Emmy & Oliver (33 page)

“Why?” I asked him.

“That night at the party. He had this huge house and the fact that his parents are married and he has this cool older brother that's, like, always there for him. I thought he had it so easy. And plus, he's known you all these years and I haven't. He got to spend all that time with you.” Oliver shifted a little against me and I could feel his chest tighten. “You don't think I should go see my dad, do you?”

“No,” I whispered back. “But that's just because I'm scared.”

“Why are you scared?”

I looked at him, trying to be brave. “Because I'm scared you'll leave with your dad and I won't know where you are again.”

“I wouldn't do that,” he said, and he kissed me as if to ground himself, to prove that he would stay. “I would
never
do that.”

“And I'm scared that your dad is on the run from the police and you might get hurt.”

“He would never hurt me, Em.”

I turned so we were facing each other, sharing my pillow. “He hurt you enough the first time.”

He didn't say anything after that, and I ran my hand under his shirt, stroking his stomach, then rested my arm in the curve of his hip. “Are you going to tell your mom?” he asked.

“No,” I whispered. “Are you going to tell yours?”

Oliver hesitated too long for my comfort. “You should,” I said. “You should tell someone besides me. Like, an actual adult who can make things happen.”

“I know. But I keep picturing him sitting all alone in the restaurant, waiting for me and . . .” Oliver's voice caught a little and I wrapped my leg around his, curling closer to him. “I just can't do that,” he said when he could talk again. “I can't have that image in my head.”

“Okay,” I whispered, even though nothing felt okay, not at all.

Oliver closed his eyes and was about to say something else when his phone started to buzz. “Shit,” he muttered, and then he was up and trying to find it. I snuggled into the warm spot he had left behind, smelling his shampoo on my pillow, trying to slow my
brain down from its breakneck pace.

“It's my mom,” he said. His voice was raw after crying so hard. “She wants me to come home.”

“Okay,” I said, sitting up a little. “Do you think she's going to tell my mom that you came over?”

“I'll make it sound like we were just studying if she asks about it,” he said. “Can I?” He gestured toward the bathroom and I waved him in. I watched as he splashed water on his face, then used my towel to dry it off. I had to look away when he looked in the mirror. It hurt too much, watching him look for answers in his own reflection and not finding anything there.

I got up and walked him downstairs. My hair was probably a disaster and my shirt was still damp, but I didn't care. It was funny, I never cared about those things with Oliver. I didn't worry about how I looked. All that mattered was how I felt.

“See you at school?” he said.

“You better,” I replied, then stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. “I mean it. I'm driving you there and back tomorrow.”

“Noted,” he said, then kissed me one last time before pulling his hoodie up over his head and going out the door. I watched until he had disappeared into the dark, then locked the door, turned off all the lights downstairs, and went back upstairs. Usually, it freaked me out to be home alone in the dark at night, but I was too exhausted to care that night.

Even so, I lay awake for most of the night, blinking at the man in moon as he stared back at me. I heard both of my parents come home separately, and I also heard both of them open my bedroom door to check on me. I pretended to be asleep then, but part of me wished they could tell I was faking it, that they could figure out the truth without me having to tell them.

But they just closed the door and walked away, their footsteps fading down the hall, and that night when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was chasing Oliver down the same hallway, his hooded figure getting smaller and smaller until I couldn't see him anymore, until he was gone once again.

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S
chool was a joke the next day. Between insomnia and nightmares, I was sort of a disaster and managed to forget my math homework, my lunch, and my house keys. “Trifecta,” I muttered to myself once I realized that they were all missing.

When I wasn't busy forgetting things, I was keeping an eye out for Oliver. I normally didn't see him until lunchtime, but I caught a glimpse of him ducking into the counselor's office at the start of lunch, which made me relax a little. Maybe he was telling her about the letter? Maybe they were calling the police right now?

I spent lunch in the library, doing my calculus homework that was due next period. I kept glancing up, waiting to see Oliver standing in front of me, but he never appeared. I dashed through the problems, not even checking to see if they were right, and as soon as I was done, I went to where Oliver, Caro, Drew, and I had all eaten lunch the day before. (Had that really just been the day before? It seemed like a lifetime ago.) “Sorry!” Caro yelled when she saw me, and I froze. “The burrito queen is out of stock today! You've exhausted her benevolence!”

Drew just rolled his eyes. “Today is DIY day, apparently,” he said to me. “Hope you brought something. Because otherwise, it's a giant bag of Funyuns for you. Which, despite the clever name, are never fun.” He looked pleased with himself for realizing this.

“Where's Oliver?” I asked, and there must have been something in my voice because Caro and Drew seemed to sober up fast.

“Um, I don't . . .” Caro looked around like he was hiding behind her, ready to pop out and yell, “Surprise!” “I haven't really seen him, but I don't see that much, anyway.”

“Yeah, same,” Drew said. “You okay? You look a little . . .” He grimaced, which was apparently the universal facial symbol for “stressed and terrified.”

