by Ginger Scott
“I won’t leave her side all night. I promise. And if I have to carry her home, I will,” I say. Gemma’s eyes fall back to me, a touch of relief in them. We’re miles from home, so that was an exaggeration. I won’t carry her; I’ll take a car, especially now that I know Gemma can take Jake home.
“I don’t know what she did with her fucking pants.” She purses her lips after a vent of her own, and when she puts her hands on her hips and scans the area, I laugh.
“Let’s see if we can get her to tie this around her waist, at least,” I say, shaking my head and handing Gemma my black and yellow flannel. It’s my favorite one, and I’m wearing a thinner long-sleeved shirt than I normally would. The blast of cold hits me, even this close to the fire, so I know Eleanor’s cold.
“Hold this,” Gemma says, giving me her phone while she climbs up to join her friend on the table. A round of whistles follows, and I’m afraid people will think I’m like these other assholes standing around.
“How’d you manage to make this happen, my friend?” Jake’s arm flops along my shoulders and back as he steps in next to me, grinning.
“I didn’t manage anything. Eleanor’s super drunk, and Gemma’s trying to get her to tie my shirt around her waist.” I’m a little pissed that he sees this as some sexy show, just like those other dicks.
“Why isn’t she wearing pants?” he asks, still a little too amused for my taste.
“Hell if I know.” I shrug, glancing at his arm still slung over me. I try to shirk it off but he adjusts and leans on me a little harder. He’s trying to force me to relax and fit in. I’m not in the mood.
We both look on while Gemma makes a game of it, basically tricking her friend into letting her cover her bottom half more than it is, which is not much at all. When she gets boos from the crowd, Jake’s jaw tightens and I feel his fist form as his knuckles crack. If he picks a fight, I’m going to have to join him. My hands form fists in my pockets.
As the music morphs from rap and club beats mashed together in no coherent order, Eleanor’s body grows more and more listless. I start to worry that she’ll collapse, and I think Jake does, too. It’s either that or he’s really raring for a fight because he’s pulled his arm away from me and is holding his fist in his other palm, practicing his punch.
All it takes is Shakespeare to light the match.
I bolt the second his hand reaches forward and touches Eleanor’s thigh. I slap it away and pull Eleanor from the table and into me. Jake takes over handling Shakespeare while I awkwardly lift Eleanor over my shoulder to carry her to her car.
“Can you get Jake home?” I shout over my shoulder to Gemma, who’s following close behind.
“Yes,” she answers.
When we reach the Volkswagen, Gemma exchanges keys with me and helps me persuade Eleanor to get into the passenger seat. That job becomes a whole lot easier after Eleanor vomits on the side of the road while her friend holds back her hair.
“You sure you can handle this?” Gemma’s eyes meet mine as we both work to get Eleanor into the car and buckled up.
“I’ll get her home. And I will make sure she’s okay.” I’m dead serious, and I think Gemma senses the depth of my promise.
She offers a faint smile and wraps her hands around mine as I squeeze the keys. “She’s in a really bad place. Thank you for being there for her.”
I nod and tighten my lips. There have been dozens of ways I fantasized about a world where I am Eleanor Trombley’s person. This was never one of them.
“Tell Jake to call me tomorrow,” I say, getting in on the driver’s side and cranking the engine to peel us out of here.
“I’m sorry, Jonah. I got sick,” Eleanor says as we drive, her voice weak and childlike. I’m starting to think someone gave her something, and I fight the growl deep in my belly that tells me I should race back to the party and tear apart every asshole there to find out who did it.
“It’s okay, Eleanor. We’re going home, and you can rest.”
“You called me Eleanor,” she hums.
I breathe in long and deep through my nose, then glance to my right to find her sad eyes waiting. I don’t know how to respond. I’m rushed with a mixture of feelings. I want to yell at her for acting out, for not listening to her sister and staying home. I want to shake her sister for being so thoughtless with her words. And then I want to go back in time and call her Elle. That it means something to her makes me feel more than I have, maybe ever.
She’s turned to rest on her side in her seat, an uncomfortable position that also makes me uneasy about driving. I’m not sure what I’m worried about more, that I’ll stop fast and snap her neck or that she’ll vomit on me.
We stop at a light about halfway home so I use the break to do my best to urge her to sit the right way in her seat. Tugging on her belt isn’t enough, and she’s too out of it to understand what I’m doing, something that becomes more obvious when she wraps her hands around my arm and brings it in for a hug like a scared child with a teddy bear.
“I have to drive,” I explain, working my arm loose. She clings to it, but eventually I get it free, just in time for the light to turn green.
I pull forward slowly, entering the intersection while scanning both ways over and over again to make sure nobody is coming at us.
“Elle, I need you to get in your seat the right way. Please?” I beg and use calling her Elle as a tool. I feel dirty that I did, but I need to soften her obstinacy. It works and her hard-lined mouth opens into a slight smile as she shifts and tugs at her seat belt until it’s close to crossing her body in the right place.
“Thank you,” I breathe out.
