The Tenderness of Thieves

by Donna Freitas

  THIRTY-THREE

  IT WAS EIGHT A.M. when I tiptoed through the porch door in the backyard.

  I was hoping and praying my mother was sleeping in.

  Luck was not on my side.

  “Jane!”

  My mother’s shout met me the second I entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, Jane,” she said again and got up from where she was sitting at the counter, pulling me into a hug, her arms tight around me.

  Her cheeks were wet.

  I leaned away, panicked. “Mom? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  “Because I didn’t know where you were!”

  “Calm down,” I said. “I’m right here, and I’m fine.”

  She took a step back from me. “Don’t tell me to calm down.” The relief that flooded her eyes when I walked through the door turned to anger. “I’ve been frantic! I’ve been up since three a.m. waiting for you to come home, telling myself you were probably fine, but honestly, Jane, you had me terrified. From now on you need to tell me where you go at all times!”

  “I was at Handel’s,” I mumbled. Then I walked past her and went into the fridge. There was barely enough iced coffee to fill half a glass. “You drank it all? You could have left me some.”

  “Keep me informed and maybe they’ll be some left,” she snapped.

  I looked at her. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Sit. Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  There was something about her tone that scared me. I did what I was told and took my usual place on one side of the counter.

  She took her place on the other. “The police called. Officer Connolly.”

  I swallowed. He’d finally gotten tired of trying me and went to my mother directly. “Yeah?”

  My mother nodded. “That’s why I’ve been up, Jane. He called wanting to make sure you were all right.” She laid her hands flat on the counter and studied them a moment. Her nails were extra short, their polish chipped and worn away, casualties of her work. She looked up again. Took a deep breath to continue. “There was another break-in last night. The first once since . . .” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

  I gasped. It came out of me like a shriek. “Where?”

  “Just over the border in Smallton. No one we know. Rich family. Big summer house.”

  I was nodding as she talked like this all made sense. “Was anybody . . .”

  “There were no witnesses.”

  Still nodding. “Okay, okay.”

  “Officer Connolly wanted to make sure we found out from him before we saw it in the news.” She eyed me. “He said he’s been trying to reach you for weeks.”

  I blinked. Ignored that last bit. “So they have no idea who . . . ?”

  My mother shook her head. She reached over and put a hand over mine. “Sweetie, what is going on? What are you thinking about? Tell me.”

  “That’s why you were so worried when I came in,” I stated.

  “Yes.”

  “I was with Handel. I was safe with Handel.”

  “I know, honey. You said that. I just wish I’d known earlier so I didn’t have to be so scared.”

  “Handel was with me,” I said under my breath, taking in this fact. This reality. “All night.”

  “Jane?”

  But I couldn’t answer. Not just yet. I was trying to figure out for myself what was going on inside me, why a sense of relief so total and complete was washing through me, washing away all the doubt and insecurity and the tiny sneaking suspicion that had been rooting around in my heart. At the same time, my brain was telling me I should feel angry and upset and maybe even a little scared that the break-ins had started up again. That I’d get pulled into this mess of having to talk to the police and having to relive what happened just when I felt like I’d been moving on. Moving forward. Leaving it behind, little by little. The relief was bigger, though. Big like the waves during a storm, the kind that come in and take everything with them. Sand, shells, seaweed, leaving the beach clean of debris.

  My mother squeezed my hand. “Jane?” she repeated.

  I smiled. I felt exhilarated. Airy. Like I could do anything I wanted. Anything at all was possible.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, but the thing is, I did. “Just nerves, I guess. My body not knowing how to react.”

  “You should give yourself some time to process this today, okay? We can talk more later. I’m just so relieved to see you. I’m so relieved you’re all right.”

  “Hmmm,” was all I responded.

  My mind was elsewhere.

  My mind was on Handel.

  Handel, who’d been with me during the break-in.

  That’s when I knew. Somewhere deep and unspoken inside me, I’d been worried that maybe, just maybe, there was a connection between Handel and those break-ins, a connection between Handel and all the chaos and grief I’d been through. That the source of the darkness that would come into his eyes, that would wedge itself between us and hold us apart sometimes, was related to it. This tiny seed of suspicion had sprouted last night when I found out Handel had lied to me and when I saw him with his brother and those friends, arguing. Fighting. Sprouted and tangled itself around my insides, squeezing them until I almost couldn’t breathe.

  But now I knew the truth.

  It couldn’t have been him.

  I laughed giddily. “I think I’m going to head to the beach,” I told my mother, ignoring her confusion at my cheery reaction. I got up from the place where I’d been sitting. Twirled a lock of hair around my finger, distracted, skipping off to my room.

  “I don’t want you alone today,” she said while I was changing clothes and gathering my beach things into my bag. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and then headed back out, through our tiny kitchen–living room combo, well aware that my mother was watching me like I was acting stranger than ever. And maybe I was.

  But I practically danced all the way down to the beach that morning.

  I practically danced.

