—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
So do you have an actual destination in mind? Just curious.”
We’ve been driving for maybe an hour, out of the city and onto the highway, though we’ve just pulled off onto a winding country road that I’ve never seen before. The drizzle has stopped and it’s a bright white November day. Only a few last hazy wisps of fog hover above the trees and fields, blue sky peeking out from behind the clouds.
“Not really,” Oliver says. “I just knew that I wanted fresh air. I love the city, but it’s definitely not a forever home for me, you know?”
I hadn’t thought much beyond college. I’d just assumed that I’d go far away for school, probably with or at least somewhere near Liam, get some distance from my dad, from Marigold—but that we would both come home again eventually. Liam had always said he was a Philly boy for life. I guess I’d expected to be a Philly girl right alongside him. But now?
“I’m not sure what I think about Philly,” I say, eyes focused on the blur of nature beyond the window. “I just know I want to go somewhere else right now. See something new. Meet different kinds of people. Meet any people at all, really, since I’ve spent the last twelve years of school at home with my dad.”
“For sure.” Oliver nods. “I can understand that. You need to get away for a while.”
A new and extremely unpleasant thought occurs to me, clawing at my stomach. My SAT scores were decent, but I’d been assuming my applications would hinge on Lemonade Skies, of course—the fact that I was a prodigy. At least by their definition, because I would have two books under my belt before graduation and a third on its way. Three books from a prestigious publishing house. Books that had sold in thirty-five countries and had sales of over ten million copies worldwide. I hadn’t bothered with any early admissions applications because, with credentials like those, all the top colleges would be fighting over me. Would have been fighting over me, I correct myself. Because there would certainly be no fighting now. No trying to lure me away from competitors. I’d be untouchable to every college I’d ever really wanted.
My future feels as empty as the rolling fields around us, harvested for the season, corn and wheat and whatever else was growing there long gone now. The earth is brown and barren, ready for a deep slumber until the spring.
I don’t need college to be a gardener, I remind myself. This helps. Slightly.
“I wish we could pick apples,” I say, “but it’s too late…”
Oliver glances over at me, smiling. “Look at you, you’re secretly a country girl, too.”
“I’m just amazed by anything that I can eat straight from nature. Pick it off a vine, a tree, from the ground, whatever, and just pop it right in my mouth. It’s a mini-miracle to me.”
“How about a Christmas-tree farm? I’m sure we could find one of those.”
“I love Christmas and decorating our fake tree, don’t get me wrong, but I never loved the idea of murdering a gorgeous pine and watching it slowly die for the next month. Needles turning brown, dropping one by one, the last bits of lifeblood draining out. I’m a hypocrite because I’d never say no to a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, but they’re so temporary anyway, even in the ground. They live, they die, they come back again, at least in some cases. But that tree—who knows how long a life it could have had otherwise, you know?” I shudder dramatically to make my point, though it’s really how I feel. “It’s just kind of gross to me. The annual slaughter of so many tree souls. But no offense if it’s what your family does,” I tack on politely at the end, just in case.
“We do engage in the mass slaughter, I’m sorry to say, but maybe we’ll have to reconsider this year. You’ve made me realize the error of our ways.” He’s trying hard to look somber, but he’s biting his lip to keep back a smile. “I’ll just be sure not to buy you any flowers unless they’re in a pot. I wouldn’t want you to be a hypocrite on my account.”
“Fake flowers are fine, too, as long as they’re made with fine silks,” I say, reaching over to grab his hand. It feels bold, touching him now, me initiating. I squeeze, and he squeezes back.
But he will never give you flowers, not now, will he?
“I keep seeing signs for something called Green Hill Reservoir Park,” Oliver says, and I force myself back to this: this moment. “Should we try it out?”
“Green Hill sounds pretty idyllic. How can we pass up a name like that?”
We’re driving deeper into the woods now, bare tree limbs raised like twisting old arches along the road ahead of us. There’s a sign directing us down a long, gravel-covered entrance, and finally a parking lot that is empty except for one lone Jeep. The park ranger’s, probably.
I zipper up my puffy black coat and put on my green wool hat and matching scarf before I open the door. I’m glad I wore my mom’s sweater today—it’s the warmest piece of clothing I own and adds a solid extra layer. I step out of the car, the cold biting into me, but in a divine, exhilarating way. Oliver was right about leaving the city. If I were a religious person, today would have been a good day to go to church. Confess to a priest or pastor that I’ve sinned—a big sin at that—and be told I’ll be forgiven, that I can atone, purify, start again. That I am not above redemption.
But I haven’t been inside a church since my mom’s funeral, and I don’t remember that day.
This park, though, is how I imagine a church would feel. I’m in awe of the trees circling us, their trunks too wide to hug, branches stretching high into the sky, three times as tall as my house in Philly. I catch glimpses of glistening water in the distance, off behind the trees. I close my eyes and breathe in as much pine-scented air as my lungs will allow. I hold it, let it flow through me, slowly breathe out.
