One of Thomas’s uncles interrupts this little scene with a request for a second slice of cake. “Duty calls,” Thomas says apologetically. “Laurel, if you want to stay with Faith, I can take care of this.” But then the uncle sticks out his hand to her and says, “Laurel Logan, it is such a pleasure to meet you.” She turns away to talk to him. No wonder it’s taking the two of them so long to distribute the cake—everyone wants the chance to talk to Laurel. She didn’t need to dress up like that to get people to notice her; all she had to do was step through the door.
I sit in a corner with Martha and drink. We pour the wine into empty Coke cans in case Thomas’s mom happens to come over. I drink so much that Martha tells me it might be a good idea to slow down a bit. “But we’re supposed to be celebrating!” There’s no hint of a smile on my face when I say this.
Martha asks me what’s up. “Is it Laurel?”
I clink my can against Martha’s, so hard that some wine sloshes onto the table.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say, adding “Thanks” as an afterthought.
Martha shrugs; she knows better than to push it.
“Mind if I join you ladies?” Martha and I look up to see a guy a couple of years older than us, shaved head, stubbled jaw. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt with a scooped neckline, as if he has cleavage to show off. He looks, in short, like someone Martha and I would never talk to (and also, coincidentally, like someone who would never talk to us).
I gesture to the spare seat next to me. “Go ahead.” I ignore the glare that Martha’s sure to be giving me and turn to face the guy. “Are you a cousin, then?”
“I am a cousin, as it happens. Most people are, aren’t they?” He smiles. He thinks he’s being charming and amusing. “I’m Steve. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I will let him sit next to me and try his best to be charming and amusing, because I need the distraction. The more I look at him, the more distracting he becomes. I just wish he’d stop talking.
Martha is not happy, especially when she discovers that Steve is essentially a gate-crasher. He was downstairs watching the game and came upstairs “to take a piss.” Martha wrinkles her nose in disgust at that little nugget of information. “The bathrooms are downstairs. Obviously.”
Steve laughs. “Well, I know that now, don’t I?”
“So hadn’t you better go, then? We wouldn’t want you having an accident, would we?” Normally Martha’s snideness would make me laugh, but now it just seems rude.
“Thank you for your concern about the state of my bladder. I appreciate it, I really do. But I went for a piss and came back up here, so we’re all good. The game was dull anyway. I’d much rather spend my time talking to beautiful ladies.” The way he says ladies is almost too much for me. Laydeeez. “So whose party is this, anyway?”
“Her boyfriend’s,” Martha supplies helpfully.
“Boyfriend, eh? Fair enough. Which one is he, then, this boyfriend of yours? If I had a girlfriend like you, I wouldn’t leave you alone for a second. You never know who’s going to swoop in, do you?”
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you very much. I don’t need him to protect me.” I sound prim and awful, but Steve doesn’t seem to care.
He lifts his head and gives me a look—the look, you might call it—and says, “I’d swoop in on you any day of the week, and twice on Sunday!”
“What does that even mean?” Martha’s had enough now. I’m glad, because I’d quite like her to go away. “I’m going to the bathroom.” It’s as if she read my mind. “Will you be okay?” she asks me as she stands.
“Of course she will!” Steve says, patting my knee. “I’ll take care of her.” I don’t look at him to check, but I’m willing to bet he accompanies this with a wink. Martha’s facial expression seems to suggest as much anyway.
I learn a lot about Steve in the next few minutes. He’s twenty-one years old, studying tourism at the local college. He’s the youngest of three brothers. He likes drinking, clubbing, and girls, mostly. He asks me what clubs I go to and seems disappointed when I say “None.” He says we should go clubbing together sometime—“As friends…I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes!”—and asks for my number.
I surprise myself by giving it to him. That’s probably when I realize I am drunk. Completely wasted, not just halfway there. “So can I call you, then? Your boyfriend won’t mind?” His hand is on my thigh. His hand is heavier than Thomas’s. Meatier, somehow.
“Am I supposed to believe that you’d care if he did mind?”
“You got me there.” Steve laughs. I like his laugh; it’s genuine. Real.
I know I should tell him to move his hand, especially when I catch Dawn staring at me. But I don’t. I tell myself that if he moves his hand higher up, then I’ll say something. It’s perfectly okay to touch someone’s leg—it’s friendly. Reassuring. It doesn’t have to be sexual, does it? Anyway, it’s not as if I’m touching him. I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, drinking more than is good for me.
“Seriously, though, which one is he? No, wait, let me guess…Is it that guy?”
“No.”
“That one? The one with the nose?”
“Well, you’re getting closer. My boyfriend does indeed have a nose.”
Steve makes several more guesses, and I say no each time. He even makes me stand and crane my neck to see guys on the other side of the room. At least that solves the hand-on-leg problem.
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you? You don’t have a boyfriend, do you? Your friend just said that to try to get rid of me.” We sit down, and he moves his chair even closer to mine.
Steve is talking, but I’m not listening. I’m looking around the room. But I’m not looking for Thomas; I’m looking for the flash of red. I’m looking for the telltale crowd of adoring fans, but I don’t see it. I spy Martha, back with the kids from school. She’s obviously decided to leave me to make my own mistakes. I thought friends were supposed to stop you from doing things you’ll regret, instead of running off at the first hint of trouble.
