by Lisa Duffy
Maggie looks up to see the assistant principal standing in the doorway.
“Hi, Lori,” Maggie says, forcing a smile. She’s kept to herself since Pete left. She let the battery on her phone drain. Shut the shades. Disconnected from the world, ignoring her laptop on the counter. More than one day, she just stayed on the couch in her pajamas, a pillow wedged under her head and the television on, mindlessly watching home-renovations shows.
They were pleasing somehow, these shows. Turning something old and worn into something new and fresh. Something desirable.
More than once she found herself wishing it were as simple as hiring a crew to come in and work their magic on her. Remodel her into a different version of herself. Someone who didn’t feel so useless. So discarded.
“How was summer camp?” she asks cheerfully. Maybe if she pretends, the feeling will follow. “Must be hard to put your assistant principal hat back on.”
Lori smiles. “Feels like every summer goes by a little bit quicker.”
“Sure does. But it’s good to be back. Hopefully the weather turns. Hot as heck out there.”
“Oh, I know. Never good to start the year during a heat wave.”
Maggie nods, moves a stack of books onto a shelf, expecting the assistant principal to say goodbye. She likes Lori, but they’re not overly close. This is the sort of small talk they’ve shared for years.
She’s surprised when she looks up to see that Lori isn’t in the doorway but right in front of her desk.
“I don’t want to overstep. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing,” she says sympathetically. “You know, with everything.” She lowers her voice when she asks this, glancing back at the doorway briefly, as though she doesn’t want to be overheard.
Maggie cranes her neck forward. “With everything?”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Lori says quickly. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. I know we’re not that close, but I actually have some experience with this. You know. Personally.” Her cheeks redden, two bright spots appearing on each cheekbone.
Experience with this?
“I’m sorry, Lori—what exactly are you talking about?”
Lori walks around the desk and stands next to Maggie, as though the object between them might be causing the confusion.
“The picture,” she whispers. “I just don’t want you to feel alone. I mean, not that you would—I’m sure you have a million friends to support you. But, you know, you can never have too many.” She smiles self-consciously.
“Picture? What picture?” Maggie asks irritably, frustrated now with all this posturing.
Lori’s eyes are wide. “Oh gosh. I just assumed—forget I said anything.” She turns to walk away, but Maggie grabs her arm.
“What is going on? Lori—what picture?”
“In the paper. You know, of your husband.” Lori sighs. “I’m sorry it’s become sort of… a thing.” She winces.
Maggie stares at her.
“It was in the paper—”
“I saw it—what do you mean it’s a thing?”
She hasn’t spoken to anyone besides Pete about the picture. And sure, she noticed how he was looking at the girl. But there was nothing inappropriate about the actual photograph—she hadn’t even considered someone else noticing Pete’s expression. She swallows, her head swirling.
“I follow the town page. On social media. The paper posted the feature. You know, all the photos people sent in and—well, there were some—comments.”
Maggie’s body trembles. She wants to leave the room. Walk out of this life. But she needs to know. Right now.
“Comments about what?”
Lori backs away from her. “I feel like such an idiot right now. This is so none of my business. I just—my boyfriend, well ex now, but we were together for, like, six years—anyway he was fired for sexually harassing women at work, and I literally had no idea, and I remember feeling so alone. And then this weekend, I saw all these posts about your—well, you know. I’m going to go. Okay—bye,” she says, nearly running into the door on the way out.
Maggie walks calmly over to her desk and grabs her pocketbook. She turns off the light on the way out.
In the car on the way home, she concentrates on driving. The school is less than a mile away from her house, and by the time she pulls in the driveway and shuts off the car, the tremble she felt in her body in the classroom has escalated to a visible shake—her hand barely able to get the key in the door.
She drops her purse on the floor and grabs the laptop from the counter. She clicks on the blue icon and waits for the page to load, searches for the town page. She has to scroll down to find it.
The post is a screenshot of the photo collage. The four pictures that were featured on the front page. She clicks on the comments, scans through the first ten or so, things like Great shots! Ichabod rules! Go summer!
Then she sees it. Lol. Chief Pete up to his old tricks. She clicks on the profile picture and it’s a man she doesn’t recognize. In his fifties, maybe older, from the wife and grown kids standing next to him.
She clicks back and reads the first response. Not so funny when you’re the target. The profile picture is a woman in her thirties, young and pretty, leaning against an ambulance, dressed in an EMT uniform.
It’s this comment that seems to be the one that kicks off all the rest. Too many to count—her eyes blur as she reads them.
He should’ve been canned years ago. #Metoo
Complained over and over. Nothing ever done. Finally quit.
She reads until she can’t breathe. Then slams the laptop shut, suddenly nauseous. She staggers to the sink, holds her head over the lip, and runs the water, splashes some on her face, the room spinning.
There’s a knock on the side door. She grabs a towel, presses it to her lips, planning to ignore whoever is outside when there’s a second knock, this time more urgent.
