The Undoing of Thistle Tate

by Katelyn Detweiler

  “Right.” I nod. “I take your point—it would ruin the whole message. But the big thing I’ve been struggling with—does her mom want to try? With the portal closing, this is her last chance to go home, be with her husband again, see her house, her dog, her friends. So does she try to convince Marigold to take her back? Or does she understand? Does she get that this has to be it—the end?”

  “What do you think?” Oliver tucks his messy hair behind his ears so that he can look at me straight on. “They’re your babies. You know them inside and out.”

  It’s true that I know Marigold. But her mom…she’s always been as much of a mystery as my own mom. It was fun to help my dad fill in some of the smaller details: what she looked like, how she talked, what she chose to do with her free time up in the Afterworld. But the big things? That had been my dad. And I’d known from the look in his eyes whenever he was typing up words about her that this wasn’t just a character, an idea in black-and-white on a page.

  It was flesh and blood and truth. It was every dream of his coming true.

  But what do I want to believe?

  “I would hope she’d understand,” I say, my eyes locked on Oliver’s. “That’s what I’d like to believe about my own mom, I guess.”

  “That’s the right answer then,” Oliver says, smiling now.

  “Okay, so I maybe have to rewrite some of the chapters leading up to the end, because I was originally going for Marigold bringing her mom back. It’s what the publisher wanted,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  “What about Colton?” Oliver asks.

  “I think he’ll want to try. He’d rather be destroyed than trapped in the Afterworld forever.”

  “Of course Colton is going to be a little bitch about it,” Emma grumbles. She’s scowling at me now, her lips in an angry pout, and for a minute I doubt myself, my idea.

  “Save the language for the hospital,” Oliver says, but he’s smiling, amused by her fiery outrage.

  “It’s perfect, though,” she says, ignoring him, “and exactly how it should be. I’m not angry at you, because you’re just doing what you have to do to end that love triangle once and for all. I just hate Colton for being such a selfish, stupid prick all the time. I can’t wait for Marigold to run straight into Jonah’s arms.”

  “I gotta be honest, I’m not seeing what you guys hate so much about Colton,” Oliver says. “I mean, they’re twins. They’re not that different.”

  “If the roles were reversed, Jonah would say he loves her, but she needs to go live her life without him. Fall in love with an actual living person.”

  They both turn to me, squinting eyes demanding confirmation.

  “I don’t think Colton is evil or anything,” I say, letting myself feel more authoritative than I probably should. “He’s bitter and sad and lonely. I’d be all of those things if I got crushed by a car and had to spend the rest of my existence wondering what would have happened if I’d gotten on my bike thirty seconds earlier. He just wants his one shot. I get that. It’s just not the right thing to do, and he’s too deep in his own pain to see it.”

  “So what you’re saying is…is that I’m right?” Oliver asks, beaming up at me.

  “I still hate him,” Emma mutters. “Egotistical bastard.” I’m not sure if the last bit is about Oliver or Colton, but I laugh either way.

  We spend the next two hours working on the outline. Every five minutes there’s a new heated debate between Emma and Oliver, and each time they look to me to give the answer. We micro-analyze from every possible angle. It’s a rush—I feel strangely all-knowing and mighty, like these aren’t just fictional ideas, people and words made of ink and paper. They are as real as the three of us.

  It’s so different from when I work with my dad, and it feels like exactly what I’m supposed to be doing, today, right now, in this messy basement with Oliver and Emma and stacks of dusty old books.

  When Siobhan shouts down that it’s dinnertime, all three of us startle, necks snapping up from our huddle around the papers on the coffee table.

  “You should stay,” Emma suggests, her eyes still glued to the notes. “We could work more after dinner.”

  “God. My brain actually hurts, I swear.” Oliver stands to stretch, massaging his temples with his fists. “Is that a serious thing, Thistle? Do you get a brain ache on your writing days?”

  I laugh, tossing a pillow at him. “You’re such a lightweight.” My brain doesn’t hurt—it’s the exact opposite. My brain feels like it’s firing from all sides, every last synapse lighting up like a firework. I’ve never felt this completely and totally awake before. “We can hit Pause for tonight, though. I should get home, check in on my dad.”

  Emma shrugs and pushes my papers into a pile. “As long as you promise you’ll come back tomorrow to finish the outline. I feel way too freaking invested to miss anything.”

  “Of course! I wouldn’t leave you dangling now.”

  We head up the stairs and Emma hugs me bye and goes into the kitchen to see what god-awful but acceptably healthy foods she’s going to be eating tonight. Oliver walks me out to their front stoop.

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw her this perky,” he says, once the door is closed and it’s just us. “Seriously, you make her forget how rough everything else is at the moment.”

  Oliver is standing so close to me, maybe too close considering Liam. Liam. His eyes are pinned to mine, his lips parted, like there’s more he wants to say, but it’s not coming out.

  I remind myself that I’ve known Liam for thirteen years. That my allegiance lies elsewhere, not on this stoop with this boy I barely know. I take a step back, though it’s a tiny one. My brain says to keep going, to keep backing away, but my body decides to stay still.

