Seven Sins

by Piper Lennox

  “Still?” I ask, when his sentence registers.

  “Yeah. In one of those ‘never talk about it, let it taint every family meal’ ways.” Van drags deeply and looks at me. I expect him to blow the smoke into my face, but he angles his mouth so that it puffs above me, instead.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “No, thanks. Think you ‘talked to him’ plenty, seven years ago.”

  Ashing into a grate, he peeks over my shoulder to check the status on our ride. The cigarette smoke isn’t why I hold my breath.

  Somehow, he smells exactly how I remember. Getting saturated with lake water and hospital-grade antiseptic can’t hide the scent of him.

  It’s like sunburned skin and hot, blank paper from a printer, mixed with the cool aroma of soil.

  “I have to set the record straight with him,” I manage. It feels like I’m back in that lake, but now it’s just his scent flooding my lungs. “Make things right with you guys.”

  “Look, my old man doesn’t hate me over it. It’s just like anything else I’ve done in my life. He’s disappointed, he’s lost a little faith in me for doing it…but we’ll live.”

  “Except you didn’t do it.”

  “Did enough before that.” He finishes his cigarette with a stifled cough. “Yeah, it’d be nice if he believed me, but I get why he doesn’t. It sounds one-hundred percent like something I’d do.”

  Briefly, those ocean-blue eyes meet mine. “You really did screw me over well, Fairy Lights, and I mean that sincerely. Ordered a skateboard you knew I actually wanted—and had asked Dad for, like...a hundred times—then left the cards in the exact spot I would’ve left them, like the dumbass I was.”

  “But you didn’t steal the cards.” Jeez, what’s a girl got to do to make things right, around here?

  “But I could have.” He stomps out the butt on the water main cover we’ve been unconsciously circling. “Which you knew. You didn’t stick around for long. What was it, three weeks? Four, tops. But enough to learn exactly what you could get away with.”

  This time, when his eyes meet mine, I have to stare at my phone.

  “Exactly what Dad worried I’d always do,” he goes on, voice low and cold on my neck, even when I pace away and pretend to search for a signal.

  He’s right. Completely.

  I’d heard it straight from Sterling Durham’s mouth once, in an overheard conversation with Howard after Van “borrowed” the truck for a joyride…then crashed it.

  “Boy keeps getting worse,” Mr. Durham muttered, while Howard helped him pop out the dent Van left in the passenger door. “Taking the truck, mouthing off, failing those classes at the academy last spring….”

  “Don’t forget those poor girls that keep calling,” Howard laughed.

  “Don’t remind me. You know, I think that’s actually my second biggest fear for the kid? That he’ll get one of those girls pregnant and become a teen dad? I’ve given him the talk a million times, given him condoms, all that, but...well. Clearly, he’s not the best at thinking shit through.”

  “So what’s the first biggest fear?”

  Mr. Durham was quiet a moment. All I heard was the groan of metal, Van’s mistake being undone.

  “That he’ll steal from me,” he said, finally. “I mean, I guess my actual greatest fears are the normal ones: that he’ll die or get hurt, what have you. But stealing...it feels like the natural next step for him, the way he’s going.”

  “That’s worse than becoming a teen dad?”

  “In its own way. Knocking a girl up would be a mistake, something he does because he’s young and thinks he’s invincible. Stealing would make me question everything about his character. I’d never trust him again.”

  Mr. Durham paused. The dent popped out with one last clatter.

  “I hate saying that,” he sighed. “God, I really do.”

  I hated hearing it.

  Because the second I did, I knew exactly what I could get away with.

  Exactly how I was going to get away from that ranch, my first fresh start…and make another.

  I take a breath when the rideshare app alerts us the driver is close. “I’m sorry.”

  “God, stop apologizing,” Van groans, eyes closed towards the sky. “It’s such a downer.”