She walks over and opens the door. Pete is standing on the step, looking as though he hasn’t slept in days. Maybe he hasn’t. She wouldn’t know. They haven’t spoken since he left.
“I just got put on administrative leave,” he says, and walks past her into the house before she has a chance to speak.
As though she doesn’t have anything to say about him coming back home. As though it’s her role to fix whatever mess he’s made.
Of course he thinks that. It’s what she’s been doing her whole goddamn life.
Sweet Maggie, she thinks, as she closes the door behind her. Silly old girl.
28
He decides to come clean to Xavier about losing his job when he can’t take it anymore. He’s never been a good liar. His sleep is disturbed. Appetite gone.
When Sky asked him last night if he was feeling all right after he’d pushed his dinner around on his plate until it was cold, he promised himself that he’d call Xavier first thing in the morning and tell him everything.
But now it’s almost ten in the morning, and the phone is in his hand, and he’s pacing in the backyard, trying to figure out exactly what he’s going to say.
“So, I have news,” he says out loud to a tree. “I’m looking for a new job.” He changes direction.
That’s actually another lie. He’s not looking for a job. Hasn’t even considered it yet.
He has his finger on Xavier’s name on his cell phone screen. He almost presses it. Instead, he shoves the phone into his back pocket, changes direction again, picking up the pace.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up to see Sky in the open window over the patio. She’s peering through the screen, a glass of water in her hand.
“Nothing. Walking. Thinking.” He smiles sheepishly.
“Is it okay if Frankie comes over?”
He nods. “Of course.” He shifts when his back pocket vibrates, a ringtone filling the air. He pulls out his phone and sees Xavier’s name on the screen.
“I have to take thi
s,” he says to Sky, but she’s already gone, the window empty.
He breathes out, presses the screen.
“Hi,” he says brightly. “I was just about to call you.”
“You just did,” Xavier says. “A minute ago. You pocket-dialed me.”
He closes his eyes. Not exactly how he wanted to start the conversation.
“So. What are you thinking about?” Xavier asks.
“What?”
“You told someone you were walking. Thinking. You don’t usually pace unless it’s serious.”
He feels a lump form in his throat. His love for this man making him blink back tears. How comforting it is to be known so well by another person. He wishes Xavier were standing in front of him. That he didn’t have to deliver this news through a phone line. Mostly he wishes he didn’t have to tell him what he’s about to tell him.
“I lost my job. I’ve been pacing the backyard for the last half hour trying to frame it in the best possible light. But the truth is that they wanted me in the office, and I said no.”
He waits for Xavier to tell him this is exactly why none of this was ever going to work. Why Leo should cut his losses now and come back to the city. Why he should tell Sky she should go live with her grandmother.
“I know,” Xavier says. “I’ve known for weeks. Shelly is my yoga instructor.”
How had he forgotten? His boss’s wife was a trainer at Xavier’s gym.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m sorry—I should’ve told you the day it happened. It’s just that I didn’t want to make this even more complicated.”
“Well, then you’re going to love my news.”
Leo presses the phone firmly to his ear, waiting.
“I’m doing the story on post-Weinstein-era Hollywood. Esquire’s interested.”
“Wow—congratulations!”
“Thanks,” Xavier grumbles.
“I thought you’d be happy. You’ve been pitching this for over a year.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. Leo looks at the phone to make sure he didn’t lose the call.
“They want a bigger scope. Lots of interviews,” Xavier is saying when he presses the phone back to his ear. “It’s not something I can do from here. They want me there. In LA.”
Leo swallows, clears his throat. “For how long?”
“I don’t really want to get into this right now—”
“How long?” he presses.
The line goes silent. He can hear Xavier breathing.
“A couple of months. Maybe more.”
The ground shifts under his feet. He leans against the edge of the patio table, steadying himself. LA? A couple of months? The thought of Xavier across the country makes his insides feel hollow. “And when were you going to tell me? After you checked in to the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
“I wouldn’t call you from there. That place is a shithole,” Xavier jokes.
Leo doesn’t respond. He can feel Xavier slipping away from him.
“Look—I don’t leave until October. We have time to figure this out.”
“Come here this weekend,” Leo blurts, not bothering to hide the desperation in his voice. He has to try. “Please. Or I’ll come there. Whatever you want.”
Xavier is silent. “What about Sky?”
“She’s going camping with Frankie. She’ll be gone the whole weekend. We’ll have three days to ourselves.”
“I’ll come there,” Xavier says. Just like that.
“Yeah? Are you sure? I can come to you—”
“I’ve been cooped up here with this damn ankle and the walls are closing in. You know it’s bad when that island starts looking good to me.”
“What? I thought you were off the crutches.”
“I was. Then I ignored the doctor and went to spin class and now it’s twice the size it was before. Serves me right, I guess.”
Leo laughs. “Well, I’m sorry about the ankle. But happy it’s bringing you here.”
“You better pick me up at the dock though. If I have to crutch on cobblestones, I’m going to be pissed,” Xavier growls, but Leo isn’t listening.
