But I can’t do that. Not with her tears soaking into my shirt.
I brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. “What did you find?”
Her face crumples, and she presses her face into my shoulder. I expect a fresh round of tears, but she breathes through it and speaks into my shirt. Her voice is very small. “She was cheating.”
“She was what?”
“She was cheating. On my father. She came home three days earlier than we thought.”
Oh. Oh, wow.
“So the pictures . . .”
“I didn’t know what to expect, you know? I thought maybe they’d be shots for work, or maybe some interesting people she met. She’d do that sometimes, take pictures of people who caught her eye, not because she thought they belonged in the New York Times, but because she thought they deserved to be captured on film.”
“But they weren’t.”
“No.” She snorts, and it’s partly a sob. “They were shots of her in bed with her editor.”
My eyebrows practically hit my hairline. “In bed? Like—”
“In bed. Naked. No mistake.”
“Naked?”
“Yes. Naked.”
“Wow.”
“I hate her.” The words fall out of her mouth like daggers. She’s tense against me now. Rage is building, replacing the misery.
“You developed the pictures at school?”
She nods stiffly against me.
“Was a teacher there?”
“No. He went to get coffee so I could develop them alone.”
“I bet he would have crapped his pants.”
She giggles in surprise. It’s a good sound, and I’d give anything to make her laugh again, especially now.
“Probably,” she says. She straightens to look at me, and her expression sobers. We sit in the mist, breathing the scent of rain and cut grass.
I want to reach out and pull her against me again.
I can’t. I have no idea how much she knows, and the not knowing is killing me.
Tell her. Tell her. Tell her.
Before I can, she shifts away, sitting up against the gravestone. It puts an inch between us, but it might as well be a mile. “God. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my father.”
“Do you have to tell him anything?”
“I don’t know.” She turns to look at me, and her mouth is a hand’s width away from mine. “It seems unfair to tell him—but it seems unfair to watch him mourn a woman who doesn’t deserve it.”
“None of it’s fair, Juliet.” I shake my head and think of Alan. “None of it.”
“I know.” Her voice is soft, her eyes heavy with resignation.
“I know you know.”
“If it were your father, would you tell him?”
She’s still so close, and her words are so intimate, it’s like our exchanges as Cemetery Girl and The Dark. I could close my eyes and forget our real lives and talk to her forever.
“Yes,” I say.
She snorts and looks away. “Of course you would. You’re not afraid to tell anyone anything.”
I go still, unsure if that’s an insult or a compliment.
Unsure if what she’s said carries any truth at all.
Rev called me a martyr for not reaching out last May, when I sat in that police station, terrified when the officers said that no one was coming for me until the next day. But there’s only so much rejection you can take before you finally give up and stop trying.
Or maybe me thinking that is exactly what he means.
Juliet looks back at me and swipes at her cheeks. “I’m sorry I lost it.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
“I know . . .” She hesitates, then finds courage. “I know you don’t want to talk to me anymore.”
I stare into her eyes. Is she talking to me, or is she talking to The Dark? I have tangled this up so thoroughly that I have no way of knowing.
Tell her.
“Oh, Juliet,” I say softly. I rake a hand through my hair. “That’s not it at all.”
She rotates until she’s sitting on her knees, putting her eye to eye with me. “Then what is it?”
“We’re traveling different paths,” I say. “And yours will lead you out of this mess. Mine seems determined to run me into the ground.”
She goes very still. A breeze runs through the cemetery and cuts between us. Her eyes narrow, just a little, and she looks at me carefully. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I saw you.” Heat finds my cheeks, and I point at the mower. “I work here. Sort of.”
“Community service.” There’s no judgment in her voice.
I find her eyes and wish this moment could stretch on forever. “Yeah.”
“Juliet!” A middle-aged man is running across the cemetery, slipping on the grass a bit. “Juliet!”
She scrambles to her feet. “Dad!”
Even from fifty feet away, the relief on his face is visible. “Oh thank god,” he calls. “Thank god.”
“What’s wrong?” she says. Tears are in her voice again.
Then he gets to us, and he sweeps her into his arms. “Your teacher said you left a mess and ran out of there. We’ve been so worried. I was going to call the police.”
He’s holding her so tight, and Juliet is crying. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. We can go home.”
I take a step back, away from them. I’m on the outside, looking in. A real family on display right here in front of me. I’m pretty sure her dad isn’t going to get her home and crack open a case of beer—or start telling her that he’s counting the minutes until she ends up behind bars.
I stoop and fetch my gloves from the ground. Frank is going to come around here any minute and start going on about how we’re losing light.
“Wait!” Juliet pulls away from her father, and once again, she’s breathless and looking up at me. “Declan.”
I hold myself at a distance. The spell is broken. “Juliet.”
She closes that distance, though, and then does one better. She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me forward. For half a second, my brain explodes because I think we’re going to have a movie moment and she’s going to kiss me. And then it’s going to be super awkward because of her father.
