I know you won’t. There’s trust in those words, and it’s not something I expected to hear from him.
He tosses the keys to me. “I’ll pull my car in front of yours and hook it up. Don’t try to start it until I say so, okay?”
“Okay.” I hesitate, my fingers wrapping around the keys until the teeth bite into my palm. “Thanks.”
My car fires right up when connected to his battery. He sits in his vehicle and I sit in mine, and I’m surprised to find there’s a small part of me that wishes our conversation hadn’t ended right then. I feel like there’s so much more to say—which is ridiculous because I don’t know him at all.
After a few minutes, he unhooks the jumper cables and comes to my window. “You okay to drive?” he asks.
I nod.
“I wasn’t kidding about the battery,” he says.
My mouth is dry. “I know.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you home.” He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns around and walks back to his car.
I drive cautiously, glad his headlights are in my rear window. It’s well after eleven now. I have no idea what happened in the last half hour, but I feel completely off-kilter. I replay our interaction about the photograph. Rev’s hesitation makes sense now. So does Declan’s vehemence about my deleting it.
It makes Brandon’s insults seem all the more cutting. Declan was right, how it’s all but a capital offense to say some things, but you can tear down someone like him without worrying about repercussions. I think back to that first moment in the hallway, when I crashed into him and spilled his coffee, but he was the one sent to the office. Even the teachers expect the worst from him. I know I did. If you’d asked me to name guys at school who’d get down on the ground in the rain to change a girl’s tire, Declan wouldn’t have made the list.
And tonight he was the only person to stop.
I suddenly want to apologize for the way all of our interactions have gone. The misunderstandings weren’t entirely my fault, but I think he knows that, too. He’s guarded, like I am. I can let a few links out of my armor—especially since he offered a small degree of trust, without asking for anything in return. It’s so unexpected.
I remember that I’m supposed to be doing the unexpected, too.
I’m sorry, I’ll say when we get to my house. Maybe we can start over.
I pull into my driveway and glance in my rearview mirror, expecting him to stop and wait for me to get out.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t even slow down. Declan zooms off into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Friday, October 4 11:32:53 PM
Subject: Home
I wanted to let you know that I made it home safely.
I hope you’re okay.
My house is mostly dark, which is a surprise. I half expect Alan to come charging out, screaming threats about curfew and Cheltenham and how I’m a good-for-nothing punk.
But no one comes out. I turn off the car and sit in the silence for a minute, reading her email again.
I should have told her.
Now I have no idea how to unravel this.
When I knocked on Juliet’s car window, I thought she would figure it out immediately. I expected her to explode with fury, kind of the way I felt when I discovered she was Cemetery Girl.
I didn’t expect to find her crying into her hands.
Even now, it pulls at something inside me, and my brain is struggling to reconcile the girl from my letters and emails with the girl who sneered at me about smoking and accused me of spiking the punch.
Better get back on the dance floor, princess. Wouldn’t want anyone to catch you slumming with the losers.
Remembering my words makes me wince. Going to this dance meant something to her.
And then I had to crap all over it.
My phone pings, and I jump, expecting a message from Cemetery Girl.
Juliet, I think. I need to remember she’s not some anonymous girl anymore. She’s Juliet.
Either way, it’s not her. It’s a text from Rev.
RF: Did you go back and help her?
DM: Yes
RF: I knew it.
I turn off the phone and shove it in my pocket. He’ll send more messages until he drags the whole story out of me, but I need some time to analyze it myself.
The house looks so quiet I wonder if Alan is waiting inside to drop the hammer. Anxiety chains me to the steering wheel. If he wanted to get into it, if he wanted to fight, I wouldn’t hesitate. But Alan doesn’t fight with fists and anger. He fights with court appointments and police officers.
The nights I spent in jail last May were terrifying enough. I don’t want to go through it again—especially when there might not be an end point.
Finally, my unease about confrontation is eclipsed by my fear of doing nothing, of being found in the driveway, paralyzed with indecision. I get out of the car and walk up to the front door.
My key whispers in the lock, and the front foyer is dark. I wonder if fate has offered me the first stroke of luck I’ve seen in years. Only a small light at the base of the stairwell is lit, along with the night-light in the upstairs hallway. I stand in complete silence for a full minute. The house is hushed. They must be sleeping.
Tension drains out of me, leaving me a bit giddy. I smile in the dark. This is awesome.
Then I hear the cough. Two coughs. Then the clear sound of someone vomiting. I don’t know what about the noise is feminine, but it’s not Alan.
I follow the sound to the back bathroom, the one in the mudroom behind the kitchen. The door isn’t even closed, but my mother is there, kneeling on the floor, heaving her dinner into the toilet. She’s wearing one of Alan’s T-shirts and a pair of stretch pants. A tissue is clenched in her hand.
“Mom?” I sound afraid. I can’t help it. In a flash, I’m ten years old again, watching my father doing the same thing. This is different, though. She’s not sliding off the toilet. The air isn’t thick with booze. “Mom, are you okay?”
