Everybody Lies

by Emily Cavanagh

  I’ve lived here for over twenty years now, yet I’m still not really an islander. I grew up in a suburb of Maryland, a little outside of Washington D.C. My father worked as a clerk in the House of Representatives, and my mother was a public defender. We lived on a tidy tree-lined street where every house looked the same, except for the varying shades of pastel paint on the siding, or the choice of flowers under the front windows. Like many others in our neighborhood, my brother, sister and I were dropped early at school so our parents could make the commute into the city. A babysitter picked us up and stayed with us till our parents returned, rumpled and weary, sometime after six.

  Every summer, we’d rent a house on Great Rock for two weeks. The house we stayed in each year was on a bluff in Egret with a view of the harbor and a sandy path that led to a thin strip of private beach. At home, my sister Shana and I shared a room, but the rental house had five bedrooms with mottled hardwood floors and white wainscoting. For two weeks, I watched the noise of the city fall away for my parents. My mother wore cotton tunics in pink and yellow, and flowy white linen pants that billowed in the evening breeze. My father wore sandals, actual sandals, and by the end of the two weeks his bony white feet would be nutmeg brown, freed from the stiff wingtips he wore the rest of the year. The two weeks were full of annual rituals. A trip to the Cone for soft serve sundaes, a sunset on the beach with lobster rolls and paper cups of coleslaw, frozen lemonade from the stand on the harbor, a drive to Heron for a day of fried clams.

  There was no TV in the summer house, which only added to the magic of the vacation, two weeks that hung suspended in time. In the evening my parents would sit on the front porch sipping gin and tonics while my sister and I played board games. Great Rock was a magical oasis, a place where my parents weren’t tired and laughed often.

  They divorced my freshman year in high school. My father moved to an apartment in the city where we’d visit him every other weekend. We never returned to the house on Great Rock for vacation, and instead spent summers working or at our Aunt Helen’s house in Pennsylvania.

  One of my closest friends at Boston College, a girl named Betsy, had a family house on Great Rock, and the summer after our senior year, she invited me to spend the summer living with her on the island. It was my first summer back since I was a teenager. It was that summer I met Jack.

  Jack had recently returned to the island after finishing the police academy. He’d gotten a job as a beat cop for the summer, patrolling downtown Osprey at night after the bars let out and drunk tourists poured onto Main Street. I was working as a waitress at a restaurant on the harbor, and Jack was assigned to patrol the waterfront. During the lull in business, we’d talk. Tall and lanky in his navy police blues, he was different from the men I’d dated in college. He was quieter and more reserved, but more confident too, like he already knew who he was and didn’t need to prove anything. I quickly found myself forgoing the bars and parties for evenings at the movies with Jack, or small dinner parties hosted by his friends and large extended family.

  When the summer ended, I thought about my options. Betsy was moving to New York City to work in a financial firm, and my other college friends were scattering all over the country. I could return to Boston, but I didn’t have a job to support myself. I considered moving back to Maryland, but the idea of unpacking all of my things into the small house my mother had moved into after the divorce was too depressing to contemplate for long. And then there was Jack: steady, patient, handsome, never pushing me to stay but making it clear he didn’t want me to go.

  In those days it was easy to get a winter rental. I stayed on at my waitressing job until the restaurant closed for the season. Jack knew someone who worked in the library and helped get me a job shelving books and maintaining the database. The next few years were like a series of dominoes stacking in a sequence. Jack and I got married the following summer, surprising and disappointing both of my parents, who expected me to be pursuing a career more rigorously and putting off marriage. Just a little over a year later Connor was born; not an accident since we hadn’t been trying very hard not to get pregnant, but not quite planned either. Slowly, over several years, I took the necessary courses to get a job, first as assistant librarian and then director.

  For a girl who had grown up in a large suburb right next door to a major city, Great Rock’s smallness was shocking at first. I wasn’t used to bumping into four people I knew when I needed to run to the grocery store for milk. I was always surprised by the close proximity of everyone, like when I learned that one of Jack’s closest friends did the landscaping at Betsy’s cottage or that Jack’s cousin was the caretaker for the house I’d spent summers in as a child. I’d heard of six degrees of separation, but on the island it was closer to two degrees of separation. One morning at the gym I realized that out of the thirty people in the group exercise room, I was connected to at least fifteen of them—through Jack, Connor, work, or some other relationship. It all felt so close, so suffocating, like living under a magnifying glass.

  For a long time, I didn’t think of the island as our real home. Even after Jack and I were married, even after Connor was born, I thought of it as just our early years, the jumping off point for the rest of our life. We talked about moving, constantly, to Boston or D.C. or New York, somewhere with more opportunity, a place where you could buy a pizza after eight and go to a museum on the weekend. But I realize now that it was me who talked, who planned alternative realities in my mind, while Jack just nodded patiently. He’d tip his head to the side occasionally and point out that, while you couldn’t get takeout here in the winter, didn’t I actually enjoy cooking? All the while, he was advancing in the department, first to sergeant, then lieutenant, and then, just a few years ago, to chief.

