“Please. You seem like one of the least selfish people I know. You vent if you need to—scream out some bad words, if that helps. I hear it works wonders in times like these.”
Oliver snorts, almost smiling. “Do you know the old band Blink-182?” he asks, lowering his window. It’s cold outside, and I hug myself tighter as the wind whips into the car.
“Vaguely,” I say. My knowledge is limited to the name of the band and the fact they were popular a decade or two ago.
He clears his throat and starts screaming one shockingly long string of extreme profanities, loosely sung to some kind of tune. It’s more profanities than I’ve used in the last year, combined, probably.
“That’s an awful song! Stop!” I yell, trying not to give in to my smile. “Is it even a real song, or are you just making it up?”
“Of course it’s real.” He glances over and grins at me, left dimple flaring. “ ‘Family Reunion’! Google it! I mostly hate it, but I kind of love it, too.”
I start to protest again, but he’s laughing now between words, and I can’t help but laugh with him.
He draws out the last note, voice cracking, red-faced from pushing out every last bit of air from his lungs. He turns to me again, still beaming, his eyes glistening.
“I feel so much better.”
* * *
We only have five minutes with Emma before she is going to be whisked away for a test. She’s quiet. Way too quiet. It’s unnerving to see her so still, even when Oliver baits her with bad jokes about Jon Snow’s parentage again. She should have screeched in outrage, but instead she just gives him a sad smile and shakes her head.
A nurse comes in to wheel her away, and I wave as she and a very subdued Siobhan disappear down the hall.
“I should probably leave,” I say a few minutes later. Oliver and I are lingering outside her room, not speaking, not making eye contact. “This feels like family time. We can pick up where we left off whenever Emma is up to it.”
That’s not true, not really. Because: deadline. There’s a deadline. One week. But I’m not sure there’s a reason to keep working anyway, if Dad continues to insist he’s the only one who can write it. I can’t even think about what would happen if we told the truth. It would be too awful.
I haven’t e-mailed Elliot and Susan back about their visit, which I really should do. I’m sure there will be at least one new e-mail from them by the time I get home. I can only put them off for so long. But the idea of seeing them in just a few days, here, in Philly—it doesn’t compute. The image doesn’t fit into any part of my brain. I’ve never seen them without Dad. I’ve never led any of the conversations. If they’ve noticed, they haven’t cared. As long as the books were getting written—and getting written well—they didn’t seem to ask any questions.
“Yeah. Sure,” Oliver says, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll give you a ride. It’ll probably be a late night here, anyway. No Friday-night sleepover with the boys.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just hop in a cab.”
“I dragged you here. It’s fine. I want some fresh air.”
Before I can insist again, he’s already started off down the hallway, and I’m following.
We don’t talk during the drive, short of me giving him directions.
“It’s this one,” I say, pointing to my house, and Oliver pulls to a stop.
“Okay then.” He’s smiling and there’s a soft crinkling around his eyes that I haven’t noticed before. But we’re so close now, side by side under the bright streetlights, it’d be hard to miss. I’m seeing everything—the flecks of amber in his green eyes, the constellation of freckles scattered along the tip of his nose, the curve of his lips. I’m seeing too many things. More than I should.
He sees me looking, and now he’s looking, too.
I need to leave, need cool air, but I’m waiting for something that I shouldn’t be waiting for, that I’m not sure I want to be waiting for.
That last part’s not true, is it?
I do want it.
I do, or I would be backing away right now, wouldn’t I? Backing away as he leans in closer, closer, his eyes on my lips, his hand on my hand, our fingers flaming together like small torches. Instead, I lean in toward him.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers.
“Yes.” I gasp as I say it. But I don’t take it back.
Our lips touch and somehow I’m still surprised, even after the yes, after all the clear-as-day signs that carried us to this point. Maybe I’m surprised because it’s only the second pair of lips I’ve ever touched, and they feel so like Liam’s and so different at the same time. Oliver’s lips are fuller, rounder. They move more slowly over mine. The kiss is soft and hesitant and shy, and it’s so much more beautiful than I deserve.
I let it happen for a little while. For too long. And all I can think about is that maybe this—this is my happy place. Not just the Flynns’ house, like I’d thought before. But Oliver. Him. Us.
As soon as I think that, though, the hard truth slams into me.
Oliver likes me because of who he thinks I am.
He likes me because he thinks I’m a seventeen-year-old wonder-girl. Talented and confident. That’s who Thistle Tate is to him.
But that isn’t me. Oliver likes a person who doesn’t actually exist.
I draw back as quickly as I can, my hands dropping from his neck and the tangled hairs I’ve unknowingly tugged out from his bun.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, grabbing my purse from the floor.
“Why?” He’s trying to smile, but there’s panic in his eyes. “There’s nothing I can see to be sorry about…is there?”
Liam, I think shamefully. How could I do this to Liam?
And why was Liam not the reason I stopped?
