The Undoing of Thistle Tate

by Katelyn Detweiler

  “Then you definitely saw it before I did. I wrote it, and I’m still not sure I believe it.”

  “You helped your dad with everything, right?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he wrote the actual sentences. But I was always there. I gave him ideas. I told him what worked and what didn’t work. Sometimes he even listened.”

  He’s quiet for a while, and I assume that’s it, we’ve reached our quota for the ride. But then:

  “You know what sucks, Thistle? I get it. I do. I get why you lied in the first place. Your dad was in a bad place. You were young, and you wanted to help. It’s just the two of you. I mean, the fact you asked me to come today—me. The guy you knew for a few weeks, the guy you were kissing while you were lying to his face…” I cringe, wishing I could disappear into my seat, even if I deserve this, all of it. “I didn’t come today out of pity. But I came because I realized how alone you really are. How alone you’ve probably always been.”

  I want to sob and howl from the truth of it, but—miraculously, somehow, I hold it together. If I have nothing else, I want to leave this car with my dignity intact.

  “My whole life has been two people. My dad, who, despite being a good dad some of the time, created this whole disaster. And my neighbor Liam, who was my best friend—more than that when I met you,” I add, because if I’m not fully honest now, what’s the point of anything, “but he’s the one who betrayed me. Partly out of jealousy—because of you—and partly out of some warped need to save me from my lies. So other than those two . . I’ve started having tea with my eighty-seven-year-old neighbor. There’s that.”

  Oliver laughs, and then I’m laughing, too. I laugh until I can’t breathe, and I’m suddenly way too hot to still have my jacket zipped all the way up. I lower the window a few inches, let the cool air ruffle through my curls.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, though,” I say, my eyes pinned to the window, the Philly skyline peeking out along the horizon. “I was in too deep. Plus, I liked you, and I was pretty sure you only liked me because I was some supposedly amazingly talented writer.”

  “That’s not true. I liked you because you were smart and interesting and unique, and you are those things. That’s not a lie.”

  “Maybe, but still. I didn’t want to let you and Emma down. Maybe if I’d had longer—if the Internet hadn’t done it for me—I would have told you, eventually. Or maybe I would have kept lying and put it behind me when the last book was out. I’ll never know.”

  “I’d lie for Emma, too,” Oliver says finally. I turn to him, our eyes meeting for a moment before he needs to look back at the road. “If it would make her life better or easier or happier…I’d lie for her. I’d lie to anyone.”

  I nod. He understands. It’s even better than forgiveness. “Now that we’re actually talking again—how is Emma really doing?”

  “Not great yet, but better every day. Getting used to having a bag attached to her body—it’s an adjustment. But she’s owning it, just like she always does. And she misses you. She was mad as hell at first. It was good, actually, distracted her from the pain. But then she came around. She said I was being a jackass for not at least trying to hear your side of it.” He snorts. “I told her she was a traitor.”

  “Maybe I can visit her sometime?” I try not to sound too optimistic, but it doesn’t work.

  He pauses, and I feel myself deflating, hope leaking out in a steady fizzle.

  “Yeah. I think she’d like that.”

  I don’t say anything else until we’re pulling up to my house. Because I know what I need to say—and do—and I want to have an immediate exit strategy if it goes poorly.

  I take a deep breath, balling my hands against the seat to steel myself. “I still like you, Oliver, I really do. And I love Emma, your whole family. You all made me feel more normal than I ever have in my life.” I turn to him. He’s watching me, his twinkly green eyes waiting to see if there’s more to this grand speech. “You made me feel like I was better than even I knew I could be, and no one else has ever made me feel that way. I know there wasn’t a lot of competition, but…”

  Oliver laughs again. I can tell I must be flaming red now, the tips of my ears burning hot.

  Before I can stop myself, analyze, second-guess, I lean in and kiss him.

  And thankfully—thank the afterworld and all the sweet souls up there, Mom maybe, helping her little girl out—

  He kisses me back.

  twenty-two

  Almost Nine Months Later

  I had dreamed about California, New York, England, Australia. Moving to a college far away from this home I’ve lived in and loved and hated for these past eighteen years.

  I leave tomorrow morning. But I won’t need a plane to get there—it’s about a fifty-minute walk, give or take, to get to Temple University. Yep. That’s where I’m going, a nice Philly school—the last city I would have picked for myself at the start of all this. But the funny part is that it feels like exactly where I should be. I was rejected by some of the snootier schools on my list, as expected. Though they were polite about it, no reference to specifics, no Lemonade Skies, just brief and efficient form-letter rejections. But Temple must have liked my personal essay—about what led me to making the decisions I did, the gray between all the black and white. I was honest, and they took me in. Gave me a home.

  If Dad or I or both of us get lonely, I’ll only be a quick cab ride away. I can visit him—and Lucy—whenever I’m feeling homesick. But for now, we need some distance. I’ll be in my dorm room, a space of my own, and I have a feeling that from there this city will be like a whole new world. I’ve lived here for eighteen years, but there’s plenty I haven’t seen.