“Yeah, I. I, um, I have to find him,” I said, backing away from their lunch. The bell suddenly rang, shrill and impatient, and I jumped. “I have to go.”

“Wait, Emmy,” Caro said. “You have class, Em, you can't—”

But for the first time in my life, I didn't care if I got caught ditching. Oliver wasn't on campus. I knew it. I just knew it. I knew it the same way I knew he was gone when he didn't show up that Tuesday for school ten years ago. Even back then, something hadn't been right and that rock in my stomach was settling back into its old, familiar spot once again.

I did a quick loop of the campus, then went past his locker and scanned the library, just in case I had missed him. But he wasn't anywhere and it felt like my dream from the night before was suddenly becoming a horrible reality. Oliver was gone and I couldn't find him.

But this time was different. This time, I knew where he was.

I ran to my car, my hands shaking so hard that my keys jingled together. The parking lot was packed with people returning from lunch, so no one noticed when I pulled out and sped down the street. I wanted to call my mom, but I was scared that she would freak out. I wanted to call Maureen, but I didn't have her number. And I wanted to call the police, but I was scared that Oliver would somehow be in trouble, that he'd be charged with helping his dad. I didn't know what the rules were, or if his dad was even waiting for him.

So I got into my car and for the first time in my life, I went to find Oliver.

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T
he restaurant was half empty when I drove past it. Apparently, my mom wasn't the only person who hadn't liked their fries. At first, I had been afraid that I wouldn't remember how to get there, but then familiar markers—the gas station on the corner, the dollar store, the psychic who only charges twenty-five dollars to lie to you—started to pop up, and when I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Oliver and his dad sitting across from each other in a booth.

The rock in my stomach shifted again and I thought I might throw up. I couldn't really see his dad but I could see Oliver, who was fiddling with a coffee mug. I had never seen
him drink coffee before.

I parked, then got out and walked to the restaurant on wobbly legs. I had no idea what I was doing, but now that I had seen Oliver, I wasn't going to leave. I wondered if, somehow, that's how Maureen had felt when he came home, that once he was back in your sight, it was such sweet relief that you'd do anything to keep him there.

I walked past the hostess and went toward the booth. Now all of me felt wobbly and when I got close, I realized that the man he was sitting with was, in fact, Oliver's dad. He just looked so much older than I remembered him. My memories were of a tall man with thick, dark hair and sharp eyes, just like Oliver's. But this man was gray, with a thinning hairline, and when he glanced at me, his eyes were just tired and sad.

Oliver turned to see what his dad was looking at, and I stood there dumbly, staring at both of them. “Emmy,” Oliver said, but he didn't say anything else. He didn't have to.

The realization quickly dawned on Oliver's dad—on
Keith
—that I was the little girl from next door. “Oh my God,” he exhaled. “
Emmy
. Oh my goodness, you're so . . . grown up.” He smiled nervously and glanced at Oliver. “The two of you are so grown up.”

“It's okay,” Oliver said to me. “Come sit down, it's all right. It's fine.” He patted the booth seat and I slid in warily next to him, then reached for his hand and grabbed on so tight that he winced.

“You've grown up to be so beautiful,” Keith said, and I just stared at him. For ten years, he had been the bad guy, the literal monster that takes children away from their homes, and now sitting across from him, he looked so normal, so average, like any older guy wearing khakis and a polo shirt with a wrinkled, slightly frayed collar.

“Thanks,” I said, my mother's politeness training apparently still in place. My voice was flat, though.

“I was just telling my dad about you,” Oliver said.

“Yes, um, Oliver said that you and he have become close friends again. I'm so happy to hear that.” Now Keith was the one fiddling with his coffee mug. His hands were shaking just like Oliver's had the night before. Oliver was watching him and I pressed my leg against his, feeling the tension in both of us.

“In fact,” Keith continued, “I was just telling Oliver how glad I am that he and his mom are able to be together again.”

“Oh, are you
fucking
kidding me?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. So much for Mom's politeness training, after all.

“Em,” Oliver started to say, but Keith held up his hand.

“No, no, Colin—
Oliver
, it's fine. Oliver, sorry.” Keith waved him off. “It's all right. Emmy's right. I, um, I did some things that were pretty terrible.”

“Yes, you did,” Oliver said softly, and I knew him well enough to hear the anger that laced his words. It was the quiet kind, the most dangerous kind of all.

Keith just nodded, glancing out the window and then back down at his coffee. “That's why I wanted to see you today. I wanted to apologize, say I'm sorry. I know we didn't get a chance to talk about it.”

Oliver sat back against the booth, then ran a hand over his face before hunching back over the booth. “Why?” he said. “Why? Just tell me why you did this. Because I swear I'm trying to understand, Dad. I'm trying so hard to make sense of this and I can't figure it out.”

Keith's mouth wobbled a little and his eyes got even more watery. “I can't explain it.” He shrugged. “When your mom and I, when we were divorcing, I was drinking a lot—”