  It wasn’t until Connor was in high school that I realized this was it. We had a house and two good jobs. Connor was in school and had friends. Most importantly, I finally admitted that Jack didn’t want to leave. The island was his home. His mother was here, along with siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and childhood friends. The only time Jack had ever been away from Great Rock was the time he spent in the police academy. There was no greater plan. This was our life.

  It was with this realization that my resentment started to grow, a tiny bud blooming and then taking over everything in sight. My anger was like bittersweet, the invasive weed that runs rampant on the island, strangling every other plant in reach unless yanked out by the roots each season.

  I think about this often, now that Jack has left, and I’m alone. What had suddenly seemed so important for the last twenty years feels trivial now. Where did I want to go, after all? What was I looking for? A place to get takeout, an art museum? Hadn’t Jack been right all along—I do prefer to cook and how often would I actually go to a museum, even if I lived next door to one? My friends are here, a job I care about, Jack’s family, which has become my family. My life is here.

  I remember a day this past July. It was my birthday, and Jack and I spent the afternoon at Seastar Beach in Heron. It was one of those perfect Great Rock days, the sun high in a cloudless blue sky, a light breeze keeping it from being too hot. The salt from the water was crystallizing on our arms and shoulders as Jack and I sat side by side and read, two new mysteries I’d brought back from the library. Connor came over for dinner that night, and the three of us sat in the backyard around the fire pit. The sky was a milky blue studded with stars that glittered like shards of shattered glass. My skin was still warm from the sun and I wore an old wool sweater of Jack’s. We didn’t talk about anything in particular. I don’t remember what either of them gave me for my birthday, though I know there were presents. What I remember is sitting between Jack and Connor, the bookends of my life, one a man, the other a boy suddenly become a man right before my eyes, and thinking this is good. Simple and good.

  It was a day when I didn’t resent living on Great Rock, too preoccupied with the beauty of the place and my own good fortune. Connor’
s shoulder surely must have been bothering him, though he didn’t complain. Jack didn’t ride Connor the way he sometimes does, and no one argued. The day is a snapshot, a memory contained in a jar where it sits preserved and untouchable. And though I can look at it, though I know the lobster was tender and succulent, the corn the sweetest of the season, the sun and water the perfect temperature, though I remember the overwhelming feeling of well-being at the end of the day, I cannot recapture any of it, only press my fingers against the glass.

  17

  Daisy

  When I open the Great Rock Gazette, there’s a picture of Layla Dresser, and I realize I’ve met her before. In the black-and-white photo, she looked like some sorority girl, smiling shyly into the camera, hair that could have been honey blond falling over her shoulder.

  She didn’t look like that when I met her on a sticky summer night last August at a party in the woods. The house belonged to a girl Connor and I had gone to school with whose parents were away for the week. A bunch of us were sitting outside on the deck. Someone had built a bonfire and the air held the smoky scent of summer. I was squished on a wicker couch beside Connor, drinking beer, debating how much longer I wanted to stay. Many of the people there were kids I’d grown up with, but there were plenty of people I didn’t know too, college kids on Great Rock for the summer.

  It was that point of the night where everyone was wasted. The table was covered in empty beer cans, and I had a feeling pass over me, like I’d been to this exact party one too many times before. The same people, the same crappy beer, the same stupid jokes and hookups. And for many of the people here, this party was already a moment of nostalgia before they packed up their duffel bags and headed back to college. But for me, this was all there was. I knew I had to get out of there before I completely sank into depression and self-pity. I was about to tell Connor I was leaving when Layla Dresser came and sat down next to him, half on the arm of the couch and half in his lap.

  She wore a silky tank top with jean shorts, and her arms jangled with bracelets. There was a tattoo of a dragonfly on her shoulder, and she smelled sweet, like shampoo and bubblegum, the artificial fragrance of a young girl. She perched beside Connor, looping her leg over his, and his hand came to rest on her smooth tanned knee.

  “Hey, you,” she said to him. I attempted a smile at the girl, but she was only paying attention to Connor. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” She arched her back and leaned down as she said this, so Connor had no choice but to stare at her boobs that were barely contained in her tank. Not that he was trying very hard not to look. I picked up my beer and finished it off in one long swallow.

  “I’m going home,” I said, half hoping he’d offer to come with me.

  “Yeah?” Connor tore his eyes away from the girl’s chest just long enough to glance at me.

  “I’m done. I need to get out of here,” I said.

  “You okay?” he asked, but I could tell his attention wasn’t really on me.

  “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I picked my purse up from the floor. The girl was waiting patiently for me to leave. By the time I’d crossed the room, she’d slid into my spot on the couch. I never learned her name.

  I never saw her after that night. Connor didn’t mention her, and I just assumed she was a summer girl here for a few months, one of the many who come to Great Rock for July and August before returning to their real lives in September. It wasn’t until I saw her picture in the paper this morning that I realized she was the same girl that had hovered around Connor like a bird. Yet he didn’t say a thing.

  Connor and I haven’t spoken since the night I saw his arms. When I text him he doesn’t answer. For the second time in a week, I find myself climbing the stairs to the apartment he shares with Keith. When I get to the top, Keith opens the door before I have a chance to knock. He’s carrying a backpack and a thermal coffee mug.

