Parrish

by Shannen Crane Camp

  He narrowed his large eyes at me, half playing and half serious.

  “You win this round,” he said, before lowering his voice to a whisper, “But if Deacon tries to cuddle with me again tonight, I’m switching beds.”

  ~

  Hours.

  We had spent hours reading over letters from Eva to Thatcher in our tiny, stuffy hotel room, and I was feeling itchy with the desire to be outside.

  Deacon had fallen asleep over the small table in our room, probably drooling all over one of the very old and possibly valuable letters Ally had entrusted to us. Sitting next to me, Brighton’s eyes were bloodshot and kept drooping closed as she fought to stay awake, while Jefferson wasn’t even pretending to be working anymore. Instead he was asleep on one of the beds with a faint smile on his lips as he dreamed.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered to Brighton, trying not to wake the Parrish boys. Even if they weren’t helping us, it was always better to let a sleeping Parrish lie. “Do you want to go to the park or something? We can bring the letters with us and go over them there.”

  Brighton’s mouth instantly turned into a small hard line at the mention of going outside.

  “What is it now?” I asked with a sigh.

  “So many things,” she answered. “Sunburns, bugs, noise, pollution, kids running around with sticky ice cream-covered fingers. Just to name a few.”

  “How is it that you can make a nice sunny day in the park sound so life-threatening?”

  “It’s my job,” she said with a sad nod.

  “Well, I’m still going. I can’t stay locked up in here anymore. Besides, when we do figure out our last location, I’m sure we’ll be spending days in the car again and I can’t be that close to these Parrish boys for that long.”

  “You can’t go to the park alone,” Brighton said.

  I motioned for her to lower her voice. Jefferson stirred on the bed and the last thing I needed was him distracting me.

  “You could get kidnapped or attacked,” she finished in a whisper.

  “It’s the middle of the day. I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.”

  Our hotel room was incredibly small, since we had to be hyper-aware of our quickly dwindling funds, and nothing was going to keep me from getting outside. Ignoring Brighton’s quiet protests, I gathered my bundle of letters, placed them in my purse, and waved over my shoulder to her, closing the door to our hotel room before she could talk me out of going. I only had a few more letters to read, but I didn’t care. I needed air.

  It didn’t take long to get to the Boston Public Library from our hotel, and there was a small park right across the street, perfect for the solitude I needed. If I was going to make any progress on extracting relevant information from these letters, I’d need my head clear.

  Taking off my yellow ballet flats and walking barefoot through the wet grass, I reveled in the feeling of the sun on my skin. I was looking incredibly pale lately and definitely disgracing my Cuban heritage. Some time out in the sun would do me a world of good. Of course, the fact that the grass was wet meant that I’d be getting my jean shorts wet, and I’d probably get teased by the impossible Parrish boys.

  “I brought a blanket,” Jefferson said behind me, as if he could read my mind.

  I didn’t even turn around to look at him—I just sighed at my bad luck.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I needed to get out of that room too. You’re not the only one who needs space.”

  “You being here is not giving me space.” I finally turned to see that he had one of the thin comforters from the hotel room bunched under his arm. “Jefferson!” I scolded. “You can’t take the comforter out of the hotel.”

  “Even laying it on the dirty ground in the park won’t make it any dirtier than it already is,” he said, quite reasonably.

  “Gross.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “But it’s better than getting your bum all wet.”

  I looked skeptically between him and the wet ground for a moment, wondering how many weird looks we’d get for so obviously stealing a hotel comforter with its awful faux art deco pattern, before deciding I’d rather be dry than proud.

  “Fine, go ahead and lay it out,” I said. “But one peep out of you when I’m trying to go over these letters and you’re sentenced to the hotel room again.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a salute, laying the blanket down and making himself right at home as he stretched out on his back. It wouldn’t have looked so comical if he hadn’t been so incredibly tall and dressed in his old-fashioned suit. Thanks to the latter, he just looked like he belonged in a turn-of-the-century painting of an afternoon in the park. And then, of course, I lay on my back next to him in my yellow T-shirt and jean shorts, totally throwing his whole vintage thing off.

  “Did you bring your letters?” I asked, glancing over at the Parrish by my side.

  He already had his eyes closed against the sun, and his little contented smile was back in place.

  “I already read all of mine,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.

  “You did not,” I countered, thinking he was joking.

  “I really did. I’m ready to report once you guys are done.”

  “What are you going to do while I read, then?” I asked, scared he was just here to bug me.

  “I’m going to take a nap in the sunshine.”

  “You don’t seem like the type to like sunshine.”

  “Under the right circumstances I do,” he answered, his little grin growing ever so slightly.

  “You’re probably going to get a sunburn,” I attempted in a last-ditch effort to get rid of him.

  “I don’t burn,” he answered.

  It made sense. His deep olive skin probably really didn’t burn. He was probably like me, just getting browner and browner and feeling bad for people like Brighton and Deacon, who had to avoid the sun like the little kids on The Others.

  “Just remember that I’m actually working.” I pulled out one of my letters and held it above my head in one hand, my free hand right next to Jefferson’s.