“So what do you say? You up for it?” Steve whispers, and I realize he’s sitting so close he’s practically on my lap.
“Up for what?” As if it’s not completely obvious.
“Getting out of here…You can come back to my place.”
I laugh, and at first Steve laughs along with me, but after a couple of seconds he realizes my laugh isn’t the flirtatious, conspiratorial one he was expecting. It is not a nice sort of laugh at all. I stand, a little unsteadily this time. “There is no way I would ever, ever do that. I mean…ever.” His face is a picture.
I walk away without another word, without bumping into anyone (although there are a couple of near misses). I say hi to Dawn as I pass by, and she pretends not to hear me.
I feel a little bit sick. Whether that’s down to the alcohol or having acted completely out of character, I can’t say. I should probably go to the bathroom in case I really do need to throw up. But there’s something I have to do first.
Thomas is nowhere to be seen. My sister is nowhere to be seen. I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.
—
It’s funny, really. When you read about these things or see them on TV, it’s always this huge shock. This big, dramatic reveal to end the chapter or just before the credits roll. The girl or the woman—it’s hardly ever a man—never seems to know. It’s like Dad’s always saying about those boring old war movies he loves so much: as soon as a character says something like I’m getting married next month or My wife is having a baby—due any day now, you know they’re dead meat. So I suppose in this case it would be something like My boyfriend and I are sooooo happy together or Tonight I realized I really do love him after all.
Dead meat. Except I’m not dying. But when I see them together, my heart certainly feels like a lump of dead meat nestled inside my rib cage.
I knew. As I c
hecked downstairs and outside and in the bathroom, I knew. When I finally went to open that door—the one marked PRIVATE—I knew what I would find on the other side. I didn’t need to see them together; it would only make things harder for me. But I wanted them to know that I knew.
There are chairs stacked up haphazardly against the walls. A strip light on the ceiling bathes the room in a sickly yellow glow. She is standing with her back to the door. He is standing, too. He has one hand on her back. I can’t see what her hands are doing, which is just as well, I suppose.
Thomas looks over Laurel’s shoulder and sees me standing there. “Wait! It’s not…” I stare at him. He doesn’t finish his sentence, thank god. It’s not what you think. One of the oldest clichés in the book.
Laurel turns around, and the expression on her face isn’t what I expect. It’s not shock or embarrassment or shame or even surprise. It’s impossible to read, notable only for its nothingness. She doesn’t say a word.
Thomas moves away from Laurel, like he’s afraid she might lunge at him again. Because that’s what must have happened. There is no question in my mind about who is more to blame here. Of course, there’s still enough blame to go around for Thomas to have his fair share. But this was her fault; she made this happen. “Faith, I can explain! Can we talk about this? Please?” Thomas begs.
“No. We can’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I never want to talk to you again.” I’m amazed that I’m not crying. I am made of steel and ice.
“Faith, please! Don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. We were just…” His words trail off into nothing. Thomas takes a couple of steps toward me, and I step back. His eyes are pleading, but I am made of steel and ice.
“I mean it. Don’t call me, don’t come over to the house, don’t talk to me at school. We’re finished.” Just like that. My first relationship, over. Steel. Ice.
Thomas looks pissed off. He actually has the nerve to be annoyed at me. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was going out with you in the first place. You know full well I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near you if I’d known you were only interested in finding out more about my sister.”
That shocks them both; I almost smile. “What are you talking about?” he says.
“I had a nice little chat with your aunt earlier. She told me all about it. Your ‘true crime’ phase or whatever. Who do you think you are? Sherlock Fucking Holmes?”
“What is she talking about?” Laurel asks Thomas, but he just shakes his head.
“Oh, did he forget to mention it to you as well? So it turns out that Thomas here got a little bit too interested in your story. Read all the books, watched all the TV shows. Probably had a fucking scrapbook for all I know.”
“Is this true?” Her expression is still unreadable, her voice almost bored.
Thomas is squirming now. “It’s not as bad as it sounds…honestly.”
I laugh. “And this”—I gesture with my hand—“is not as bad as it looks, I suppose? You two deserve each other. Really. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
I open the door to leave, but close it again because there’s something else I have to say. I look at Laurel, still red-carpet fresh, out of place in this dingy little storage room. I know I shouldn’t say this. I know it’s wrong, even after everything she’s done. But I want to see her flinch. I want to see her feel something.
She stares at me, waiting. And I think maybe she knows what’s coming. I clear my throat, which has chosen this exact moment to close up, as if it’s trying to stop me from saying what I’m about to say.
I take one last look at Thomas before my gaze alights on her.
“I wish you’d never come back.”
She doesn’t flinch. There’s no hint of pain in her eyes. The first reaction is a slight tightening around the jaw. And maybe I’m imagining it—I must be, surely—because it almost looks like she nods.
“Faith!” Thomas is horrified.
I ignore him and address her. “I think it would be best if you stay at Mom’s tonight. I’m sure Thomas will make sure you get home safely.”
