These Things I’ve Done

by Rebecca Phillips

  “Yeah,” I reply, finishing the rest of my bagel. “I do. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

  Home Depot is a madhouse, but for once in his life, Dad doesn’t linger in the aisles, drooling over expensive tools he’ll never have any use for. He finds the hoses he needs and pays for them, and we’re back at the truck in under ten minutes.

  We barely speak on the way home, unless it’s to comment on something trivial, like the weather. As we pull into our driveway, I wonder if this is how it’ll always be for us now—long silences interspersed with safe conversation. But then my father shuts off the truck and lets out a long, weary sigh, and I brace myself for something bad.

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you yesterday,” he says gruffly. “At the hospital. I was worried, and sometimes when I’m worried it comes across like I’m mad, even when I’m not. And I wasn’t. You did a good job yesterday, taking care of your brother like you did. I . . . I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re here with us, at home. It’s where you belong.”

  He says all this to the side window, face hidden from my view. Slowly, I reach out and touch his hand, which is rough and twice the size of mine. Still facing away, he grasps my fingers and squeezes hard, like he used to when I was little and we went somewhere crowded. Whenever I complained about him holding my hand too tight, he’d say, Sorry, baby girl, just trying not to lose you. Hearing it always made me want to stick close.

  “Thanks,” I say, blinking back tears. Crying would just make us both uncomfortable.

  Dad clears his throat and lets go of my hand, reaching in back for the Home Depot bag. We climb out of the truck and walk up to the house together.

  “So,” he says as he unlocks the door. “You and Ethan. What’s going on there?”

  My face gets hot. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to have to take him down to the basement to show him my rifle collection, am I?”

  We step inside the warm house, and I concentrate on my jacket zipper. “No, Dad. We’re not— It’s not like that with us.”

  “No?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not the impression your mother and I got. Seems like you two spend a lot of time together.”

  I take my jacket off and hang it up. “We do. Well, we did. I’m just not sure it can work.”

  “And why’s that?”

  I sigh. My father and I never talk about things like this. But he’s clearly trying to connect with me, so I explain. “Because of Aubrey. Because it’s too hard. Because his parents hate me. Pick one.”

  He looks at me for a long moment and then shakes his head. “That’s doesn’t sound like the Dara I know.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I shrug and head for the kitchen.

  “The Dara I know,” he goes on, following me, “doesn’t back down from challenges. She tries things, even when they seem impossible. She tries things just because they seem impossible.”

  I sidestep the dishwasher mess and get a glass from the cupboard, keeping my back to him so he won’t see the tears in my eyes. He’s describing the old me, the girl who died on that warm June morning. The girl I’m not sure I can ever get back.

  “She’s one of the bravest people I know.”

  My fingers tremble on the glass. I set it on the counter, empty, and turn to face my dad. “Was,” I say. “Past tense.”

  “No.” He opens the Home Depot bag and takes out the hoses he bought. “Pretty sure I used present tense. Want to help me install these?”

  “Dad,” I say, ignoring his question. “Remember what happened when you drove down Fulham Road? I still haven’t gone back there, or to the graveyard either. I can’t even bring myself to look at her headstone.” I let out a breath. “I’m not brave.”

  “I disagree.” He crouches next to the dishwasher and starts digging around in his toolbox. “You came home. You went back to school. You faced Ethan and the rest of your friends. You stepped up to take care of your brother yesterday even though you were probably terrified. You think a coward could do all that?”

  My brain scrambles for another argument but comes up empty. Maybe because there isn’t one. Maybe the old me isn’t as dead as I thought.

  I kneel next to my father and pick up a wrench, turning it over in my hands. “Okay, so I’m not a coward,” I say, humoring him. “In that case, it should be easy for me to go talk to Ethan, right?”

  “Easy? No. But definitely possible.” He looks at me, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Your mom says he grew up nice. He’s always been a good kid.”

