by Katie Klein
“Your dad?”
“Retired sheriff,” he replies, sighing. “Small town.”
“Your mom?”
“Married to him for twenty-six years. Somewhat happily for most of those. They live outside Hamilton.”
“You said they were divorced. You grew up broke.”
“I grew up surprisingly middle class,” he confesses.
“Brothers? Sisters?” I ask.
“I have an older sister in college. I’m twenty-one years old, Sagittarius, and this was my second undercover assignment.”
Like it even matters. I don’t care how old he is. Not really. Not when I fell in love with an undercover police officer planted inside my high school. And he let it happen when he knew. . . . My pulse steps up, a spark of anger flashing.
“You were kicked out of your old school,” I remind him, matter of fact. “You were into drugs.”
He nods. “I was. I can’t lie about that. But I was never kicked out, and never arrested. Not officially.”
“Your motorcycle?” I ask. “The drug money?”
“No drug money. I bought it after my first few paychecks.”
“The bruises?”
“Occupational hazard. And . . . paintball.”
Paintball? PAINTBALL?
I swallow hard, refusing to look away, feeling a flare of resentment. “How long have you been a cop?”
“A couple years.”
“And this is something you always wanted to do?” I ask.
“Seemed like the right choice at the time,” he admits, voice low. He shrugs, as if even now he’s debating whether or not it was the best decision.
My eyes narrow, squinting, because I’m trying to see him. To understand. “And you just . . . hang out at high schools and fall for girls in your classes?”
“No.” He swallows, his dark eyes holding on to mine, glistening. “I pose as a student to keep an eye out for drug activity. I’ve only fallen hard for one girl. And I’m still kind of freaking out because about an hour ago I thought I’d lost her. And if that happened. . . .”
I look away, scoffing, because I can feel the tears and I see how miserable he is about all of this and I don’t want him to change anything I’m feeling at this moment, because if nothing else, I deserve the chance to be angry at him. I’m allowed to be furious. “There’s nothing like a gun to the face to help sort out all your conflicted feelings,” I tell him.
“I know I hurt you, Jaden. I hurt you every way a person can possibly be hurt. But if you can forgive me, I promise . . .”
I squeeze the inner corners of my eyes. A tear escapes, dripping. “I don’t blame you for any of this, so there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad that you were there, and you knew what you were doing. I just. . . .” My voice gives. Throat closes. And my nose tingles and I’m all wet and snotty. I take a deep breath. My lungs shudder. I stare at the white ceiling tiles. “I don’t know who you are, Parker. I thought. . . . You let me believe. . . .”
“I had to stick to my story, Jaden,” he interrupts. “It’s my job. I’m undercover. I would’ve loved, more than anything in this world, to meet you under different circumstances. But it wasn’t safe for either of us. And what happened to you today . . . you have to know that I’d give anything to take it back. I will not lose a second of sleep for killing that bastard,” he goes on, pointing to the door, “but what happened to you today is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
He fades around the edges, sparkling, mingling with my tears. I believe him. I do. And that’s what’s so bad about all of this. I’d rather him be cold. Heartless. Maybe then telling him goodbye wouldn’t hurt so much.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to me, Jaden. You just, barged in and flipped my entire world upside down,” he says, voice heated. “I didn’t know what to do.”
I sit frozen on the bed. A chill ripples, moving through my spine.
“I will quit my job. I will turn in my badge. I’ll give it all up—I swear I will—if that’s what it takes to make it right.” Our eyes fix on one another, and I can see the sacrifice—the truth—carved into them. And I know: he would give up everything. In a second. For me.
There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse sticks her head in, interrupting us. “Jaden, your family is here.”
I sit straighter, more rigid. “It’s fine.” I clear my throat, swallowing, suppressing additional tears. “He’s leaving,” I manage.
Parker watches me carefully. I refuse to meet his gaze again. My life—this thing—it’s complicated enough without bringing guns and police officers and emergency rooms into it.
“I know how Ethan feels now,” he says, a trace of defeat in his voice. A tiny laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
I glance over at him, a thousand moments surging through me. Him. Me. Us. I push the thoughts away, racing from the memories, leaving them behind.
“Watching someone suffer because of something stupid he did? I get it. And you’re wrong, because it devastated him.”
I exhale slowly and drag my thumbs beneath my eyes. I can’t let my family see me upset. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep it together. I have to keep it together. He eyes me carefully, then reaches for the tissue box on the counter, pulls one out, and hands it to me.
I can almost hear his thoughts.
It’s okay to cry.
I nod.
Then, after what feels like a lifetime passing between us: “I need you, Jade,” he says, voice quiet.
I inhale deeply, lungs shuddering. “I need you to go,” I whisper.
He picks up his badge, the hurt registering in his features, fingers lingering. He studies it for a moment before shoving it deep into his back pocket. Then I watch his retreating figure as he leaves, disappearing down the hall.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daniel teaches me how to spackle. Apparently there’s a technique. Too much putty on the knife, and it’ll take forever to dry and sanding will be a nightmare. The idea is to scoop enough to fill the crack, then scrape away everything else. And so, armed with my putty knife and sticky, violet putty (which I’m told will turn white when dry and ready to sand), I make my way around Sarah and Daniel’s living room, filling cracks and knicks and cuts and nail holes in the walls.
