I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “He’ll never trust me again, Rach. Neither will my friends. They might say they do, but deep down they’ll always wonder if I’m being straight with them.”
“It’ll take some time, but keep working on them. Eventually, they’ll stop wondering and start focusing on the amazing person you are outside of all this. You had a bad year, that’s all. It happens. You’ll find your way back.”
“I hope so.” I start the car and flick the wipers on full blast. “Listen, Rach, I gotta go. Can we talk more about this later?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be here. Bye, Morgan.”
“Bye, Rach. And thanks.”
We hang up and I drive home slowly through the rain, feeling comforted by my sister’s support. We’re hundreds of miles away from each other, but in some ways, it’s like we’re still huddled on the couch, a few short inches between us as we share our secrets and lives.
I smell the smoke as soon as I step off the elevator, and somehow I know it’s coming from our apartment.
Panic flares in my chest and I rush down the hall and push open the door. I’m greeted by a cloud of white smoke, the acrid smell of burning, and the blaring smoke alarm. Dad’s in the kitchen, waving a dish towel toward the open window. Dirty dishes cover the counter, and there’s a whole chicken sitting in a roasting pan on the stovetop, smoke still rising from its very crispy-looking skin.
Without saying anything, I grab the broom and use the tip of the handle to turn off the hallway smoke alarm. My ears ring in the sudden quiet. Poor Fergus must be hiding under my bed, but I don’t have time to worry about him right now. I go back to my father, who’s now glaring at the chicken like he wants to stab it with a steak knife.
“Dad, what the hell?” I cough and wave my hand in front of my face. I thought he was done with trying to cook. It’s safer for everyone that he doesn’t. Clearly.
“I got home early and thought I’d roast a chicken,” he says, still scowling at the bird in question. “I must have turned the oven up too high, because grease splattered everywhere and then it started smoking. It got worse when I opened the oven door.” He picks up the towel again and whips it around, but it does nothing to diffuse the murky layer of smoke. “I wanted us to sit down to a nice dinner together and finally have that talk, but I should’ve known better, I guess. Everything I touch these days turns to shit.”
He tosses the towel on the counter, sending an empty can rolling into the sink. I gape at him, surprised. He rarely talks like that, so self-critical and defeated. And he certainly never throws things around.
Slowly, like I’m sneaking up on a ticking bomb, I move over to the stove and peer down at the chicken. It’s overly crispy, for sure, but the juices on the bottom are running clear and the meat seems tender enough when I poke it.
“Let’s carve this thing,” I say.
Dad lets out a breath, and after a lengthy pause, he nods. I point to the chicken, indicating he should take care of it, while I drain and mash the potatoes. We work together silently, the range hood fan the only sound in the apartment. Well, that and Fergus’s hungry meow. He’s decided that leaving his hiding spot was worth a few scraps of chicken, which—surprisingly—turned out better than expected.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says a few minutes later, when we’re sitting at the table with our plates. “I had a bad day at work. A bad month, actually. My boss has been on me lately about my sales numbers, and business has been slower in general because of the damn construction that never stops on that street. And then the chicken . . .” He sighs deeply. “I guess it was the last straw.”
I press my fork into my potatoes. “Dad, you know you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I know. It’s just . . .” His fork drops to his plate with a loud clank, making me jump. “Damn it,” he mumbles, turning his head to the side, facing away from me.
My heart stutters. His behavior is freaking me out. “Dad?”
“Sorry,” he repeats. He turns back to me, his expression agonized. “It’s just that I’ve been worried ever since you got back from your mother’s. You don’t want to talk to me, and you look at me like . . .” He shakes his head and leans back. “Anyway, Rachel told me what happened, what your mother said to you about me, and I thought . . . well, I was worried you might be thinking about leaving.”
I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Leaving?”
“Yeah,” he says, blowing out another breath. “I thought after hearing about what a crappy husband I was to your mother, you’d decide to move out and go live with her and Gary. I mean, of course I’ll support you if that’s what you decide to do, but . . . well, I’d miss you around here.”