  My things are mostly all packed, piled up in the hallway outside my bedroom, ready for Dad to load into our rental van. I have too much stuff to fit into a cab for this trip. But hauling bags and boxes down the steps is no big deal for Dad these days. Ever since he made it out of the wheelchair and through rehab, he’s been at the gym almost every morning. “Our bodies really are sacred,” he’s said too many times to count, usually while shoving a bright green smoothie into my hand. His new psychologist is thrilled with this outlook—the exercise is “fabulous for those feel-good brain chemicals.”

  Dad calls up from downstairs: “Thistle! Dinner! Mia’s here and Dottie’s on her way!”

  We’ve had weekly dinners with Dottie, and Mia has been making increasingly frequent appearances, too—just a friend, Dad assures me, and I’m glad because he needs one. But tonight is extra-special. My big farewell dinner, though farewell seems a bit much when I’m only moving across town. I’m letting Dad have all his emotions, though—it’s part of our healing process. It’s okay that he’s sad about me leaving, and it’s okay that I’m happy to be doing something new, taking time for myself.

  When I get to the kitchen, though, I’m immediately teary eyed from the loveliness of the scene—twinkly white lights strung along the walls, colored jars filled with candles on the table, glowing reds and greens and blues. There’s a huge clay pot of flowers at the center—marigolds.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, swiping at the tears I was so sure I wouldn’t cry. Silly me.

  My dad is hovering over a steaming pot, but he spins around to grin at me. “Your mom used to hang tiny white lights up for all sorts of special occasions. She said it instantly added a touch of fairy tale. I need to bring the tradition back. She would like that.”

  He talks about her like this all the time now—the good memories, the less good, everything in between. I know my mom better every day.

  “And,” Dad continues, “since you don’t want to do a big blowout bash here at home for the World After World pub day next weekend, I figured I had to make tonight even more of an event.”

  “I’m going to be too nervous on pub day to do anything but sit at my computer and refresh every ten sec
onds.”

  Next weekend the last Marigold installment will be out in the world. The books are on total lockdown now—not a single blogger or bookseller has had a sneak peek. A handful of select trade reviewers were sent highly confidential early copies, but only after agreeing in writing not to run any reviews prepublication. Zenith knew what they were doing, apparently, because buzz has reached frightening Harry Potter–like proportions. People still have mixed reactions about my dad and me. Zenith released some of my videos, and readers watched. Some of them get it. Some of them don’t. But I have a feeling that even a few of our harshest critics will be too curious not to read. This isn’t about just me, after all—it’s about Marigold.

  I hug Mia, and then I wander to the table, pluck off a marigold to tuck into my curls. I can still hear Elliot now, the day he conference-called Susan and me—me, not my dad—in January: “We might be making the biggest mistake of my career, but—but we’re doing it. We’re back on for this last book. It’s just—it’s too good not to put it out. But please do not let me down, Thistle. Please. Don’t make me regret this.”

  I’ve been his and Susan’s star author ever since. I sweated for weeks on revisions, putting more of my touches everywhere, starting from the beginning. I also poured myself into every blog post, every personal essay, blasted my soul out on display for the world to judge. I missed the deadline to have it published before school started. But we agreed that my first official launch event here in Philly would be later next month, and I’ll do a few long-weekend mini tours after that. I wanted time to settle into school, to adjust to this new life. And I wanted time to prepare myself if responses were less than positive. Otherwise I was too grateful to question anything about the process. I barely deserved to have this book out at all, so the least I could do was obey Zenith’s every whim.

  Dad has officially backed away from all things Lemonade Skies. He’s started his own writing again—a second take at a memoir. I have a feeling he’ll have much more to say this time.

  Dottie steps up to the table, startling me from my trance. I hadn’t even heard her open the front door. “I’d wager it’s about a week’s worth of cookies,” she says, skipping the hellos as she hands me a big kitten-covered tin. Lucy pops up at her side, sniffing the air for treats, and Dottie pats her head lovingly. “If you want more, you have to come back and spend some time with an old crotchety hag.”

  I lean in and kiss her cheek. She grimaces, but I know better than to believe her displeasure. “I’ll need the exercise after I eat these cookies, so a walk home would be perfect.”

  I had smelled the batter cooking from upstairs, but I still act surprised when Dad unveils the first course—chocolate chip pancakes covered in homemade whipped cream. There’s more after, barbecued chicken and mashed sweet potatoes and roasted brussels sprouts, and to cap it off, a little champagne, because Dad says I should ease into the college way of life. He pops the bottle, only minimally spraying onto the sleeve of Dottie’s bright blue dress—she leaves her parakeet housecoat at home for our weekly dinners.

  “A toast,” he says, clinking my glass, “to endings and beginnings.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t premeditated.

  But as I’m packing up my last bag of toiletries after dinner, I see Liam’s bedroom lamp go on. I’d opened the curtains again months ago, at the beginning of spring—I’d missed having all that natural light. Before I can follow my own train of thought there are three Ping-Pong balls in my hand, and suddenly I’m downstairs, sweeping through the kitchen door. I’d almost thrown out the Ping-Pong balls so many times—almost. But I couldn’t. They were the start of too many good memories.

