Tucker didn’t show up to my house yesterday. Out of desperation, I gave my father the tape. He dug around in the basement until he unearthed an old VCR, then ordered me out of the living room while he watched it.
When he emerged, his mouth was set in a grim line. Then he wrapped me in his arms and I cried. Cried because I hated that it was true. Because I didn’t know where Tucker was, or if he was safe. Dad tried Tucker’s phone—the number I called him from—but the number didn’t work. Tucker must have already ditched the cell.
Then, this morning, just before six, I heard my father taking the stairs two at a time, followed by the sound of the front door opening, then slamming. I scrambled after him, and now I’m at the living room window, having opened it enough to hear the conversation out front.
“Problem, Mr. Young?” Victor asks. His smile is cautious. He’s in dress clothes instead of a uniform, but he’s armed. His hand rests over the gun at his hip. I snatch up the landline phone on the table next to where I stand, ready to call 911 if needed.
“Stay away from my family,” my dad states. “I turned in the videotape at four a.m. this morning.”
“What videotape?” Noscalo wears the shaky smile of a liar. His grip tightens on his gun. I dial the number 9.
“How could you do that to your sons? To any child?” My father’s voice wavers and I watch as realization dawns on Victor’s face. The shaky smile crumbles into a grimace. His hand leaves the gun.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Victor backs toward his car.
Sirens sound in the distance and, shocked, I look at the phone in my hand. I guess there was no need to call. I return the handset and watch, alarmed, as police cruisers swarm our street. One by one, three cars park. Men in blue descend on the scene as Victor’s hands go overhead, clear of the weapon on his belt.
So taken by the drama of watching a line of approaching officers I didn’t see my father lunge. But I looked in time to watch him land one fist on Victor’s jaw.
“Daddy!” I scream, and bolt outside in my pajama shorts and T-shirt. An officer is on my father in an instant, pulling him off Victor, and disarming Noscalo. Another officer is on me a second later, but he handles me gently. They handle my father just as gently. The officer who tugged him away from Victor is now standing, palms out in front of him and asking my dad to calm down.
His face is a canvas of devastation and his arms shake as he hugs me close. “It’s going to be okay, Mo,” he assures me.
We watch as Victor is arrested, rights are read, and he is loaded into a cruiser.
I love my father, but he’s wrong.
Tucker left. Nothing is going to be okay.
Chapter 18
Shock
Morgan
The first postcard arrives one month later.
I’m standing in my kitchen, staring out the window at nothing while I wait on a cup of coffee to brew from the one-cup machine. I hear Julia humming to herself as she walks in behind me. She’s been great, especially considering I’ve been little more than a zombie for the last four weeks.
Depression doesn’t look good on me. My hair is lank and in need of highlights, my clothes are the same as they’ve been for the last two days. I don’t think I even bothered with shoes today. I look down as the coffee finishes sputtering into the mug and see that, no, I didn’t bother with shoes. Also: I could use a pedi. An entire spa day, really.
“You have mail,” Julia chirps. A postcard appears in front of my face.
Who sends postcards? I take it from her, barely registering the picture of Venice on the front before I flip it over and my eyes land on the scrawled handwriting at the very bottom.
The signature is a heart and a letter. The letter T. I clutch the counter as I read the message, barely comprehending what is in front of me.
“Morgan, honey?” Julia puts a hand on my shoulder as if she can sense I’m about to lose the ability to stand.
I hand her the postcard and reach for my full coffee mug. My hands shake so hard I almost spill the contents.
“Dear Morgan,” she reads, “I’m in Italy with my mom. I’m sorry for everything. Love, T.”
He’s sorry. For everything. Tears gather on the edges of my eyelids. What does that mean? Sorry for kidnapping me? Sorry for holding me? Sorry for loving me? I guess “everything” includes all of it, and my heart shatters. I didn’t know it could break any more.