I’m starting to think there’s some kind of hallucinogen floating around with the smoke, because this conversation is far too bizarre to be real. “Why on earth would you think I’d want to live with Mom and Gary?” I ask, laughing at the absurdity of it. “I’d never do that, no matter how much Mom bad-mouths you. Besides, most of what she said probably isn’t even true. She’s just trying to paint herself as the victim.”
“No.” He rests his elbows on either side of his plate and rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sure it was all true. I wasn’t a very good husband to her. I took her for granted. Didn’t give her the attention she deserved. I shouldn’t have let you place so much of the blame on your mother. It was my fault too. Jesus, I practically drove her into Gary’s arms myself.”
“Dad, come on.” I don’t want to hear him blame himself for their marriage ending. Okay, so it takes two, like Mom said, but she didn’t have to dull her misery by cheating.
I put down my fork, my throat suddenly tight. Isn’t that what I did too, but with shoplifting? Am I really any better than her? Something Rachel said a while ago pops into my head: She did an awful thing, but she’s not an awful person. Okay, so maybe she’s right. Maybe Rita was right too, when she told me my bad decisions didn’t define me. If I’m more than my mistakes, if I can learn from them and start fresh, then the same is true for everyone. Even my mother.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave.” Dad glances up at me, the creases around his mouth deepening as he frowns. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d understand. I mean, look at me. I can’t even cook a goddamn chicken.”
“I don’t care about the goddamn chicken,” I snap, shoving my plate away. “And I don’t want to live with Mom. My life is here. My friends, my job, school, you . . . This is where I choose to be. Okay, so you weren’t a good husband. I get it. I haven’t exactly been a good daughter either, but you still want me around, right?”
Dad looks at me for a long moment, and I’m almost afraid he’s about to say no, that I’ve made his life hell all summer and he does wish he could get rid of me for good. But then the worry lines in his face disappear and his lips form the barest hint of a smile. “Yeah, I still want you around. You and Garfield over there.” He gestures with his chin to Fergus, who’s sitting a few feet away, his huge green eyes taking in our every move. “I’ll always want you around.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” I pull my plate toward me again and spear a piece of chicken. “Nobody’s perfect, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Dad nods and picks up his fork again, his shoulders finally loosening. Even with the leftover smoke still hovering, the air between us feels clearer than it’s been in a while.
Chapter Thirty-Two
IT’S FRIDAY AFTERNOON, AND I’M SITTING IN MY parked car outside Karalis Custom Jewelry, trying to work up the nerve to go inside and face Alyssa. Out of everyone, it’s her forgiveness I crave the most, and not just because I miss her. She’s my best friend, and she deserves the same honesty that she’s always given me.
I glance at the store’s sign, simple and familiar, and breathe in deep through my nose. I can do this.
My fingers find the door handle, and just as I’m about to pull, a face appears in the half-open window and sc
ares the hell out of me.
“Morgan?” Alyssa’s brows shoot up as she looks in at me, sitting there with my hand pressed over my heart. “What are you doing?”
I press the button to lower the window, then realize the car isn’t running. I open the door and step out onto the sidewalk instead, stopping in front of Alyssa. Her dark hair is smoothed back from her face in a ponytail, and she’s carrying three white paper bags.
“Um,” I say, my bravado fading now that I’m face-to-face with her. She’s not smiling, and she’s got this wary look in her eyes, like she’s waiting for me to spring another shocking revelation on her. “I came to talk to you. What—what are you doing?”
She holds up the bags, which give off a subtle spicy scent. “I was getting lunch. Why are you here? I mean, why come talk to me while I’m working instead of, I don’t know, some other time?”
I look past her to the store. “Because you’re always here, Lyss.”
She watches me for a moment, quiet and serious. I don’t look away. Finally, her expression softens a bit and she sighs. “Fine. Since you’re here, you may as well come in.”