“This is perfect,” I say quietly, turning to Oliver. He looks peaceful, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
We hold hands again, so effortlessly this time I’m not even sure who moved first, whose fingers led the way. We walk toward the reservoir leisurely, in no rush to pass through any part of this day. The air feels colder as we get closer to the water, crisper and more brittle. It pricks the back of my throat when I inhale too deeply.
“I feel like we own this place,” Oliver says, leaning into me. Our shoulders touch, our hips, and I feel suddenly much warmer.
“Well, it is pretty darn cold out here. I guess most people are done with nature until spring comes around.”
“The people who live around here are too used to this kind of beauty. They can probably just step out into their yard and get the same effect. We had to work harder to find it.”
“It’s like your car knew where we were going even before you did.”
“It’s true.” He drops my hand, spreading his arms out wide, taking in the whole reservoir. I would have thought it was just a regular lake—it looks too entirely sure of its existence to have been created by humans. “Green Hill, Pennsylvania, we were meant to find you today. We needed you.” He turns to me, his whole face glowing like the now brilliant blue sky above us. “Thank you,” he says, to me, to the water, to this whole day.
I reach up and cup his cheeks, pull him in closer.
“What about last night?” he asks quietly, his lips grazing my forehead. “Wanting to stay friends to keep things uncomplicated?”
“I—I meant it, Oliver. Because it’s true. But that doesn’t mean it’s what I really want. I like you, and that’s why I’m trying to protect you. From me.”
“I don’t care, Thistle, I don’t. I meant what I said. I’ll take messy if it means being with you.”
I could tell him now, but instead we lean in at the same time—my mouth finding his, our lips moving, fast and frantic, creating our own heat out here on this lonely beach. I feel more lit up than the winter sun, electric golden energy flowing through my veins.
We break away eventually, staring
at each other. And then we walk farther along the path, until we’re deeper into the woods, climbing to the top of a huge rock formation conveniently situated to overlook the reservoir. The water stretches out in front of us, a sheet of smooth gray metal glinting under the sun.
We’re kissing again then, and even though I know this is wrong, that Oliver deserves the truth, I can’t make myself stop. Because the only thing I know for sure is: if this is our last day together, I want to condense the future moments we won’t have into this, beautiful glorious this. I’m not thinking, I’m doing. And he must be, too, because suddenly our jackets are off, other layers disappearing, too, scattered on the rock around us. I should be cold, my bare skin exposed, but all I can feel is Oliver surrounding me.
There are boundaries we don’t cross. Won’t cross. We both know there’s a line without needing to say it out loud. But still, I want to enjoy as much of him as I can.
Only for a second, I think—that Jeep, that ranger, what if someone…?
But then Oliver kisses me harder, and I am floating above the treetops, watching us from the clouds, hoping and wishing and praying that this…
This moment will never have to end.
* * *
The ride home is silent. A good silent, though, at least for Oliver. He’s cupping my hand like I am newly fragile and delicate. I am gripping back for dear life.
We stop at a Wawa for food on our way, and I pretend that my turkey-and-cheese hoagie requires all my attention, as if it is the most fascinating sandwich I’ve ever eaten.
I should tell him my story, my truth. I’ve made the treachery infinitely worse by letting him in closer. The guilt is settling in fast now, choking the words from my throat. I have never been more of a coward.
It’s dark by the time we get back to Philly, the lights of our city twinkling at us, welcoming us home. But we’re not the same two people who left earlier today. I’m not, at least. I already know this day will mark me for the rest of my life. Oliver. I keep sneaking glances at him as he drives. His eyes look serious, focused on the traffic, but there’s a tiny smile playing at his lips. I try to make my lips move the same way, but it doesn’t work.
He pulls up to my house and we sit there for a few minutes, neither of us saying the words or making the moves that will put an end to this day. His phone rings, somewhere in his pocket. He doesn’t pull it out, but sighs. “It’s probably my parents wondering where I’ve been. I should head to the hospital, check in with everyone. It’s going to be a long few days coming up.”
I nod, suddenly feeling queasy with dread, the knowledge that this—this will be our last moment together. No more Oliver. No more Emma either.
Just me. Thistle Tate, the great pretender.
“What are you thinking?” Oliver asks gently. I want to fling my arms around him and reassure him with a thousand kisses. But I don’t. “I mean, today was pretty unexpected, especially after last night’s talk. But it…also felt so natural. Unless you…?” He breaks off, waiting for me to finish.
“This afternoon was—it was perfect,” I say, turning to him, leaning in so that our faces are just inches apart.
Oliver’s lips curl up into a too-happy grin. “It was pretty perfect. But I have a feeling it’s only going to get better.” He kisses me, saving me from having to fake a smile.
It’s soft and lingering this time, and I try to feel, taste, savor every last second.
“Good-bye, Thistle,” Oliver says, slowly pulling away. He looks reluctant, but I can tell that his mind is switching back to that call, whatever news is waiting at the hospital.
“Good-bye,” I whisper, just barely. The word scratches at my lips.
I hear the car waiting as I walk, but I don’t look back as I open the front door and step inside the house.