She nods with her eyes closed, then wipes at her mouth. She kneels there and breathes against the toilet for a long moment.
She’s as pale as the porcelain beside her face. I go stand next to her, but I’m not sure what to do. “Do you want me to get Alan?”
“No.” Her voice is raw. “No, it’s fine. I don’t think dinner agreed with me.”
“Do you want more tissues?”
At first she shakes her head, but then she nods. I retrieve the box by the kitchen sink and set it beside her. Then I fill a glass with water and bring it back.
She flushes the toilet, then rises to sit on the lid.
“Water?” I hold it out.
She cringes like I’m offering her poison.
“To rinse your mouth out?” I suggest.
“Okay.” She does, then spits in the sink. After another long breath, she washes her face and hands.
I hang in the doorway, feeling completely useless. “Do you want me to help you upstairs?”
She shakes her head. “I think I’ll sit on the couch for a while until this passes.”
“Okay.” That sounds like a dismissal, but I’m not sure I should leave her.
She straightens and looks at me more fully. Her eyes widen. “You look so nice, Declan. I didn’t realize this was a dress-up dance.” She smooths the shirt over my shoulder, straightening my tie as if it matters.
I freeze under her touch.
She looks up at me. “Did you get caught in the rain?”
“I helped a friend change a tire.” I hesitate. “That’s why I was a little late.”
“Is it late? I dozed off while I was waiting, and then . . .” She makes a face, then glances at the toilet. “Let’s go sit on the couch. I need to sit down.”
We go sit on the couch. She doesn’t want the lights on, so we sit in the dark, barely more than sha
dows.
“Is Alan in bed already?” I ask.
“Yes. He’s going into the office in the morning, and you know I don’t mind burning the midnight oil.”
I’m glad she was the one up, though finding her puking in the back of the house still has me unsettled. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yes.” She puts a hand on my arm and squeezes. “We picked up some steamed shrimp at the market, and you know what that does to you if it’s even a little sour.”
I can’t remember the last time she’s touched me, and now it’s been twice in three minutes. I feel like I’ve walked into the twilight zone. “Kristin said you were sick last week, too.”
“Oh!” Mom looks surprised. “That was a summer cold.”
“It’s October.”
She gives me an exasperated look. “Declan.”
“What?” I sound petulant. “I’m just asking.”
“Tell me about the dance. Did you have a nice time?”
“No.”
She sighs.
Way too much history exists between us for Mom and me to have a postmortem about Homecoming. “I didn’t.”
She puts her hands on my face, pushing my hair back from my forehead. I expect her to make some kind of dig about my haircut, but instead her hand stops there, her thumb stroking my temple. Her eyes are locked on mine.
I don’t move.
“You’re kind of freaking me out,” I whisper.
She doesn’t smile. “I feel like you’re growing up and I’m not a part of it.”
I don’t correct her. I feel exactly the same way.
I jerk my eyes away and push her hand off my forehead. “I’m going to get out of these wet clothes.”
She lets me go without protest, and the most microscopic part of me wants her to hang on. Instead, I’m halfway up the stairs before I even chance a glance at her.
I expected her to be fiddling with the remote controls, but instead, she’s watching me.
I clear my throat and keep my voice down, because the last thing I want to do is wake Alan. “Do you want me to bring you a blanket?”
She smiles, and there’s something uncertain about it. “That would be very nice. Thank you.”
By the time I return downstairs with the white fleece throw from the guest room, she’s stretched out on the couch, watching HGTV.
“Do you remember this?” she says. “We used to watch all the decorating shows together during your summer vacation.”
Yes, I remember. We always did that while folding laundry. It was the worst kind of torture.
I think about her hand on my forehead. Maybe not the worst kind of torture.
I spread the blanket over my mother. “Do you want anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Declan.”
I hesitate, and she looks up at me. “I’ll be fine.” She reaches out and takes my hand in her small one, then shakes it a bit. “Don’t you worry about me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
From: The Dark
To: Cemetery Girl
Date: Saturday, October 5 01:06:47 AM
Subject: Tonight
I’m sorry I was late tonight. I had to drop a friend off first. He was flipping out about curfew. By the time I got to your car, I saw someone else had stopped. I didn’t want to make it awkward.
I’m glad you’re okay.
And if I’m being totally honest, I’m glad we haven’t met yet.
By morning, the rain moved out, leaving even colder temperatures. I dig a sweater out of my dresser and pull knee-high boots over my jeans. Comfort clothes, which seem so necessary after my evening with Declan Murphy. I still feel a bit raw.
My father finds me eating cereal in the kitchen, and he stops dead in the doorway. “You’re . . . up early.”
I’m always up before he is, but I’m not usually home on Saturday mornings. I glance up from the magazine I’ve been flipping through. “Is that all right?”
“Of course.” He moves to the counter and stops again. “You made coffee, too?”