But no, she’s only pulling me close to whisper. Her breath is warm on my cheek, sweet and perfect.
“We were wrong,” she says. “You make your own path.”
Then she spins, grabs her father’s hand, and leaves me there in the middle of the cemetery.
Dusk cloaks the streets when I finally leave the cemetery, and the drizzle seems to be keeping people off the roads. My heart can’t find a steady rhythm in my chest and instead seems content to alternate between lighthearted skipping and drunken stumbling. I’m heading for Rev’s, but adrenaline races beneath my skin in short bursts. Everything feels undone, a scattered mess of emotions that keep drifting away when I try to gather them into some kind of order.
You make your own path, she said.
I’ve been thinking about that since she left with her father, winding it up with Rev’s martyr comment, and letting it spin through my thoughts. We were wrong.
A car ahead sits on the shoulder, flashers blazing through the mist. Déjà vu hits me square in the chest—this is right where I helped Juliet.
Then I realize I recognize this car, too. It’s a silver sedan that tries to be pretentious but fails miserably, like the guy wanted a BMW but could only afford a Buick.
I know this because it’s Alan’s car.
He’s standing beside the car, on his cell phone, looking down at the hood.
For a tenth of a second, I think about running him over.
Okay, maybe a full second.
Steam is escaping from beneath the hood. Alan looks up as I approach. His face looks expectant. He must be waiti
ng for a tow truck.
I see him recognize my car. I see him wait to see if I’ll stop.
I see a big target in khaki pants and a button-down shirt.
His words from this morning pelt my skin as if he’s shooting me with a pellet gun.
I think about how I stood on those stairs and apologized, and they said nothing. They did nothing.
I clench suddenly shaking fingers on the steering wheel and keep going.
And then, out of nowhere, a line from that stupid poem pops into my head.
I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.
I brake and turn around at the next cross street. My heart keeps cranking along in a syncopated rhythm, and I’m not sure if I’m going to help Alan or if I’m going to punch him in his stupid face.
When I pull over and stop behind his car, his eyes register surprise, but he’s good at tamping it down. His phone is still pressed to his ear, and when I step out of my car, he shoos me off with his hand.
“I’m fine,” he calls. “Go ahead.”
He is such a prick.
I head toward him anyway. Steam continues curling from beneath the hood. The idiot hasn’t even turned the car off. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”
“I’m on the phone with the auto club right now.”
“So, what? You’re going to stand out in the rain for two hours? Pop the hood, Alan.”
He puts a hand over the speaker. “Go on home, Declan. I don’t need you.”
“Trust me. I got the memo.” I open the door to his car anyway and pull the lever to pop the hood. Then I turn the keys to kill the engine.
When I straighten, Alan is right there. The phone is gone from his ear.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“I’m stealing your car,” I tell him. “Call the cops.”
He sets his jaw and glares at me, but I step around him and lift the hood. Steam pours from the engine and we both have to step back, waving it away.
Then we both stand there, staring at the engine.
In a flash, I remember standing like this with my father. He’d quiz me and clap me on the shoulder when I got everything right. Then he’d call to one of his buddies in the shop and tell him to come listen to “the kid” rattle off the engine components of a 1964 Thunderbird. I still remember what it felt like to be a part of something.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.
Alan clears his throat. “See anything?”
“Yeah. I see a blown top radiator hose.” I point to where the black rubber has obviously cracked open.
“So I need a tow truck anyway.” He sounds a little smug.
“Sure,” I say. “If you want to pay a mechanic three hundred bucks. All you really need is twenty dollars and an open AutoZone. I could fix it in ten minutes.”
He studies me. His jaw twitches.
This is killing him.
I wish I could say I was loving this. I’m not. I’m exhausted.
“Come on, Alan. I spent the last three hours working at the cemetery. Do you want my help or not?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but some of the apprehension has leaked out of his expression, and he’s evaluating me.
Does he think I’m screwing him somehow? I don’t need to stand here for this. I turn and head for my car. “Fine. Whatever. Wait for Triple-A.” I slide behind the wheel of my Charger and turn the key. She fires right up.
“Wait!” Alan jogs through the path of my headlights, then stops at my passenger-side door. He pulls up on the handle, but it’s locked.
I heave a sigh and lean over to flip the lock. A moment later he’s in the seat beside me, and we’re both so uncomfortable it’s a miracle I can put the car in gear. In a weird way, it reminds me of the night Juliet sat beside me. Alan has pulled so far away from me that if I hit a turn hard enough, he’ll go rolling out.
My eyes flick his way. “You think I’m going to shank you or something?”
His eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes.”
He swears under his breath and shifts in his seat. It puts him about a tenth of an inch closer to me.
We drive in absolute silence for a few miles.
“Do you really think you can fix it that easily?” he says.
“Yes.”
More silence.
A cough. An uncomfortable shifting in the seat again. “You know where there’s an open auto shop?”
