pushed her into the passenger seat and buckled her in. I walked around the car and climbed behind the wheel.

  Then there was Greg striding across the yard. His face red, his pride bruised, his voice loud and angry. I locked the doors. He pounded on the window. I started the car, trying to pretend I knew what I was doing. I tried to pretend I was just hauling traps from the garage to the water in my dad’s old farm truck. I steered away from Greg, away from the lights and the party and the noise.

  I should have called.

  I should have taken the Ridge Road.

  I should have seen the deer.

  Everyone says to accelerate when you realize you’re going to hit an animal in the road. Common knowledge where the deer outnumber the people two to one. They tell you that the force of the impact will send the animal up and over the windshield. Minimizing damage. Lessening injury. Decreasing loss. They tell you to go against your instinct to swerve or stop or even slow down.

  The deer died on impact. Didn’t feel a thing, they said.

  Rachel died a short time later. She was peaceful at the end, they said.

  I should have died. She should have died, they said.

  They were right.

  The fog keeps rolling across the bridge, cutting me off on either side. I’m alone, I think. No one can find me here. No one will find me here. I stand back up and stare at the water, still dancing with the rain until even that disappears. I close my eyes and wish the wish that’s been right there for so long. I wish I could disappear. Just evaporate. Fade. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make the papers. Just another girl. A nobody. Gone.

  But then I think about what Veronica said, about piecing things back together. And I think about what my father told my mother—t hat you just have to keep moving forward. And I think about Waffles sitting on my foot, trusting and sweet, and I smile.

  So when I first hear a dog barking, I think I’m imaging it. But it doesn’t stop, it just keeps going—deep and rhythmic. Then high and shrill. I open my eyes and stare into the fog. The barking is louder, closer. I stand and press against the railing to make space on the walkway before me. Then along with the barking, I hear the jingling of a leash and footsteps.

  Samson is the first to appear. I know it’s him by the crystal-studded pink collar and the ferocity in his bark. Waffles is next, pulling at his leash. Then Cooper. Samson bites at my ankles, Waffles shakes the rain from his fur, and Cooper just looks at me.

  “Hey,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say and because I’m trying to pry Samson’s mouth off the leg of my jeans. “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “Well, I may or may not have been following you,” he says. Cooper swipes at his forehead, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “I had to get the dogs, so that slowed me up, but thankfully you didn’t go too far.” He squints into the fog and then looks back at me. “We should talk.”

  “We should,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I acted like a jerk.”

  I shrug. “So did I.” I look back over the water. I remember my grandmother’s advice to just start with one thing. I can hear my father’s voice, telling me it wasn’t my fault. I can feel Fig’s hand in mine and see Sebastian’s tears. I feel Sarah’s arms as she hugged me and told me she trusted me. I turn and look at Cooper, aware the slight breeze is pushing my hair away from my face.

  “My sister’s name was Rachel. She died in a car accident. I was the one driving.” And then I tell him everything. Just spill it out onto the sidewalk in front of him until I have to stop to catch my breath. When the words are gone, I close my eyes. I don’t want to watch him walk away.

  But then there’s a bump against my leg and a heavy weight on my foot. Waffles. And a soft touch on my face. I look up at Cooper, and he brushes my cheek. I start to turn away, but his fingers find my chin.

  “It’s okay,” he says softly. He steps closer and slides his hand behind my head. I let myself fall against him, feeling the rough fabric of his thermal shirt against my cheek. We stand like that, his arms around me and his chin on the top of my head.

  “Thank you,” I say. He pulls back and looks down at me.

  “For what?”

  “For not giving up on me,” I say. “For not going away.” He brushes my damp hair from my cheek.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

  He looks at me, his fingers in my hair. When his thumb brushes against my scar, I stiffen slightly, and he hesitates. But his eyes hold mine, and I feel something shift inside of me. And I nod and close my eyes, feeling his thumb on my cheek and his fingers in my hair
. And for once, instead of pulling away I lean in. His touch is so gentle, I can barely feel it. He traces my scar, starting at my eyebrow and finishing where it ends just beneath my collarbone. It’s the first time anyone besides a nurse or doctor have touched my scar. I look up at him, studying his face.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “Well,” he says, “I was thinking maybe we could go somewhere drier.” His voice is teasing. I make a face and start to turn away, but his fingers catch my chin. “Actually, I was just thinking how beautiful you are.” I scowl at him. “Even when you make that face.”