Her tone isn’t exactly welcoming, but I gratefully follow her into the store. Nothing has changed since I was last in here. The cluttered display cases still gleam with gold and silver and gemstones. The oil paintings of Greek landscapes and architecture still hang on the walls. Mrs. Karalis still stands behind the counter, a pen tucked behind her ear. She smiles when she sees me.
“Morgan,” she says, and I know just by the way she says my name that Alyssa hasn’t told her about me. “Long time no see.”
Alyssa hands her one of the white bags and brings the other one back to Louis, the guy who does the custom work and engraving. Mr. Karalis’s job until he died.
Being in here makes me think of him. Alyssa and I used to spend quite a bit of time here when we were younger, and Mr. Karalis would put us to work dusting or wiping fingerprint smudges off the glass cases. Sometimes he let us make displays. We’d carefully arrange rings or watches or necklaces, maybe trying a piece on when no one was looking.
“I’ll be right back, Ma.” Alyssa puts her own bag of lunch on the counter and heads for the door, gesturing for me to follow. We step out onto the hot sidewalk, then wordlessly decide to turn left, away from the loud construction at the other end the street.
We’re both quiet for a couple of blocks. I came here to talk, but everything I think of to say sounds inadequate in my head. Finally, I just start at the beginning. “A few days after my mother moved out, I stole a lip gloss from Walmart. That was the first time. I was so angry, but I wanted to keep it together for my dad, so I tried to hold a lot of it in. But I had to find a release somehow, and I just thought . . . God, I don’t even know how to explain it. I’d been so good all my life. Quiet, well behaved, straight As . . . I thought doing something bad would make me feel like I was getting back at her somehow, even if she never found out. It made me feel better, like I had control over myself again. I know it was stupid, and selfish, but shoplifting was the only thing that kept me from sinking.” I shake my head. “I know it probably doesn’t make any sense to you.”
We reach the edge of the street and stop, waiting for the walk signal. “No, it does,” she says. “Surprisingly.”
I glance at her. Sunglasses cover her eyes, but the frown she’s had since I first showed up here is starting to fade. “Really?”
“Really.” The walk light blinks on, and we cross the narrow street. “I just wish you would’ve told me, Morgan. Friends aren’t supposed to keep huge secrets from each other. It really hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were going through. If you’d been honest from the start, I wouldn’t have gotten so mad. None of us would have. We would’ve stood by you and helped you through it.”
I nod. “Sophie said the same thing. I guess I should’ve given you guys more credit. It’s just you’re all so . . . I don’t know. Decent. And I didn’t feel like I measured up. I thought you guys would look at me differently if you knew.”
“Well, we do,” she says in her usual blunt way. “But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up on you. I know I haven’t. Even after all this, you’re still the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I squint, pretending to be bothered by the sun. But Alyssa notices and reaches for my hand, squeezing for a second before letting go. My eyes well up even more. I had no idea how much I needed to hear what she just said.
“I’ve been reading a bit about shoplifting,” she says, leading us around a corner to a shady section of sidewalk. “It’s like an addiction. You know when alcoholics are in recovery and they have a sponsor to help keep them on track? Well, maybe I could be that for you.”
I slow my pace and raise my eyebrows at her. “You want to be my shoplifting sponsor?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
“So if I’m in a store and I get the urge, I’ll call you instead?” The idea seems so bizarre that it makes me laugh. “I think that’s the nicest—and strangest—offer I’ve ever received.”
“What are friends for?”
We smile at each other, and all the anxiety and dread I felt on the drive here melts away. “I really am sorry, Lyss.”
“I know.” We turn another corner and start heading back to her mom’s store. “Just do me a favor and don’t ever lie to me or keep things from me again, okay?”
“Deal.”
She nods and lets out a relieved breath, like she’s accomplished something difficult and can finally move on. “We’re all meeting at the diner on Sunday so we can mourn the end of summer, if you wanted to come. Six o’clock.”