  • • •

  “I thought you’d be more upset, Jane,” Bridget said when she showed up, bag resting at her side. She was the first one to arrive for the day.

  I smiled at her, relaxed and basking in the sun. Baking like some bikini-clad girl-cake. “Maybe I will be later. But right now I feel fine.”

  “Well, that’s . . . great,” she said. “Weird but great. When I saw the news, my heart just fell through my body. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you must be feeling, but here you are, perfectly okay.”

  “I am perfectly okay,” I echoed.

  Bridget set out her towel and sat down next to me. Gave me a wry look. “Does your mood have anything to do with Handel?”

  My smile got bigger. “Maybe.”

  “You two are like rabbits.”

  “What about you and James?”

  Bridget laughed. “Right. Not going to happen. Not anytime soon at least.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not in love.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  “But I’d like to be. Besides, right now I’m just enjoying all the makeout sessions.”

  I rolled over onto my side and propped myself up on my elbow. “I think it’s about time you spilled some details on that front.”

  Bridget lit up at this request. “I’d be more than happy to discuss James’s unexpected, yet surprisingly appealing kissing techniques,” she began, and we went on talking about this and a dozen other particulars, about all that had happened between her and James, analyzing it until we were satisfied to have looked at it from every possible angle.

  Later on, when Michaela and Tammy arrived, at first they wanted to tiptoe around me, concerned I might be shattered from the events of last night. But all that relief from
earlier was still buoying me, bobbing me around like I was floating on a little raft, allowing me to drift away from the darkness pressing in on me ever since February. I was more than willing to let it recede into the background.

  Instead of break-ins and burglaries, we focused on boys.

  Seamus and James and Hugh and Handel.

  Just the way it should be when you’re four girls sitting on the beach in the middle of a perfectly beautiful summer day. Just the way we’d always imagined it would be in our future, after the boys finally discovered we were worthy of their attention.

  A dream come true.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AS THE AFTERNOON HEAT settled over us, I went home to change out of my bathing suit for once. Then I snuck off to Handel’s house. I knew he was around today, and I couldn’t wait until tonight to see him. I marched up to his front porch with all the confidence in the world, hips swaying in my short skirt, freed by the serendipitous coincidence of the night we spent together. I went straight inside the front door and up the stairs to his room.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked when I found him there, head in his hands, looking like the weight of the world was on him. I couldn’t tell if he was staring into space or studying something on the desk where he sat.

  He startled and turned around in his chair. “Jane,” he said. Mustered a smile.

  “Is anyone home? I didn’t see your mother on my way up here.”

  “No,” he said, reaching out his hand. “We’re alone.”

  “Good,” I said, taking it and pulling him to his feet. I led him over to the bed. Pressed my hands on his shoulders, signaling he should sit. “I bet I can make you forget whatever you’re worried about.” Now I pushed at his chest, tipping him backward.

  He lay down and rested his head on a pillow. Eyes on me. “You always can.”

  I lay down next to him, and we watched each other a moment. I ran my fingers through his long hair. “That makes me happy,” I said. “I’m so happy, Handel,” I went on, and then drew him toward me until he was close enough to kiss.

  There was a moment when he paused, when he pulled away, blinked, long pale lashes fluttering up toward the ceiling like he had something on his mind. Like he was hesitating. But then it passed, and he turned to me, turned back with a big grin, reached out and tickled me in that place on my stomach he knew would make me laugh and scream—laugh and scream in a way that would make everything light again. Playful and fun like it should be between us. Like it always should be between a guy and a girl who are in love like Handel and me. Eventually things cycled from playful to passionate and from passionate to romantic, which was right where I’d wanted them to go.

  One by one, Handel popped open the buttons on my white eyelet blouse. I’d worn it on purpose, thought about Handel doing exactly this. Earlier, when I was getting dressed, I’d dug down deep into my drawer and pulled up the flimsy, lacy white bra and matching underwear that Bridget made me buy in the fall just in case I ever met someone special. After so much waiting I finally had; today was the day. I’d picked this bra and underwear since I knew Handel would see them, finally cutting the tags that still dangled from their delicate hems, trading my bathing suit for something that would tell Handel what I wanted, beyond any doubt.

  Handel undid the last of the buttons and, gently, slid the two halves of my shirt aside, looking at me. Watching the slow rise and fall of my chest.

  I was shaking.

  I don’t know why. We’d done this before. Many times.

  All you could hear was our breathing.

  “Pretty,” he said, running a finger across all that lace. Then underneath it. “Did you wear this for me?”

  A shiver ran through me. Even though my cheeks burned red, I laughed like he was being ridiculous and said, “You wish.”

  He smiled. Kissed a trail to my stomach, then back up to my neck.

  And I sighed.

  Today was turning out to be the best day.

  I wanted more from Handel, just like always. It felt like my reward, to have this.

  To have him.