  “Thank you,” I say, suddenly shy.

  He smiles again. “We really could talk somewhere else,” he says. As if on cue, it starts raining even harder. Sheets of water pour over us.

  “Somewhere else would be good,” I say. Cooper hands me Waffles’s leash and we head back toward the city.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t Waffles.” He nods toward his dog, who is trying to catch raindrops in his mouth. “He’s sort of useless. Cute, but useless.” Cooper’s hand finds mine and his fingers are warm against my skin. He sees the look on my face. “Okay,” he says. “like I said, I followed you. But then I didn’t want it to look like I followed you, so I stopped and picked up Samson and Waffles. They’re close by and I thought they made for a good cover.”

  “So that it would look like you were out walking the dogs and you just happened to run into me?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” Cooper says.

  “Good plan,” I say, smirking. “With your knack for subterfuge, you should be a spy.”

  Cooper pretends to consider my suggestion. “I’ll stick with dog walking.” He has to pull Samson back when the small terror goes to attack a trash bag with a dying fern hanging out of the top.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “How do you feel about pie?” Cooper asks.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Theoretical pie or actual pie?”

  “Actual,” he says.

  “I feel very good about pie,” I say.

  “Man, I ask how you feel about kissing and you say okay. But pie gets a very good.”

  “You should ask me again,” I say, stopping under an awning.

  “Okay,” he says. He stops and looks at me. “How do you feel about pie?” I shake my head and start to walk out from under the awning and into the rain. His hand on my arm stops me. “How do you feel about being kissed?” he asks. The rain keeps beating on the awning above us, loud, without rhythm.

  “Okay,” I say, laughing. Cooper rolls his eyes, but I pull him toward me and kiss him. “How was that?” I ask when I pull back a little.

  “Definitely okay,” Cooper says. This time, he kisses me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  And then what happened?” Fig asks. She bounces on the balls of her feet as we talk. I notice that the Brunelli family is unusually quiet. Listening. I make my eyes big at her and mouth the word later. But she just shakes her head. “They don’t care,” she says, gesturing at Grace, Gina, and Nonna, who are desperately trying to put the lasagna together as quietly as possible so they can eavesdrop.

  “Then I kissed him,” I say softly. I make my eyes big.

  Nonna clucks her tongue. “In my day—” she begins.

  “Mother,” Grace says, cutting her off. “It’s totally acceptable in today’s society for a girl to kiss a guy.”

  “Hmmpf,” is Nonna’s only response.

  “Anyway!” Fig says over her family’s critique of my love life. “And then what?”

  I tell her about going to the pie shop and sitting outside so we can keep Waffles and Samson with us.

  “You love pie!” Fig says, as if I need reminding.

  Then I tell her how I told Cooper everything about Rachel, and my mom deciding to become a nun, and how my dad left but now he’s back. By this point Gina, Grace, and Nonna are leaning against the counter and listening. Any pretense they are working is completely gone. Grace asks questions about Rachel, and Gina starts crying. And Fig rolls her eyes at Gina, but I notice tears in her eyes too. Nonna shakes her head and walks over to the office, returning with a big box of tissues. Joey comes in at one point and backs out, mumbling something about there being too much estrogen in the kitchen.

  “Then he told me about himself.” I refuse to repeat the story, telling Grace that she has to get it from Cooper or Sarah directly, which she says she will. Nonna rolls her eyes at this.

  “So, how are you?” Fig asks.

  I smile. “Okay,” I say. And I am. Well, at least I’m better. A lot.

  I take a deep breath and decide to remember this moment. This one is scented with cinnamon and filled with laughter and Fig’s chatter.

  “What now?” Fig asks. She looks down at her shoes. “Are you going back to Maine?”

  “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” I say. It wasn’t the easiest conversation to have with my father. My father was okay when I asked him if I could finish the summer. He was definitely disappointed, but he agreed that we should just take it slow. Let things grow organically. I smiled when he said that, making him laugh. He even called Nonna and spoke with her about it. Veronica was all for the idea, so much so that she started boxing up some of the books in my room so I can have more space.