“This is gonna take forever,” I mumble, examining the two walls I puttied in the hour I’ve worked. They’re pock-marked, with a hundred or more spots (small and large), where holes have been filled. “I didn’t realize how many craters were in this house.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens to old houses when the foundation shifts,” Sarah says.
I move to the next wall and slap some putty on a wide crack. I scrape the excess off and marvel at how easily it fills. After a coat of paint, no one will know there was ever an imperfection.
Instinctively, I reach out and touch the scar on my forehead. The stitches are gone, but it’s still pink and fresh, new.
“Originally Daniel thought we should strip the drywall altogether. Start over from the ground up.” She sighs. “But we do not have the time or the money for that. I’d much rather pay for spackle and sandpaper than drywall.”
Cursing, and lots of it, interrupts our conversation. We wander to the bathroom, where Daniel is installing the faucet and handles for the shower. The tub and sink were successfully set up the day before. The tiling—which is what he really wants done—is not. A few bundles of tiles are stacked neatly in the hallway, surrounded by dust and demolition debris.
“It’s not working,” he says.
“Did you buy the right one?” she asks.
“Sarah, I do this every day of the week.”
“Obviously not well if you can’t install a faucet.”
“I’m not a plumber!”
“I get that,” she says, “but I can’t not have a faucet.”
I suppress a smile. Welcome to my world.
Daniel sighs, stepping over tiles and into the hallway. “Right,” he mut
ters. “I need an adapter. Or something.” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the dingy sleeve of his t-shirt. “The water isn’t turned on anyway. I’m just gonna take the whole thing off and take it to Home Depot. I know someone who can probably help.”
I check the time on my cell phone. “It’s lunchtime,” I point out. Then: an enormous crash.
“I hope that wasn’t my countertop,” Sarah mutters.
“Hey, loser!” Daniel barks.
“It’s fine,” Phillip replies.
“You didn’t break anything, did you?” she asks, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Nothing important.”
Sarah exhales. “That’s good to know.” She turns to me. “All right. We need lunch. Daniel, why don’t you go to Home Depot, then swing by McDonald’s on the way back and pick us up something. Jaden, if you could go with him and have them mix my paint, that would be great.” She grabs my putty knife. “I’ll finish spackling.”
“Phillip, we’re getting lunch,” Daniel calls.
“Where?”
“McDonald’s.”
“Good, I want some Chicken McNuggets.”
“We aren’t taking orders,” he announces. “Everyone gets double cheeseburgers—no pickles, no onions—fries, and Dr. Peppers.”
“You’re such a freakin’ dictator,” I say. “What if I don’t like double cheeseburgers? And you know I don’t drink sodas.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. It’s better to keep it simple. Otherwise I’ll get confused and screw everything up.”
“So instead of putting you out none of us should get what we want,” I charge.
“Since when did you get such a mouth?” he asks, pausing long enough to glare at me. “You’re the flexible one.”
“I’m flexible,” I argue, swiping the sweat away from my brow with the back of my hand, looking away.
“Good. Because if I’m paying I’m ordering. Let’s go.”
Within ten minutes Daniel and I are in his truck heading toward The Home Depot, in the next town over. The parking lot is nearly empty when we arrive: obviously the masses have better things to do on a Sunday than sand spackle. I focus on the task at hand, pushing everything else away, examining the paint chips Sarah handed me as we walked out the door. I need to pick up three gallons of primer, and have them mix a gallon of the light blue she chose for Joshua’s room, and two gallons of the taupe they planned to paint the master bedroom, hallway, and living room.
“I guess you can go ahead to the paint counter and order that. Pick up a couple of trays and edgers, too, while you’re there. I’ll be in plumbing,” Daniel says. We breeze through the automatic doors. I grab a cart and wheel it to the paint section. Daniel continues straight.
My head throbs. A muted, pulsing ache. I should’ve taken something before I left.
The headaches will subside in a few weeks, or so I’m told. In the meantime, I’m popping Tylenols like candy. In addition to the laceration on my forehead, I was diagnosed with a concussion, which meant an overnight stay in the hospital. In between x-rays and CT scans, I had to answer questions, detailing my account for police of everything that happened. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I didn’t see Parker that night, but he stayed. Sarah told me. And I haven’t seen him since.
Between the breaking news story—Vince’s death, and the arrests of half the Bedford High boys basketball team—and my involvement, it’s safe to say his cover was blown. I missed an entire week of school after it all happened, and when I returned the rumors swirled. Parker Whalen, undercover cop? I trudged from class to class, paid attention as best I could, turned in my work on time. But I didn’t offer any information, and I refused to talk to anyone except Savannah and Ashley.
I sigh, overwhelmed, and when the guy manning the paint desk asks if I need help, I tell him yes. We walk down the aisle together. He picks out a couple trays, rollers, edgers. . . . Everything we’ll need. He explains the difference between flat paint, and satin, and semigloss. I try to listen, but ultimately let him make the decisions.
