The Undoing of Thistle Tate

by Katelyn Detweiler

  I turn toward Dottie’s house instead. I’ve neglected her this last week, too caught up in writing and reordering my life. Maybe Dad and I can have her over for dinner sometime. I’ll cook for Mia, too. Four lonely people at one table won’t seem as lonely anymore.

  I pull my jacket around me tighter and lie down on the picnic table, staring up at the hazy city stars. My mind goes back to that park with Oliver—as it does way too often—and I wonder how much brighter the stars would look there. That tower of rocks would make for a spectacular observatory.

  A tap startles me. At first I think it’s a Ping-Pong ball and nearly roll off the table in a panic. I’m still not ready to talk to Liam, not now, maybe not ever.

  But then another tap, and I see that it’s Dad—at the back door. I hop up and move toward the stairs, Dad wheeling backward as I step inside.

  “It’s a brilliant ending—the only ending—and I couldn’t have written a better one.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” I say lamely, eyes on the ground, but inside I am a whirling, twirling skyrocket of joy.

  “Of course it is.”

  The words are settling in, filling me to the brim. I look up, and Dad is crying.

  “You’re Marigold,” he says, and now I’m crying, too. “Always have been. So it makes sense that only you could know what she would really do in the end. I was an old fool to ever think otherwise.”

  I’ve spent so much time resenting Marigold. But here it is, the truth I’ve always known:

  Marigold is me, and I am her, and maybe we both need each other to survive.

  “What’s the title?” he asks.

  “World After World,” I say.

  “Perfect.”

  “I want to deliver it to Elliot tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Dad asks if I want to wait until he can travel with me, but I tell him no. I want to do this without him, and besides, seeing him will just make Elliot angry. Seeing me might make him angry, too, but I’m hoping there’s at least a little pity I can work with. Elliot feels like the best place to start—if I can get him on my side, maybe he can convince Susan. The publisher calls the shots. I debate e-mailing him to set up a meeting, but he has every reason to say no and I don’t want to take that chance. I’ll be harder to ignore in person—I hope—and the new chapters will be, too. He still might refuse to see me when I get there, but I have to try. I do know that Elliot is a complete workaholic—he rarely misses a day, and he hates to even leave the office for lunch. Odds are good he’ll be in. I’ll wait in the lobby all day if I need to.

  But I don’t want to take the train to New York alone. Not when I’m this anxious.

  When I press his name to call, I don’t expect him to pick up. I figure I’ll leave a voice mail, and maybe I’ll hear back a resounding NO, or maybe he’ll just say nothing.

  “Hello?” Oliver says, his voice sending shock waves straight through my heart.

  “You picked up.” It’s all I can manage.

  “I don’t know why I did, to be honest.” This burns, but it’s truth, and it’s what I should be hearing. I need a moment to gather my courage.

  “So,” Oliver says.

  “Listen, I know I’m ridiculous for calling. But I revised the manuscript and wrote the last chapters—how we talked about mostly, just with new bits at the very end—and I need to deliver them to my editor. Face-to-face. I need to go to New York, and I don’t want to go alone. It’s childish and pathetic, but—I was wondering if you’d maybe, I don’t know…drive me?” The request sounds so absurd out loud—Me! Asking a favor like this! After lying to Oliver, to everyone—that I want to laugh before Oliver beats me to it. “I realize I don’t deserve any favors from you, now or ever, and that you’d have to skip school to take me on a weekday, so maybe I should just stop talking and hang up, because that’s probably what you want?”

  Lord. I should have rehearsed this. Not called on a whim at ten o’clock at night because I was on some high from Dad’s thoroughly unanticipated seal of approval.

  “You want me to skip school…to drive you…to New York…to deliver your manuscript?” The way his voice drawls out each highly unreasonable aspect of the sentence cuts like a knife, his smooth snarl at odds with his normally lovely voice.

  “Yes. Sorry. It was stupid of me to call. I’ll let you go, and I hope Emma is okay—”

  “You must really be alone,” he interjects, “if you’re resorting to asking me.”

  That’s true—of course I’m alone—but it’s not the only reason. I’d trek to New York on foot in brand-new heels before I’d stoop to calling Liam for help. Oliver’s the only person I’d want.

  When I don’t say anything he sighs and says: “Jesus, I’m insane to do this. Insane. But the idea of you going alone—” He stops, and I can just picture him tearing at his hair as he deliberates, a messy red cloud.

  “You really don’t have to,” I say weakly, already pulling the phone away from my ear, finger hovering above the End Call button.

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ll be at your house at eight.” He hangs up.

  Oliver is coming. Tomorrow morning. And we’re going to Zenith. It feels like a scene from an impossibly over-the-top New York City rom-com. It feels like nothing that could ever happen in my real life. But he is coming, we are going, and even though Oliver still hates me and Elliot might just turn me away—

  There’s possibility.

  * * *

  I’m up at five o’clock without an alarm.

