Seven Sins

by Piper Lennox

  She stays silent, but unfolds herself.

  “Then maybe we…what?” she whispers.

  The knot in my chest loosens just enough for me to think clearly again.

  “Our job isn’t to prod, it’s to make her feel safe here.”

  I wonder if my dad knows his advice has followed me all over the map, yakking in my ear worse than my own thoughts.

  He’d be shocked to know I actually listen to it, now and then.

  So tell her, “Nothing. Forget it.”

  And then, by the world’s biggest miracle, I shut up. No more prodding, even if it’s killing me to know there’s way more under the surface than she shows me.

  For once, we leave things imbalanced.

  Twenty-Five

  “Maybe we can’t be together.”

  Van didn’t need to finish his sentence. I knew exactly what words were next. I’ve waited on them, dreaded the moment they’d fall from his mouth, since he kissed me in that skate park.

  And seven years ago, they were undeniably true.

  Back then, I knew I couldn’t have him. There was too much left to do and too many miles I had to go, so much left for me to learn about this world. His world. And it had to be on my own.

  As grateful as I’d been for Van’s guidance, I was tired of teachers telling me how things were. Leaders taking me where I didn’t want to go.

  Prophets, telling me who I had to be.

  Van looked at me like I was some perfect, strange gift dropped from the sky at his feet. A look like I was...

  ...magic.

  Even he had some standard for me to meet, innocent as it was. He told me I made him feel things again. He believed I could fix him.

  I desperately wanted to be the girl he needed. But I wasn’t. I could never be her, any more than I could still be Jescha. There was no magic in me, no answers…no quick fixes. Just a runaway, even more lost than him.

  “What are you reading?” he asks, cutting the engine and swiveling towards me. I relocated from the passenger seat to the bed somewhere around our thirtieth mile of overpowering silence.

  “Something I read as a kid.”

  He walks closer. The other side of the bed sinks under his weight. Tensing, I keep my back to him and train my eyes on the book.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Stop, Van. I came back here because I don’t feel like being around you right now, much less talking.”

  “I lost my temper earlier. And look…I get it, Juni, I really do. Not wanting to talk about shit from your past. Just because I’m ready to find out, doesn’t mean you’re ready to tell me.”

  The passage I’ve been re-reading for the last ten minutes blurs. Two teardrops skid to the side of my face.

  “That said,” he exhales, “I’d appreciate it if you could try and see where I’m coming from, too. I’ve known you seven years, and I still don’t know your story.”

  “You’ve known me twice in seven years. Not for seven years. And either way, so what? I’ve known you just as long, and I still don’t have your story.”

  “Yes, you do. Anything else would just be more examples of the same stuff. So maybe you haven’t heard it all, but you know it all.”

  He leans close, hovering above me. His weight shifts the bed so that I roll and have no choice but to face him.

  “I’ve told you everything,” he says. “And I’m not going to make you tell me the rest of yours if you don’t want to, but...but if you can’t? Like, ever?”

  With a sharp breath, he lets the words fade. Their ghosts dance around my head.

  “Then maybe we can’t….”

  The mere thought shatters me, heart and soul.

  Yes, we were doomed before. There was no way we could have worked, back then.

  But seven years changes so, so much.

  “It’s The Phoenix Seer.” At last, I roll over and look at him. “My best friend and I used to read this all the time. Well, not this exact copy, obviously...but we’d sneak up to my attic and take turns reading chapters to each other.”

  Heavy-lidded, he studies the cover, and then my face. “Why the attic?”

  “We weren’t allowed to read fiction.”

  Please, don’t make me say more, I beg him silently, while my vocal chords freeze from what little I’ve already given him.

  Because it’s not little. It sounds like such a tiny piece, but to me…it’s just as hard to say as the whole story.

  “Her name’s Rebecca Hostetter.” And with that, I turn back over and pretend to pick up where I pretended to leave off.