“This will probably take ten or fifteen minutes,” he explains as I hand him the paint samples Sarah selected.
“That’s fine. Can I just leave this here?” I ask, motioning toward the cart.
“Sure.”
I set off to Plumbing. When I find Daniel, he’s busy talking to an employee at the far end of the aisle. I move slowly, studying the random parts—brass and plastic and copper—valves and washers and tubes. Something here might fix my bathroom sink. But with all the names and numbers and sizes, I don’t know where to begin. I scratch an itch on my neck at the base of my ponytail.
“You ready?”
I jump, startled.
“Jesus, Daniel.”
He eyes me carefully. “You all right?”
I swallow the hard lump forming in the back of my throat. Heart hammering in my ears, head aching.
Why am I always a second away from crying? “Fine,” I mumble.
Daniel doesn’t utter a word as we walk to the paint counter. He doesn’t say anything on the way to his truck, or after we climb in and shut the doors. The ride to McDonald’s is quiet, too.
“You’re not fine, Jaden,” he finally says, pulling to the curb in front of the new house, in a spot shaded from the midday sun.
“Am I supposed to be?”
“I’d like you to be.” He shifts the truck to park and we sit there, quiet. “What can I do to make it better?” he finally asks.
I let out a tiny laugh. “There’s nothing you can do, believe me.”
“We just hate seeing you like this. Mom. Phillip. Sarah. It’s like you’re not you anymore.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know. And you’re putting on a pretty great show of pretending things are okay. But they’re not. We can see it.”
I swallow hard.
“This . . . guy. You still love him, don’t you.”
It’s not a question. Tears sting my eyes. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Jaden, he’s not—”
“Look,” I interrupt. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but you can be nice to the guys I’m interested in. And this isn’t just about Parker. You hated Blake."
“And look how right I was about him.” He pauses, sighing. “It’s just a big brother thing.”
“It’s annoying. Who I like is my decision. I mean, you can’t throw yourself in the way every time I fall for someone. I’ll be in college soon,” I remind him.
“I know. I know,” he says, nodding. “It’s just that . . . you’re my little sister, Jaden. You’re important. And there’s not a guy out there who’s good enough for you.”
“That’s for me to decide, Daniel. You had your chance. You picked Sarah. Phillip has Becky. It’s my turn now.”
“I know,” he agrees, shutting off the engine. “But Sarah and Becky are so much better than either of us.”
“Then I deserve the chance to make someone better, too.”
He releases another pent-up breath as I reach for the door handle. “Do you still love him?” he asks, watching me carefully.
I push on the door, climbing out, focused. “He’s gone. You guys win. Why does it even matter?”
* * *
“We’re back!” Sarah, her sister, Melissa, and I walk through the front door, lugging David’s Bridal bags. Ours are manageable. Sarah’s is monstrous.
“Let me see!” my mom says, meeting us in the foyer. She sets Joshua down on the hardwood floor. He rolls onto his hands and knees and crawls to Sarah.
“Hey, little baby!” she says, pursing her lips to a kissy face. She hangs her dress on top of the front living room door, then unzips the garment bag.
My mom gasps as Sarah lifts the white satin. “Sarah! This is beautiful!” she cries, caressing the tiny, pearl-like beads sewn onto the bodice. They shimmer in the sunlight.
Behind us, Joshua has pull
ed himself to his feet and is standing next to the couch, holding on with one hand.
“Joshy,” I say.
Sarah turns, squatting to the floor, level with him. “Come on, baby,” she calls, holding out her arms. He lets go of the couch, wobbles for a moment, hesitating before steadying himself, then, with confidence, takes a step toward Sarah. “Come on,” she encourages, the pitch of her voice high and light. He tentatively takes another step, then plops to his rear, diaper squishing against the floor. “You’re doing such a good job!” Sarah says, scooping him in her arms and blowing a raspberry against his chubby baby cheek.
“What’s going on?” Daniel asks, entering the foyer.
It only takes a second for us to react.
“No!” Melissa yells.
Mom throws herself in front of Sarah’s gown. I lift my garment bag, hiding it from view.
“What’s the problem?” he asks.
“It’s Sarah’s dress. You aren’t supposed to see it,” Mom informs him.
“Go to the den,” Sarah commands, pushing against his broad chest with her free hand.
Daniel rolls his eyes. “Please. You don’t buy into all that superstition bullsh—”
“Don’t say that word!” Mom and Sarah yell together. Sarah covers one of Joshua’s ears, turning him away.
“Sorry,” Daniel says. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in one, massive huff. “I just don’t see what the big deal is.”
“The big deal is that it’s a surprise,” Sarah says. “So don’t even think about being sneaky and unzipping this bag.”
“In fact, you can keep it in our closet if you need to,” Mom suggests. “Daniel knows better than to snoop in there.”
Daniel leans against the stair rail, folding his arms. “Relax. I’m not going to snoop anywhere. Anyway, Phillip is on his way home. He’s bringing Becky by . . . and I’m hungry.”
“You know how to make a sandwich,” I remind him, wishing he’d disappear already—arms burning from the weight of my dress lifted above my head, shaking even. Clearly, I need to work out more. I’m nil in the upper arm strength department.
