by Sarah Beard
“Then . . .” I shook my head in bafflement. “Why didn’t you come back to me?”
His thumb traveled slowly over the ridges of my knuckles before he spoke again. “I wanted to. I was planning on it. But after the funeral . . .” He shook his head. “All my reason was smothered by guilt. Guilt for Sasha and my niece, compounded by my parents’ deaths. Guilt like that has a way of blinding you to everything else. You can try to escape, but it traps you, consumes every thought, every breath. Whether you’re awake or asleep, it replays your mistakes on a loop until you think you’ll go mad.
“On top of that, I had to go through all my parents’ things with Richard pacing behind me like a jackal, making biting remarks about how I’d robbed him of everything that was important to him. We got into an argument about who had hurt my parents and Sasha the most, and I just . . . snapped. I started throwing things, breaking things. Not just anything, but important things. Family pictures and awards and heirlooms. I clocked Richard in the jaw and sent him flying into a wall. Then we ended up pounding on each other until we were both bleeding. I left feeling like a despicable barbarian.”
He looked at me, his face restless. “I was coming to Colorado Springs to be with you. I was going to find an apartment and get a job and finish high school here. But as I approached the exit, I couldn’t do it. I was a complete mess. I was so angry. At everything and everyone. I didn’t want you to see me that way. I didn’t even want you to hear me that way, so I didn’t call. I was afraid it would scare you, or that it would hurt you. So I kept driving.”
If only I’d known. I would have been out standing on the highway, waving him down with florescent flags.
“I spent that night in some place I don’t even remember. And when I woke up the next day, I still felt like I needed to sort things out and get myself together before I came back to you. So I kept driving. I drove for days, expecting my head to clear or the intensity of the pain to lessen, but it was relentless. I thought that if I could just get far enough away, I could somehow escape it. So I got on a plane for the Netherlands.
“I stayed with my friend, Stefan, and I only planned on staying a couple weeks. But he was a little too generous with me. He gave me an empty room and a bed, and I stayed holed up in that little space for weeks, sleeping or shuffling around like the living dead. To be honest, I spent a lot of time wishing you had just let me go up those stairs.”
He must have seen the distress in my face, because his eyes turned apologetic. “Not because I thought I could have saved my parents, but because dying would have been easier than dealing with the aftermath.” He ran his fingertip through the wet ash on the ground, clearing a small spot of foundation. “Some days it felt like I would never be okay. And an irrational part of me felt like if I allowed myself to be with you, my bad luck would eventually come around to hurt you. The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that you deserved better than that.”
He shut his eyes tight and a silent cloak of darkness settled over him. Whether because he didn’t want to hurt me anymore, or because words were insufficient to express it, I knew he would never say just how bleak his life had become.
“I could give you a million reasons for my actions, Aria.” He opened his eyes. “But I won’t. All that really matters is that I was wrong to stay away. I was wrong to leave you hanging. But by the time I’d healed enough to figure that out, it was too late. I’d already hurt you, and I didn’t think you could ever forgive me.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but there were so many competing words that none of them could get out.
“So I settled for a different life,” he went on. “I got the fishing job with Stefan’s uncle, and to distract myself, I kept busy, working long hours at sea and doing anything and everything with Stefan on land.”
I thought about what Devin had said the day before about Amsterdam’s colorful nightlife. “What do you mean ‘anything and everything’?” I could feel the sick look on my face. “Did you spend a lot of time in Amsterdam?”
He knotted his brow as though puzzled by my question. “No—not much.” Then understanding swept over his face. “You know I’ve never been big on partying. And you have to know . . . I was never with another girl. Stefan brought girls home sometimes, but the thought of even touching another girl when I still had feelings for you . . .” He shook his head and his meaning was clear.
An involuntary sigh of relief escaped my lips. Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. Thomas wasn’t mine anymore anyway. I was with Devin now. At the thought of Devin, it registered just how long I’d been holding Thomas’s hands. Not wanting him to misread my intentions, I withdrew my hands and slipped them into my coat pockets.
“I thought about you all the time,” Thomas said. “I can’t tell you how many times I started dialing your number, or how many times I wrote a letter only to crumple it up and throw it in the trash. But I could never find the right words to say, how to explain myself or how to encourage you to move on without hurting you more. I just hoped that you would go to Juilliard and move on with your life.” A look of regret flitted across his face. “And you did move on. You have a new life now. A better life.”
“And you have a new life too,” I said slowly. “Don’t you?”
“I guess so. But . . .” He hesitated, then pinned me with a meaningful look and said, “But I’ve spent every day for the past year wishing that I could go back to the life I left behind.”