It’s wrong, all of it. Me and Oliver, we can’t be anything. Because of Liam, yes—but even without him, I can’t be with someone who doesn’t know the truth. Liam knows, and he still wants to be with me. He may not like it, but he doesn’t define me by one lie.
I can’t tell Oliver, though. Could never tell him. It’s the basis for our friendship. And Emma, too. He’d have to tell Emma. He couldn’t hide something like this, not from her. I refuse to take away this good piece of her life, this one bright spot.
“I like you, Oliver. I do, and I’m so glad that we’re friends,” I say, talking without breathing, forcing it out before I lose my nerve. “Meeting you and Emma, it might sound pathetic, but—it was one of the best things to happen to me in a long time. Which is why we shouldn’t complicate things. There’s so much going on right now, and…honestly, I’m kind of a disaster. Maybe I’m good at hiding it, I don’t know, but trust me. We’re better off as friends.”
I always thought that, underneath the lies about Marigold, I was a decent person. I was loyal. I had morals. I was a good daughter, a good friend. But now? Now I don’t know anything anymore.
My brain is calling me a long list of nasty things: Cheater. Liar. Traitor. Fake.
Oliver opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s looking at the steering wheel, not at me, which makes this marginally easier. I grab the door handle and push, just as he turns and says: “We’re all messy, Thistle. I know it’s a stressful time for you. We can wait. Okay?”
I nod. A silent yes, but still. A yes. I’m a coward. The worst kind of coward.
I start for my house, head tucked low, a walk of complete shame. I avert my eyes from Liam’s house, thanking the universe it’s too early for him to be home from his game.
I should tell him, though. I need to. It feels wrong. Which means that it is wrong.
If a girl kisses a boy when no one else is around to see it, does that mean it didn’t happen?
No.
It still happened. It definitely happened. And even if Liam and I hadn’t put an officia
l label on our dating, I know it was implied. We are together. And together means exclusive.
In a masochistic downward spiral, I force myself to picture the reverse scenario: Liam in the car with another girl, a kiss that lasts for far too long to be unreciprocated. The image scorches a hole in my mind, white-hot and irreversible.
I want my mom. I want a female best friend at least. An aunt. A cousin. I’m not picky—I’d take whatever I could get. But there’s no one.
I take deep breaths, open the front door, and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. Mia is there, making dinner for my dad, a salad and some sort of greenish pasta. Lucy’s at her feet, waiting with bated breath for a lettuce leaf to drop. I’ve been ignoring Lucy, too. Another betrayal to add to the list. I reach out to tickle her ears, but she doesn’t react, not even a quick side-eye. She keeps her focus pinned on Mia. The dismissal stings. She may be a dog, but she’s probably the most loyal living creature in my life. I take my hand away, rub it against my jeans. Pretend it didn’t happen. It’s the food! It’s all about the food! Nothing to do with me. At all.
I look up at Mia instead.
“Hey.” It’s an effort to say even that much right now. I fake smile—the training coming in handy yet again—and turn toward the sink, hoping she’s not in the mood for chitchat either.
“How was your day?” Mia asks.
“Good,” I respond, with a false cheeriness. “You?”
“Okay.”
Mia wants to talk more, I can tell, but I get my water and practically jog across the kitchen to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and hurl myself into my room. I try to read—a new book about a teen witch whose very mortal boyfriend gets captured by her aunts’ rival coven—but even though I was loving it yesterday, the words are a tedious slog now. I’m stuck on the same two pages for twenty minutes before I throw it across the room. I move to the computer instead, scan through my e-mail. There are messages from bloggers, fans, etc. People who don’t know me. I see the e-mail from Elliot about his proposed jaunt to Philly. The powers that be are very anxious to see how the book ends. I have so much faith in you, Thistle. WE ALL DO.
Tomorrow. I’ll respond in the morning. Maybe. It feels inevitable anyway, if they’re determined to come. They’ll show up without permission. But I’ll try to stall until the bitter end.
I close my e-mail and pick up the outline notes from my desk and begin to read. They’re good. Really good. Between the three of us, we’ve come up with an equal amount of expected and unexpected moments, enough balance to keep fans satisfied and surprised at the same time. There’s symmetry to it, an order that feels just right.
I don’t care that Dad doesn’t want me to do this. I want to. I need to have something to show Elliot and Susan. One of us has to do something, and that someone won’t be him.
I begin to type my messy notes into neat lines, adding in new ideas as I go. My fingers are moving faster than my thoughts, like it’s somebody else in control of my hands—not me, not my brain. This is how Dad feels, maybe. How real writers feel.
I write, I delete, I write more. I eat some chocolate and stare at the ceiling for what could be five minutes or thirty, mentally talking through what Colton might use to stake his argument for trying the portal to get back home, how he’d say it.
I write, and I forget. I forget about everything else going on—like dreaming while I’m wide awake—until suddenly it’s after nine and my phone is ringing, Liam smiling up at me.
My stomach pinches, because even though I’m looking at Liam, all I can think about is Oliver, his lips, eyes, hair, the way he kissed me, the way I wanted him to. But I pick up anyway, because none of that is Liam’s fault, and I can’t just run away from my mistakes.
