Sources Say

by Lori Goldstein

  Leo shifted forward, closing the gap between himself and Angeline. “How about we take a photo? Show Schwartz we’re trying at least.”

  “Good idea.” Angeline leaned into him, against him, and her heart beat in her temples. He snapped the photo, set down his phone, and lifted his cup for another sip—then stopped. His cup slipped from his hand, and reddish-orange liquid spurted in the air as it landed with a shallow thud against the rock. His hands clawed toward his throat.

  Angeline reached for him. “Are you okay?”

  His lips puffed, starting to double in size.

  Angeline sucked in a breath. “What’s in this?” She whipped out her phone and voice-activated it to call Riley while she wrapped an arm around Leo’s waist.

  “So, whaddya think?” Riley asked.

  “What’s in it?” Angeline half screamed.

  “No, it might bias you, I need to know—”

  “Riley! Leo’s turning blue! What’s in this? It’s not . . . it can’t be beets?”

  “Yes! It’s beet. For color.”

  “He’s allergic to beets!”

  “He’s what? I’ve never heard of someone being allergic to beets. Peanuts, I’d have warned about, but beets . . .”

  Angeline yelled for Riley to call an ambulance to the lighthouse. She carefully guided Leo onto his side. He wheezed, and his skin devolved into a sickly shade.

  “EpiPen?” Angeline asked fruitlessly. She could see his pockets, which weren’t deep enough for the large syringe. She started to leave to run to his house, but he grabbed her hand. She swallowed past the golf ball in her throat. “I’m here.”

  And she waited, Leo in her lap, sirens in the distance, the lighthouse high above her, feeling the fear Leo must have felt when he imagined going to the top.

  * * *

  The paramedics allowed her to ride in the back instead of the front after a brief exchange in which they assured her that Leo was fine and she assured them that that was wonderful but she wasn’t letting him out of her sight.

  “Doing okay?” she asked him.

  Leo’s eyes were closed, but he nodded gently. Under the blanket, strapped to the stretcher, he seemed smaller than he was, only adding to Angeline’s guilt that her wanting to be bigger than she was had led them here.

  The medics had given Leo an injection and hooked him up to an IV on-site, but he still needed to go to the hospital. She’d asked Riley to call Leo’s mom. Leo might have been the one turning blue, but Angeline could barely speak. Even parting her lips to wet them with her tongue now threatened a torrent of tears.

  Leo.

  He was fine. She knew he was going to be fine. But she clung to his hand like it was a life preserver and she’d been thrown overboard. Easy to do since that was exactly how she’d been feeling since the day they broke up.

  That night, in Maxine’s screening room, she’d held his hand like this, almost as tightly.

  A horror movie had been about to begin. She hated horror movies, same as Cat. Her dad loved them. Cat couldn’t even watch the opening credits, but Angeline and her mom would sit beside her dad, clutching each other’s arm and leaping off the couch at every jump scare, no matter how predictable.

  Angeline could never sleep after. Her mom would pull out pints of ice cream and sit on the floor with Angeline. That was how Angeline had learned her mom had wanted to be a photographer but had given it up in favor of a career with a more consistent salary so her dad could keep playing his music. That was when she’d first seen pictures of a young Grams and Gramps dancing in an Irish pub in Southie. That was when she’d told her mom she wanted more. “More what?” her mom had asked. Angeline hadn’t known then. She just knew whatever more was, she had to have it.

  The night of Maxine’s party, sealed off in the windowless screening room, she’d held Leo’s hand because she loved him more than she hated scary movies. And she’d thought, maybe her mom wouldn’t mind some ice cream when she got home.

  But the instant that projector had shut off and the image of Leo’s face filled the enormous screen, playing the capture of her live-stream, Angeline knew she’d rather watch a thousand horror movies than see what was to come.

  Clicks and likes and a road to fame had superseded everything for so long. When Evelyn had liked her video featuring Leo, Angeline planning another wasn’t a decision so much as an effect.