His words jostled something inside me, something I thought I’d laid to rest. Hope. Part of me wanted to forgive him and throw myself into his arms. But another part of me—a much greater part—was still hurt and confused. I couldn’t afford to have hope. Not with him, not yet. So I stomped it back down.
“But I know that’s not possible,” he said sadly. “Funny how time is a healer . . . and a thief.”
When I didn’t say anything in return, he bent his head and studied his hands, open and empty in his lap. For the first time since his return, I noticed a pink mark on the inside of his wrist, stealing from the cuff of his coat sleeve. A burn scar. Without thinking, I reached out and touched it, as though needing to be convinced that he was healed. His small, answering smile told me that he was.
Dawn had broken over the edge of the foundation, had swept out the shadows and filled them with light. Thomas shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the rising sun, and we sat there gazing at each other, wordlessly acknowledging that the hardest part of our conversation was over.
“Thomas,” I finally said, releasing his wrist, “how did you know I would be here and not in New York?”
He hesitated. “I called Nathaniel about a week ago to find out where you were.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,” I muttered to myself. And then another question sparked in my mind. “What finally made you decide to come see me?”
Thomas tugged his coat sleeve down over his scar, and when he looked up again, instead of meeting my eyes, he focused on some point in the distance. “I think someone is looking for you.”
I whipped my head around to see Devin’s figure wandering through the frosted orchard. He paused and glanced in our direction, then resumed meandering like he knew I was here but didn’t want to interrupt.
“I better go back.” I stood and looked down at Thomas. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m flying back to Zierikzee tomorrow.”
“You’re going back to the Netherlands?”
He nodded. “For one more season.”
“One more season? What will you do after that?”
He shrugged. “My plans are kind of up in the air. I’m going to study art somewhere, I just haven’t decided where yet.”
At the thought of him being out of my life again, I felt panicked. But what could I do? I glanced at Devin again, who was waiting patiently for me in the orchard. In a few days I would go back to New York with him, back to the life I knew and had grown to love. I turned back to Thoma
s. “Don’t leave without saying good-bye,” I said, the words catching in my throat.
He stared at me for a long moment before nodding slightly, and I turned to walk away.
“Aria.”
I glanced back at him, and he was standing up with an anxious look on his face.
“Can you . . . can you come to the tree house tonight?”
The thought crossed my mind that I should say no, that I should go back to Devin and put Thomas out of my mind, but instead I said, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Meet me there at midnight, if you can. Wear something warm.” He smiled, making that little dimple appear on the side of his mouth.
I ignored the flutter in my stomach and nodded, then turned to go meet Devin.
twenty-three
Hey,” I said contritely as I approached Devin in the orchard.
“You could have left me a note.” He smiled, but his expression was stiff, like he was trying to subdue his emotions. “I was worried.”
“I’m sorry. I left the house this morning in kind of a rush.” I considered telling him about the significance of this day for Thomas, but it seemed inappropriate. “I just wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right. It wasn’t too hard to find you.” He took my hand in his and we began walking back to the house. “So . . . did you get the answers you need?”
I thought back on everything Thomas had told me, but there was so much I hadn’t even swallowed, let alone digested. “I think so.” It was the most accurate response I could give.
“When is he leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I was thinking. Maybe we should just go get a hotel room or something. Or we could go spend the rest of our trip at your old teacher’s place.”
A small part of me wanted to consent, to pack up my things and be done with this place. But my heart revolted at the thought. There was still unfinished business here. Not only with Thomas, but with Dad. “We’re leaving the day after tomorrow,” I said. “I’d like to spend a little more time with my dad.”
“So spend some time with him today, and we’ll go check in somewhere tonight.”
“He’s at work until tomorrow morning. Besides, Vivian would be offended.”
His hand tensed around mine. “Are you sure you don’t just want to spend more time with him?”
“Devin—”
He stopped and turned to me. “Be honest, Aria. I’m not blind. I can see how much you’re affected by him being here.”
“Of course I’m affected. How would you feel if the person who was most important in your life vanished off the face of the earth, then reappeared out of nowhere years later?”
“But . . . who is the most important person in your life now?”
“You.” The immediate response made my answer sound trite. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers between my brows to ease the tension there. “I just need time to think. I’ve been bombarded with unexpected feelings and information—I need a chance to sort through it all.”
I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I opened my eyes to see his perplexed face just inches from mine. “What do you have to sort through? He hurt you. Almost beyond repair. I remember how unreachable you were. I remember the sound of your sobs that night in the practice room. All because of him. I would never do that to you. I would never hurt you.”
I brushed a piece of hair from my face and looked into his eyes. “I know.”
“Please . . . just tell me nothing is going to change between us.”