  I shower and put on makeup and blow-dry my hair to make the curls fuller and glossier. After days of holing up at home, I’m terrified to be back in the real world. The real world that now knows exactly who I am. And who I’m not. I don’t want to look overdone, like I’m desperately trying, but I want Elliot to see me as the Thistle I am today, not the fifteen-year-old girl he first signed up. I’ll be eighteen this spring. An adult. I tell myself that it’s not about what Oliver thinks, too, but I know it’s not true. I care. I care much more than I should.

  There are only a few outfits still hanging neatly in my closet, and I go for a dress I’d worn for a Christmas charity event last year—dark green lace with an intricately buttoned neckline and a loose, flowing skirt. For one subtle pop of Marigold, I wear my mom’s yellow sapphire ring.

  When Oliver pulls up two minutes early, I’m already standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

  “I read the whole thing last night, and…it’s exactly as it should be,” Dad says, smiling as I lean in to peck his cheek. “Truly. So don’t worry. Just avoid my name. Or throw me under the bus if it helps. But know that the work—the work stands on its own. Your mom would be so proud.” He’s staring at the ring on my finger, his already somber brow tightening even more. But before I can apologize or offer to take it off, he says: “I was thinking I’d save that for later—if you wanted it as your engagement ring someday. But keep it on. I think this moment is even bigger. This one’s all about you.”

  “I love you,” I say, because it’s the only response that feels right. Life is short and fragile and unpredictable, and I choose to work this out with him, no matter how hard it’ll be or how long it’ll take me to completely forgive him.

  “I love you, too.” He waves me off then, as Mia leans in from behind him and says—“Good luck, Thistle.”

  “Thanks, Mia,” I say, starting toward the door. But then I turn back. I walk over to Mia and I wrap my arms around her. She’s rigid at first, but then she softens into the hug. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cold and unfriendly. It’s been a rough patch, but that’s no excuse. Thanks for putting up with us. Maybe I could make us all dinner some night?”

  “That’d be nice,” Mia says, patting my back.

  I pull away and wave one last time, and then I’m out the door, running to the car before Oliver has to step out.


  “Hey,” I say, throwing myself into the passenger seat, eyes straight ahead.

  “Hey.”

  “Thank you for doing this. You really didn’t have to.”

  “I know.”

  He pulls away, and neither of us says anything as he navigates out of the city. I glance over a few times, and his eyes are focused intently on the road. His hair is smoother than I’ve ever seen it, brushed into a neat swoop that falls lightly to his shoulders. I can’t see what he’s wearing under his jacket, but he has on nice black suede boots with his usual black jeans.

  I wait for him to ask me questions, but nothing comes.

  “How’s Emma doing?” I finally ask. “I’ve been thinking about her.”

  Oliver waits for a beat, then barely moves his lips as he says: “Okay.”

  I don’t try again. The rest of the ride is uncomfortable silence, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears louder than any words. There’s so much more I want to say, but it all sounds like excuses, and Oliver seems beyond that. He’s doing me one last favor, that’s it.

  We park a few blocks down from Zenith. Every other time I’ve come to the office, it’s felt like a festive celebration—sparkling apple juice and flower cupcakes and fancy cheese plates—my entrance into the building a kickoff to some grand parade. Today, it’s more like a funeral march. No one knows I’m coming, and if they did, they’d probably bar the doors.

  Oliver is lagging behind me when I stop in front of the terrifying revolving door.

  “You don’t have to come in with me. Honestly, they might kick me right out, in which case I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and blows out a puff of white breath. It’s frosty today, colder in New York than it was in Philly. There are light-up snowflakes and snowmen hanging from the streetlamps around us, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt less Christmassy in my life. Dad and I might as well skip past this holiday, too.

  “Well, I’ve come this far, what’s another few feet?” He says it dryly, like it’s a joke, but there’s no laughter.

  I’m relieved. I should be adult enough to face Elliot alone. But I’m not.

  The stoic security guard at the front desk doesn’t bat an eye when I present him with my state ID. News of the scandal must not have reached the lobby—a small comfort.

  Oliver slips his license onto the desk, too, and then takes a few steps away from me.

  “I’m visiting Elliot Archer at Zenith Children’s,” I say, voice shaking.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No. But I think he’ll want to see me.”

  The guard looks entirely uninterested as he picks up the phone and dials Elliot. “I have Thistle Tate and Oliver Flynn here.” A pause, and it takes all my willpower to not hop the counter and lean in close enough to hear the voice on the other end. Instead I study the shiny metallic Zenith Publishing logo above us: a triangle with an eye at the top, beams of light radiating out in a circle around it. The eyeball is staring right at me. Judging.

  I am so far from any personal zenith right now.

  After way too many seconds, the guard puts the phone down. “You’re in. Tenth floor.”

  Elliot knows I’m here. And he’s not sending me away.

  Oliver and I take the elevator, still not talking through the ten flights. I peek over, though, to find him staring at me. He turns away and so do I, and it’s almost like it never happened. But for that brief second, I swear it looked like he’s as nervous as I am.

  The receptionist glances up when our elevator door dings, indifferently at first, but then her eyes widen under her thick cat-eye glasses. She gasps.

  “Thistle Tate,” she announces for me, bright red lips in an O.

