by Celeste, B.
I get reprimanded for running back inside, which Dad doesn’t know about until now. Then he scolds me until I explain to both him and the officers that I needed my book.
“Was a book really worth your life?” Dad doubts, shaking his head. “Possessions mean nothing compared to your life, River. For the sake of my sanity, never do something as reckless as that again.”
He wouldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain it to him. The book is the first thing that tied me to Everett, and I wanted to know if Hester got her happy ending. I could have just looked it up online and spoiled it, but when I dragged Steph into the bookstore, it was the first book I found. It seemed like a sign, just like Briggs told me about.
I didn’t believe Briggs until the store clerk told me the book was a first edition. It’s in rough shape, so he gave me a discount despite its rarity. Steph told me I was crazy to spend so much money on a “silly book” but she doesn’t get the significance of it. It was my ticket home, the very thing I needed to see to realize I was ready to face Everett and my family.
Staring down at my folded hands in my lap, I ignore the disapproving look on Dad’s face. “I believe that some possessions are worth the risk.”
The police tell me they’ll be in touch.
Dad inhales a little and sits back down in his chair, our hands still linked. “I’ll always be thankful for Everett saving your life, but a part of me worries that he’ll still hurt you. Then what is risking your life worth?”
That’s why they’re called risks.
“It’s worth everything.”
The next time I wake up, it’s almost twelve in the afternoon. Dad is speaking in low murmurs with the doctor in the corner, and Mom is right next to my bed with a book in her hand. When she notices I’m awake, she smiles and gets the others attention.
Dr. Woodrow has a nurse come in and show us how to change the bandages on my wounds. They emphasize the importance of keeping it clean so nothing becomes infected, which Dad assures them will not be an issue.
When it’s just the three of us again, Mom asks how I’m feeling. But I don’t want to talk about the ache of my body or sting in my lungs.
“Who’s with Everett?”
Dad’s brows pinch.
Before they can answer, I reposition myself in bed. “I’m lucky enough to have both of you, but who does he have? Is he okay? Do you know anything about his condition?”
Mom hushes me. “We’ve both been in to see him, sweetheart. And Margaret, a family friend of Everett’s, has come in to see him. He had to have a steel rod placed in his leg because of the break, but he’s going to be just fine. I promise he’s not alone.”
Sucking in a short breath to calm myself down, I nod. “Can I see him? Dr. Woodrow says it’s important I try moving around.”
“But your feet …”
The pads of my feet are burnt and numb from the gel they put on it. Right now, I can’t feel them, but putting any type of pressure on them before they’re healed won’t do them any good.
“Please,” I whisper, grabbing Mom’s hand. She glances at Dad and they share a short, understanding look.
Dad goes to get a nurse to bring a wheelchair in for me. When help arrives, they manage to mobilize the IV bags onto a pole that’s attached to the chair.
“The book.” I search the room for the one thing I got out of my apartment. I don’t know what the condition of the building is, much less what’s salvageable. Most of it is just stuff, things I won’t really lose sleep over. But the book is something I need to show Everett.
Mom grabs the worn novel from her bag on the counter and passes it to me. Neither she nor Dad asks why I need it, they just wheel me to Everett’s room across the recovery unit. My lap is covered in a thin scratchy white blanket that only really helps hide the hideous blue geometric gown I’m wearing. The book rests on the blanket, face down, as we enter Everett’s room.
He’s sitting up in bed with his leg elevated. When he sees me, his chest seems to deflate like he’s been holding his breath all this time. A relieved look washes over his tense features, and a small smile tugs on the corners of his lips.
Everett looks … good. He always does, but there’s a lot different about him since I last saw him, which also happens to be that night in the studio when I finally became brave enough to walk away. His hair is shorter than usual, but still flops over in dirty blond tresses on the top of his head, and his sharp jaw is lined with days-old stubble. I know he likes having facial hair, but Isabel preferred him clean-shaven. I wonder if he’ll shave when he’s released or if he’ll keep it and grow it out.
When his minty eyes lock with mine, something inside me clicks. It’s not a flutter or summersault, but the type of feeling that connects us. Maybe it’s because he saved my life. Or maybe the feeling is something so much bigger than can be explained.
“River,” he breathes, reaching out to me.
I peer over my shoulder at my parents, who are looking between us. “Can I talk to him alone, please?”
They both nod, and Dad kind of eyes Everett in silent warning. When I look back at Everett, he just tips his head as if to say, I understand. And he probably does, because he knows Robert better than most people do.
When the door clicks shut behind them, I reach out and touch his extended hand. “You broke your leg.”
“It’s nothing,” he assures me. His eyes dance around my body, which doesn’t reveal much of anything between the gown and blanket. “Are you okay? The wheelchair—”
“I’m not allowed to walk because of the burns on my feet.” Shifting in the chair, I raise my arm to show him the gauze. “The rest of me is fine for the most part.”
His jaw ticks. “For the most part,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“Hey,” I scold, frowning. “You saved my life, Everett. It could have been a lot worse. You’re hurt more than I am, and it’s all my fault. I’m so—”
His face hardens. “Don’t you dare apologize to me, River. You weren’t the one who set that fire.”