  We still haven’t talked. We passed on the sidewalk once early on and nodded at each other, but no words. Maybe if he’d tried reaching out, I would have responded. But he didn’t. So I didn’t either. I’d at the very least expected to cross paths outside this summer, me gardening, him grilling. But he must have avoided it, knowing the garden was my special place. That was nice of him, I suppose. Or cowardly. Maybe both.

  I toss a Ping-Pong ball, and it feels so normal, so routine, that I can’t believe it’s been nine months. I give it a minute, throw a second ball.

  Liam’s window opens and he pops his head out, squinting down through the dim light. “I heard the first one but figured I must have been imagining it.”

  “Nope.” I toss my last ball up in the air, trying to coolly catch it, like I am utterly unaffected by this moment. The ball misses my hand entirely, bouncing off the ground.

  “Should I come down, then?” he asks, the words slow, uncertain.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.” To go a few miles, but still. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

  He nods and disappears, and a minute later he’s crawling over the brick wall, and for just a second I have to fight the urge to run and hug him and slip back through the last nine months to a time when we were still okay.

  “Hey,” he says, standing just a few inches away from me now—wearing that stupid Reading Rainbow shirt again, which, damn it, only makes me want to hug him more. I loved him for almost my whole life, and now he’s gone, like he died and left me, too.

  “I’m going to Temple,” I tell him, cutting straight to the facts.

  His eyes go wide. “But you were so ready to leave Philly.”

  “Yeah, I was. But when most of my dream schools rejected me because of…” I don’t have to say it. “I had to reconsider my priorities. And the funny thing is, even though I’ve spent my whole life in Philly, I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt like I lived here.”

  Liam nods, his expression very serious as he seems to consider this. “I get that. I’m headed to Syracuse, probably for engineering. So not too far, but—”

  “That’s great! Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  We’re standing there looking at each other, then at the stars, the moon, the grass below our bare feet. Maybe we’ll run into each other over the holidays. Maybe not. I guess that’s it, then?

  It’s not, though. There’s more I should say. Want to say.

  “Liam, I understand why you did what you did. It sucked, though—it was absolutely the wrong thing to do, don’t get me wrong. But I kissed someone else and you wanted to hurt me. I know you wanted to help me, too, and you were right, there were way too many lies. To the readers, to you, to Oliver and Emma, to myself. It wasn’t your job to fix me. I wish I could have made the decision on my own terms, but I’m glad the truth is out. I was so tired of lying. And of worrying and wondering about what would happen if we got caught. I finished the book, though. On my own. They’re publishing it. Next week.”

  “I know. Of course. I still follow all your updates. And I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a small step back, closer to the house. “I guess I should—”

  “Wait,” Liam says, reaching out. His warm fingers graze my wrist for a second before I pull away. “Do you ever think about us? Because I do. I was an ass, and I am so ashamed of what I did. If I could take it back…I would. I’d do everything differently.”

  “Maybe that still wouldn’t have been enough.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice catching.

  “We were best friends, Li, and we loved each other. We had so much history. But maybe we should have left it at that. If it wasn’t my dad and Marigold, maybe it would have just been other things. Eventually.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But thinking about it that way, as some predetermined reality, makes it easier. Because we can’t go back now.”

  Liam looks away. “I’ll always miss you,” he says finally. “I’ll probably always love you, too.”

  My breath pinches in my lungs, a quick stab of heat—but I breathe through it. I’m okay.

  I’m better than
okay.

  “I’ll miss how things used to be.” That’s the truth. But not all of it. I say the rest before I can overanalyze: “Maybe someday we can be friends again. Who knows? Life is long.”

  “I would like that.”

  I step forward and hug him, because it feels like the right way to end this for now. And then I turn around and walk toward the porch.

  I don’t look back.

  * * *

  Oliver shows up a half hour early the next morning to help us load the last odds and ends from my room into the van. He delivers a tray of Wawa coffee and doughnuts, too, as if he needs to work at this point to make my dad love him. If anything, it should be the other way around—but Oliver doesn’t seem to hold a grudge against Dad. Thank goodness, because I couldn’t do that again.

  “Let’s cut straight through the shit to the important stuff: Are you taking the signed Harry Potter posters, or can I snag them?” Emma pops up behind Oliver, grinning at me.

  Oliver doesn’t even bother to call her on her language. It’s a lost cause.

  She looks amazing today, bright eyed and glowing, already jumping past me to check out my bedroom. Her checkered summer dress flows loosely around her waist, her colostomy bag invisible to anyone who doesn’t know to look for it.

  “Well, I was going to take them with me, but then I got nervous that my roommate would steal them while I was at class and try to sell them for millions online, so yeah. Maybe they’re safer at your house. Temporarily.”

  Oliver leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Ugh. You’re too good to her. Seriously. She’s going to be such a brat. Have one grave medical condition and some seriously major surgery, and it’s like no one can ever say no to you again, ever. It’s disturbing.”

  “Shut the hell up!” Emma yells over her shoulder, already standing on my bed to pull her prizes down from the wall. “I’m not a brat!”