Taking a deep breath, I opened a new message and started to type.
Dear Ivy,
I’m so sorry about the way I’ve treated you, especially that night in the bathroom. I can only say that I was under a ton of stress, and didn’t really know what I was saying. I know it’s no excuse, and I won’t blame you if you never want to speak to me again. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.
Love,
Reed
I read it over once and, too tired to quibble with myself over grammar or eloquence, hit send.
Five minutes later I was still sitting there, contemplating a ten-minute
catnap, but decided I was too wrecked to even get up the energy to drop into bed, when there was a knock on my door.
My head whipped around and I stared at it. Was it Noelle, come to try to explain again? Could it possibly be Ivy? Maybe she’d already received and read the e-mail. I got up slowly, my heart pounding, and opened the door.
It was Josh. Who should have been in poli sci right about then.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My fingers gripped the doorknob for dear life, knowing that if I removed them, I’d probably fall right over at his feet.
“Ouch.” He winced and reached out to touch my chin with his fingertips, turning my face to the side to see my scratch. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . whatever,” I said, my brain all foggy. “What’re you doing here?”
“This,” he said. And then he kissed me.
That was when my knees actually did buckle. Josh held me up with both arms and kept kissing me, backing me a few steps into the room and kicking the door closed with his foot. My exhaustion forgotten, all I could do was kiss him back. I had thought I was never going to touch his lips again and now that I was, I couldn’t imagine stopping.
He was the first to pull away. His lips were completely swollen, his eyes glassy.
“What are you—”
“I thought about it and I realized . . . it made no sense, you breaking up with me,” he said, looping his arms around my waist. “I mean, we’d fought a little about Ivy and yeah, I’d seen you with Sawyer and talking to that Upton dude, and it was a little annoying, but then I realized . . . I trust you. And you trust me. So the whole thing made no sense. And then it hit me.”
“The kidnappers,” I said, the word like acid on my tongue.
“The kidnappers,” he replied with a smile. “They told you to do it, didn’t they? I was assignment number four.”
I nodded. It was all I could muster. How was I going to tell him that there were no kidnappers? That it was all just a game constructed by Noelle? He already loathed her. If I told him the truth he would go ballistic. He’d want to kill her.
But then . . . did I even care? Did I want to be friends with her anymore?
“So, Sawyer told Graham who told Gage who told Trey that he picked you up in the middle of Soldier Woods this morning,” Josh said. “What happened? Did you find Noelle?” he asked, leaning back a bit to look into my face. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”
“Thank God,” Josh said, hugging me tightly.
“Why? You thought she wouldn’t be?” I asked. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all, it now seemed kind of impossible to me that I’d ever thought the whole thing was for real.
“Well, this
is
Easton,” Josh said with a sad smirk. “So where is she? What happened?”
I swallowed hard and took a step away from him. “She’s . . . with her family,” I said, my tongue curling at the vile taste my words brought into my mouth. “They actually found her, in the end. It’s kind of a long story.”
His brow knit in confusion, but when I stepped into him again and rested my good cheek against his wool coat, he simply wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“I’m glad it all worked out okay,” he said.
“Me too.”
“So . . . what do we do now?” he asked. “It’s already second period.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Can we just stay here for a while? Exactly like this?”
“Absolutely,” Josh said.
Then he adjusted his arms to hold me a little tighter and I sighed contentedly. He was here. He was back. He was mine.
And I didn’t want to ever let him go.
Sun streamed through my windows on Wednesday morning, so bright my eyes stung when I opened them after a long, deep sleep. I groaned and turned my head to face the wall, wondering why I had pulled the blinds up the day before. Right in front of me was the poster of Sydney Crosby, the greatest hockey player currently on the ice, which I’d hung on my dark blue wall during the couple of weeks I’d been home last summer. It still hadn’t flattened out completely and the paper shone like it was brand-new, even though it had been up for almost six months.
I guess that’s what happens when the blinds are drawn and a room goes unlived in for so very long. I propped myself up on my side and concentrated for a moment, trying to figure out how many days, exactly, I had been home over the past year or so. Last summer I’d spent most of my time on Martha’s Vineyard with Natasha Crenshaw and her family, only pit-stopping here quickly before school started.