  “It was amazing today,” he says, like my movement has triggered his brain back into motion. “To see the look in your eyes when you were plotting everything out. I would’ve thought you were on some crazy drug if I didn’t know better.”

  “It’s not always like that,” I say quietly. “It’s much more fun with you two.”

  “If only we’d met you during the first book,” he says, grinning. “Though I might have been demanding royalties after that much work.”

  He hugs me then, his arms reaching out and around me before I understand what’s happening. His body is so warm and solid against mine, I let myself fall into it, my arms looping tight around his waist. I rest my head against his chest—soft, not as muscular as Liam’s—for a moment before I make myself break away.

  “I should get home,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Oliver nods. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are studying me, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead.

  I turn and start down the sidewalk before he can tell me what he’s thinking.

  * * *

  I see Liam on my front steps from a block away, lit up by the streetlight.

  I consider backing up, turning around—he hasn’t seen me yet, I don’t think—but whatever this is, it feels inevitable. I have to go home sometime.

  It’s bad enough that I’m about to be caught in a lie, but then I see what’s on the step in front of him. A take-out box from Franny Rosa’s, my favorite pizza place in the city. The arugula and prosciutto pizza, I’m sure, because Liam knows that’s what I like best. Not the crimini and sausage, his first pick. It’s a small thing, I know, but I hope I’m wrong. I hope he at least wasn’t entirely selfless.

  I’m three feet in front of him, and he still hasn’t looked up.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice sounding just as shaky and pathetic as I feel. “It’s so cold. I hope you haven’t been out here long.”

  There’s an excruciating pause before he looks up, and each second makes my stomach twist just a little bit tighter.

  I want to throw myself at his feet, tell him that I�
�m sorry I lied, and I’ll never do it again.

  “Why?” he asks, his voice cracking. “You were never sick. Your dad’s nurse looked confused when I said that. Said you’ve been up and about every day as far as she knew.”

  Thanks, Mia. “She’s right. I was never sick.” I sit down on the stoop next to him, leaving enough space between us that he doesn’t have to touch me if he doesn’t want to. “I don’t know why I lied, really. I just…I needed time to be alone.” Not alone. That’s not true. There was Emma. Oliver. “I needed space away from everything.” That’s more accurate. Except I don’t want to say the biggest truth. I needed space away from you.

  “You could have just told me that. I would have understood.”

  “Would you have?” It comes out snippier than I intended. “I just mean…you would have been hurt. But you’re hurt now, even more so because I lied. I’m sorry for that.”

  “You might have to lie to the rest of the world every day, but you’re not supposed to lie to me, too.” He can’t look me in the eye when he says it. I can’t look at him either.

  “I know. And I’m really sorry. I just—I feel so lost right now.”

  “What have you been doing then? Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been working on the book. Writing an outline for the last few chapters. I was thinking I’d show it to Dad, motivate him to try to finish with me, though he’ll have to change some of his earlier stuff to sync up. He could talk it through, I could type it out—”

  “So you were what, at a coffee shop or something these last few days?” He looks confused still, his eyebrows in a knot, but his frown has eased slightly. The edges are softer.

  This is my moment: I tell the truth, the whole truth. Or I lie, and make this much easier.

  And I know what I have to do, without having to think about it.

  “I was working on it with Emma. The girl I visited, the superfan. And her brother, Oliver, he read the books, too. I wanted to brainstorm with them, get their thoughts on how it should wrap up.” I sound calm when I say this, like it’s the most reasonable explanation in the world. No room for any feelings of hurt or betrayal.

  Liam is silent for a moment. He’s staring down at his scuffed sneakers, not at me, and I have no clue what’s going through his mind.

  “You’ve been working with them?” he says finally. “I didn’t even think you’d talked to them again after the hospital.” He sounds more sad than accusing, which is infinitely worse.

  “You never asked,” I whisper. “And I didn’t want to fight anymore.”

  He looks up at me now, and I wish he hadn’t. There are tears welling up in his eyes. “I want whatever makes this easier on you. I hate seeing you so upset. You could have told me. You should have. Instead of just lying and hiding from me these past few days. I’ve read the books, too…”

  I don’t know what to say, so I wrap my arm around him instead. He stiffens, the hard muscles along his back going tight at my touch. He doesn’t move away, though.

  “Is this…over?” he asks, still refusing to break eye contact. “Are we done?”

  “Of course we’re not done,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth.

  And it’s true—I’d considered a break maybe, but I don’t want this to be done for good. I definitely don’t want that. This is just a rough patch. I’ve loved Liam for as long as I can remember, and I won’t throw our relationship away now because of Marigold.

  “I know I hurt you, and it was entirely selfish of me.” I take a chance, lean in closer, my leg brushing against his. He still doesn’t move away. “I should have been honest, but I was afraid of making things worse. Talking about my dad, about the books—it always leads to us fighting. But that wasn’t fair to you. I should have told you how I felt and we could have worked through it.”

