“Thought we weren’t supposed to be seen together.” To compound the point, I look over her head toward the driveway and street, making sure that no one is watching.
She frowns and looks back herself. “Can I come in?”
I should say no, because she was right before. About all of it. The one who’s going to get in trouble here is me. I step back though, holding the door open, and try to stand still as stone as she walks past me into the kitchen.
“Where are your parents?” I ask. “Emory?”
“Dad’s at the hospital. Mom’s covering a town council meeting. Emory is up in his room, eating his dinner and video chatting someone. Campbell, Aubrey, take your pick.” She stands in front of me, looking small in a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized Vanderbilt T-shirt. The Halls named their kids after their college alma maters, Emory and Vanderbilt University. It’s fucking ridiculous, but it’s been ridiculous for so long that I couldn’t imagine the two of them being named anything else.
She cradles the plate against her chest, eyes dropping. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for all that stuff I said before. I was…harsh, and unfair.” She sighs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes look red-rimmed. “Honestly? I was a little nervous.” Her eyes fly up to mine, and I can see the conviction in them. “Not nervous enough to snitch about it, though. I just needed to get away from Sydney, who cannot stop talking about it. I’ll lie to her—I can—but I don’t enjoy it.” She swallows, eyes going tight when she adds, “And then you said all that stuff, and it seemed like maybe that whole lockpicking lesson was just to make sure I was as culpable as you, and it brought back some bad mem—”
“Wait.”
Her mouth clicks shut, but I don’t need her to elaborate. I can see it in her eyes, in the slant of her lips, the curl of her shoulders. Whatever that moment had meant to me, it’d obviously meant something to her, too. Maybe enough that the thought of some ulterior motive behind it had stung.
“I wasn’t doing that to make you culpable.” I gesture toward the driveway and my ice pack falls to the floor in a sad, sweating heap. “In the car, on the drive up, you just seemed really into all that crime journalism stuff. I thought—” Well, I was thinking that I actually had something to offer her, to teach her. Something valuable. Something we could share. All of that feels stupid as hell now. “I thought it could be useful or whatever, and I wanted you to see that you could do it.”
Some of that rigidness in her posture deflates. “Oh.”
“It wasn’t like when I stole the car,” I add, because there’s obviously something wrong with me. But I see the relief and guilt in her eyes, and it all feels wrong. “That night, I knew you’d come with me if I asked. You were always a soft touch. It was the best way to keep you quiet. That’s really all it was.”
She says, “I know,” but despite this, the hurt is evident in her eyes.
It’s disappointing. I’d been hoping for fire or frost, not this flat, cynical understanding. The apology she’s due sticks in the back of my throat, sour like bile. I don’t want to give it. I don’t want her to stand there and feel like she needs to say it’s okay. That first day back, seeing her in Emory’s truck, a silent understanding had passed between us. I’ve been clutching onto it ever since, this thing that only the two of us know. It’s acrid and full of grief, but it’s ours.
It’ll never be okay.
“I think I even knew it at the time. I was just…” Her laugh is a small, broken thing. “I was just hoping you’d like me being there anyway, because I was so crazy about you.”
Now it’s my turn to say, “I know.” Thirteen-year-old girls aren’t generally subtle with their affections, although she obviously tried. Even now, I can see her cheeks flush, a spark of cringing embarrassment in the cast of her eyes. I shake my head, because I’m the only one here who should feel ashamed.
It burns to admit that I’d taken advantage of it. It burns worse to know that it hadn’t been entirely unrequited, even if I was too loyal to Emory to really let it grow into something worth pursuing.
“I did, you know.” I look her in the eye when I say it, because this is all I can give her. “I did like you being there.”
She smiles sadly. “That’s nice to know.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent the last few weeks fighting the urge to wonder ‘what if’. What if that night had never happened? Would we have eventually ended up together? Where would we be right now, and what kind of people would we have become, in that impossible alternate reality? Better people, for sure. Unbroken people.
I reach down to retrieve my ice pack, pushing a hiss through my clenched teeth at the pain in my shoulder.
She steps forward, like maybe she’s about to grab it for me, but steps back just as quick. “I saw you at practice, while I was waiting for Em.” Matter-of-factly, she notes, “You got hurt.”
“Just a bruise.” I press the ice pack to my shoulder, but I can’t quite reach it. “Courtesy of Shackleford’s cleat.”
She follows me into the living room, where I’m finally able to wedge the ice pack between my shoulder and the back of the couch. She shifts around uncomfortably for a moment, still holding the plate. Whatever is under that foil smells like meat, cheese, and pure ecstasy. Any other night, I might actually have an appetite for it.
“I brought you some leftovers, because…” She sets the plate on the coffee table, gently lowering herself to perch on the couch beside me. “Well, just because.”
I know the truth. Because I never have food. Because it’s an apology. Because Vandy is better than me, able to stand here and give me two apologies for something I deserved when I can’t even bring myself to apologize for almost fucking killing her.
I’m the living embodiment of scum.
My small, “Thank you,” comes out rough and inadequate.
“Can I see?” She goes for my sleeve, her hot fingers grazing my skin.
I jerk away, abruptly. “See what?”