“Oh, Morgan.” My stepmom’s arm closes around my shoulders and I fall against her, crying onto her new blouse and loving her because she doesn’t care that I’m ruining the dry-clean-only fabric with my tears.
This day is the hardest.
Italy
Tucker
“That’s it, I guess,” I say to the therapist sitting in front of me. She’s not the cliché therapist with gray hair and glasses. She’s pretty. In her thirties, maybe. Long, dark brown hair lays straight against her shoulders.
She’s Italian but speaks English, which is good, because I haven’t learned much of the language even though I’ve been here for two months now. Mom insisted I move here the day she learned the truth about Jeremy. The truth about me.
“And how do you feel about Morgan?” the therapist asks.
I just told her the rest of it, the part about how I never showed up after Morgan took the video proof to her father. The part about how her dad was justifiably appalled when he learned the truth, and how he confronted my father in the middle of the street the next morning. I watch the news. I saw the interviews with the police, Morgan’s dad standing behind them, face set in stone. The officer was forced to make a statement after the public became concerned about safety.
After his arrest, Victor took down one of the officers inside the station, wrestled his gun from him, and took his own life. I was hiding out at Mark’s house (he forgave me for steal-borrowing his car, by the way) when I first heard about my father’s arrest and subsequent death. Mark and I sat in stunned silence. He asked if I was okay, and to be honest, my reaction wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t filled with justice or revenge, but with remorse and a sick sense of finality. I called my mom and told her everything. She booked a flight for me, and here I am. I mean, I had to go dig my passport out of the back of my closet, which involved me breaking into Victor’s house again, but I figured as things went, that was a minor and necessary crime.
“Tucker? Did you hear me?”
I snap out of my reverie and meet eyes with Dr. Moore. She smiles tenderly at me. She’s patient. She’s kind. I like her a lot.
“I asked about Morgan. About how you feel about her.”
I feel the same way about her as the day I found her discovering the truth about me. I love her. Because I love her, I say, “She deserves better.”
“And you’re not capable of being who she needs?”
I want to say no because it would be a strong, sure answer, but I’m neither strong nor sure, so I pause for an unnaturally long time. Am I capable of being who she needs? I don’t know. Two months ago, I would have said “No way,” but now that I’ve been coming here, talking to Dr. Moore, now that I’ve spent evenings on my mom’s veranda grieving with her, now that she understands me and I understand her…
I’m not sure at all.
The timer goes off, and Dr. Moore puts down her pen and pad of paper. She didn’t write anything down today, and I’m not sure if that is a positive sign or not. “I assume you’ll want to wait and answer that question next time.”
Smiling back at her, I stand. She knows me too well. “Have a nice weekend.”
“You do the same.”
I step out into the warm air and study the sky. From a park across the street, my mother waves from a bench. She’s wearing a pink scarf around her neck and holding a book. She looks bright and happy in spite of the epic mess that led us both to this moment. For her, the last eight weeks have been harder than they were for me. She’s been in therapy since Jeremy died, but the last few months s
he’s been going more often. Today is the first day I’ve seen her without dark circles beneath her eyes, and I hope that my willingness to get therapy is helping in her recovery. I love her. I never held her responsible for what my father was hiding from her. From what I hid from her.
I’m glad she came here. It’s good for her, this country.
Maybe it’s good for me, too.
I wave for her to give me a minute and step into the little shop next to my doctor’s office. Picking out a postcard is always the easy part, the words I put on it the hardest. I leave no return address when I send them to Morgan because I’m scared to death she hates me. Scared she’ll blame me for making her unclean, because of my lies and my choices. Scared she wishes she’d never met me. I’m terrified most of all that she regrets making love to me. Showing me love. Making me feel loved.
I regret none of it, and maybe that’s not fair to her. I miss her so much my chest feels as if it’s caving in. Abandoning the postcard, I move deeper into the store and spot something that gives me a different idea. I don’t know if it’s a better idea, but there’s only one way to tell.