  Van fits his body against mine. It’s unfair, how calm and steady his heartbeat is, bleeding into my back like it’s teasing my heart for getting so worked up.

  “I have one more question. For now.” His fingertips are impossibly warm on my neck, moving my hair until he can rest his lips there. “If you weren’t allowed to have it, how did you get that book?”

  I know he feels the wince I give. “We took it from someone. A girl we saw in the park one day.”

  His fingers trace my hipbones, gliding across my navel and fluttering the pages of the book, as he patiently waits for me to finish.

  “I guess...we stole it.”

  A few days ago, he would’ve had plenty to say about this. That Van would’ve had no shortage of cutting remarks and insults to throw at me, dredging up ancient history from the depths as swiftly as I knocked his possessions into that lake.

  Then again, I would’ve never confided this in that Van.

  “I bet that girl would forgive you.” He kisses the back of my neck. I feel him smile when I gasp, in awe at how this small touch can bring so much happiness. “The book obviously meant a lot to you, if you hunted down another copy.”

  “It’s a good story,” I nod, shutting it and admiring the cover I’ve memorized a hundred times over. “And it reminds me of Rebecca.”

  One more piece. Just for tonight.

  “That’s why I kept the iPod your dad gave me. It reminded me of you.”

  “You could’ve taken a photo with you. God knows there were plenty to spare.”

  I smile. The walls of the farmhouse were covered in photos of Van, from infancy to middle school, all framed and hung by his mother. It embarrassed him, when his father showed me around and referred to various walls as “another Van shrine,” but I’d loved it.

  We didn’t have any photos in my house. Just a single oil painting of the Crucifixion, right over the dining table, above the extra plate Mother or myself always fixed. It was ten percent of every meal, meant to be an offering of thanks to the Lord. I’d always found it silly, and maybe even a little insulting to God, that we ended up scraping that food into the compost every night.

  I think about telling this to Van and giving him one more piece of the story…but just remembering it leaves me exhausted. Fragile. Missing my mother so much more than I thought was still possible.

  “I would’ve wanted a picture of both of us,” I tell him instead, words slurring with sleep, “and we never took any.”

  “What? No way, you’re lying.”

  I shake my head. “It’s true.”

  The bed moves. I’m too far gone to turn and see where he goes; I’m just happy when he slides back in behind me.

  Suddenly, a flash bleeds through my eyelids.

  “There.”

  I open my eyes. He’s holding my phone.

  Filling the screen is us, me half-asleep with pure contentment on my face; him, that smile I adore and eyes bluer than blue.

  “Now you’ve got one,” he whispers, kissing my cheek as he slips the phone into my hand.

  Twenty-Six

  “You get my letter?”

  I switch my phone to the other ear and wave to Juni as she vanishes into the pharmacy. She’s convinced my low-grade fever must be deadly pneumonia, so we’ve spent most of today bickering about whether or not I should see a doctor.

  The compromise: she gets to dose me with whatever med
icine she wants until we get to the next state. If it’s not better by then, I’ll go.

  “Yeah,” I tell Dad. “Congrats.” Even I can hear how sarcastic this sounds, but it’s really not. I’m just not good at sounding happy for other people. “When’s the wedding?”

  “That’s, uh...that’s kind of why I wanted you to call me sooner.” Dad laughs under his breath. He’s pissed I never responded, and I can’t blame him.

  I should have called. I should be able to muster more than one flat “congrats” for his second shot at happiness.

  “You already did it, didn’t you?”

  He’s quiet. Guess that’s my answer.

  “It was just Megan and myself, with some random witnesses,” he says, “if that helps. It’s not as though we had a big wedding and all these guests, and just didn’t invite you.”

  “No, I know. I’m not, like, upset or whatever. Weddings are boring.”

  His laugh is real this time, loud and buzzing through my skull. I feel myself smile.

  “There’s...more,” he says.

  “Good news? Bad?”

  “Good, but—I don’t know. Shocking.”