I’d been home for Thanksgiving, but not at all over Christmas, choosing instead to go to St. Barths with Noelle and her family, and then meeting my parents in New York for a few days before going back to Connecticut.
All told, I’d probably slept in this bed no more than seventeen times in the past year. Sadness filled my chest at the thought. Was it really so bad, being home? What was I running away from? And what the hell had I been running
to
all this time?
There was a light knock on my door and my dad stuck his head in my room. He’d taken the day off to hang out with me, which was just like him. Scott and I always came first.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re up. I made pancakes.”
“Then I’m definitely up,” I said. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and shoved them into my well-worn plaid slippers, then grabbed a Steelers sweatshirt out of my drawer and yanked it on. No point in trying to look fashionable for breakfast with the fam. Actually, this outfit would probably win best-dressed at Croton High anyway.
I padded into the kitchen, the strong scents of coffee and frying bacon leading my way. Scott was already sitting in his usual chair at the chipped Formica table, sipping coffee from a Hershey Park mug and scrolling through texts on his phone.
“Nice hair,” he said, looking up. “They let you walk around that fancy school of yours like that?”
“Nice face,” I replied. “The biology department at Penn State offered to study you yet?”
We grinned at each other. It was good to be home.
“OJ, anyone?” my mom asked, emerging from behind the open door of the fridge. I actually did a double take as I sat down at the table. My mom was already showered and dressed, her light brown hair grazing her shoulders in a perfectly chic cut. She was wearing low-rise jeans and a turtleneck and looked relaxed and happy. And beautiful. For so long she had been sick and depressed and self-medicated, some days never even managing to get out of bed, that I was still stunned to see her healthy and awake.
“I’ll have some,” I said.
“Please,” she corrected, rolling her eyes. She poured the juice into my glass, running her free hand over my hair. “It’s nice to have my kids home. Even if they are rotten.”
“So, Scotty, when do you have to get back?” my dad asked, dropping a plate of steaming pancakes in front of me. He was still wearing his flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, milking his day off for all it was worth. Brownish-gray stubble peppered his chin and his dark hair was slightly mussed. “’Cause it’s free puck night at the Igloo.”
Scott and I exchanged an intrigued look. The Igloo was the fans’ nickname for Mellon Arena, where the Penguins played.
“Seriously? You got tickets?” Scott asked, lowering his phone.
“We can buy them there. What do you guys say? Hot dogs, ice cream, maybe a good on-ice fight or two?” my dad said, wagging his eyebrows.
“I’m in,” Scott said. “Who needs a college education anyway?”
“Me too,” I said with a grin.
“Sweet,” my dad said. “If you’re good I’ll even buy you guys some cotton candy.”
I laughed and cut into my pancakes. Sometimes my dad still talked to us like we were kids. But I didn’t mind. Especially not today. This was exactly why I’d wanted to come home so badly. Things were just simpler here. Especially since my mom had gotten sober. As I looked around at my family, everyone but Mom in motley states of dress, all of us chowing down off time-worn ceramic plates, with a plastic bottle of syrup in the center of the table and a scorched coffee pot on a macramé place mat, I just wanted to laugh. Noelle and the rest of my friends would have probably been disgusted, or at the very least amused, if they could see me now. But this was home. This was where I belonged.
“Okay, okay. But it’s back to school tomorrow with you,” my mom said to Scott as she sat down next to him.
“Me? What about her?” he asked, pointing at me with his knife. “She’s the delinquent. I’m only missing one class today.”
“Shut up and eat your pancakes,” my dad said, smacking the back of Scott’s head as he sat. “Your sister’s going through a rough time.”
I smiled my thanks.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been going through a rough time since the day she was born,” Scott joked, grinning at me as he chewed.
“Ha-ha,” I replied happily.
And then the doorbell rang.
Everyone sort of froze. My mom looked at the clock. “Who’s ringing the doorbell at eight thirty on a Wednesday?” she asked.