Reaching for my wallet, I step up to the clerk and pay. Purchase in hand, I meet up with my mom and treat her to lunch.
Surprise
Morgan
I line up the postcards from Tucker on my bed, my fingers shaking. My nerves are shot. I’ve been reading and rereading them looking for some kind of clue as to what he is sending today.
All I know is that it’s something.
The last postcard he sent said and I quote, “Be home Monday, October 20th, between one and three o’clock to receive your delivery.”
So obviously, I didn’t sleep much last night, and I woke first thing this morning to my dad and Julia bustling around in the kitchen. I didn’t tell them. They know about the postcards, of course, but I’ve been stalking the mailman and snag them before my parents can read them.
Today is Monday. Usually Monday mornings are hectic, so I let Dad and Julia do their thing and they let me do the thing I’ve been doing for the past three months: mope. I miss Tucker. I miss what we could have had if he stuck by my side. It hurts to know he didn’t have any faith in me being able to handle his truth. It hurts to know I may have missed the chance to tell him I love him.
Once my parents leave, I take to my new habit of sitting on my bed and watching the clock. It’s 2:42. No sign of a UPS truck or a FedEx truck, or…Dare I think it? Tucker himself.
Surely, though, he wouldn’t—
There is a knock at the door and I tumble the postcards to the floor in my haste to race downstairs, careful not to fall and break my neck. Through the narrow, wavy window at the side of the door, I make out the outline of a guy in a cap, box in hand. His clothes are dark. UPS it is.
Then I open the door and I see that the dark “uniform” is actually a hoodie and jeans, and before I can contemplate what this means, the man at my front porch raises his head.
I nearly pass out.
Tucker is wearing a ball cap, his longish, shaggy hair sticking out from the sides. His smile is crooked and unsure, his tone careful when he says, “Surprise.”
I don’t know what to say. What to do. I just stand there, letting the cool autumn air whip in while my palm goes clammy on the doorknob. I’ve never been so angry-slash-thrilled to see someone in my life.
“Wanted to deliver it in person.” He offers the box in his hand.
I accept it after a moment of hesitation. I want/don’t want him here. He picks up on my body language.
“Or…I can leave…”
“No. Stay.” I say it before I think about it, so that must be the truth. My mind goes over and over the many postcards he’s sent. They said things like: I never meant to hurt you. Healing takes time. You showed me the truth. I can’t thank you enough.
“You seem…” He shakes his head like he’s lost for words.
Disappointed, I want to say. But I don’t.
He looks at his shoes, and my heart constricts as my stomach drops. I’m feeling that thing where you know you still love someone, but you’re terrified they stopped loving you a long time ago.
You know. That.
“I’d like to come in,” he says, then with a sheepish shrug, adds on, “But you’re under no obligation.”
Sure. No obligation at all. Not with the man who threw me in a trunk, tied me up, made love to me, changed my entire life in a few short days, altered my perception about everyone around me, then lied and left me behind.
No obligation whatsoever.
“I’ll stay out here,” he answers himself. I’m glad. I don’t have an answer.
The box isn’t heavy, but for the implications it might cause, it may as well weigh a ton. I ease my finger beneath the lid and lift. Inside there is another postcard and a separate envelope. I take out both, discarding the box on the hall table. I start with the postcard, but the photo on the front has been painted over. A mural of sorts, swirling blues that might be sky or sea. A black figure stands in the center, arm up, as if he’s just released the bird flying off into the distance.
“My doctor calls it art therapy,” Tucker tells me. “She thinks it helps. I don’t know.” But he sounds like he does know. He’s probably embarrassed. And going to a doctor. I had no idea. Because rather than keep in touch, rather than call, text, or email, Tucker shut me out. He only does one-way communication.
Until today.
“It’s lovely,” I admit.