  I get what he’s trying to tell me—he and Mom don’t mind anymore if I want to be friends with Ethan. More than friends, even. He drove Tobias and me to the hospital and stuck around the entire time, so obviously, his intentions toward me are good. He cares about me, and that’s good enough for them.

  Can it be enough for me too? I think about what he said in the shed that day, weeks ago, after our second kiss: I’m done with hiding. I thought I was done hiding too, until it turned out I wasn’t. Not entirely. When I returned to Hyde Creek last August, I thought I was prepared for what was to come. And I was, for the most part. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew things would never be like they were.

  But I hadn’t been prepared for Ethan. After everything I’ve taken from him, after all the pain I’ve caused, he still believes I’m someone worth loving.

  Maybe I can be that girl again. The one Ethan still sees. The one my father believes still exists inside me. Someone who’s brave and worth loving. Someone who’s finally ready to be done with hiding too.

  After I help my dad install the new hoses, I bundle myself against the cold and walk over to Hunter’s house. With any luck, the band will still be practicing.

  They are. As I approach, I can feel the thrum of the bass under my feet. It’s familiar now, like a welcome. I wait for a break between songs and pound on the door instead of walking right in, because I haven’t been here in a while and it seems less presumptuous to knock first.

  Kel answers the door, guitar still strapped to his chest. “Hey, Dara,” he says casually, as if I’m just returning from a bathroom break. He motions me inside, and I gratefully step into the warmth. Everyone’s here today, band and girlfriends, but as usual, my attention goes directly to Ethan.

  He’s wearing the same T-shirt he had on the first day I saw him at school back in September, the Iron Maiden one. I remember how surprised I was to see him in it then. Now I’d be surprised to see him in anything else. I’ve grown accustomed to the changes in him.

  “Hey,” he says, surprised.

  “Hi,” I say back, sitting on the couch next to Noelle, who gives me a quick sideways hug in welcome. On her other side, Julia glances up from her phone and flashes me a smile before dropping her gaze to her phone again. No one acts like it’s a big deal, my being here. That’s what I like about this place—even I can blend in. Because here, it’s all about the music.

  “Okay, one more and then we gotta quit for the day,” Hunter says from behind the drums. “I have a huge physics test tomorrow I haven’t even fucking studied for yet.”

  Everyone agrees, and they launch into an original, one I’ve heard many times and often find stuck in my head. As usual, I watch Ethan as he plays. Today he seems distracted, like he’s going through the motions more than anything. I wonder if he’s been like this the entire practice or just since I arrived.

  When the song is over, they take their time packing up, stalling their inevitable departure from the cozy warmth of the shed.

  “We’re gonna go raid Hunter’s kitchen for food,” Noelle says, nudging me with her elbow. “Want to come?”

  “Um . . .” I look over at Ethan as he secures his guitar inside its case. Noelle follows my gaze, smirking. She probably thinks I’m going to jump him the second they all leave.

  She pats my knee and stands up. “See you later.”

  I nod, my eyes still on Ethan. He glances up at me, and like the day we had our s
econd kiss on this very couch, he quickly catches on that I want to be alone with him. Only this time, there won’t be any kissing. At least not until after we settle a few things.

  Ethan drags out collecting and packing up his belongings until everyone’s gone and it’s just the two of us, alone with our unresolved tension.

  “I thought you were grounded,” I say to fill the silence.

  “I am, but my parents have barely been home all weekend so they don’t even know I’m out. I don’t really care, anyway.” He snaps his guitar case closed and joins me on the couch. “How’s Tobias?”

  “He’s fine.”

  We’re both quiet for a few moments, so quiet I can hear the faint hiss of the space heater in the corner. My mind scrambles for something to say, something smart and profound that will magically transform our relationship into something effortless and normal. But there’s nothing, because our relationship will never be effortless and normal. Our memories of Aubrey won’t ever fade. My part in her death will always be between us, and that’s something we both need to accept if we’re going to move forward.

  “Ethan,” I begin. “I came over here because I wanted to talk about—”

  “Wait.” He touches my arm, stopping me. “Before you say anything else, I need to ask you something.”