“You didn’t wear a hat tonight,” she stammers, reaching her left arm toward me and landing her open palm on the side of my head. Her fingers twist into my messy hair and I reach up and tether her hand in mine so I can drive safely.
“Someone stole it.” If Mandy shows up on Monday wearing my hat I’m going to take it back.
“You shouldn’t wear one anyway. You have really nice hair,” she hums. Her fingers are trying to break out from my hand as I keep us clasped over the center console. I can’t believe I’m in a position where I am literally fighting to keep Eleanor from playing with my hair.
“Thanks,” I say, blushing with a sideways grin. Shitty situation or not, I’m still an absolute sucker for her compliment.
We manage to cross the highway without seeing much traffic, and by the time I pull her car along the curb outside her house, her head is nodding toward her shoulder as she fights off sleep.
“Hold on a few more seconds. Let’s get you inside, okay?”
“Uh hmm,” she says, a faint whisper.
I don’t know where to take her—her house or mine—to sleep off whatever this is. I’m almost positive one of those assholes slipped something into her drink, especially if Gemma was with her almost every second.
“Think you can get inside?” I let go of her hand and turn to face her as I kill the motor in her car. I keep her keys hidden in my palm and I plan to keep them all night. She doesn’t need to get any big ideas about driving herself somewhere.
“I think so. Morgan’s up. She’s . . . always . . . up.” She starts to crawl out of her car after her sing-songy answer, so I race around to greet her before she can attempt to walk.
“Do you have a house key?”
“Oh . . . yeah.” Eleanor pushes my hands away and feels around her hips. It’s as if she just realized my shirt is tied around her and she pulls on the sleeves and begins to giggle.
“Hey, I like this one. Is it mine? Where are my pants? Ohhh.” Her brow furrows.
“Was your house key in your pants?” I ask. She’s already stumbling her way toward her front door.
“Maybe,” she slurs.
I catch under her arms before she completely crosses up her legs, and her prophecy turns out to be right as Morgan opens the door and takes two steps onto the stoop. I expect her to come running, worried, to
join me in taking care of her spiraling sister. Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Shocker. You went to a party.” Her eyes land on her sister with such disdain, even if I didn’t care so much for Eleanor I would insist on defending her against that kind of judgment.
“You think you can help me get her inside? Maybe you can have your piece in the morning when she’ll actually be able to ascertain the words you are saying?” I think I’m bolder than normal because of the pent-up aggression I’m still working out from the jerks at the party.
“I told her not to go. You should know better, too.” I can actually feel Morgan’s scowl as she steps under Eleanor’s other shoulder to help me guide her inside.
“You make some pretty shitty assumptions, you know that?” I grunt out as we move through the foyer and toward the stairs.
“Let’s just get her to the couch,” Morgan says, ignoring me completely. I know that’s not where Eleanor wants to be, though. She’ll only wake up worse, and she’ll never fall asleep completely with her sister only a few feet away.
“I got her,” I insist, sweeping my arms under Eleanor’s legs and carrying her up the steps, leaving her sister trailing me. She doesn’t come all the way up, and I’m glad because I’m in no mood to be considerate of her feelings.
“Thank you,” Eleanor mumbles against my shoulder.
“Don’t mention it,” I huff.
I weave my way around the railing and down the hallway that matches mine, knowing exactly where to take her. I’ve only seen this room through a window, and from a distance of a few hundred feet.
It’s dark inside, so it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust enough to find her bed. She reaches out as we get closer and I let her take herself the rest of the way. She flips on the small lamp by her bed, a pink one made of lace and crystal that looks as though it belongs in a little girl’s room. I bet Addy loves this light.
She begins to push her shoes from her feet with her heels, so I help her get them off completely then fold her blanket over her body.
“Can I keep your shirt?” she mutters, her face smooshed into her pillow and her eyes closed.
“Consider it yours,” I say, moving her shoes to the floor at the end of the bed. When I turn back to face her, I find her eyes open more than they’ve been the entire night. Staring at me, she blinks slowly, her face void of emotion.
“I’m sorry I’m hard to be friends with.”
I lean back against her dresser with a heavy breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. Her words hurt, and they aren’t true.
“Eleanor, there is nothing hard about being in your life. I’m glad you let me bring you home, though. Maybe tomorrow we can talk about . . . this?” I wave my hand slowly, signaling her current state.
She responds with another slow blink and I assume that’s as much as I’m going to get.
“Okay, then. Why don’t you get some sleep?” I step toward her night table and reach to flip off the light, but Eleanor stops me by brushing her knuckles against mine.
Frozen where I stand, I lock onto her touch and relax my fingers to let hers find their way into the spaces between. It’s such a light touch, and it might be all the energy she has to give, but it’s enough to refuel me and remind me why I will walk through fire for this girl if that’s what she needs. Eleanor Trombley is special. Always has been, always will be. And the more I get to know her, especially all of her broken bits, the more I think we’re finding each other at the exact moment we’re supposed to.
“Good night, Elle,” I say, squeezing her hand gently and tucking it back into her body, then pulling up her blanket.