“Hey, Li,” I say, trying to sound cool, the phone blazing hot in my hands.
“Hey. I tried pinging you earlier, but you didn’t come to the window. Your light’s on, though. I guess you’re pretty busy?”
“You did? I’m sorry, I must have missed it.” I don’t think that’s ever happened before. My ears are usually highly attuned to even the gentlest tap of a Ping-Pong ball on glass.
“I’m worried about you. Have been all day.”
Liam was worrying about me, and I was kissing another boy. I can practically hear my heart snapping down the middle. Not a clean, easy break, but one with a thousand little splintered edges.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve been working on notes for Marigold.” Start with one truth. Maybe the rest will come, too.
“Oh.”
I keep going. “I visited Emma in the hospital again…she’s not doing well.”
“Seriously, Thistle?”
“What?”
“It’s just…why do you really need to see them so much? I mean, ever since you started working with them, you’ve seemed, I don’t know, different. Not yourself.”
“Not myself?” I bristle, immediately defensive. “No. They’re good for me. They believe in me, and…it helps with the writing. Honestly, I feel more myself than ever.”
“Right. More yourself. I get it,” he says, and then he’s quiet.
I could do it now—I could tell him about what happened with Oliver today. But it doesn’t seem like a conversation for the phone. Better to wait until tomorrow. Give myself more time to reflect, too, on what I even want to be saying. Why I did it. Why it will or won’t happen again.
“I—I really was thinking about you all day,” he says. “About us. I like you so damn much, Thistle. But I can’t tell what you’re thinking anymore. I know I was the one who said we shouldn’t rush into labels, but I was just being dumb and scared. I’m all-in with you, you know that, right? I guess the real question is, do you still want this? Do you still want me?” He sounds small and desperate and wounded, and I want to curl into a ball and never hurt anyone else ever again.
“Of course I want you, Li,” I hear myself say, the words stiff and robotic and entirely unlike me. Liam must hear it, too, because we’re both silent for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“I didn’t think you’d throw away a Machu Picchu trip that easily,” he finally says, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling, but I’m not. “I guess I should let you go. You have work to do, right?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m probably doing all this for nothing. I’m doomed. Dad won’t like my ideas, and he’ll ruin it somehow. Or I’ll ruin it on my own.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
I agree even though I know there’s nothing he can do. I’ll tell him tomorrow. I will. I should.
I’ll try.
* * *
I have another new nightmare.
I’d almost prefer my old nightmare now, the crash—that was the past, at least. Over and done. This is the present. The future.
I’m in a courtroom again, though this time Liam is the judge, and Oliver is on the stand. The case seems to be about Marigold at first—with Oliver passionately insisting that of course it was all me, I’m brilliant and talented and there’s not a chance in hell the book came from anywhere but my brain. My one-of-a-kind, beautiful brain. Liam is snickering. My dad is next to me, and he starts laughing, too. The whole room is laughing then, Susan and Elliot and my publicist, bloggers and fans and booksellers. They’re all cracking up, hysterical at the thought that anyone could still believe I’m brilliant or talented.
When my eyes finally snap open, I see my room, the white morning light streaming in through the windows. Everything is quiet. Peaceful. Normal.
I sigh in relief and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
There are fifteen missed calls from the last few hours.
There are two texts, too, from Susan. She’s never texted me before. Not once.
With a prickling sense of unease, I tap to read them.
First, a link to a blog, Elisabe
th Early’s Books. One of my harshest critics.
And then Susan’s second text: I’m sure none of this is true, Thistle. Ugly, outrageous gossip. But everyone is talking and we need to make a statement ASAP. Theo is clearly not the real author! We know you’re the star. We just have to make sure everyone else knows it, too. Call me!!! As soon as you wake up!!! XXX P.S. I tried to call your dad, too, but he’s not picking up either.
I click the link, my finger on autopilot. I see the headline, though the words are fuzzy, the dark teal words bleeding out over the screen.
LEMONADE SKIES FANS: MEET THEO TATE, THE REAL AUTHOR OF YOUR BELOVED SERIES.
I drop the phone.
fourteen
Christmas morning. The first one without her.
Marigold’s dad was sitting by the tree when she came downstairs. He’d put it up at least, stringing lights around the plastic branches, going through the motions.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, smiling—smiling too much, in an unexpected and forgotten way. “Open your gifts!”
And so she did. Bathing suits and a snorkel, an ocean-scented candle.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” she joked. Vacation—she dared to let herself hope. “Are we…going on an exotic trip?”
Though it wasn’t a good time to leave—Colton would be moved up next month. She wanted to be there, with him. She wanted to be there, just in case his move would mean finally finding new information about where her mom could be.
“Not quite, sweetie. We’re doing what your mom and I always dreamed about,” he said, his eyes misting over as he leaned in to grab her hand. “You and me—we’re moving to Florida in two weeks. We’ll leave all this behind. For good.”
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 14