  I shut my mouth and look at him, waiting. He lifts his hand from my arm and shoves it through his hair.

  “What was the last conversation you had with her? Right before she . . .” He swallows and shuts his eyes for a second. “What did you guys talk about? You’ve never told me.”

  My mind immediately flashes back to that day, and it’s like I’m there again, reliving it all. The humid June heat. Our flip-flops, slapping against the pavement. Aubrey’s blue-painted toes. Justin’s a douchebag.

  “Justin,” I say, my voice cracking. “We talked about Justin and all the chances she gave him. She talked about what she accomplished that year in spite of all the drama we went through. I apologized to her, and she apologized to me. We . . . we made things right again.”

  He nods like he’s known this all along. “She forgave you.”

  Truce?

  Truce.

  “Yeah. Of course she did. Aubrey was the most forgiving person in the world.”

  “She was,” he agrees, his gaze steady on mine. “You were her best friend and she would’ve forgiven you for anything.”

  Wide, frightened eyes. A lacy white skirt, soaked through with blood.

  “Not anything,” I say, tearing my eyes from his. They’re so much like Aubrey’s. Sometimes I can forget, but now, with her presence surrounding us, it hurts me to see her in them.

  “Yes,” he says firmly. “Anything, Dara. Even that.”

  My gaze flicks back to his face. He can’t actually believe what he’s saying. Aubrey was compassionate, sure, but she wasn’t a saint. “How can you possibly know this?”

  “Because I knew her. Because that’s the way she was. What happened to her was a terrible accident. She never would’ve held you responsible.”

  “But you do, right?”

  His dark eyes glitter and I brace myself for the inevitable explosion of anger. But all he does is shake his head. “I don’t know where you’re getting the idea that I blame you. I told you I didn’t and I meant it.”

  Just like in the car with Mom yesterday, something in me breaks, long-supressed thoughts boiling to the surface. “Noelle said something once, about how even when you couldn’t forgive me, you never hated me,” I say, the words spurting out of me. “And you get so angry sometimes. You were never like that before Aubrey was killed. So what the hell am I supposed to think?”

  “Aubrey dying isn’t what I couldn’t forgive you for,” he fires back at me. “Don’t you get it?”

  “No. No, I don’t get it. What else did I do to hurt you so badly?”

  He springs off the couch and walks to the other end of the room, his hands clasped at the back of his head. Stunned, I keep my eyes on his rigid back, watching it rise and fall with each breath as I wait for him to speak.

  “You left, Dara,” he says hoarsely, keeping his back to me. “You left me and I had no one. My sister was gone, and then the second most important person in my life was gone too. And you didn’t say a word about it to me.”

  “But . . .” My mind drifts back to that time, all those dark, endless days of grief. “You didn’t even look at me during the funeral, you didn’t talk to me after . . .”

  “I didn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t. Losing Aubrey decimated me. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I pushed everyone away.” He lowers his arms and presses his palms to the wall in front of him. “Then I started hanging around with Hunter and playing guitar and working on the farm and I finally started to feel a bit like myself again. But by that time, you’d already left. I figured you wanted to be done with everything back here, including me.”

  A different kind of guilt overtakes me. He’s right. After Aubrey died, it was all I could do not to follow her. Even breathing felt like too much effort. I needed to get away from the constant reminders, the whispers and pitying looks. But I never once considered how my absence would affect Ethan. I never once considered he might need me here, so he didn’t have to mourn alone.

  He lost Aubrey, and then he lost me too.

  Ethan turns around and comes back to the couch, reclaiming his seat beside me. His eyes are red, but he’s calmer now. Back in control.

  “Noelle was right,” he says, reaching for my hand. He laces our fingers together, and his touch warms me straight through. “I hated that you left, but I’ve never hated you. It’s impossible for me to hate you, Dara. I’ve loved you since I was ten years old.”