“I needed a cup.”
He fetches a mug from the cabinet and pours himself some. I flip another page in the magazine.
“How was the dance?” he asks. “I would have waited up if I’d known you were coming back here.”
I lift a spoonful of cornflakes to my mouth and shrug. “It was fine. Rowan was having a good time with Brandon Cho, so I didn’t want to be a third wheel.”
Rowan had sent me a flurry of worried texts around midnight, when she must have plugged in her phone. I told her someone stopped to help and that I’d made it home without a problem.
I haven’t mentioned Declan Murphy yet. I’m still trying to figure that out on my own.
Dad eases into the chair across from me. He’s freshly showered and clean-shaven, wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He looks more alert than I’ve seen him in weeks.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
“I was going to head to Home Depot to get covers for the outdoor furniture. Then I was going to tackle the leaves.” He pauses. “Feel like helping me?”
“Helping you rake leaves?”
He smiles, but it seems tentative. “I’m taking it that’s a no.”
I shake my head and take another spoonful of cornflakes. “I’ll help. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We sit there in silence for the longest time. He unfolds the morning paper and starts reading the business section. I see him glance my way several times, but he doesn’t say a word. The perfume ads in the magazine are giving me a headache, but if I close it, I’ll be forced to talk to him, and I have no idea what to say.
When he gets up for a second cup of coffee, he clears his throat. His voice is very careful. “You didn’t feel like going to the cemetery this morning?”
“I can’t.” More cereal. “My car needs a new battery.”
He turns and looks at me. “Since when?”
“Since . . . I don’t know. A few weeks. It broke down last night.”
“You broke down?” He looks appalled. “And you didn’t call?”
“I did. You were already in bed.”
“Jules, I’m sorry.” He sits back at the table. “I wish you’d said something.”
He hasn’t called me by my nickname since before Mom died. It throws me for a second, and my mouth freezes around my words. I have to swallow before speaking. “It was okay. A friend from school jumped it and followed me home. I just don’t want to take a chance with it anywhere else.”
“I’ll call the shop and see if they can take care of it today. You’re sure it’s the battery?”
“Um. No.” I can feel myself blushing. I don’t know what that’s about. “My friend said the tires are bald, too. He had to change one.”
“I’ll call now. Home Depot can wait.”
He calls and sets up an appointment for later this morning. I shift in my seat uncomfortably. The agreement when I got the car was that I would pay for all the maintenance and fuel myself. That was back when I’d planned to get a job over the summer, instead of blowing through my modest savings driving back and forth to the cemetery and school.
“Do you know how much all this will cost?” I say when he hangs up.
He hesitates. “A new battery and four new tires? A lot.”
My heart sinks. “Maybe we can ask them if the tires are really that bad.”
“If you need them, you need them. I don’t want you driving if it’s not safe.”
“Okay.” I do some mental calculations, trying to remember how much I have left in my savings account. It’s not a whole lot. “Can you give me a ballpark guess on how much?”
“At least an afternoon of leaf-raking. Maybe mowing the lawn, too.”
I look at him to see if he’s serious. “But you paid for my dress last night.”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “
I can help you out.” He pauses. “Is that all right?”
“Yeah.” I sniff and shovel cereal in my mouth before emotion can get the best of me. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He stirs his coffee idly, then turns another page in the newspaper. “Ian called me again.”
Mom’s editor. I freeze. “Why?”
“He said he had someone looking for a Nikon F6 and wanted to double-check whether we were interested in selling that one.”
The F6 was Mom’s film camera. The body alone cost a couple thousand dollars, so it’s not a light offer. Mom normally used her digital cameras for field work because everything could be uploaded quickly from anywhere, and she didn’t have to worry about film getting damaged. She loved the permanence of film, how you couldn’t just delete an image and try again.
One shot, she used to tell me. Sometimes that’s all you get.
“No.” My voice comes out husky, and I try again. “Not yet.”
He nods. “That’s what I told him.”
“Thanks, Dad.” On impulse, I get out of my chair and hug him. I can’t remember the last time I did this, but I need the connection right now.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He hugs me back, like we’ve been this hugging family unit all along.
“Never is okay, you know,” he murmurs.
I draw back a bit. “What?”
“You said ‘not yet.’” He looks at me. “I’ll leave it up to you. But ‘never’ is okay, too, Jules. Never is always okay.”
Rowan and I sprawl on the swings on opposite ends of her front porch. Late-afternoon sunlight has turned the street gold, and the breeze is strong enough to make me glad for the sweater.
My swing is still, my feet propped on the armrest at the end. I’m tired from raking with Dad but glad for my new battery and four shiny new tires. Rowan has a foot on the ground, and she gives herself a solid push every few seconds. Her swing creaks with the effort.
Cartoon hearts and flowers are oozing from every pore of her body. She hasn’t shut up about Brandon since I got here.
I’m happy for her, though. I haven’t seen Ro crush this hard on a boy in . . . ever.