Detective Locke dismisses him with a shrug. “You’d be surprised what kids will disclose once they know that you already know their secrets.”
I duck my head and hurry through the Denny’s parking lot, shoving down the leftover worry from our meeting with Detective Locke this afternoon. Nobody from Norchester goes to Denny’s except as a last-resort breakfast venue, but we aren’t taking any chances with being spotted. Lindsey and I picked one ten miles away just to be careful.
I push open the heavy glass doors and scan the tables for Kendra. I quickly spot her sitting in a booth at the center of the restaurant. She couldn’t stand out more from the truck drivers and crew of twentysomethings that just left the bar, in her paisley-flowered sweater and pink scarf tied over her head. The smell of booze and stale cigarettes mingles with the smell of bacon grease and pancakes. We might as well be holding signs that say we’re out of place. It just increases my sense of being a criminal, and I scurry to our table, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
She moves to stand and greet me, but I motion for her to stay seated. There’s no reason to draw more attention to ourselves. I slip into the other side of the booth.
“I ordered you coffee.” She motions to the thick ceramic mug in front of me before untying her scarf and wrapping it loosely around her neck. The top half of her blonde hair is pushed forward in a bump, secured with a clip, while the rest hangs over her narrow shoulders. It’s the most put together I’ve seen her look since it happened.
“Thanks.” I lace my fingers around my mug.
We stare at each other from across the booth. She has a petite face and perfect round lips. Natural lips. Not those fake ones that make women look ridiculous. Hers are the real deal. We’ve probably sat this way thousands of times in hundreds of places over the thirty-plus years of our friendship, but it feels like an awkward first date, and I have no idea what to say. I haven’t been alone with her since before the accident, and so much hangs between us that I don’t even know where to begin.
I take a sip of my coffee. Kendra put in the perfect amount of cream and sugar for me. If she’s starting to pull any part of herself together, then I don’t want to screw that up, so I choose my words carefully. “How are you feeling after Luna’s visit?” I skirt by the fact that she was supposed to be meeting with Caleb.
“Thanks for letting her come see me,” she says, sidestepping the issue right along with me. “Did she tell you what we talked about?”
I nod. Luna’s story came out in pieces while I tended to her the other night. I wasn’t surprised to learn she’d been at the same party or that the boys had gotten kicked out for getting into a fight over something stupid. All of it sounded like pretty normal teenage behavior to me—exactly the kinds of things that happened when we were in high school and were probably happening tonight.
“What did you think?” Kendra returns my question.
I size her up like she’s been doing to me, each trying to figure out where the other stands like neither of us can be trusted. I have no reason not to trust her. Well, except for that one time. There was that one time, but we don’t talk about that. Ever. Not even the night it happened. Anyway, she has no reason not to trust me. I’m not a dishonest person.
“Sounds like they were more wasted than we thought, and none of this probably would’ve happened if they weren’t,” I say, staring at her pointedly.
Luna also told me that the boys got the alcohol they were drinking that night from Kendra’s bar. I knew it hadn’t come from me because the only alcohol that gets into our house is the bottles Bryan sneaks inside. The blame can no longer be pinned solely on the gun, and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain amount of relief in not bearing so much of the responsibility.
This time she’s the one to nod. “So what kind of stuff has Detective Locke been asking you?”
Kendra’s boldness takes me by surprise, even though it shouldn’t. “Um . . . well, he asks things like how much time Sawyer spent at my house and how much time Caleb spent over there, if I’d noticed anything different or strange in the days leading up to the accident,” I respond, then quickly add, “Except he doesn’t call it an accident. Did you notice that?”
She makes air quotes while she says it in Detective Locke’s deep voice. “The night of the incident.”
“Exactly.” I smile despite the seriousness of the situation. “But he asks way more questions about Caleb and his behavior than he does Sawyer. How about you guys?”
“Pretty much the same. He always circles back to whether or not the boys had gotten into an argument recently or any kind of disagreement.” Kendra pauses, taking a minute to mull over what she wants to say before continuing. “They weren’t fighting or anything, were they?” Her eyes cloud with doubt.
“No. Not at all. They were fine. Everything was fine.”
“Right.” She nods her head in agreement.
We both sip our coffee. I look away first, glancing at the door for Lindsey. She should be here by now. The silence stretches out between us. “Lindsey texted right before I left and said she’ll be here as soon as Jacob’s asleep,” I announce to break it up.
Kendra leans across the table and grabs my hand conspiratorially. “Okay, can I just say to you before she gets here that I think some of the stuff she does with Jacob is super creepy?”
“Oh my God, me too!” I squeal, trying to keep my voice down. “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it, and I’ve felt like the biggest bitch for even feeling that way.”
“Trust me, you’re not alone. Like tonight. She’ll come after Jacob’s asleep.” She raises her eyebrows. “I feel so bad for her, though.”
“I do too. At some point she’s just going to have to accept his condition. It can’t be good for her to hold out hope like this. I mean, it’s been over three weeks.”