  Cause = twenty thousand thumbs-ups.

  Effect = Angeline sweeping right and wrong under the rug.

  She thought he’d be okay with it.

  Well, not okay, but that he’d understand.

  That he’d forgive her.

  That he’d get past it.

  That it’d be worth it.

  In the back of the ambulance, Angeline brought his hand to her lips and kissed his skin. She drew back at the cold. Then, she gave up her fight against the tears and wrapped both of her hands around his.

  * * *

  “Did you tell Riley we loved it?” Leo asked after the nurse had left.

  “No, of course not.” Angeline rose from the chair at the end of the hospital bed, a pair of angel wings in her hands. The curtain quartering off his ER stall hung mostly closed, but she tugged it the rest of the way.

  “Too bad, pretty sure it’s killer.”

  Angeline watched his dimple carve into his cheek and let out a small bubble of laughter for his sake. “You’re ridiculous. And what happened to agreeing to carry your EpiPen after that night at your mom’s fundraiser last year?”

  “Relax, I smelled that Santa-swirl cabbage-beet slaw from across the room. Food allergies give you a heightened sense of smell.”

  “Apparently not.” She gestured to his current situation, skin pale, head woozy from the drugs, shirt replaced with a washed-out hospital gown. The hives around his lips had retreated, but the image of his hand reaching for his throat would never leave her. Angeline tried to breathe normally, but each intake plunged a thorn in her chest.

  “Hey.” He tried to sit up higher.

  “Don’t.” She moved to him instead, resting carefully on the edge of his bed.

  “I won’t break.” He tilted his head toward his shoulder. “Again.”

  “This isn’t funny, Leo.”

  “It wasn’t. It is now. Beets in a mixed drink? Who would have thought?”

  Angeline felt her eyes burn, like more tears might come.

  “Ang, it’s okay. This has happened before, you know that. Tomorrow, I’ll be tired, but I’ll be back to myself in no time. You’ll see.”

  “Will I? Because tomorrow we’re back to Battle of the Exes, aren’t we?”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Battling? Or exes?”

  He closed his eyes. “Angeline, I . . .”

  She shifted off the bed. “Sure, I get it.”

  “No, wait . . . just give me—”

  Metal scraped metal, and the curtain tore back.

  “Leo!” Eliza Torres, a short woman with dark hair in a sophisticated but not trendy bob and eyes that demanded one’s attention, strode to the bed, edging Angeline out of the way.

  Angeline retreated to the front, where Sammy appeared, his red shirt around his waist, a cup of ice chips in his hand.

  “How did this happen?” Mrs. Torres said. “Was there a label? We will have your father talk to the lawyer and see what recourse we have. Did you see a specialist? Where is the nurse?”

  “Mom, take a breath. No lawyers, no specialist.” Leo must have noticed the fear on Sammy’s face, because he sat up higher and said, “I can’t be beet-en down, right, Sam-o?”

  Despite his nervousness, Sammy casually shrugged. “Beets me.”

  Leo grinned. “I like to be up on things, but I’ve been thinking, might not be so bad to miss a beet.”

  Sammy set the ice chips on the p
ink plastic tray by Leo’s bed. “Tell me what you really think, bro. Stop beeting around the bush.”

  “Enough, you two,” Mrs. Torres said, but her tone had softened. She set a hand on Leo’s forehead. “I have a thing for symmetry, you know. Pictures would be completely lopsided if you weren’t in them.”

  Leo’s chest expanded. “Mom, I . . .” Tears crept into his eyes, and Angeline’s throat tightened.

  The nurse from earlier appeared. “A tad crowded in here, folks. Let’s have a couple of you in the waiting room, ’kay?”

  As if she remembered they weren’t alone, Mrs. Torres shot up straight and directed a nasty look at Angeline.

  Leo mouthed a “Sorry,” but Angeline simply offered a feeble, “Feel better,” before heading toward the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting room.

  She’ll never forgive me.