  “I get that,” he says quietly. “I’m tired of fighting, too. I know you’re not going to change how you feel about your dad. And I’m not sure I can either. But I can at least try to make life better for you.”

  “I need you, Li. Now more than ever.”

  He leans in, brushing my curls back from my face. We’re kissing then, and it feels okay—better than okay.

  We stay like that for a little while, pulling our jackets tighter and leaning in closer for warmth. My stomach grumbles and we break apart, laughing as we tear into the pizza box.

  Arugula and prosciutto.

  The cheese is hard and congealed by now, but we eat all of the pizza, dipping every last bite of crust into the chili oil Liam asked for on the side, my requirement, not his. We kiss good night when the cold is too unbearable, and then we go our separate ways.

  And I wish I could feel happier than I do.

  twelve

  Marigold needed time and space between that awful gravestone and Colton’s smiling, inexplicably alive-looking face. So she avoided the Afterworld and then Jonah, too, when he texted or called.

  It was too confusing. Colton’s kiss. His name and death date, so permanent there etched into granite for everyone to see. Jonah’s hand in hers at the cemetery.

  She wanted to talk to Abby and Sam. Needed to. Maybe it was time to tell them everything. Even if they might not believe her. Marigold had ignored their attempts to pull her back into their orbit, and she wanted to undo it all now, apologize for the months of neglect—she couldn’t lose a decade of memories and secrets and sacred allegiances.

  But how could she say: I’m so sorry, I chose dead people over you.

  She didn’t know what she would say, but she’d try. And so she called them both that night. Once. Twice. Three times. She left pitiful voice mails. Begging with no dignity. And then she fell asleep crying, but still hoping.

  There were no messages waiting for her in the morning.

  —EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

  I feel even guiltier the next afternoon as I walk the brisk thirty minutes it takes to get to the Flynns’, despite the fact my secret isn’t a secret anymore. And I feel the guiltiest yet when Oliver opens the door and tells me that Emma forgot she had a doctor’s appointment today, and that he made a sacred oath that we wouldn’t work without her—and I hear myself saying, “That’s okay,” and asking him if he wants to go grab a coffee or a cookie or something instead.

  I don’t think I could explain this decision to Liam quite as easily. I don’t think I can explain it to myself either.

  “If you could do anything right now, what would it be?” Oliver asks as we start off down the sidewalk. “I’m in the mood for adventure.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, trek up Machu Picchu maybe.”

  “Yeah, that’s on my bucket list, too. I guess I was thinking something a bit less adventurous for today, though. Maybe within city limits. And within the boundaries of the law. Though I’m flexible on that last bit.” He flashes me a grin, and I smile back, and it’s all so easy. “Seriously, though. Let’s do something fun. You deserve it after the hard work yesterday. Your brain needs a day off.”

  “I spent the morning reading. So my brain’s probably even more pissed at me now.”

  “Reading what? Some Lemonade Skies?”

  I laugh. “I don’t sit around reading my own books for fun, you know. I was reading an early copy of a book coming out this spring that the author wants me to write a blurb for.”

  “Are you friends with lots of other writers then?” he asks, watching me curiously.

  “Nope. None. I know them, yeah. People ask for favors. But friends? Nah.” He’s quiet for a beat, so I turn the conversation to him. “How about you? Why are you hanging out with me every day? You must have lots of other friends who are wondering where you disappeared to.”

  “I told them I was way too busy hanging out with a gorgeous bestselling author to board or play The Legend of Zelda. They understood.”

 
; I feel my cheeks burn red-hot, but I don’t acknowledge the word gorgeous otherwise.

  I suggest that we go to the Mütter Museum—a vast collection of medical oddities—because it’s the least romantic thing I can think of off the top of my head. I’ve never been, but I know the gist: jars of abnormal organs and deformed fetuses, brains and tumors and skulls. Nothing will say This is platonic quite like gazing upon a chunk of Einstein’s brain.

  “Awesome, yeah. I haven’t been there since a field trip in middle school. In hindsight, it seems like a bizarre place to take kids. I had nightmares about the Soap Lady for weeks after. Have you seen her? Looks like a mummy, but it’s because the corpse must have been in a super airless, alkaline environment. All the body fat turns into this gross waxy covering.” He’s shaking his head in disgust, though his eyes are lit up with excitement.

  “Great. I’ve actually never been, so I’m psyched,” I say, though the museum suddenly sounds like a completely terrible idea, nothing to actually be psyched about. I don’t like thinking about death, ever, even if it’s a total stranger who died hundreds of years ago. But it’s too late to take it back, and I have no other suggestions, so we keep moving toward the museum. It might be inspiring, after all, for these last chapters. A different take on the afterlife, much darker and less fairy-tale than Marigold’s version.

  We make small talk for the rest of the way, though it’s mostly Oliver doing the chatting. He’s telling me about his classes that day, his best friends Pete and Jamie—how it’s supremely dorky but they’ve had Friday-night sleepovers almost every week since they met in fifth grade. “I’m a sucker for tradition,” he says. “Ritual. I can’t think about breaking it off for college without getting the shakes.”