We all count how many days have passed since our worlds changed forever. There should be a measure of relief at having survived the first few weeks, and hopefully there is for them, but it’s still ground zero for me. I want to open my mouth and spill what it has been like these past few days, to unburden myself of the pain attaching itself to me like a cancer, but I’m supposed to be her emotional container, not the other way around.
“How are you doing?” I ask, bringing my attention back to her.
It’s the only permission Kendra needs to open the floodgates. She grabs tissues from the Louis Vuitton purse sitting next to her in the booth and launches into a description of her emotional turmoil. I can’t concentrate on anything she’s saying. I nod my head at the appropriate moments and do my best to look interested, but I’m gone. All I can think about is what happens when I get home. Bryan and Ted left the police station without saying goodbye to me this afternoon. Whatever weird sort of alliance we’d developed while inside was gone that quickly. I haven’t heard anything from Bryan the rest of the day.
I’m scared to go home because I don’t know what lies in store for me there. Luna was gone this afternoon when I came home from the police station. She left a letter in a sealed envelope on my pillow that I can’t bring myself to read. Not yet. I’ve tried texting her, but she doesn’t respond. I want to tell her that I told her dad to leave. I said the words—get out. But that’s the thing: they meant nothing. My words mean nothing to him, and he’s probably lounging in our bedroom watching SportsCenter without a care in the world.
My therapist is convinced he’s a narcissist. She says he doesn’t have the ability to feel empathy for others. I argued with her about it for a long time. After all, you can’t have the kind of chaotic and abusive childhood that he did and expect to come through it unscathed. But that’s just it. She says that’s what makes him the perfect candidate for narcissism. I don’t care what it’s called. I just want him to go away without hurting us.
All of this is happening so fast, and I don’t know what to do. Beth said baby steps were okay, that I didn’t have to do everything all at once, so that’s
what I’ve been doing. One thing at a time in the direction of leaving him, but I can barely scrape up the money to see Beth every week, and I’m nowhere near being able to provide Caleb and me with a stable home. I don’t even have enough money saved for a deposit on an apartment yet.
I haven’t had access to our finances in over twenty years, and I rely on my monthly allowance to pay for things. I thought it was so cute and romantic in the beginning when Bryan wanted to take care of me the way that he did. Back then, that was how he framed it—taking care of me—because that was how he framed everything, and it seemed so sweet. As soon as we got engaged, he put himself in charge of our finances. I was still working at Macy’s, and I gladly turned over my biweekly checks because I’ve never been good with money and was more than happy to have someone else do it for me. In those days, I didn’t know about the other Bryan. I’d yet to meet him, so I just felt like a pampered princess.
Now I’m a prisoner.
TWENTY-NINE
KENDRA
I find myself in front of the Delta Tau house. Thankfully, there’s a steady stream of Uber drivers pulling up alongside the curb, so nobody notices me parked on the other side of the street. I meant to go home after my Denny’s date with Dani and Lindsey, but I drove here instead. An unconscious desire to retrace Sawyer’s last steps drew me.
I can’t be home without taking those pills, and I don’t want to take those pills anymore, so I needed somewhere to go. Normally, I’d go to Lindsey’s or Dani’s, and if that wasn’t an option, I’d beg one of them to go out with me until they relented. But none of that’s feasible.
I haven’t been to Dani’s or anywhere near it yet, and I’m pretty sure I never will. I don’t know how she lives there. How do you stay in the same house where someone died, especially someone you loved and cared about? Neither of us brings it up. We skirt around it like expert dancers. That’s what tonight’s meeting felt like too. At least she sat and listened to me ramble and cry before Lindsey showed up.
Lindsey wasn’t any more relaxed than Dani. She was so anxious she barely stayed in the booth long enough for a cup of coffee. As it was, she jittered her legs, occasionally bumping the table and making the silverware clang, throughout the entire time she was there. Her face is gray like it was the summer she got mono and slept through all of June. She needs to get outside of the hospital more. I told her that but then immediately felt like a hypocrite, since I barely leave my house and spend all of my time holed up in Sawyer’s room.
My legs are shaking harder than hers were at Denny’s. Sweat trickles down my back. At the same time that I desperately want to flush the poison from my body, I’m frightened of what will happen once it’s gone. I’m not an addict. I partied hard when I was a teenager and in college, but all that stopped after I had kids. I get tipsy after two glasses of wine, and I can’t remember taking anything stronger than a Tylenol PM in the last decade. I don’t like the pills or the way they make me feel, but the only alternative is the debilitating emotional pain. It’s the loss of control and the groundlessness when they overtake me that are so terrifying. Feeling nothing is preferable. Maybe that’s how addicts get started.
What will the kids inside of Delta Tau do if I barge in and ask if anyone was there the night Sawyer died? Will someone take pity on me and come forward? Will they answer my questions if they do? Doubtful, but they will record me and post it for all the world to see. The video of me coming out of the hospital that night has gathered over 500K likes. Reese brags on our stats like it’s something to be proud of.
I bring Sawyer’s phone out of my purse and swipe it to life. I don’t go anywhere without it, guarding it more carefully than mine. I pull up the series of videos I’ve been watching under the file with the skilled photography pictures. I push play on the latest one.