  Angeline hugged the angel wings to her chest, watching cars turn into the lot in front of the hospital.

  If she wouldn’t, did that mean Leo couldn’t?

  Slowly, Angeline eased into one of the blue chairs, her back straightening as Sammy approached. “Hey, hey,” she said, playfully waving the angel wings.

  “I don’t like you anymore,” he said.

  She wanted to fold in on herself. “I know.”

  “He does. He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.”

  Angeline tried to push her heartbeat back down to her chest.

  “So I might have to learn to like you,” Sammy said.

  Angeline carefully said, “Okay.”

  “This . . . you being with him. I’m glad . . . I’m glad he wasn’t alone.” His face was so round and his skin so smooth. He might have been a freshman in high school, but he was barely fourteen, had a birthday right before the school year started. “He really going to be okay?”

  “He really is.” Her heart pinched thinking of Leo and Sammy and how close they were despite their age difference. Or maybe because of their age difference. One of them got to be the big brother and one of them the little. She and Cat never knew what it was like to not be in lockstep with the other.

  Sammy shuffled forward and sat beside Angeline.

  She let the silence become uncomfortable, ensuring his relief at having her break it. “So, here’s the thing. I’ve apologized to Leo, but I realize now that I never apologized to you. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m sorry I hurt your brother. But I’m sorry I hurt you too.”

  Sammy’s eyes narrowed and then relaxed. “Apology accepted.”

  “Really? I mean, thanks, Sammy. That’s really mature of you.”

  “Eh, I’ve been considering it for a while. Just haven’t done anything about it. But that’s what makes doing nothing hard—you never know when you’re done.” He smirked, and Angeline realized how much she missed him. She started to say as much when he added, “Besides, enough tension at home, don’t need it in school too.”

  “What’s going on at home?”

  Sammy tugged at an already raw cuticle.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Leo mentioned something about your mom, so I get it.”

  “He told you?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  He shifted to face her, and all she could see was Leo. He was there in the angle of Sammy’s chin, the broadness of shoulders yet to fill out, the appearance of perfection masking the cracks everyone had but the Torres brothers weren’t allowed to show.

  “She’s under a lot of pressure. The race is the biggest she’s ever been in. She’s hardly around. And even when she’s around, she’s still not really around, you know?”

  Angeline nodded. Cat used to say the same about their dad.

  “She and Leo are barely speaking. It’s been weird. More weird. Ever since she had that emergency meeting with Principal Schwartz at the end of last year.”

  “Schwartz?” Leo never said anything to her. “Meeting about what?”

  Sammy shrugged. “Beats me.” He laughed at his unintentional pun.

  Heels clicked on the hard, sterile tiles, and Mrs. Torres aimed for the reception desk. Angeline stood.

  “Not sure I was supposed to say anything,” he said, spine rigid as if he were suddenly balancing a book on his head. “Don’t tell anyone?”

  “I won’t. You’re a good brother, Sammy.”

  She left because she couldn’t stay. There wasn’t a place for her here anymore.

  Outside, the sky clung to hints of blue and yellow and muted pink—that in-between-day-and-night sky, where without any context, time could play out in either direction.

  She hadn’t thought to call for a ride-share. This wasn’t Boston, and the wait could be twenty minutes. She headed toward a bench when a sputtering resounded from the parking lot. A silver hatchback inched out of a spot two rows over and pulled up in front.

  Their silver hatchback.

  “Is everything all right?” Cat asked.

  No. But at least now she could admit it.

  22

  When Cat Considers the Merits of Butterscotch

  10 DAYS TO THE ELECTION

  Cat unlocked the door to their apartment. Her sister had been quiet on the ride. Not texting or watching YouTube or recording memos to herself for her next video, just fingering that pair of white woolen angel wings she still had in her hands.

  “Mom wrangled Gramps into having a salad at the gastropub,” Cat said as Angeline sunk into the couch instead of immediately disappearing into their bedroom, claiming the space as hers like she normally did when it was just the two of them. It unnerved her.