“Meter reader?” my dad ventured.
“I’ll get it,” I said, pushing myself back from the table. I walked down the short hall, past the staircase to the front door, and glanced out the skinny window.
Time stopped. The entire world turned inside out.
Noelle Lange was standing on the cement step in front of my house in Croton, Pennsylvania, along with some elegant, aged woman in a fur coat. A black limousine idled behind them at the curb. I narrowed my eyes at Noelle’s companion, feeling a thump of recognition somewhere deep in the back of my brain. I knew this woman. But why?
And then, ever so suddenly, it hit me. She’d been in the circle at the observatory. I’d taken a candle right out of her hands and tossed it on the floor.
For a long moment, I thought about not opening the door. Let them stand there in the cold. Let them stand there long enough to figure out they weren’t wanted and then get back in their luxury vehicle and leave. Then Noelle reached out to touch the bell again, and I yanked the door open before she could hit the button.
Noelle started. The older woman, however, didn’t move a muscle. It was as if nothing could shake her.
“Hey,” Noelle said.
I just looked at her. If I’d been wondering whether my anger had abated, I now had my answer. I was still pissed. If anything, I was even more pissed.
“Hello, Reed. I’m Lenora Lange,” the elderly woman said. Her white hair was cut into a soft bob that grazed her sharp cheekbones. “Noelle’s grandmother.”
“Hello,” I said suspiciously.
“May we come in?” she asked patiently.
“I don’t know,” I replied. I really didn’t. I still couldn’t imagine what the hell they were doing there.
“Reed? Who is it?” My mother came up behind me, all smiles. She was about two steps from me and the door, when she locked eyes with Mrs. Lange and all the color drained out of her face. Noelle looked at her grandmother warily. I looked at my mom. But then, as if nothing odd had happened, my mom closed the distance to the door and smiled.
“Hello, Noelle,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Brennan,” Noelle replied. “May I introduce my grandmother, Lenora Lange?”
“Yes, of course,” my mother said. “It’s good to . . . see you.” She reached out to shake Mrs. Lange’s hand. Mrs. Lange hesitated just a moment then took it.
“Charmed,” she said.
They both withdrew their hands. I felt apprehension skitter down my back as the four of us stood there in silence, two on the inside, two on the out. There was something going on here, I just had no clue what it was.
“Well, come in,” my mother said finally. Her voice was loud and strained, as if someone had pinched her and she was trying to bite back the pain.
Mrs. Lange crossed into our tiny front hall first, followed by Noelle. She gave me this look that was like an apology crossed with curiosity and giddiness. I got the distinct impression that whatever was happening,
all three of them knew about it. But how could my mom have a secret with Noelle and her grandmother?
Once again, I was the naive one. In the dark, as usual.
“Come in, come in,” my mom said, heading back to the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Breakfast? We have plenty of pancakes.”
I almost laughed. Somehow I didn’t see Lenora Lange pulling up one of our rickety extra chairs and tucking in for some Aunt Jemima and Log Cabin.
“No, no. We won’t be staying long,” Mrs. Lange said.
She paused at the threshold to the kitchen, probably realizing that she and her expensive fur wouldn’t quite fit inside the small space along with the rest of us. As soon as my dad saw the woman’s face, he paled and looked up at my mom warily. But it was as if my mother couldn’t meet his eye.
“Hello,” he said to Mrs. Lange.
“Mr. Brennan,” she replied with a sniff.
Noelle and Scott looked each other up and down.
“’Sup, Noelle?” he asked, slurping some OJ.
“Scott,” she replied.
They had met only once before, on our brief stopover in New York after Christmas, and each had kept a respectful distance. It looked like they’d made some kind of silent agreement to keep it that way.
“Mr. and Mrs. Brennan . . . would you mind if Noelle and I had a private chat with your daughter?” Mrs. Lange asked. Her nose
wrinkled a bit on the word “daughter.” As if it felt funny to say.
“Uh, sure,” my father said, looking over at my mom.
“Actually, I think I’d like to be in that conversation,” my mother said shakily.