“No, I’m looking for a cliff. Buckle up.”
His eyes flash with anger. “Watch the attitude.”
“Thank you, Declan,” I say under my breath. “I really appreciate you taking the time to—”
“You want to say something to me, kid? Say it.”
“Fine.” I jerk the wheel to the right and all but slam to a stop on the shoulder. The emergency brake cranks hard under my foot, and I unbuckle my seat belt.
Alan doesn’t move, but I can feel the apprehension in the car, like maybe I drove him out here so I’d have a place to dispose of the body. I don’t deserve that, and yesterday’s Declan might have slunk out of the car and walked home.
You make your own path.
This one’s going to take a bulldozer. I’m not sure what’s going to come out of my mouth, but I inhale to speak.
“Wait,” says Alan. His voice is quiet, almost hushed. He’s put up a hand between us, but he’s staring out the windshield. “Wait.”
The word is thrown down like a gauntlet. I wait.
“You’re right,” he says. “Thank you.”
Even my heart stops for a moment, to make sure I heard him correctly.
He doesn’t stop there. “I owe you an apology for what I said to you this morning, too.” His voice is rough, but steady. “I was way out of line.”
It’s a good thing I’ve got the car on the side of the road because I’d be veering into a ditch right about now. I keep my eyes on the steering wheel. I don’t know if I want this apology—but hearing the words chips away at something inside me.
“I’m not my father,” I say. I finally look over. “And I want you to stop treating me like I am.”
“I know.” He nods slowly. “I know you’re not.” He’s quiet for a contemplative moment. “But . . . you sure don’t miss a moment to remind me that I’m not, either.”
I go still. “What are you talking about?”
He looks over at me. “I may not know about muscle cars or run an auto shop or drink hard liquor or smoke cigars or whatever hypermasculine things your dad did, Declan, but I’m not a bad man. Just because I know more about insurance regulations than carburetors doesn’t mean I’m some pathetic loser. I love your mother, and I treat her well. I make a good living, and I do my best to provide for both of you. But never—not once—have you spoken to me without contempt.”
I think of my savings, dried up in an instant for my legal defense fund. I think about their wedding night, when he left me in jail. I set my jaw and glare out the windshield. “That goes both ways.”
“I know.”
We both fall quiet, until the whisper of rain on the roof of the car fills the space between us with white noise. It’s late, and I should drive, but this is the first time Alan and I have spoken directly to each other. It’s infuriating, but it’s also addictive. I don’t want to stop. I want to see where it goes.
No, I want to see where I can take it.
I peer over at him. “Why?”
“Do you want the honest answer?”
I don’t know. “Yes.”
He rubs at his jaw. “I love your mother, but in a way, she’s very passive. She has a good spirit, but she’s too permissive. It’s easy for her to get taken advantage of. When we first started dating and I learned about your father, then saw how much freedom she gave you, combined with your attitude . . . I built a picture in my head. I thought I had you all figured out. I thought you needed someone to set limits.” He hesitates, and his voice turns rueful.
“I didn’t realize that your mother and father left you to figure out your own limits, way before I came around.”
His voice is calm, reasonable. In a way, I don’t want to trust it, but this feels like the truth. “I don’t know what that means.”
His voice is low and steady. “It means you refused to get in that car with your father.”
My breath catches before I’m ready for it—but I will not cry in front of him. I speak through the gathering warmth in my chest, but my voice is barely more than a whisper. “I was selfish.”
“Kid, there’s a big difference between selfish and self-preservation.” He pauses, then looks away. “Until this morning, I wasn’t aware of your role in your father’s drinking. I had no idea.”
I have to clear my throat, but my voice is still rough. “You knew about Kerry.”
“I knew your sister died, and your father was responsible. I had no idea they expected you to cover for him. Not like that.” Alan pauses, and his voice has an edge. “I was so angry when she told me this morning.”
I study him. I want that to be a lie. Every breath makes my throat feel raw.
He shakes his head, and he looks like life has thrown him up against a wall a few times, too, now that I’m staring at him. “I can’t even stay mad at her. Abby has been so anxious about you and this baby,” he said. His breath shudders, just a bit. “So anxious. I think that’s what might have put her in the hospital. All this stress, plus everything she eats makes her sick.”
Anger and shame make me want to curl in on myself. I feel like a monster again. “I would never hurt her.” My voice shakes. “I’d never hurt the baby.”
“Hurt your mom?” He looks stunned. “We weren’t worried you’d hurt your mom. Or the baby.”
“But you said—”
“We were worried about you, Declan.” He’s turned to face me fully now. “We were worried about you hurting yourself.”
I press my arms against my stomach and clench my eyes shut.
“Don’t you know that?” he says. “Every time you walk out of the house, she’s terrified you’re going to do it again.”
No. I didn’t know that. I had no idea. I think of her face on the night of the Homecoming dance, the way her eyes stared up into mine, the softness of her fingers as she pushed the hair back from my face.