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Nothing. That’s all you can say, because all the apologies in the world aren’t going to change the past. And because, frankly? I can’t waste the energy accepting your apologies. I don’t have time to make you feel better about yourself.” He thumbs his lips and shrugs. “It is what it is. I’ve had to live with the consequences. You do, too.”

  “By that logic,” I sputter, enraged at how bizarrely calm he sounds, “then nobody should ever say they’re sorry for anything.”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  I shake my head, so I won’t shake him instead. “What a sad, pathetic outlook on life.”

  “What a sad, pathetic comeback.”

  By the grace of whatever sent me the gift that was that pool noodle (though right now, I’m skeptical), our ride slinks to the curb.

  Van holds the door for me. His smile has all the friendliness of a knife to the throat. Leave it to him to make even a nice deed seem sarcastic.

  Every minute since we’ve left the hospital has made me second-guess my plan, but I know there’s no other option. Not unless I want the twin nightmares of Bad Karma and Gnawing Guilt tailing me like a shadow.

  Just when I’ve screwed up the courage to pitch it to Van, we arrive at the campground office where I left my Transit. Maybe it’s better that I tell him my idea without an audience, though. He might actually take it seriously.

  He might realize, like me, he doesn’t have much choice.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, when I unlock the car and he starts walking down the road to the west side of the lake.

  “Starting my new life as a homeless person,” he calls, without looking back.

  I press my forehead to the warm metal of my door and sigh.

  Please.

  Please, if there’s any other way to atone…show it to me now.

  “Van.” I tap the brakes once I’ve caught up to him, which doesn’t take long. Between general exhaustion and cheap flip-flops, he’s only gotten a quarter-mile in the time it took me to reassure the lake staff we were all right. This included their smiling explanation about cleanup fees (translation: I owe them two hundred bucks for “dumping refuse in the water”), and a friendly reminder that my check-in waiver says I can’t sue for any injuries or damages sustained during my stay.

  “Van,” I call again. I know he hears me; he’s right beside the passenger window. And Eloise is not a quiet girl.

  “What,” he says, teeth gritted.

  “Get in.”

  “I’m good.”

  “You know this road is nearly two miles, right?”

  This makes him stop, curse, and climb in.

  “This is not two miles,” he mutters, giving me a look like I’m insane when I reach and peel a size sticker off his jeans. Still, he lets me do it. “One mile, at most.”

  “So I have trouble with distance-gauging. It’s not like you corrected me.”

  “I’ve never been on this road. Took the back way in.”

  “Ah. You mean, you broke in. That explains why the office has no record of your arrival, then. I managed to B.S. something about a reservation they probably lost in their system, by the way. You’re welcome.”

  “Didn’t ask you to B.S. anything for me, so no thank you.”

  I feel him stare at me, but I keep my eyes drilled ahead.

  “And I didn’t break in,” he adds. “There was a gate, it was unlocked...so I drove through. I wasn’t going to pay for a spot when I only planned on staying a few hours. Not my fault they charge a flat rate.”

  This is familiar, too: Van having a justification for everything he did, always delivered with such confidence you found
yourself wanting to believe it, no matter how flawed it was. Once, after his father caught him with some beer behind the barn, Van gave such a convincing speech at the dinner table about how much safer it was for a teenager to experiment with alcohol on a wide, open ranch than in the bustling throes of New York City, even Howard started nodding along.

  Mr. Durham still punished him, of course, but only for a week. Maybe Van’s little speech worked on him, too.

  So now, when he finishes pointing out that the shortest campsite rental is for twenty-four hours, he was only going to be on the trail for about six, and the office really should offer discounts for things like that…I hate myself for nodding and telling him that makes sense.

  “Still wrong, though,” I’m quick to add.

  “Turn me in, then.”

  “Van....” This isn’t going how I wanted.

  None of this is, actually. For years I’ve daydreamed about what it would be like, if and when I ever ran into him again. Never in a million years did I think it would happen like this—but I also didn’t expect things to be this hard.