  Angeline bobbed her head, facing the coffee table where Cat’s notes for the next issue, her “EIC” notebook, and printouts of last year’s Fit to Print winner were spread out.

  It was like being caught naked.

  Cat quickly went to gather them up, and Angeline set her hand on one of the front pages.

  “Red and Blue totally trounces this,” she said.

  Cat froze. “Yeah, well, Ravi’s really talented.”

  “Don’t do that. Not take credit. Without your stories, he’s got nothing to work with. And you’ve given him a lot to work with lately.”

  “You’ve been reading my articles?” Cat tried to sound nonchalant.

  “A few.” Angeline lifted her legs off the floor and drew them into her chest. She then let out a long breath and added, “Fine, all of them.”

  “But why?”

  “Because they were about me, obviously.” Angeline gave a wry smile.

  Right.

  “Okay, so truth?” Angeline said. “I did start reading your stories to keep tabs on how you were portraying me. But I kept doing it because . . . it was sort of like knowing what was in your head.”

  Cat tentatively sat on the couch opposite her sister, waiting for some joke about what she found in Cat’s head.

  Instead, Angeline continued, “Leo and Sammy are super close. So, whatever, we’ve never been. There’s no rule that we have to be just because we’re biologically linked.”

  Cat gave a half nod, half shrug. She stretched out her legs, and from the other end of the couch, Angeline did the same. Their jeans touched—Angeline’s high-waisted, spray-painted-on pair and Cat’s straight leg that sat squarely on her waist. Cat wore one of her long-sleeved black T-shirts, while Angeline had on a short-sleeved linen shirt with buttons along the sides—black too.

  Cat pointed to their unintentional matching outfits. “Mom would love this.”

  “Irish twins,” Angeline said.

  Cat had nearly forgotten people used to call them that, seeing as how they were less than a year apart. A familiar nickname on this stretch of coastline known as the Irish Riviera due to so many residents having ancestral ties to Ireland. Their mom had indulged it, getting a double stroller, dressing the
m alike, attempting to style their hair the same, even though Cat’s would never cooperate.

  She and Angeline acted like they’d always hated it when they got older, hindsight attaching feelings of the present to the memories of the past, warping it as much as bringing it into perspective. But they’d tied those matching ribbons in each other’s hair before Easter egg hunts in the backyard, rode matching white bikes with yellow baskets to Lighthouse Beach, and made their communion together in the same church just across from where they sat now. Angeline had dropped out of Sunday School first, not reaching confirmation, and Cat had followed.

  Cat said slowly, “That’s not technically true. That we’ve never been close. Before Dad left—”

  “You look like him, you know?” Angeline said suddenly. “At least the him I remember—in person, not through one of Botox Wife’s sepia or sunset or happy-day filters.”

  “No, you look like him. You’ve got his hair, at least minus the red. While I’ve got . . .” Cat ran her hand through her bob, and when she pulled it free, pieces stuck straight out to the side. “I mean, is this part glue or what?”

  Angeline popped up and kneeled on the couch. She swatted Cat’s feet. “Turn around.” When Cat didn’t move, Angeline lowered her voice. “Trust me, okay?”

  No teasing hid in her sister’s tone, so Cat swung herself around.

  “You’re using the wrong conditioner.” Angeline started to brush Cat’s hair with her fingers. “I set that butterscotch hair mask in the shower weeks ago, but you never even opened it.” She pulled back Cat’s bangs. “Your hair is coarse. It needs the moisture.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me to use it?” Cat asked.

  “Figured if I did, you’d be less likely to.”

  “You’re probably right,” Cat whispered, lulled by her sister’s deliberate movements.

  “So pretend it’s from Emmie and use it. Along with the coordinating butterscotch shine I’ll put in with the hair dryer.”

  Cat jerked her head. “What?”

  “Butterscotch. Really, Cat, you need to let yourself have a signature scent anyway.”