I flip her light off for real this time and close the door almost completely before making my way back downstairs to where Morgan waits by the front door. Before she has a chance to tell me all the ways she is right and Eleanor is wrong, I break down the hard truths that a person going through something like this might not be capable of seeing on her own.
“You have to stop,” I say, stepping up to face her squarely. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes squint.
“I don’t mean to offend you, or . . . or maybe I do. I know you—your entire family—you’re all going through hell. I can only imagine half of it. When my dad died last year, I had closure. It was a dull pain, but at least I knew that was what I was going to get. You all, you’re left without answers, and the clues that come along seem like traps that are only going to make things hurt more, make the pain last longer.”
I pause my lecture when her eye ticks and she shifts her hands to her back pockets as she steps in closer. I move back a step on instinct.
“My baby sister is missing, and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do about it. No offense, but you don’t know shit.” I think she wants to mean every word of this, but fear flickers behind her eyes.
“I know that punishing your other sister—more than she’s already punishing herself—is not going to make things better for either of you. You’re only going to ruin your relationship with her, make her resent you. She’s eighteen, Morgan. She is missing all of those things that make up who she is. She’s choosing to miss those things because she thinks that’s what her family expects her to do, and instead of living her life she sits in her room, thinking about how she is to blame for absolutely everything.”
Morgan shakes her head, but before she can tell me I’m off base, I continue.
“You think she’s in there sleeping at night, but she hasn’t slept in days. She’s slept at my house, twice, and probably because she was so exhausted that her body couldn’t go on anymore. She can’t sleep here because being here reminds her that Addy is missing and you blame her for it. And if you blame her, then your parents must blame her, too. And now your grandparents. You all have created this environment where she doesn’t feel safe in her own house. That’s why she keeps going out and seeking peace and comfort literally anywhere else.”
“Okay. Okay!” Morgan growls, cutting me off. Her eyes are glassy and she swipes the tears away with a jerk of her hand. She looks out through the open door toward my house, to the place where her sister feels safe.
After a few long wordless seconds, I dip my head and move to leave the Trombley home.
“They’re never going to find her.”
I stop cold at the doorway. I don’t think she could have uttered a more devastating statement. I tilt my head to the side and meet her eyes. The tears are back, and they fall when she blinks.
“At this point, they’re looking for a body.” She shrugs, letting out a tiny humorless laugh that’s only there to mask the devastation she’s barely holding inside. She shakes her head and breathes out a ragged breath that flaps her cheeks. She’s tired. They all are. Her eyes dip down then come back to me, her brow creasing with worry and regret.
“I shouldn’t have made her feel that way, that it’s her fault. Any of it. I know I’m not being fair. I’ve been making so many decisions, and I feel like I have to make all of them because my parents just can’t.”
If I knew her better, I’d hug her. If I weren’t such a recluse, I’d step in and help their entire family. I would have from the very beginning rather than watch it all unfold out my front window. I should have.
But I can save Eleanor. I can make this inevitable life-altering pain survivable. I just need Morgan to let me.
“Let her sleep. She was acting out tonight, rebelling. But when she wakes up, she’s going to remember that she thinks you hate her. That’s when you need to make sure she knows it’s exactly the opposite. You need each other. Trust me. I’m a guy with a very tiny family who values both members as much as the air I breathe.” I let the thought of losing Grandpa or Mom pass over my soul, and imagining it carves a deep wound.
“Thank you for getting her home,” she says. I think maybe this is the first time she hasn’t looked at me like some house elf from under the stairs. I fish Eleanor’s keys from my pocket and hand them to her for safekeeping, because I know if anything,
I can trust Morgan to keep her sister out of a vehicle for the next several hours.
I leave her with a soft smile and head out into the darkness, crossing the street to my house where I enter through the garage. I should be exhausted but for some reason, I’m not tired at all. The palette of emotions I’ve gone through in the last hour have charged my mind and my muscles. Rather than waste the next few hours staring at my ceiling and flipping from side to side in my bed, I decide to do some good. I shut the door behind me and flip the main lights on in the garage before propping open the Bronco’s hood. Dale and I got through about two dozen wires before he left, which leaves a couple dozen to go.
I arm myself with the wire tester and pull my phone from my pocket, resting it on the fender. With a few swipes, I open the playlist Eleanor made me for my birthday and smile at the now familiar chords that start the first song—the song about a young man working on a Bronco he hopes to one day hand down to his son.
Fifteen
I finished every wire I could access without some sort of yoga move. I worked on the truck until the sun was almost up, and then grunted out some sort of explanation to my mom and grandpa as I passed them on my way up the stairs. Sleep took over the second my face hit the pillow, and if it weren’t for the faint buzz of my phone coming from somewhere in the depths of my blanket and sheets, I would have kept dreaming until the sun went down again.
Finally uncovering my phone, I bring it to my face to focus my eyes enough to read the text message. I sit up when I realize it’s from Eleanor.
ELEANOR: Can I come over to talk?