I toy with the book. “But I shouldn’t have gone back in. I just …” Swallowing, I pick up the book and hand it to him. “I wanted you to have this. Maybe it’s stupid, but I saw it in California and just felt like it meant everything was going to be okay when I got home. Home to Bridgette and Robert and … home to you.”
His fingers brush the cover. “Nothing you do is ever stupid, River.” His head tilts as he glowers at me. “Except walking into a burning building. That was pretty dumb.”
My cheeks heat.
He glances back down. “But I get why you did it. The Scarlet Letter, huh?”
I crack a small smile. “I lied before when I said I finished it. I thought it was dry and boring, and I honestly didn’t understand what was going on. But I kept wondering what happened to Hester because …”
His voice his quiet. “Because why?”
“Because I’m Hester.” My voice isn’t as hoarse as it was, but it’s still raspy and fragile. The topic certainly doesn’t help. “I thought if Hester got her happy ending then I would too, but she really doesn’t. I mean, the story is depressing. Her lover dies after admitting what happened and she just disappears with Pearl.”
When I dare to look up at him, he’s watching me with wide eyes full of wonder. “I never wanted you to feel like Hester. You shouldn’t have ever felt like that.”
The blanket is all I have to fidget with, so I play with the hem of it. “But I am. I might as well wear a red A on my chest. But that’s not really the point. It’s a book, a story. And whether it’s based on something true or not is debatable, but I don’t want it to be our story. You told me not to give up on us before we had our happy ending, and I … I want that. I don’t want to be like Hester or the Reverend.”
“Baby,” he rasps, “that’s not us.”
Baby. He’s called me that more than once. The first time it killed me to hear, because it was like a last-ditch effort to keep me in arms rea
ch while he stayed fully committed to another woman. When he called me baby in the studio with every chance of losing each other for good, it tore me apart in a different way. Like I wouldn’t be able to hear him say it ever again.
Especially when he didn’t make it out.
My chest hurts. “The book is like a weird sign for us. Bridgette … Mom told me that I should wait until I was ready to come back, and I didn’t know when I’d know. Then someone I met in California told me I’d only know when I was ready when I finally opened my eyes to the things I care about most. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me at first. But then I found the book, and everything clicked.”
“Was this someone you met a man?”
Confused, I nod slowly.
His jaw ticks. “Remind me to go to California and kick his ass when I’m better.”
I giggle. “Briggs is almost Robert’s age, and he’s married with a kid. He was like a father figure in some ways. Plus, I might not have gone out and found this book if it wasn’t for him.”
He sighs. “I guess he’s fine then.”
The mood lightens as he sets down the book on his lap. He watches me with eased eyes, like he’s looking for something. I’m not sure what, so I squirm under his gaze.
“What?”
“Can you grab that jacket right there?”
He points toward a jacket draped on the counter next to the sink. I reach over and pluck it off, passing it to him. He digs in the side pocket and pulls something out, a crinkled piece of aged paper.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to prove to you that you’ve been the biggest part of my life for years,” he began, staring down at the paper he grasps, “but didn’t know how. How could I, when I’ve been stuck in my head and on old promises? I …”
He pauses, wetting his lips. “When I was young, I lost both of my parents in a car accident. Honestly, I didn’t really know them enough or understand what happened, but I knew when I woke up in the hospital with my grandparents there, something bad had happened. My grandfather used to always promise to take care of me—that Tuckers never break their promises. After years of hearing that, I knew any promise I made had to be kept. I stayed with Isabel because I promised her she wouldn’t lose me. I know she told you we were having a baby, but it’s not …” His voice cracks. “Shit, it’s not what you think. When we were younger, Isabel got pregnant but miscarried. She was heartbroken, we both were, so I promised her she’d never lose me like she did the baby.
“It wasn’t really love that we felt for each other, even though we tried. I stayed with her because I made a promise that I wanted to make my family proud for keeping, and she stayed with me because she thought it was a way out of her father’s control. But it destroyed us. I’m not saying that’s any excuse for what I did, how I acted, but it’s my truth. We were stuck in a relationship that neither of us wanted to try taming or breaking apart because of our own reasons. I shouldn’t have gone after you until I was ready to accept the consequences of dissolving my promise to her, but the thought of letting my parents down, my grandparents, it killed me. Your father made me realize that promises don’t really mean anything if they’re not supported by commitment.”
I’m silent throughout his tale, wanting to hug him, to tell him how sorry I am for the loss of his parents. He’s lost so many people in his life, and I knew that something tragic had happened to his parents, because Steph told me as much when we were younger. But to lose his parents so young, to experience so much loss, I get that better than anyone.
My eyes travel to the long scar lining his neck, and suddenly it makes sense. We’re both scarred from our past.
I don’t fault him for wanting to make his parents proud, whether they’re around to praise him for it or not. If anybody understands the need to please someone, it’s me. But we both went the wrong way about it, and we both acknowledge that.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he finally says, letting out a shallow breath. “But I do hope you understand that, for me, it has always been you.”