  A shiver tears up my back. Damn fever. I shut the doors and bury myself in the blanket. “What,” I joke, “you knock her up?”

  Once again, I get silence.

  “Jesus, Dad. And all those lectures you gave me about condoms.”

  This time, his laugh sounds scared shitless, which is the only appropriate response I can think of. Megan is forty; she’ll do fine. Plenty of New York mothers are wheeling strollers and chasing toddlers at her age. But my father’s pushing sixty. Men his age change their golf stances, not diapers.

  “Congrats on that, too.” It comes out like a question, but he still thanks me. “Is, uh…is Megan excited?”

  “Oh, she’s thrilled. You know she’s always wanted a child.”

  I’m glad he can’t see the face I make when I say yes, I knew that. Megan’s nice and all, but I’ve still got a sour taste in my mouth from how buddy-buddy she acted when we first met. I’d told her I appreciated the enthusiasm, but I was twenty-one at the time: no mother needed. Go find another Lost Boy, lady, because this one grew up.

  Dad gave me a decent smack on the back of my head for that. Again, I couldn’t blame him.

  “How are you feeling about it?” I ask, figuring I owe him some real conversation. I don’t know why we don’t talk more, to be honest. We get along okay now.

  Especially over the phone, where he can’t see the faces I make when he pisses me off. Maybe that’s why he sticks to letters so much: it removes my shitty tone, too.

  “Terrified, but...okay. Excited. I don’t know yet.”

  “Not like it’s your first rodeo,” I offer. And if he managed to raise baby Van from a socket-poking dumbass to full-fledged adult—emotional flatlining, borderline nihilism, and anger issues aside—he can handle just about anything.

  “True. But I guess that’s my hang-up. Your baby days feel like so long ago, and everything’s changed since then. Did you know baby monitors have video cameras now?”

  “Damn. No privacy for anybody, these days.”

  We share another laugh. I hope I’ve made him feel better, even if it’s minimal.

  Just in case, I decide to add one more thing before we hang up: “You’re gonna do fine. Slower and grayer, yeah—”

  “Thank you, for that.”

  “—but it’s not like you’re starting from nothing. You know the ropes, this time around.” Now I’m really glad he can’t see my face, because then he’d know spitting this out feels like fifty “sorry’s” at once. “You’re a great dad.”

  There’s a long, long pause.

  “I’m sorry, the lines must’ve crossed. I thought I was talking to my son.”

  “See,” I sigh, “this is why I can’t compliment people. Everybody’s a smartass.”

  He laughs. “Thank you. That…that means a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter.

  “You’ll just have to forgive my disbelief. I’m not used to you giving compliments, least of all to me. What’s going on with you, out there? Life on the road must be changing you.”

  I look to the doors Juniper just vanished through.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  I’m doing Juniper Summers like the world is ending, I think. Insert some “keep it up” joke. I don’t have the energy to think of one.

  Not that I’d say any of these thoughts to my dad, obviously. Besides the disgust factor, I don’t feel like getting one of his infamous speeches about wrapping my tool. Especially now.

  That, and I don’t want him asking me how Juni’s doing, how we ended up together, or the hundreds of questions I know he’ll have, because I’m not sure my mouth could resist snapping the only Juniper-related question I’ve got for him.

  Why did you let her kiss you?

  I think I need that piece of Juni’s story more than any other. And that’s why I’m too terrified to ask.

  There’s no reason to suspect he’s some cradle-robbing perv. Megan being almost two decades his junior gave him pause; forget anyone younger than that.

  Dating in general scared him to no end. Hell, the man waited four years after Mom just to take another woman out for coffee.

  And Juni says it’s not what it looked like. Whatever the hell that means, I know I’ve got to trust her. We can’t work if I don’t.

  But still: some tiny, twisted piece of me has always wondered if the magic that drew me to Juniper…drew him in, too. Even for one second.

  Stop. These thoughts are dangerous, and make me feel worse than the fever. Time to fold them back into the mental safe deposit box where they belong.