  I tried to expect it. Hundreds of times, I reminded myself that he hated me. The few times I reached out on social media, I got blocked. When I friended his cousins Wes and Theo, we’d spent all of two hours reminiscing about their visit to the ranch that summer. They suddenly went silent, then unfriended me.

  It didn’t take much brainpower to figure out what happened: they mentioned me to Van, he flipped out, and Durham instincts kicked in. I was nothing to them now, because I was nothing to him.

  I knew I’d never get back my protector. And I was okay with that.

  But I carried one small flutter of hope throughout these years that Van and I could, one day, be okay again.

  When we reach the campsite and get out (this time, I make sure my parking brake is engaged), I stalk after him to the water’s edge, where a team of men are working to drag out the Sprinter.

  Now or never. Time to fix my mistake.

  I take a breath. “I have a proposal.”

  “Oh, no: you’ve got to get down on one knee, ask my daddy’s blessing, the whole nine.”

  “Van, I’m serious. Look at me.” He shrugs out of my grasp when I grab his elbow, but stops and turns. “I believe in...in balance. Karma, but more self-directed.”

  His brow knits together. “Are you trying to convert me or something?”

  “I’m trying to explain.... Okay.” Another breath. All of this makes perfect sense in my head, but I’ve never had to express it out loud. It’d be tough with anyone, but especially him.

  “When you do something good, the universe or God or karma, whatever, gives it back to you. Right?”

  “Are you actually asking me? Because I’d have to give a resounding ‘fuck no’ to that theory.”

  “Well, I believe it’s true. Everything we do tests that balance. Good deeds tip things in our favor, until we get a good thing repaid. And bad things we do, even by accident....”

  My gaze trips from his to the lake, where his back bumper is now visible.

  “If you do something wrong, you need to atone.” My third deep breath feels like I’ve just surfaced from that dark water again. “I can’t repay you in actual cash, at least not right now. But I can take you where you need to go.”

  “You don’t get it: it’s not just about transportation. I had a whole plan to travel and skate, land new sponsors—”

  “Then I’ll help you get them.”

  He laughs. “How the hell are you going to do that?”

  “However I need to.” My shoulders straighten. It’s still not easy, looking him in the eye.

  But with the weight of my accidental sin starting to lighten, my atonement already in motion, it’s getting easier.

  “I’ve seen your Instagram and YouTube channels, and...they could use some work,” I go on, realizing I’m poking a massive and easily enraged bear. “You can use my equipment to film and upload whatever you want, until I replace your stuff. And I’ll edit everything for free, then help you fix your pages.”

  “What’s wrong with my pages?”

  “Your uploads aren’t consistent, you don’t post nearly enough on Instagram, you’re not on TikTok at all—”

  “Nope, fuck that. I’m not an influencer. I’m a skater.”

  “A skater who’s known throughout his industry,” I quip, “but barely registers on the general public’s radar.”

  He fumes, but stays silent. It’s an inescapable reality of working for yourself: without an internet presence, you may as well not exist. Hate it or love it, that’s how it is.

  “You really think your little tips and tricks will work for me? I’m an athlete. I don’t even know what the hell to call you.”

  “I…wear many hats.” When his eye roll’s finished (it takes several seconds), I add seriously, “Yeah, I’m not an athlete. I know virtually nothing about skating. But I do know a thing or two about gaining followers. Namely the fact that, if you have enough of them, sponsors seek you out.”

  Van lets me pick another size sticker off him, silent.

  The bear’s angry, but curious.

  “I know why you lost your first sponsors. You’ve got a reputation.”

  “Bad boy?” he smirks, tongue pressed inside his cheek. “All-terrain skate god?”

  This is most familiar of all.

  The arrogance in his voice, and the flash in his eyes that reveals exactly how much he wants to believe his own words.

  Perhaps part of him really does. It would explain his convincing little speeches, and his ability to give zero concerns to whatever’s going on around him.