“It’s me.” He meets my eyes and the stunning blue-gray of his irises makes my heart do that constricting thing again. I refocus on the painting, running my finger over the dried 3D color.
“Which one is you? The bird or the figure?” I ask. Right now, I think of him as the figure. He let me go. I more relate to the bird.
He shrugs, then takes off his hat and crushes the bill in his hands. “Just the whole scene, the colors…it all kind of feels like me right now.”
I feel as if I should say I’m sorry about his father’s passing, but I’m not sorry. More words go unsaid. I flip over the postcard and see the familiar signature of a heart next to the letter T.
Tucker takes the envelope from my hand. I reroute my gaze to my shoes, unsure where this is going, and mostly unsure if I have the strength to go where he’s leading me.
“Angel, please look at me.”
“You never explained.” I close my eyes. I don’t want to look at him. “My nickname.”
“Angel because…” A beat of silence passes, then I hear an intake of breath. “Because you’re pure. Clean. Perfect.”
I open my eyes and our gazes meet. I don’t know what to do now that he’s on my doorstep. He’s intriguing. Confusing. He vowed he loved me, but then didn’t stick around to see what could come of it.
“And I’m not,” he finishes.
“Tucker, I’m not perfect.” Far from it. I ache for him. I don’t know what else to say. I love him so much and I honestly have no idea if he feels the same way. That he’s here could be a good sign, but then again, maybe he’s tying up loose ends so he can continue to heal.
God. I hope he’s healing.
“I’m sorry I left,” he says, voice tight. “I’m sorry I lied.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say automatically. But it does. And he knows it.
“Yes, it does.”
“But it shouldn’t matter,” I argue. “I shouldn’t be concerned about myself knowing everything you endured. After seeing the videotape—”
“You weren’t supposed to see that. Not ever.” Shame coats him. I can feel it. It makes me want to touch him. I’m not sure he’ll let me, and that makes my heart break all over again.
“I should be sorry for letting you love me with your body, Morgan,” he whispers. “I should be sorry for dragging you into this, but I’m not. I’m not sorry, and that is the most undeniably selfish thing…” He blows out a breath and turns away. And that’s when I can’t take it.
&n
bsp; I drop the postcard in the box and step forward, placing my palm on his cheek, unable to keep my distance any longer. He lets me, and my heart softens. Months of hurting because I missed him, because I wanted him, because I didn’t know what to do without him, vanishes in a fraction of a second.
“I would have made love to you either way,” I say. His brow furrows as if he doesn’t understand. But it’s the truth. He captivated me. He still does. “I would have looked at you the exact same way whether I knew your past or not.” I would have loved you regardless.
I can’t speak those final words. I have to be sure he’s not here to enact some sort of penance. To absolve himself of his past transgressions. I know what therapy is like. I had some myself after Tucker left me. Julia and my dad insisted. They didn’t know I was in love with him. That I’d been sad because Tucker left and I wanted him to stay. They worried I wasn’t okay after being held, after seeing what little bit of the tape I did see, and admittedly, that image left a scar.
I pull my hand from his face. “Are you going back to Italy?”
“Maybe.” His eyes find mine again. That cuts to hear. He tosses his hat aside. I watch as he tears the envelope open, and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.
I hold my breath as he unfolds it.
“Morgan,” he starts.
He’s going to read it. Aloud.
To me.
The paper flutters slightly in his shaking hands. He clears his throat and starts again.
“Morgan. If I don’t chicken out, I’m standing in front of you as you read this. If I’m really brave, I’m reading it to you. If you’re reading this alone, then I fear for my future because it’s one without you in it.” He licks his lips nervously. “I want to be brave enough to tell you things in person. To stop hiding behind pen and postage. I’m going to start with the truths I know.” He swallows, glancing up at me to see if I’m listening. I am rapt. He’s on my front porch while I stand in the house. The cool air trickles inside and gooseflesh lights my arms. Or maybe it’s his words that are chilling.
Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1) Page 17