  Dad and I make some small talk about the cruise, which they’re cutting short thanks to Megan’s morning sickness. “We’ll be back in New York next week. Stop by, if you’re in the area. But, you know…I understand if you can’t.”

  My mental map highlights the routes Juni and I planned to take. By the time he’s in the city, we’ll be in Utah. No point doubling back to the east coast.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I tell him, just so I won’t break the dude’s heart. After we hang up, though, I realize I actually meant it. I miss him.

  He’d probably react to that news as well as my compliment.

  “Okay,” Juni announces, flinging open the door and shaking a shopping bag at me, “I got four different things. I wasn’t sure which you’d be willing to try.”

  “As long as they’re not suppositories, I’ll try anything.”

  She greets my sarcasm with a faux-seductive smile. “Bet I could make you try that.”

  “Dress up like a sexy nurse and yeah, I just might let you.”

  I choose some fever-fighting liquid that’s an abomination against cherries everywhere. Juni laughs when I have to brush my teeth immediately after swallowing it.

  “Remember our deal,” she calls through the bathroom door. “If this doesn’t help, you’re seeing a doctor.”

  “It’ll help. I already feel better. Good as new.” I flush while I use my inhaler, so she can’t hear. I’ve needed it way more than usual today.

  She drives while I sleep. Actually, “slip into a brief coma” is more like it, because I stay unconscious for a record-breaking nine hours. It’s the longest I’ve slept in months.

  When I open my eyes, she’s got her hand on my forehead.

  “Fever broke,” she whispers, brushing back my hair.

  I snap my teeth at her fingers and wink. “Told you.”

  Dear Mr. Durham-Andresco,

  We saw your compilations on YouTube and were very impressed. We’d like to extend an invitation....

  “Fuuuck yesss.”

  “What?” Juni gasps when she opens her eyes in the shower to find me right overhead, halfway out the window. “You’ve got to stop doing that.”

  “I would, if I could f
it in that stupid shower tube with you.” I dangle my phone in front of her. “Check it out. The U.S. All-Terrain Boarding Association invited me to a competition this weekend.”

  Her smile’s so bright, I’m surprised the water doesn’t sizzle right off her. “That’s awesome!”

  I turn it back and reread the message. “I mean, it’s mostly for new skaters nobody’s heard of yet, so it’s kind of a step back—but sponsorships are imminent. If you’re even halfway decent, you’ll walk away with at least one contract.”

  “Then you’ll walk away with fifty.”

  I pull myself out of the window and hide my smile. “Nobody likes a kiss-ass.”

  She hides hers better. “Noted.”

  As soon as she’s back in the Transit, I wrestle her to the mattress.

  “Let’s celebrate.”

  The water her towel missed glistens like starlight on her shoulders. I lick up every bead and migrate to her stomach.

  “Where’s the competition?” she asks, while I leave a hickey on her hipbone.

  “Oh. Guess I should check, huh?” My brain spares two cells long enough for me to grab my phone. “Uh…Medora.” I look at her. “North Dakota.”

  “Wow.” She clears her throat and sits up. “Haven’t been back there since....”

  “Yep.” No need to complete that sentence. I knew when she left our ranch, she’d be leaving the whole damn state. I’d sensed it, the same way I woke up that morning and simply knew she was no longer close.

  “When was the last time you visited?” she asks.

  “Haven’t been back since you left.” I ball up her towel and hook it into the hammock chair. “Dad and I finished out the summer, went back to New York, and I moved out.”

  “Moved out? But you were only sixteen.”

  “Dad was fine with it. We needed space.” I needed space. I couldn’t stand him looking at me like a walking lost cause, no matter how many times I told him I didn’t steal his money. No matter how obvious it was that his precious little sprite set me up.

  I take a breath. Don’t get angry. That Juniper is long gone.

  Her arms cross over herself, hugging her waist. “Was it because of me?”