He’s too busy grinning at the phone.
* * *
Later, he’s in the kitchen making lunch when Frankie and Sky hurry in from the other room, as though they’re in a rush.
“Whoa,” he says. “Where’s the fire?”
“We have an idea,” Sky announces. Frankie nods, looks at Leo expectantly.
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m part of this idea?” He narrows his eyes at them.
“We should camp in the backyard tonight. You know, in like, tents.” Sky holds her hands up when she sees his expression. “Come on—you won’t have to do anything. We’ll set up both tents—it’ll be practice for the weekend. Please?” she begs.
Leo sighs. “Fine. But I want the air mattress in my tent. I’m too old to sleep on the ground.” He looks out the window. “And make sure you don’t put the tents under the cherry tree. I don’t trust that huge branch.”
Sky looks at Frankie, then at Leo.
“What?” he asks.
“We wanted to camp at the other house. Down the street. I told Frankie we’re going to move there, and she doesn’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Frankie corrects. “I said you’re too scared to even walk by the house, never mind go inside it—”
“Wait,” Leo interrupts, turning to Sky. “Is that what you want? To move there?”
His pulse quickens, but he keeps his voice even. There’s nothing he wants more than to put a For Sale sign in this front yard.
A new beginning for both of them.
But it’s her choice. He doesn’t want to influence her decision.
Sky studies him. “You said we could tear it down, right? Build a whole new house. Make it whatever we want.”
“Within reason, of course. There are zoning issues that we need to follow. Keep the size of the plot the same, but we could go up. Add some height. Open it up. Take advantage of the view out back. We can’t do everything. Some of the money we get from this house is for your college fund.”
“I didn’t know I had a college fund.”
Leo smiles. “You don’t. Not yet at least.”
“Do it,” Frankie urges. “Then I can sleep over all the time.”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Leo adds. “It’s a big decision—”
“Can you draw something? So I can see what it will look like?” Sky asks.
Leo considers this. Why hadn’t he thought of that? But he knows the answer. Drawing the house—seeing it on paper—would make it real.
That much harder to walk away.
Sky is waiting for him to answer, a hopeful expression on her face.
“Set up the tents,” he tells them. “I’ll start working on a sketch.”
29
There’s something wrong with her. Maybe she’s broken inside. Unable to feel what Leo wants her to feel.
It’s a huge decision, he keeps telling her. Your childhood home Full of memories The only house you’ve ever known.
She pretends to be wrestling with the decision. Torn up about it.
Truth is, ever since Leo brought her down the street and they walked in the backyard and she looked out at the ocean, she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
She spends hours dreaming about her new room. Wondering if she’ll be able to see the water from her bed. Then she feels guilty.
Her parents are gone, and all she can think about is selling the house they all lived in together.
The one full of happy memories.
Except, for the last year, her house had become a war zone. Her parents fighting all the time. The basement filling up with her father’s empty bottles. Her mother’s mood swings making her tiptoe through the house.
“But what about the tree house?” Fr
ankie asks. “What if a family buys the house and it belongs to some other kid?”
Sky hasn’t thought of that.
Now, it’s the only thing that keeps her from telling Leo she wants to move. She’s hoping the picture he draws of the new house will be so good—so real—that she’ll be able to give up the tree house.
But every time she thinks of it not belonging to her, she can’t imagine it. The thought of it makes her insides feel hollow.
Especially now that she’s planning on decorating the walls with her paintings. She has a hammer and nails in her backpack, the lighthouse painting rolled up and tucked carefully next to her paints.
After she and Frankie set up the tents in the backyard, they cut through Joe’s backyard and into the woods.
They walk straight past the tree house, to the cliff, Sky’s heart racing the closer they get. Frankie walks along beside her, chewing on her nail distractedly, as though she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“How can you be so calm? What if we’re being watched?” She lowers her voice, looks over her shoulder. “Like, right now.”
Frankie glances around in mock horror. “The mystery artist strikes again. Run for your life!”
Sky grabs her arm, yanks her back.
“Stop fooling around.” She scowls, and Frankie laughs, steps in time with her again. “Seriously. Aren’t you freaked out at all?”
“About what? That someone finished your painting?”
She gives Frankie a look, as though this should be obvious.
“It’s probably just some show-off staying at the studio on Crow Farm. My art teacher at the co-op stays there sometimes. The way he talks about himself, you’d think he was Picasso.”
The easel is just around the corner. She can see the legs peeking out from under a long tree branch.
She swallows, lets Frankie walk ahead of her. They step out of the woods, onto the path together, but Frankie is in front of her, blocking the easel.
“Holy crap,” she hears her say.
Sky steps up, stands next to Frankie. Blinks. Once. Then again.
Someone has finished what she and Frankie had left undone.
She’s looking at an exact replica of herself, her features perfectly drawn on the painting. Chills run up her spine. She stands close enough to Frankie that their shoulders touch.