“Nothing is going to change between us.” But as he wrapped his arms around me and held me uncomfortably tight, I could feel the uncertainty of my words. I buried my face in his chest. I felt unsteady, oddly pliable, like a piece of clay that could be molded and shaped by whomever’s hands I was in. At the moment, even though Devin pressed me closely to him, I was in Thomas’s hands. They possessed the power to alter the life I’d become accustomed to. And I floundered in my effort to find the strength or desire to resist him.
~
You’re in trouble, I texted Nathaniel once we were back at the house. Why didn’t you tell me? I hit send and dropped the phone in my back pocket, then went to the parlor.
I spent all afternoon at the piano, with Devin working nearby on his sheet music. I played absentmindedly, my mind still back at the fire site with Thomas. Like watching a movie, I paused at certain frames, rewound phrases, and skipped over parts that were too hard to stomach.
I thought about the way his lips curved around the words, I thought about you all the time, and the piercing blue flame in his eyes when he said, I kept everything you gave me. What exactly had he meant by that?
Meet me there at midnight, he had said. Something stirred inside me again, like wings beating furiously to escape a captor’s hand. I considered that maybe my heart was not as unfettered as I’d supposed.
~
Just before midnight, I slipped out the back door to go meet Thomas. I’d spent most of the evening debating whether to go, and finally acknowledged that I needed to make a choice between continuing in my relationship with Devin or taking a chance with Thomas. I told myself it was for this purpose—to gather the information necessary to make that choice—that I went to meet him.
The closer I came to the tree house, the stronger some unseen force tugged me toward it and the more my anticipation bubbled over. But when I got there, he was not there.
I expected to feel anxious, but instead a calm washed over me. He would be there soon; I was sure of it. I leaned against a wall and stared at the spot where I used to sleep on the nights Dad’s behavior forced me out of the house. I recalled the morning Thomas had discovered me here, and the thought made me smile. I ran my fingers over the telescope in the corner, remembering all the nights we’d spent up here together, looking at objects in the sky. And then I waited. Waited for him to come. I paced slowly, peering out the windows on either side for a sign of him.
I heard a thud, then something like metal scraping against metal. I glanced out the east window and saw the yellow glow of a lantern coming nearer through the trees. I smiled and stepped away from the window, twisting my hands, my heart thumping against my chest.
When his face appeared in the doorway, illuminated by the lantern, I thought my heart would burst. He climbed into the tree house. His chest was heaving, like he’d been running. He slid off his backpack and set it down. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said. “It took me longer than I thought it would to get here.” He smiled and walked past me, assailing me with his alluring scent. As he set the lantern down, I noticed his hands were shaking.
“You’re cold,” I said. “We can go back to the house.”
“I’m not cold.” He took his gloves off. “I’m actually a little too warm.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m tired.”
I took his hand in mine to test the temperature. It was warm. It was also very rough. I turned his palm up, and saw that it was blistered and crusted with dried blood. “Thomas—your hands,” I said with alarm. “What have you been doing?”
He pulled his hand away. “Working on something.”
“On what?”
“A project.”
“What project?”
“You’ll see in a few hours.”
“No—tell me now,” I demanded.
He shook his head. “A few more hours. Right now, there’s something else I want to show you.” He unlatched the roof, then with a bit of a struggle, slid it along its tracks. Turning off the lantern, he lay down and gazed up at the open sky.
I stared at him, unsure what to do. He patted the space next to him. “Come here.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I joined him on the floor and looked up at the star-filled sky. Every sense seemed heightened—the air I breathed, the tingle of the night on my skin, the silence of the winter air—it was all flavored by him, lying two inches from me.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
&nbs
p; “No.” It was true. I didn’t know if it was an unusually mild night or if it was just the heat emanating from him, but I felt strangely warm. I waited for him to say something, to tell me what he wanted to show me, but he was quiet. I turned to look at him, and his eyes were closed. “So, what are we looking at?” I said in a hushed voice.
“Just wait. You’ll see it in a few minutes.” He glanced at me, a little smile on his lips, then turned his face back to the sky and closed his eyes again.
“It’s strange being up here again,” I pondered aloud.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s a bittersweet place for me. It was my refuge, but it reminds me of the reasons I needed a refuge. And it reminds me of you.”
He opened his eyes, but kept his gaze on the sky. “Is that part of the bitter or the sweet?”
“Both.” I whispered, but he didn’t respond. Wanting to hear his voice again, I said, “Tell me about the place you live. What’s it like?”
He started talking about Zierikzee, about the friendly people, the historic architecture, and the boundless sea. He told me how he’d been spending all his spare time in his apartment: writing, painting, listening to music that calmed him. I wondered what he’d been listening to, and I imagined a room somewhere in the Netherlands, filled with paintings that his hands had created.
Recalling something he’d said earlier, I said, “You said you didn’t visit Amsterdam—much. Does that mean you went there sometimes?”