  Not on purpose, of course.

  Jefferson must have taken my hint, because he didn’t respond to my “threat,” which I was actually a little disappointed about. I kind of enjoyed our arguing.

  Shrugging that thought off, I read through the letter in my hand at least a dozen times. It wasn’t anything too special, although I had learned an interesting detail earlier about why Eva had followed Thatcher to Boston.

  Apparently there had been a baby involved, which I tried not to get too hung up on until I knew more from the other letters. It was a huge detail, but I couldn’t draw any conclusions just yet. But that didn’t explain why none of Eva’s letters to Thatcher were ever actually sent. I could understand if she was writing them as a way of getting things off her chest without ever intending to mail them, but the further along in the story I read, the more it became apparent that Eva was discouraged by Thatcher’s lack of response to her letters. That meant, as far as she was aware, her letters were being sent.

  “Jefferson?” I said. I got no response. I moved my fingers those few empty inches and closed them around his hand, giving him a little shake. “Jefferson?” I tried again.

  “I thought you were working and I was sleeping,” he answered, keeping his eyes closed.

  “Who do you think was supposed to send Eva’s letters?”

  He sighed deeply. I guess he really had been excited to take a nap.

  “Probably not a maid. She was too poor for that.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I agreed. “But then why would she think someone else was supposed to send her letters? People in her class would just do that themselves, right?”

  “Thatcher seemed to be wealthy . . . maybe he got her a maid,” he suggested.

  “Why do you think Thatcher was wealthy?”

  “He got a ticket on the Queen Mary t
o come over and see his girlfriend, who was a maid. Sounds like a bad romance novel.”

  “And that makes him wealthy?” I asked.

  Jefferson finally opened his eyes and rolled over on his side to face me. “All evidence points to that,” he said.

  I chewed on my lip, thinking about this for a moment before putting the letter back in my bag. I only had one or two more to read before I was done with my chunk, but I hardly felt like I was getting any answers from them. My only hope for this investigation rested on the fact that Brighton had the last set of letters. Maybe Eva would end her letter writing spree with a good clue.

  I hadn’t realized it until his fingers moved over mine, but I was still holding Jefferson’s hand as I pondered our current mystery. Looking over at him, he smiled at me. An actual, genuine smile. Not like he was teasing me, or being creepy, or trying to flirt, but just like he was happy to be there.

  I thought about rolling my eyes at him or making some snarky comment, but instead, feeling sleepy and less anxious about my association with the crazy Parrish in the sunny afternoon, I rolled onto my side and scooted closer to him so that we were only inches apart.

  “I don’t actually like the sunshine,” he admitted after a moment.

  I brought his large hand up so that I could rest my cheek in his palm.

  “You didn’t strike me as a sunshine lover,” I replied with a smirk. “It was a nice try, though.”

  “I wanted to follow you so I could spend some more time with you.”

  “That’s honest,” I said with a little wince.

  I knew it was good to be honest, but I wasn’t used to having such straightforward conversations with people. Normal people didn’t say things that honest all the time. They found a way to partially tell the truth so that they could still have some sort of power in the conversation. Apparently Jefferson didn’t care about having the conversational upper hand.

  “Do you want to spend time with me?” he asked. The question didn’t sound at all clingy, but just curious. “Or do you want me to leave?”

  I thought about it for a moment. I knew what I wanted. But I didn’t want him to know. Still, he had been nothing but honest with me, so the least I could do was return the favor.

  “I want to spend time with you, but I don’t want Deacon and Brighton to know.”

  I thought he’d ask me why or be offended that I still seemed to be slightly embarrassed by him. Instead he just nodded, as if my statement was fair . . . which it wasn’t.

  With my cheek in his hand, I let my thumb run over his wrist, feeling the rapid pulse there. His heightened heart rate made me smile. It was difficult to read Jefferson, and from what I could see, he was totally relaxed and not at all affected by our close proximity. But his pulse couldn’t lie to me.

  “Tell me about your family,” I said after a moment of silence.

  His pulse sped up a fraction more.

  I wasn’t sure why I wanted to hear more about them, but for some reason, I was honestly interested in Jefferson’s story—in what made him tick.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I want to know.”

  “Why?” he asked again, obviously reluctant to talk

  This was getting me nowhere. I’d have to try a different tactic.

  “Why aren’t you some big fancy businessman in England like your dad was?”

  Jefferson’s expression changed at the mention of his dad. I could tell he had a serious soft spot for him.

  “I despise responsible, well-thought-of careers,” he answered.

  “For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “It’s not what you might think,” he interjected, piquing my interest. “My mother only married my father for his money. She thought he was too eccentric, and she loathes me for being odd. The only thing that’s important to her and that whole Temple side of the family is status. They judge your character based on your career path and don’t bother to look deeper than that.”

  “I feel like normally that would make someone strive to be more successful,” I said.

  “It would,” he agreed. “If I gave a sod what my mum thought of me.”

  “Rebel Jefferson,” I teased with a smile.