  “Um…yes. That’s me. Is Elliot coming to—?” I start to ask, but I don’t have to finish because he’s already swinging in through the glass doors from the hallway, looking immaculate in a light blue pinstriped suit.

  “Thistle,” he says.

  “Elliot.”

  He glances briefly at Oliver, back to me. His face is tensed, jaw flexing. I can’t tell if he’s furious, or just ruffled because the black sheep has landed here with no warning.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?” I ask, sounding much meeker than I’d like.

  Elliot considers briefly, and I prepare myself to turn right back around and go home.

  “Sure. Okay. A few minutes.”

  We follow him, my head ducked down to avoid any glares. I can feel the whispers, even if I can’t actually hear them.

  “So how can I help you?” he says, closing his door behind us. He motions us toward two chairs, and then sits at his desk—stands up, sits again. “You know our legal team hasn’t made a decision yet. This is a brand-new situation for us, quite a bit of logistics to think through. So if you’re here to ask that we don’t take back all advances, then—”

  “No,” I cut in, “I’m not. Quite frankly, you should do what you think is fair. We deserve whatever punishment you determine. What we did—what we did was atrocious and unethical, and I’m sorry. I am ashamed beyond words. But that’s not why I’m here today. I’m here because…I did it. I reworked a lot of the chapters you already saw, and then I wrote the last two on my own. I finished the book.”

  “You? You finished the book?” Elliot’s lips twist up into a very unattractive smirk.

  “I did.”

  “How is anyone supposed to believe that?”

  “Well, you’re the editor, so I would think you’d pick up differences in my style. You can call my dad’s caretaker, too—she knows he did nothing all last week and I was locked away in my room the whole time. Oliver here”—I point to him, and he gives a weak wave—“he and his sister helped me outline everything. And then I finished it myself. I recorded it—on camera—and talked through some of my process.” It sounds silly out loud, because of course Dad and I could have easily orchestrated this. Who knows what I was really typing on camera? But I guess I have the stupid hope that people can see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice. Something intangible but still real and genuine. “I know it’s asking a lot for you to believe me. And I know that there likely won’t even be a third book. But I guess…I had to finish for myself. To know what happened to Marigold. I couldn’t just leave her suspended between worlds forever.”

  If anything can convince him, it’s this—Elliot wants to know, too. He’s invested years of his life in Marigold. She’s more real to him than I am at this point.

  Elliot sighs. “Has Susan read it yet?”

  “No. I figured there was no point in bothering her about it until I knew what you thought. Plus she’s a lot scarier than you.”

  “That part is probably true. Do you have it with you? The pages?” Elliot’s shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s even asking.

  I nod. “I have two copies. It’s the last two chapters, but there’s also a list of changes I made leading up to that point.” I reach for my Lemonade Skies tote and pull out two stacks of papers. I hand one to him. And then I turn to Oliver. “You can read, too, if you want.”

  He looks down at the papers, at my hands, considering. “Okay,” he says finally.

  The next thirty minutes are the most excruciating of my life. Is this what Dad feels like every time he has me send a new draft? The sudden overwhelming conviction that of course I’m totally unworthy, my writing is a joke, I’m a joke! I’m such a dope to think otherwise! I want to crawl under my chair and curl into a fetal position until the final reckoning comes.

  “Well,” Elliot says at last, and my whole body seems to explode with that one word—nauseated, sweaty, tingly with nerves. “Honestly, Thistle…if you wrote this, you did a fantastic job. This is exactly what I wanted to see happen. And I know for a fact it’s exactly opposite of what your dad told me you were writi
ng…” He squints at me, resting his chin on his fists. He’s looking for something, for answers—as if the truth, or lack of it, is somehow written on my face. “Oh, hell. I don’t know! I don’t know what to do, and to be honest, this makes it even more confusing. Send me the full manuscript with your changes. It won’t be up to me, but I’ll read it and then talk to Martin and the rest of the team. Leave it in their hands. Because whoever wrote this ending—I’m impressed. Much more impressed than I like to admit, given the circumstances.”

  I nod, my body slowing down to a more normal pace of functioning, even if there are no real answers, because—Elliot loves the ending. He might hate my dad and me, but he loves my chapters.

  Oliver shifts next to me, and I realize he still hasn’t weighed in. He’s done reading, though, or at least he’s staring off out the window behind Elliot’s head now.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I have never meant those two words more. I pull a small black flash drive from my bag and hand it to Elliot. “This has some of the videos I made, too. If you’re interested. I’ll send the manuscript when I get home and then…I guess we’ll just wait to hear?” I stand up, and Oliver stands up next to me. “No pressure, though. I didn’t come in here with this to force your hand. I just wanted you to have options. Don’t worry about me. Do what’s best for Zenith.”

  I start toward the door, but then I pause.

  “And Marigold. Do what’s best for Marigold, too.”

  * * *

  “I knew you could do it.”

  We’re over halfway through the ride home, and it’s the first thing Oliver’s said to me.

  “What?” I think I heard him, but I need to hear it again.

  “I knew it. I knew that you weren’t a fraud—at least not a total one. That you’re a writer, whether you believe it or not. I could see it in the way you talked about Marigold.”