* * *
Dad calls for me later that night, as I’m passing from the kitchen to the stairs.
I consider pretending that I didn’t hear, but he tries again, and there’s a brittle sadness to his voice that tugs at me, even after everything.
“Yeah?” I lean against the door frame, committed to not stepping in any farther. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, looking out the dark window.
“How are you?” He turns to face me. The lighting in his room is dim, but I notice again how much skinnier he looks, how gaunt his face has become. For all the wrongs he’s done, I’ve had my share of wrongs, too. That doesn’t make it better, excusable, even if it makes us equals.
“I’m pretty shitty, actually.”
“I am so sorry, Thistle.” He lets out a sad sigh, and the sound, the feeling, snakes around me and pulls me down with him. “So ashamed of myself. And I’m angry that I let this much fall onto you, that I let career success come first. I really would undo it all if I could. I’d rather be a disaster who can’t keep a rotten part-time job for more than two months than this person I’ve become.” He shakes his head.
But I don’t say anything back. I don’t have to. I agree, and we both know it.
“I’ll call Susan Monday morning—give her the rest of the weekend to cool down. I don’t think it’ll make any difference, but I want to reaffirm that this was my doing. That you were an innocent bystander.”
“She knows, Dad. You’re the one who signed the contract with Zenith. I agreed to it, maybe, but I was only fifteen. I was a minor. I was doing what my dad asked me to do. My sole guardian.”
It’s these words that make Dad break. Sole guardian. I’d said it purposefully; I’d wanted to hurt him, to drive the knife in deeper.
“I almost hope there is no afterworld. That this is it, this is all we have. Because the idea that your mom could be watching—” He sobs, the tears a steady stream. His wrinkles fan out in deep lines across his cheeks, his forehead. “She would never forgive me,” he cries, so inconsolably now that I can just barely make sense of his words. “And you shouldn’t either.”
I have no reason to still be in here. I go up to my room, and my phone is buzzing nonstop—Oliver—but I don’t pick up, I don’t click through to his texts or voice mails.
I am nothing. I am no one.
Nothing.
No one.
seventeen
Marigold and Colton were standing in their spot in the atrium. “It’s time for me to move up,” he said, arms wrapped around her. “Wait here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“What if you can’t?” Marigold said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way. Or…” His eyes lit up with hope. “I could try coming through the portal with you right now.”
“But what if your coming closes the portal and then there’s no hope of finding Mom?”
Colton sighed. “Fine. We stick to this plan. For now.”
Marigold didn’t say anything for a few minutes, then whispered, “I can’t wait here forever. I’ve already been in the Afterworld for almost a week. I should go home.” To Dad. And to Jonah. Because she thought about him every day. When she kissed Colton, when she twisted her fingers into his hair.
“If I’m not back in a day, go home. Beg your dad not to move. I promise I’ll look for your mom wherever I am. Come to this spot in a month, and if I’m not here, the month after. And the month after that, until we find each other and…”
Marigold kissed him. She kissed him until he disappeared, leaving her with nothing but silence and her own breaking heart.
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
I’m not surprised to find Oliver on my doorstep in the morning, knocking frantically.
I steel myself as I pull open the door. I’m too tired from crying all night, too empty of anything to feel emotional. This was inevitable. I’m prepared for this, I tell myself.
But I am not, in fact, prepared for how utterly destroyed Oliver looks. His skin is practically transparent in the e
arly-morning sun, his freckles darker than ever in contrast. They usually look so perfect on his face, just right—like there’s a purpose for each and every one of them—but right now they look wrong. Everything looks wrong. His hair is matted back into a messy bun, strands falling out, brushing into red-rimmed eyes. Red hair, red eyes, red lips, red red red on an otherwise completely blank white canvas.
“You know.” I can barely hear myself say the words.
“I know.”
He doesn’t sound sad, or angry, or hurt. He sounds like a flat line, a bare room, a hollow shell.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he deadpans. “You’re sorry.”
I step back into the hallway, motioning for him to come inside where it’s warm. He doesn’t move, though. I stay put. “I should have told you yesterday. Or no, I should have told you before yesterday. But I couldn’t tell anyone. And I—I had my reasons. Good ones, I thought. For my dad’s sake. He was depressed, Oliver, so depressed. He never got over my mom dying. And we were running out of money. He’d had a string of failed jobs, failed manuscripts—this was the first thing that worked out. He lied to agents before I gave permission, but then it was—it was the first time I’d seen him happy in so long. Excited about life.” I pause, shake away the sad memories. Shake away the excuses. “None of that matters though, not now. I lied to you, I lied to everyone, and I don’t expect anyone to forgive me.”
“You’re right. I can’t forgive you. I can’t stop thinking about yesterday, about how fucking great I thought you were. All lies. And Emma…the look in her eyes when she told me last night. Jesus Christ, it was bad.” His voice is filling in now, the fear, the rage, the disappointment. I’m glad, because he deserves that—deserves to let it out. And I deserve to feel like the lowliest, dirtiest scum.
He looks like he’s about to turn away, to leave for good. But he stops himself.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 17