He holds out the paper to me. Hesitantly, I take it, unsure if I should read it now or later. I’m afraid of what it’ll say, but also yearning to know how this plays into whatever we share between us.
It has always been you.
That must mean something.
Setting it on my lap, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “The scars on my back, everywhere really, don’t come with a pretty story either. The first time Jill, my social worker, saw them, they were fresh and needed stitches and a lot of medication for the pain and infection. When Bridgette saw them, she cried. When Steph saw them … she told me she thought they made me look badass. And I thought for the first time, maybe they were something I should be proud of because I survived the abuse.”
“River,” he cuts me off hoarsely, “you don’t have to—”
“At the diner, you said that you’d only tell me about why you stayed with Isabel if I told you about my scars.” I let a few tears pass the barriers that hold them back, because I deserve to feel this. Not the pain, but the relief of finally being able to tell someone. “I was going to tell you anyway, because I want us to be the couple that shares everything with each other. I want our love to be truthful and honest even when it hurts us the most. I know, then, that you’ll truly be there for me, scars and all. Past and all.”
His eyes glaze over into an olive tone.
Lips pressed tightly together, I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth. It helps me fight off the anxiety that wants to bubble from the memories I want nothing more than to finally wave goodbye to. They’ll always linger but won’t dictate who I am anymore.
And for the next hour, I tell him everything. He hears all the gritty details and brutal truths. I tell him about how I received every scar, the cigarette burns, the butter knives, the backhanded strikes to the face, the belts to the back.
It’s hardest to talk about the belt whippings, because it was the one time in foster care that I wanted to give up on everything … to let the belt bleed me out on the floor where I took the attack. I remember my torn shirt clinging to me with my own blood as another strike would slash my skin. I remember the tears that drowned my cheeks and the hoarseness of my voice cutting out my desperate pleas.
I wanted to die that day. I wanted Jill to find my body on the hardwood floor, surrounded by blood and tears and freedom. I just wanted it to end. Everything. All of it.
By the time I admit how close I was to begging for death, Everett’s face is wet from tears as he rasps my name and holds my hand, squeezing my wrist because I’m here. I’m here and he’s here and we survived.
We survived loss.
We survived pain.
We survived for each other.
Death never claimed me even when I begged for it, because there was always something more for me out there; love of all kinds that I used to believe I didn’t deserve.
When Mom and Dad come back in, it’s because the nurse needs to check on Everett and mine needs to check on me. When my parents see our tear-stricken faces and clasped hands, they both brush my arm in comfort. Dad squeezes Everett’s arm once, tips his head, and starts to wheel me out of the room.
“The letter,” he blurts suddenly, almost desperately. “Just … read it.”
Holding onto the letter like it’s my lifeline, I manage to nod. When the door closes behind us, separating me and Everett, I suck in a much-needed breath.
Mom looks at me with worry shadowing her eyes. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
For the first time, I don’t lie. “Yes.”
45
Everett / 27
Chief visits me at the hospital the day they release me, three days after I was brought in. He lectures me like I expect him to, and I take the scolding as I deserve. He tells me if I ever disobey him again, I’m off the squad. Honestly, I expected worse.
What I don’t expect him to tell me is that the fire wasn’t accidental, but arson.
River told the police she was sure the heater was what caused it, but the investigation showed evidence that someone purposefully ignited the downstairs studio. My first initial thought is to see how River is. Hearing news that the studio she loves so much was set on fire on purpose is hard to handle.
Chief tells me she took it as well as she could, but not when they told her what they found. Turns out, the investigation didn’t need to be drawn out for very long, because paraphernalia was found with DNA evidence that matched one Savannah Scott. Between the previous warrants she has against her on top of hard proof that she was there the night of the fire, it isn’t looking good for her.
I know he shouldn’t be telling me this because it’s not public knowledge, but despite Chief’s disgruntlement over me disobeying orders, he knows how much I care for River.
I told her I would talk to her after I got out, that way she wouldn’t need to bother Bridgette or Robert for a ride to the hospital. Plus, I want her to read the letter and think about it. It doesn’t prove a lot, just that she’s been more to me for longer than she might think.
I’ve always been yours, River.
You were never mine.
She really has no idea.
She’s been mine since the day she asked me to take her virginity. She’s been mine since the day I punched Asher fucking Wilks for bragging about sleeping with her. She’s been mine for years, she just hasn’t known it.
But the letter … I hope she realizes how serious I am. Not just about her, but about us. About her family and what part they play in the grand scheme of things. I want them to know how much I love their daughter.
I want them to know how much I love her smile, the way her nose scrunches when she doesn’t like something, and the way her brown eyes turn golden when emotion takes over.
The promise I made to Isabel may have been broken under the circumstances I first made them, but I know my parents are still proud. And, really, Isabel will always have me in some way. She has our memories, and my friendship if she ever wants it. She has my well wishes and my pride, because she’s strong. Stronger than she thinks, even against her father.