  I sat up a little, enough to slide my blouse over my shoulders and down my arms until I could pull it all the way off. Then it was Handel’s turn to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside, until it was my turn again, and Handel was reaching around my back, unhooking the clasp of my bra, and it was falling away. Next was my skirt, and I was naked except for my underwear, lying on top of Handel’s sheets, pressed up against him, our legs intertwined. We’d spent a few weeks practicing these steps, this slow undressing, until it was a regular part of the time we were alone and kissing, whether it was down on the beach at night, or on his boat by the docks, or here at his house in his room when no one else was home.

  Like now.

  One thing I’d learned this summer: There was nothing like lying in bed, making out, clothes coming off piece by piece, unhurried and unworried about the time, with the boy you love.

  And I loved Handel Davies.

  Without a doubt, I loved him.

  “I love you, Jane,” Handel whispered in my ear as though he’d heard my thoughts, his fingers light on my bare skin.

  Giving me chills.

  We spent the next hour resisting, wanting, whispering, kissing, waiting for that moment when Handel would hook his fingers into the elastic of my underwear, slowly sliding it down over my thighs, my knees, my ankles, until it slipped over the tips of my toes. Until all I wore was the tiny heart on a chain around my neck. Then it was Handel’s jeans and everything else getting tossed to the floor, the two of us panting, trying to catch our breath. We both knew these steps would happen, too; we knew it the second I walked into his room.

  We pressed ourselves against each other.

  When the moment finally arrived, my heart sped up, and everything seemed lit from the inside, him and me, so much skin touching and hands everywhere, gently but urgently. Each time we did this, it got better, if you could believe it. It really did.

  There was nothing like being with Handel.

  Nothing.

  My cheeks flared a little afterward, when we were lying there in the quiet, catching our breath.

  I turned to him. Took in the way the sunlight sent rays of light across his hair. Tried to suppress a smile. “Bridget said we’re like rabbits.”

  Handel propped his head on his hand, studying me, a mock-serious expression on his face. “You do look a bit like a rabbit now that I think about it.”

  “Shut up. You know what she meant.”

  “My Jane rabbit,” he went on, playful.

  “You’re making me bad, and I like it,” I told him, sitting up a bit, my eyes seeking the pile of clothes all over his floor. The sheet slid to the middle of my stomach, but I didn’t care. I liked having Handel’s eyes on me, on my body, all over me. I relished it. I wanted him to look. To see me. See the way the tiny blue heart hovered against the skin of my neck.

  “Bad?” he murmured with a smile. “You could never be bad, Jane. Not all the way through.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m always stuck playing the role of good girl,” I said with a pout, even though I knew this was no longer true. The break-in had changed me. No—Handel had changed me. “I can’t seem to get away from it,” I went on, all flirty and forward. I pulled him on top of me again. Smiled. “Not even with you.”

  Handel laughed. Dipped his head until his lips were on my skin. Hands along my curves.

  I closed my eyes, smiling.

  When his mouth reached my ear, he spoke. “I wouldn’t exactly call you that,” he whispered softly. “The good girl?” he added with another laugh, while something clicked inside me, finally fell into place after all this time.

  Two words, good girl, lifting up a memory from the darkest recesses of my mind, fishing it out from the place it was hidden, the worst memory of
all.

  And my eyes flew open.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING.

  Not right then. I couldn’t.

  It was impossible. I was wrong.

  All the blood in my body went cold.

  Handel lifted his head. “I’m going to get a glass of water.” He smiled at me, eyes full of tenderness. “Do you want any?”

  I shook my head no. I couldn’t speak.

  Even then I didn’t believe it.

  It wasn’t until Handel got up and left his room that I jolted myself out of the horror that held me frozen, tangled in his sheets. And it wasn’t until I got out of his bed, unsure what to do, looking around frantically, at the drawers and the closet, the pile of clothes draped over a chair, at the small mirror hanging on the wall, all the while my lungs unable to get air, that I saw it.

  My necklace.

  The other one—the original. My seventeenth-birthday present from my mother. Broken. Sliced. Lost the night of the break-in. Carefully curled up in a little jar on Handel’s desk. Like some keepsake.

  My boyfriend, the one I was in love with, Handel Davies, was holding on to memories from the worst night of my life. He had them. Held them. All along he’d been doing this. All summer long.

  The necklace was right there, staring up at me, the tiny heart in so many shades of blue—similar to the one I wore now, but different all the same. It was almost in plain sight, so obvious that I wondered if it was left there—if Handel had left it there—on purpose. Because he’d wanted me to find it. Because he’d wanted me to know, to finally know the truth.

  He wanted me to see him for who he really was.

  And I knew, I knew right then, I mean, how could I not? It had been Handel that night, whispering in my ear, telling me to be a good girl, trying to keep me calm, after his friend Cutter sliced that knife across my neck, his friend that smelled of sweet mixed with rot. It had been Handel witnessing those moments in which the Jane I’d once been was shattered for good, the same boy who would kiss me so tenderly, with so much love and passion and desire that I’d believed he could put the pieces back together and make me whole again.