  Fig grins and twirls around the island toward the pot of strawberries she’s supposed to be stirring.

  “I can’t wait until Saturday,” Fig says, twirling back toward me. But then she gets all weird, like she just said something she shouldn’t.

  “What?” I ask, but Fig simply waves her fingers around as if batting away my question.

  “I’m just excited,” Fig says. I can tell something’s up, but for once Fig manages to keep a secret. No amount of begging gets her to budge. She only hums and walks over to the stove to stir the big pot of jam again.

  Nonna claps her hands. “Okay, break’s over, everyone. Back to work!”

  I start unwrapping the cream cheese for the Danish filling, and Nonna walks over beside me.

  “I’m proud of you, Mia,” she says. It’s the kind of thing that sounds so lame coming from one of your parents, but coming from Nonna, it makes me feel all warm inside.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” Grace teases as she walks past. She gives me a smile before pushing through the door.

  I turn on the mixer and watch the paddle smash the cream cheese and sugar against the sides of the bowl. Fig starts singing off-key about moons and pie and amore. She twirls as she carries the pans of lasagna to the cooler. She then twirls over to me and pries me away from the mixer, taking my hands and twirling me around. Joey peeks back into the kitchen but immediately leaves again, telling us to call him when the lunacy is over. That makes Fig start laughing, and seeing her laugh makes me laugh too. Soon we’re both laughing so hard we can’t catch our breath.

  I decide to get my camera to take a picture of me and Fig together, but then I remember I left it at Simon’s place. But maybe some things can’t be caught in a photograph. Things like the smell of fresh bread and the sound of laughter and that little glow inside your chest that suggests that maybe the heart that you thought was hard for good isn’t.

  “Where are we going?” I ask Cooper. I glance over at him, hardly believing he’s with me. While I do prefer the jeansand-T-shirt Cooper, he looks amazing in the tux he borrowed from one of Fig’s cousins. Cooper told me he’d pick me up at Veronica’s and we’d ride over to the MoMA together. We were going to ride the subway, but my dad said my dress was way too pretty to chance messing it up. Take a cab, he told me, pressing money into my hand.

  “There’s one there,” I say, pointing to a taxi just letting a woman out a few cars away. Cooper shakes his head, and we keep walking. “Why do I get the feeling we’re not going to the MoMA?” I ask.

  Cooper only smiles at me and squeezes my arm.

  “Not fair,” I say.

  “What’s not
fair?” he asks.

  “You,” I say. Cooper smirks.

  “Did I already tell you how beautiful you look?” he asks. I blush like I did the first three times he said it.

  “You did,” I say. “Where are we going again?” I ask, trying for casual to see if I can trick him. Cooper only laughs.

  The truth is, I don’t really care where we’re going, except that I should probably call my dad and Veronica if we aren’t going to meet them on the steps in front of the museum like we’d planned. When I left, my dad was still trying to figure out how to knot his tie, refusing Veronica’s help.

  Cooper leads me down the street and over a block. “How’re your feet doing?” he asks, nodding down at my new shoes.

  “Good,” I say. And it’s only because Rina told Fig and me to wear our shoes around the house every day for half an hour at a time to break them in. Nonna yelled at us when we were wearing them in the kitchen, telling us they were unsafe.

  We walk down one street and double back along the other side. “Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

  “Trust me,” Cooper says. We do the same thing on the next block. Finally, he turns toward the park.

  “Wait,” I say, realizing where we are going. “I thought you said Simon wanted us to keep out because he had the floors done and no one could walk on them.”

  “He did,” Cooper says. “But they’re finished now.”

  We walk past the corner market, which has replaced its blueberries with a giant pyramid of canned peas. We draw even with Simon’s, and I notice he’s taken the paper off the windows—but it’s dark inside, so you still can’t see in.

  “I told Simon we’d drop by to see the place,” Cooper says. The sign on the door says There is closed for a private party. I start to tell Cooper that maybe we should come back, but he’s already pulling the door open and nodding at me to go inside. It’s really dark, even with some light coming in the windows.

  “Don’t be mad,” Cooper says softly from behind me. Fig made me promise to wear my hair up, and Cooper’s breath is warm on the side of my neck.

  “Why would I be—”