  “Connor’s still in bed, but go on in if you want.” He doesn’t step out of the doorway, and I have to squeeze past, pressing myself against him in a way that makes my skin crawl. Connor’s door is closed and I knock, wait a moment for the sleepy sound of his voice telling me to come in. When I open the door, he’s in bed, his shirt off and an arm thrown above his head. I try to avoid looking at his arms, but the marks are still there. He pushes himself to sitting when he sees me.

  “Hey. You’re here.” He pulls me down beside him on the bed, resting my hand on his stomach. His flesh is warm beneath my palm, and he leans closer, his mouth finding mine. He tastes sour, like sleep and a hangover, and I tilt away, though it’s not because of his breath. It’s because of Todd, how just yesterday I was in his bed, his lips, his arms. I have no idea if I’ll see him again, or if he’ll even call, but I know that I want him to, and just that is enough. I don’t want to start this with Connor. Not now.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  Connor’s guitar is propped in the same corner of the room where it was last week. Something tells me that if I were to come back a month from now, it would still be there, and this makes me so sad I want to cry. It’s this that makes me know Connor is different. He’s not the same boy who saved me when my mother went crazy, who lay in a twin bed with me after his parents were asleep and let me cry till his shirt was wet. He’s someone different now. And it doesn’t just make me sad—it scares me, because I realize I don’t know him anymore.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew that girl who was murdered.” He flinches, like I’ve raised my hand to him. “Connor, that’s messed up. How could you not say anything?”

  “I barely did. We hung out a few times, but I didn’t know her well.”

  “Did you sleep with her?” He blinks but doesn’t reply, and I realize I already know the answer. “You did, didn’t you?”

  He sighs and stares at the ceiling. “It wasn’t like she was my girlfriend or anything.”

  A chill settles on my shoulders. “What is wrong with you?”

  He looks at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “How can you be so callous? You knew that girl. You slept with her.” I shake my head in disbelief, that he’s hidden this from me. “Someone murdered her and you’re acting like it’s no big deal.”

  “Of course it’s a big deal. It’s terrible. But what can I do?” He rubs his hand on my back to try to calm me down. I shrug him off.

  “Is it true she was here to sell drugs?”

  His face darkens. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Have you been on social media lately?” I shoot back. I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. “Is it true?” My anger is hot and sudden, a burning little stone I could hold in my palm and throw at him.

  “I guess.” Connor looks away.

  “Did you buy drugs from her? Is that how you knew her?”

  Connor gets up and out of bed, pulling on a tee shirt from the floor. “You don’t need to get involved in this.”

  “Involved? Are you involved?” My head is spinning.

  “No. I mean you don’t need to know about this. It just upsets you.”

  “Yeah, it upsets me that you’re screwing up your life. Just tell me. Did she sell you drugs? Is that how you knew her?” I practically spit the words at him and then I hold his eyes till he relents.

  “I met her through Keith,” he says, which doesn’t actually answer my question.

  “Were you there that night? Did you hurt her?”

  “Jesus, Daisy, of course I didn’t.” There’s a wounded expression in his eyes that makes him look like a little boy. “How can you even ask me that?”

  “Do you know who did?” I ask again.

  He looks away, his eyes shifting just the slightest bit. “No. I don’t know anything about it.” He looks back up at me imploringly. “God, Daisy, you’ve known me my whole life. You don’t actually think I could do something like this, do you? Murder someone?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m sorry.” I don’t think he did it, but I also know there’s some
thing he’s not telling me. Connor sits back down on the bed and pulls me to him. He links his fingers through mine, tugs me in close again. I rest my cheek against his chest, but when his hands start to travel under the fabric of my shirt, I sit up.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, but Connor can see right through me.

  “It’s Todd, right?”

  “How do you know about that?” I want to guard the other night from Connor.

  “He’s Bret’s brother.” Of course. It’s a small island. I should know better by now. “So what’s going on with you guys?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing.” I push myself up to sitting.

  “Not nothing. You spent the night there.”

  “God, how is that any of your business?” My face burns.

  He shrugs. “It’s not. Rich trust fund guy. That’s just what you’re looking for, right?” I’m surprised by the bitterness in his voice.

  “What do you care?” It’s always been me who’s wanted something more with Connor. He’s never been able to commit, and I’ve never made him. For a long time I figured it would happen when we got older, but it occurs to me now that it might not, that we could drift apart and eventually just be two people who grew up together. I don’t really know why I’ve come here or what the purpose of my questioning actually is. It only makes it clearer how much further apart Connor and I have grown.

  In the pocket of my coat, my phone beeps. I’m glad for the interruption, and I know Connor is relieved not to have to answer my question. It’s a text from Todd.

  Want to get breakfast?

  I’ve been wondering if I’d hear from him, and my pleasure must show on my face because Connor turns to me with a smirk.

  “Lover boy?”

  “Shut up.”

  Connor stretches like a cat, a strip of his pale torso expanding and retracting beneath the ratty tee shirt. I hold my phone in my hand, wanting to write back, wanting to say yes, but not in front of Connor.