  Even now, when we sit and watch the water pour from the cracks under the doors of his small but self-made home, he doesn’t react.

  But I know what kills him most…is that this isn’t killing him.

  “A bad boy with anger issues,” I correct softly. “A boy who forgot he wasn’t a god, and flew too close to the sun.”

  His legs stretch out in front of us, hands buried in the soil behind. “I’ve also been told I have a harsh personality.”

  Whoo, there’s an understatement.

  An unholy racket fills the air as the winch tightens, depositing the corpse of his old life directly in front of us. The team starts unhooking everything, readying to leave so the tow truck can come in and haul this mess away.

  “It’s funny,” he says, dropping his lighter from hand to hand, “traveling around, hitting trails—I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. Lure in some new sponsors with the footage and followers, but also...I don’t know. Connect with nature. Use it to help my anger issues. Learn how to talk to people without blowing up. I thought months by myself, with nothing but the wilderness, could reset something in me.”

  “Did it?”

  “Hadn’t really been on the road long enough to find out—but no. Turns out I hate nature unless I’m on my board.”

  “I love nature.”

  “With a name like Juniper Summers, you’d damn well better.”

  My smile and quiet laugh through my nose are the biggest risk of all. Van seems to hate seeing me happy.

  Instead of ensuring my misery with some twisted comeback, though, he throws me a surprised glance and snorts in his chest.

  “Nature can heal almost everything,” I tell him.

  “So you’re saying I should skip these antibiotics across the lake, let Mother Nature stave off pneumonia?”

  “I’m saying even you, the great Sullivan Durham-Andresco, are not immune to the transformational powers of nature.” I sweep my arm out in front of us and encompass both our vehicles. Both our homes.

  “Nature sure transformed the hell out of that Sprinter,” he spits, anger building in his features again.

  The wreckage wasn’t actually my emphasis, although that is, technically speaking, the start of his transformation. Sometimes things get nasty when they start to heal. It’s like a bruise, darkening through its sick rainbo
w of progress before it begins to fade.

  It was my Transit I wanted him to focus on. The second part of his transformation.

  Yes, it might be a hellish punishment to cart this oversized brat with a demigod complex around wherever he needs to go. But it’ll make things right.

  Not just for what I accidentally did to him yesterday, but for everything I knowingly did to him before.

  Van’s kindness that summer, and his father’s, started to heal me—guided me into a world I’d known close to nothing about. Without them and those weeks at their ranch, I’d have never felt brave enough to strike out on my own and finish the transformation they started.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but he needs this.

  “Where was your next stop?” I get up and brush the dirt from my shorts, then hold out my hand to help him. He waves it off and gets up on his own.

  “I was actually about to head to the Hamptons to visit my cousin for the week. But now....”

  That dead stare hits the wreckage again.

  “I’ll take you.”

  His eyes narrow. “And then?”

  “Then…we can go anywhere. You name it, I’ll drive you there.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as you want. Until we’re even.” Without thinking, I slap a mosquito on his arm. He doesn’t react. “Until you forgive me.”

  “You really want to drive me all over creation, all summer long,” he says flatly, bending down so we’re eye-to-eye, “just to prove to me you’re sorry?”

  This is not familiar: looking directly into his stare, instead of being underneath it.

  “You said apologies are worthless, so how else am I supposed to prove it?”

  Van laughs, a sudden bark from his throat that I know he wants me to interpret as an insult.

  But it’s so genuine, so oddly relieved…I can’t even get upset about it.

  “All right, then.” He sticks out his hand. We shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Fairy Lights.”

  Eight

  “You wanna look inside, first?”

  I slap the hood of my Sprinter one last time and shake my head at the tow truck driver. “No point.”

  “Wait, I do!” Juniper’s in there faster than a rat in a garbage pile, which is basically what it is. One glance—and one smell—and I knew every last item was history.