  “See, I don’t think wanting to be seen for more than my career makes me much of a rebel. And yet my whole family sees the Parrish lot as being no-good bums, despite the fact that my father was so wealthy. Even though he had the fancy career, he had to work to get it and the rest of his family, like Deacon’s father, weren’t successful.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “That meant my dad wasn’t worthy of being respected by the Temples. And then there’s my cousin Hayden, who admittedly is a good guy but can just be such a . . .” He let his words trail off in frustration.

  “Jerk?” I offered.

  He gave a short laugh. “That’s a nice way of putting it, but I’ll stick with that so I don’t offend you,” he said. “Anyway, he’s not a people person, we’ll say, but he’s the Temple Golden Boy because he’s a doctor. And there’s the two evil Temple twins, Dresden and Alistair, who are a million times worse than Hayden, but they have successful careers so everyone loves them.”

  “And then there’s you, who’s a wonderful person, but they don’t respect you because you don’t have a job?” I guessed.

  “You think I’m wonderful?” he asked.

  “Of course that’s the only thing you’d get from that.” I laughed uncomfortably. It was so hard for me to just admit to Jefferson that I liked him. I’d spent so long being annoyed by him that it was a rough transition.

  “I make it my goal to strive toward mediocrity just to make my family mad,” he said, back on topic. “It’s not fair that they should judge me for being a little odd, and I’m definitely not going to let them assign me a status based on something as meaningless as a career path.”

  “That sounds like you spend an awful lot of time not doing things just to make a point to your family,” I said, feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite for my words. “How do you make yourself happy if you’re putting your life on hold to make them mad?”

  “This makes me happy,” he said.

  “Yeah, but what about when the investigation is over? You have to have something else besides all of this paranormal stuff to make your life full.”

  “Not the ghost hunting,” he said, sounding like I was dense. “This,” he emphasized, giving me a meaningful look that I definitely wasn’t ready for. “Do you like me, Sadie?”

  The question was simple, and it should have been easy to answer. But it wasn’t.

  “That’s not important,” I said, trying not to look at him, which was impossible when we were facing each other, lying side by side, and only inches apart.

  “It’s important to me,” he responded. “I’m not going to make you tell Brighton and Deacon. I’m not going to make you be my girlfriend. I’m not even going to say anything has to change in the way we interact. I just want to know.”

  The fact that he was being so sincere and open made it so much harder to be my normal, guarded self. I still tried, but ended up failing miserably.

  “You’re weird,” I said to him. “And kind of crazy. And the fact that you’re so unpredictable and have the world’s worst mood swings terrifies me.”

  His brows furrowed together.

  “But I do like you. Against my better judgment,” I finished.

  He placed his free hand on my waist and pulled me closer to him on the blanket so that our stomachs were touching.

  “While we’re on the topic of things we really don’t want to talk about . . .” His thumb ran up and down my ribcage in a motion that brought those very unwelcome butterflies back. “Why are you so obsessed with being normal? It’s so boring.”

  “I’ll tell you I like you all day long, but we aren’t talking about this,” I said, drawing the line and wishing my brain wasn’t so fuzzy because
of our close proximity.

  My chest felt like it was on fire.

  “That’s not fair. If I have to talk about my awful family, you have to talk about the family you pretend is awful, even though they aren’t.”

  “I don’t pretend anything,” I said. “My family left me to be with my sister, who doesn’t even want them there.”

  “You sister seemed very nice,” he said. He was trying to be frustrating just so I would get defensive and talk about my family, no matter how little I wanted to.

  “Except for when she’s making up things I never said,” I countered. “She could be downright pleasant minus all the times she told my parents I’d said mean things to her that I never said.”

  “Even with the lying, she still seems nice,” Jefferson insisted. He wasn’t going to let it go.

  “She is nice, which makes it even worse. She’s always trying to mend fences with me and asks me why I’m so mad at her, but how am I supposed to say, ‘Sorry Michigan, I know you didn’t ever do anything to me, but I hate you because Mom loves you more than me.’?”

  I hadn’t intended to be that honest with Jefferson (or with myself for that matter), but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  “I’m an awful person, aren’t I?” I asked Jefferson, feeling much too vulnerable in front of him.

  “Sadie, you’re a strong person,” he said, which didn’t really help me. “You can take care of yourself. I only met your sister for a few minutes, but she was far too nice. She’s kind of a doormat. Did you ever think that maybe your parents followed her to Boston because they didn’t think she could take care of herself? Maybe they knew they didn’t need to worry about you so they went along with Michigan to keep track of her.”

  That sounded like a good solution to the problem, and I appreciated Jefferson for trying, but it just didn’t solve it.

  “They’ve always given her special treatment,” I said.

  “Could be for the same reason,” he suggested. “But none of this tells me why you have to be overly normal.”

  I sighed deeply. This conversation was too exhausting.

  “I can’t figure out why my parents don’t love me as much as her. But I can make sure I don’t give them any reason to dislike me. I just kind of figure as long as I’m normal, they won’t have any reason to be upset with me.”