“What will I tell her? She’ll know something’s wrong,” says Laurel.
“I don’t care what you tell her. You could tell her you threw yourself at my boyfriend….” The tears arrive now, seconds before I was going to make my escape. “Or…or just make something up. You’re good at that.” I spit out these last words, hoping the venom in my voice will distract them from the tears spilling down my cheeks.
Thomas wants to put his arms around me. He wants to comfort me, I can tell. This must not happen. I must stay strong. “You know something, Thomas?” There’s hope in his face. He thinks that as long as I’m still here, talking, there’s a chance things will be okay. He’s wrong. I look at Laurel, who opens her mouth to speak (to apologize?). I get there first. “You don’t know how lucky you are—being an only child. Having siblings isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” A thought strikes me—a terrible thought, but no worse than what I’ve already said. One last shot at hurting her the way she’s hurt me.
“Then again,” I say, swiping at the tears on my face, “it’s not as if you’re my real sister anyway. Not by blood. If Mom and Dad had known how much pain you’d cause, I bet they never would have adopted you.”
I don’t wait to see her reaction—or his. I leave the room and head back to the party. I manage to get my coat and bag without bumping into Martha or Steve, then I leave. I walk to Dad and Michel’s place even though it takes nearly an hour. Martha texts to ask where I am. I tell her I’m not feeling very well—a lie that also happens to be the truth. She’s annoyed at me for bailing without saying anything, but I tell her I puked and that mollifies her somewhat.
Dad’s already in bed when I arrive. Michel is on the sofa, reading. Tonks is curled up next to him. I tell Michel the same lie I told Martha.
“Too much to drink?”
I nod and head to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
“Where’s your sister?” Michel follows me and leans against the counter, Tonks winding her way around his legs.
“She decided to stay at Mom’s.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? I’m not her keeper.” Sullen, childish.
“Okay, okay. Sorry I asked!” He’s wearing old tracksuit bottoms and a France rugby shirt. His feet are bare. His face is kind, attentive, worried. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I gulp down the water. God, I’m tempted to tell him everything. Every little thing I’ve been feeling and every not-so-little thing she’s done. Michel wouldn’t blame me for what I said to her. He would understand where those words came from—that dark, bitter place inside me. The place I’m usually so careful to keep hidden from the world.
I know I would feel better talking to him. And that he might make me see that there’s a way for Thomas and me to work through this. To get past the fact that he kissed my sister, and the fact that he lied to me all this time about not really knowing about her story. And Michel would put Laurel and me in a room together and force us to talk. Maybe she would explain why she did what she did. And perhaps I would understand, and we would hug and agree to forget all about it, because sisters shouldn’t let a boy come between them. Of course I would have to apologize, too. I’d have to say that I didn’t mean those things I said. That I am glad she came home. That the fact that we’re not actually related by blood means nothing to me. She’s my sister—always has been, always will be.
I look at Michel, and the temptation to break down is so strong that I can barely stand it. I close my eyes, down the rest of the water, then say, “There’s nothing to talk about. Thanks, though. And if you could forget to tell Dad about the barfing, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, ma chérie.”
“You’re a poet and don’t even know it.”
His eyebrow
s knit in confusion, and I even manage to crack a small smile. It feels normal, doing this. Michel and me staying up late after Dad’s gone to bed, talking about anything and everything. That’s how things used to be—before. Before Laurel. And with that thought, the moment—the tiny crumb of comfort of talking to Michel—is swept away.
I hug him good-night, and if he notices that I hold on a little too tight and for a little too long, he doesn’t say anything. I leave him in the kitchen, crouching down to pick up Tonks. “You sleep well, yes? You’ll feel better in the morning.”
I’m pretty sure he’s wrong about that.
I sleep surprisingly well and wake up at six-thirty. I’m not too hungover, which is pretty miraculous under the circumstances. There’s a text from Martha waiting on my phone. It takes me a while to decipher it (autocorrect gone wild, drunken fingers)—the gist is that she might have kissed that guy Steve. It’s so like Martha to say she might have done something that she blatantly has done. It’s unlike Martha to kiss a random guy, particularly one like Steve. I’m not sure how I feel about this.
Thomas has left three voice mails; I delete them without listening.
There are no messages of any kind from Laurel. I don’t know what to make of that. Is she sorry? Is she upset about what happened? Then that niggling question: is she even at home? When I close my eyes, it’s all too easy to picture the two of them together, in the back of his van. Thomas wouldn’t do that to me; I’m almost sure of that. But I can’t say the same about her.
Has Laurel been after him the whole time? Was that why she spied on us having sex? It doesn’t seem to add up, especially not when you consider everything that happened to her. For the first time, I consider the idea that maybe I got it wrong—that it wasn’t what it looked like. After all, what had I seen, really? The two of them standing close together, his hand on her back. The angle had meant that I couldn’t actually see if their mouths were touching. He could have been checking to see if she had something in her eye. They could have been whispering, exchanging secrets so sensitive they had to leave the party to find somewhere more private, and, even then, they needed to be whispered in case there were any recording devices in the immediate vicinity.