Again, it’s Jacob. Always Jacob. This time he’s standing in Sawyer’s closet with his back toward him. He’s shirtless, and muscles ripple their way down to the elastic waistband of his boxers. Ripped jeans are slung from his hips. Barefoot.
“Jacob . . . ,” Sawyer calls to him from behind the camera.
He turns around and smiles.
Video ends.
My chest constricts. I press play again. Another time. Same thing. Nothing changes. A chill runs down my neck. It’s not the images in the video that disturb me—it’s the desire. Sawyer’s throat is laced with it when he says Jacob’s name, and Jacob’s eyes return the fire.
I drop the phone in my lap.
THIRTY
LINDSEY
I don’t bother being quiet coming into the house. Andrew said he’d wait up for me no matter how long my meeting with the girls took because we need to talk about what happened in Detective Locke’s office. That’s my Good Andrew. My Always-Doing-the-Right-Thing Andrew. Of course we’ll have a nice chat about your secret online world before bed, because today I met Bad Andrew.
He’s perched on the couch in the living room like an anxious parent waiting for their child who’s out past curfew. There are two glasses of water on the coffee table in front of him. His thoughtfulness irritates me. I take a seat on the armchair across from him, refusing to sit next to him and putting the coffee table between us so there’s no way he can touch me. I cross my arms and legs.
“We need to talk,” he says. His dark hair sticks up all over the place. He coats it with gel in the morning to keep it straight and off his face, but no matter how much he uses, it all separates by the end of the day. He’s wearing his office clothes instead of the sweatpants he dons whenever he’s settled in for the night, which means he’s prepared to leave if he needs to. Good.
I nod, signaling for him to continue.
“A couple years ago, I—”
I almost come out of my chair. “Did you just say a couple years ago? How long has this been going on?”
“Almost two years.” His expression tells me it doesn’t get any better from here. I brace myself for whatever he’s about to say next. “I created a profile on an online site for married people who are looking for companionship.” He reaches across the table and grabs my wrist, trying to hold my hand. “Please, it’s not a dating site. I told you it’s not what it looks like, and believe me, I know how bad this looks.”
I jerk my hand away and glare at him. I’ve never wanted to spit at anyone, but I’m angry enough to spit, and for a second I consider hocking a loogie in his face. It’s disgusting and crude, just like what he’s made our marriage into. Almost twenty years, and we’re a joke. A cliché.
His voice is strangely flat as he continues speaking. “The site is set up specifically for people who are interested in friendships without any sexual involvement. It’s for people who want friendships outside of their marriages, but their spouses won’t allow it—”
“What do you mean, their spouses wouldn’t allow friendships outside of their marriage? I’ve always let you have friends.” I’m not the jealous type. Never have been—at least with him. I didn’t need to be because I trust him, wholeheartedly and completely. His trustworthiness was one of the main reasons I married him. He walked the straight and narrow through all of high school, no matter what anyone else did around him. He was the treasurer of the student council and president of the MATHCOUNTS team. It’s why I didn’t pay him any attention then, but when it came time to start thinking about my future, he was the perfect candidate.
He shakes his head as if I’m not understanding what he’s trying to get me to see. “If I would’ve told you about it, then you would’ve asked me questions about it.”
“So now I’m being punished for asking questions? Are you serious?” I’m done keeping my voice down. I don’t care if I wake the kids.
“The conversation would’ve turned into this, and I didn’t want to have this argument with you. I wanted a relationship that was mine and only about me so I could feel like a separate person again. I didn’t feel like I had any part of myself left. I’m sorry if this hurts you.” He looks genuine
ly apologetic, like he doesn’t want this to be happening any more than I do. His kindness makes it hurt more. I’m not sure how that’s possible. “I lost myself along the way with being a dad and a husband. I wanted to find out who I was again. Meeting other people helped me do that.”
“There was more than one?” I’ve had enough. I don’t wait for him to answer before stomping out of the living room and heading for the stairs. He grabs me from behind.
“Please, Lindsey. Stop. Just look at the site. You’ll see what I mean.” He frantically pulls his phone from the back pocket of his pants. He pulls up the site and hands it to me.
Married Friends. With a tagline: Looking for companionship outside your marriage without the guilt of an affair?
He isn’t lying. At least not about the site. Sadness builds in my chest as I quickly skim the site. It’s geared toward men and women who are missing intimacy and friendship in their marriages but don’t want to cheat.
“Now do you see?” I keep his phone, mindlessly scrolling while he talks. The site boasts of having thousands of members worldwide who are longing to get in touch. You can choose what you’re looking for like on any other dating site, with options ranging from exchanging information to “affectionate companionship,” which sounds borderline sexual to me.
“Everything I do and every relationship that I have is about you or the kids. I don’t have a friend who’s not connected to you in some way or hasn’t known me since preschool. This gave me a space that was mine. Allowed me to explore who I was again. It was fun.”
“Did you meet anyone”—I pause as I search for the right word—“special?”
He nods. “Last year right around this time. We were in lots of group chats and other meetings, but we never did any instant messaging for a long time until she came on one night really upset and nobody else was on but me. We ended up talking, just the two of us, and we’ve been close ever since.”
The Best of Friends Page 13