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more. “I’ll be there.”
On the short walk back, Alyssa updates me on everything I missed since we stopped speaking, including another fraught social media tutorial with her mother and her tentative reconnection with Dawson, who she’s been texting again. He hasn’t mentioned it to me, and I’m glad to hear it. Maybe senior year won’t be so awkward after all.
When she’s done filling me in, it’s my turn. I spill everything—the visit with Mom, the confrontation with Eli, the therapy I’m due to start in two weeks. With each chunk of truth, I feel myself getting lighter. And sadder too, when I think about how much time I spent shouldering the weight of secrets when I could have shared the burden all along, if only I’d been brave enough.
By the time we’ve finished talking, we’re back at the jewelry store. Just as Alyssa pushes open the door, I glance down the street and notice a woman standing by my car. Her back is to us, and at first I think she’s trying to break into it. I start walking toward her, my brain scrambling for the correct way to confront a car thief in action and wondering if this is some sort of karma. Then, just as I close in on her, the woman turns her head and I catch a glimpse of her profile.
“Mom?”
She spins around, her expression lightening with relief when she sees me. “Oh, there you are.”
I stare at her. My mind can’t accept the sight of her here, on this street, standing between me and my car. “What are you doing here? And how did you know where I’d be?”
Alyssa approaches before she can answer. She stops beside me and touches my arm. “You okay?” she mumbles. When I nod, she turns to my mother and says, “Hi, Mrs. Kemper.” Then she winces, remembering she’s no longer a Mrs. And once the divorce is final and she marries Gary, she’ll no longer be a Kemper either.
“Hello, Alyssa,” Mom says, ignoring the slip. “How are you? And how’s your mother?”
“We’re both fine, thanks.” She catches my eye and starts backing away. “Well, I should probably go eat my sandwich while it’s still fresh. Talk to you later, Morgan.” She gives my mother a stilted wave and disappears into the store.
“I won’t keep you long,” Mom says when I turn back to her.
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask again. Does she have a sp
y? A tracking device in my phone?
“I didn’t.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I went by your apartment building first and no one answered. Rachel told me a while ago that you worked at Royal Smoothie, so I was heading there when I turned onto this street and spotted my car.”
My car, I think, but I don’t correct her.
“Anyway,” she goes on. “I thought I’d wait here until you got back.”
A woman passing by accidentally bumps me with her purse. Realizing I’m blocking foot traffic, I move closer to my mother. She looks better than she did the last time I saw her. Well rested and somehow stronger, like she’s better equipped to face me this time. I realize with a shock that I am too. The last time we spoke, I started off nervous and then progressed into enormously pissed. Now I’m just confused and vaguely numb.
“Why are you here?” I ask her.
“I wanted to talk to you, and you wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. So here I am.” She fans her face with her hand. “Do you think we could find a place with air-conditioning? It’s hot as Hades out here.”
I don’t want to have this discussion—whatever it’s about—in a public place, so I motion toward my car. We get in, and I immediately start the engine, trying to ignore the fresh waft of vanilla filling the air and mixing with the faded scent from before.
“Car still runs well?” she asks over the noise of the vents, which are working overtime to crank out cool air.
“You didn’t drive an hour and a half to ask me about the car.”
She looks at me for a moment, then drops her gaze to her lap. “You’re right. I didn’t. I came here to say some things, and I need you to let me say them without interruption. Okay?”
I lift my hand in a go ahead motion. She can talk all she wants; it doesn’t mean I have to listen.
She takes a deep breath and nervously adjusts her vent, pointing it toward her face. “I meant it when I said I was done giving you space. That was my first mistake, I think. No, my first mistake was cheating on your father, obviously, but I shouldn’t have let you avoid me for so long. I should’ve made more of an effort to reach you. I shouldn’t have given up when you kept shutting me down. I handled things poorly, and I apologize for that. I apologize for everything. There’s no excuse.”
The Girl You Thought I Was Page 23