  I lean forward and bury my forehead in the space between his shoulder and neck. “I’m so sorry for leaving you. I seem to have a habit of taking off without warning, don’t I?”

  “Maybe a little one.”

  I pull back. This time, when our eyes meet, I see only him. “For the longest time, my first instinct when something feels good was to resist it. Pull away. You’re something good, Ethan, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to feel like I deserve you.”

  “Is that why you freaked and ran off after we . . .”

  “I ran because I was scared. You’re Ethan. Aubrey’s little brother. One of my best friends. How I felt about you terrified me. It still does.” I touch his cheek, run my fingers along the defined bones, the coarse, bristly skin on his jaw. “But in spite of the way I acted afterward, I don’t regret a second of that night. I’m glad it happened.”

  “Good.” His arm circles my waist and he leans in closer, his lips grazing mine. “Because I want it to happen again.”

  I let myself melt into him. Right now, in this moment, I’m not the cold, motionless statue I became. Right now, I’ve never felt more alive.

  thirty

  Three Months Later

  IT’S THE FIRST WARM SATURDAY OF SPRING WHEN Ethan pulls up in front of my house, music blaring out of the speakers of his Saturn and the windows rolled down as far as they can go. When I see him, I exhale and rise from my spot on the steps, where I’ve been waiting for the past five minutes, soaking up the sun.

  “Ready?” he asks once I’m settled in the passenger seat.

  “I hope so.”

  He switches off the stereo, either because he thinks loud, heavy music is inappropriate right now or because he’s worried that I do, and pulls away from my house. We drive across town in silence, but it’s a reflective quiet, not an uncomfortable one. Neither of us wants to disrupt it with words.

  Too soon, Ethan parks the car and reaches behind us to the back, where the flowers lie across the seat. Twelve purple tulips, secured in place with a simple white ribbon. Aubrey loved tulips, and purple was her favorite color. Ethan hands them over to me. They smell fresh and faintly sweet, like spring.

  We get out of the car, and Ethan comes around to my side, taking my hand. “We don’t have to do th
is today.”

  “I want to,” I say, peering across the parking lot to the wide expanse of grass in the distance, the tidy rows of marble and granite, bearing names of the dead. I don’t know if it’s the sunshine or Ethan’s solid presence beside me or the new medication my doctor put me on that makes life seem more manageable, but I feel surprisingly calm here.

  Ethan leans in to kiss me, wedging the flowers between our chests. “Then let’s go.”

  We head toward the graveyard with Ethan slightly in front of me, leading the way. I haven’t been here since the burial, almost two years ago, but Ethan—as I recently learned—visits about once a month. He doesn’t always bring flowers but when he does, they’re never in a vase like most cemetery flowers. He’d rather place them directly on the earth, as close to her as possible.

  “Here it is.”

  We stop in front of a simple, black granite headstone with a swirling floral design along the edges. She’s buried near a tree, which she’d like, and close to the road, which she wouldn’t. I stare at her name—Aubrey Elizabeth McCrae—and think about the last sketch I found in my locker: me, wearing a Santa hat and smiling, dancing on Aubrey’s grave. The same sketch I shredded to ribbons and tossed in the trash. I’d considered doing the same to the paper I’d stored in my green notebook, but I ended up giving it to Mrs. Dover instead.

  It happened about a month ago, when she called me into her office to talk about my future after graduation, which was creeping up fast.

  “No pressure,” she said, handing me a small stack of what looked like brochures. Then I looked closer and realized they were brochures—for police academies. One had a picture of a uniformed woman on the cover who looked a little like the cop I’d seen in that movie with Travis and Paige, so long ago. “Just think about it.”

  I put them in my backpack and promised her I would.

  She let it go at that and went on to ask me the usual questions about how things were going. Instead of answering, I dug the photocopied obituary out of my backpack and gave it to her. At first, I felt silly for complaining about a few nasty notes when the things I did to earn them were so much worse. But now I can acknowledge the difference: I never meant to hurt anyone, but whoever left those notes clearly meant to hurt me.