by Alex Light
“College is hard. I don’t think my mom has the money to pay for it.”
“You’re smart,” Brett said, “you can get a good scholarship.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I might have to stay here, help out at the bakery for a while and save up some money. College can wait.”
“Yeah. Sometimes I wish the future could too.”
We were quiet then. There were crickets chirping and the sound of water lapping against the shore. It was so much better here than back in the clearing. Then a weird noise came from the trees, a rustle, and I latched onto Brett’s arm. “Did you hear that?” I whispered.
Brett took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and pointed it in the direction the sound came from. “Hello?” he called.
The noise came again. This time it wasn’t a rustle. It was more of a—
Moan.
The light exposed a couple hiding in the trees. The girl yelled, reaching up to cover her chest. I looked away, feeling the secondhand embarrassment. Brett fumbled with the flashlight, pointing it in my face while trying to shut it off. “Sorry!” he called out, walking backward. “We’ll leave now. Uh, carry on.”
We ran back through the forest, laughing so hard we had to stop to catch our breath.
My curfew was in an hour, but Brett had no intention of allowing the night to end with us catching two people going at it in the woods. So we hopped in his car and drove two towns over, which sounds far, but it barely took fifteen minutes. Why two towns? Brett wanted fast food. Apparently the only “respectable” burger, shake, and fries in all of Georgia were at Paul’s Diner.
There was no Paul’s Diner in Crestmont.
When our order was ready, we sat in Brett’s car with the windows down, munching away on junk food at midnight. In five minutes I watched him inhale a burger, chocolate milk shake, and a large fry. It was equally impressive and gross. Now he was stealing my fries and dipping them into my strawberry shake and I was kind of annoyed but not really. The night was going well, so I was rolling with it.
“How do you know about this place?” I asked, slurping my shake. I was learning so much about Georgia tonight. And a little more about Brett.
He pointed down the road. “There’s a park a few miles down. This huge stretch of grass with soccer fields and stuff. My dad and I used to come here when I was a kid on the weekends. This was before his promotion, back when he was home more often. We’d throw a football around for a few hours, then drive here for lunch. It was this tradition we had.”
“My dad used to take me for ice cream after class,” I said. “That was our thing.”
Brett dipped his fry in my shake, held it out for me. “Is this our thing, then?” he asked. “Eating fast food at midnight in my car?”
I opened my mouth. He stuck the fry in. “I am totally okay with that.”
“Me too.”
“Why does your dad travel so much?” I knew his family had money, but I had no idea why.
“Have you seen that new hotel being built off the interstate?” I had. It was right when you drove into Crestmont, a few miles after the welcome sign. It was supposed to have its grand opening at the end of the month. “There’s a bunch of them throughout the country, but this is the first one being built here. My dad works for them. He’s the chief financial officer, does all that money stuff. So he flies around the country and checks in on different locations. Makes sure everything’s running smoothly, I guess.”
“What about your mom?”
“She doesn’t work.”
I wondered what that was like, to have enough money to feel secure. Not having to worry about the price of tuition, student loans, or how much textbooks were going to cost. Having the ability to go to whatever school you wanted to.
“My mom always worked. She used to be a nurse,” I said. “When she first opened the bakery, she was worried. It wasn’t doing that well. Only a few customers per day. She invested so much money into it and I don’t know what we would have done if it failed. A few months later, it started to take off. People were talking about it in town and we started getting huge orders. That’s when I began helping out there. I don’t think my mom expected the bakery to become so popular; she only hired, like, three people.”
“I’m happy her business took off,” Brett said. “I don’t know what I’d do without jelly bells.”
I smiled at him. “Me either.”
“You know what would make this moment even better?”
“Jelly bells?”
“That too, yeah, but I was gonna say another burger. I’ll be right back.”
How was he still hungry? And how did he stay in such good shape? There must have been some secret gym routine he was on, plus the intense football training.
I was watching Brett outside the car; he was rummaging through his pockets, probably looking for his wallet, when a car pulled into the spot in front of us. I was expecting more teenagers craving something greasy like us. Instead it was an older couple holding hands, and wow, that car looked expensive. Like, way too expensive for this town. Brett must’ve noticed them too because he was hovering outside, watching. I thought he was admiring their ride because he was standing there, frozen. One of his hands was still on the door handle. Did all guys have a thing for nice cars?
But then I really looked at his face. His mouth was wide open and he looked like he’d just been punched in the gut.
He jumped back inside, mumbled something about having to leave, and sped out of the parking lot. I barely had time to put my seat belt on and went flying into the door when he turned onto the road. “Slow down!” I yelled, placing the cup between my thighs so it wouldn’t spill. “Brett!”
He was driving so fast. I looked at him and it was like he was in a different world. His eyes were locked on the road; his hands had a death grip on the wheel. His lips were moving. Was he talking to himself? He looked like he was either going to cry or hit something.
“Brett, you’re scaring me. Slow down.” He was mumbling so low I turned the radio off to hear him. “What?”
“I have to get out of here,” he said.
“Brett.” I reached out, placed my hand on his arm. “Pull over.”
“He’s not supposed to be here.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
I watched the needle on the speedometer go higher. Higher. Higher. Until it was nearly at one hundred. We were going to crash and die and my body would be covered in a strawberry milk shake when the police found us.
“Brett.” I leaned across the middle, placed my hand directly over his on the wheel. “You need to slow down.”
Brett blinked, shook his head, then glanced down at my hand on his. He looked at me, must’ve seen the terrified look on my face, and swore under his breath. Then we were slowing down. Finally, Brett pulled over, shut the engine off, and buried his head in his hands.
I was speechless.
I breathed in. Out. In. Out. Did a mental count of my body parts. Wiggled my toes. Wiggled my fingers. Ten each. I told myself we were both okay. When I was sure I could speak, I said, “What was that?”
No response.
“Brett?”
Nothing.
“You’re freaking me out. Did you know those people?” It was too dark for me to see their faces clearly, but they didn’t look like anyone I knew. And Crestmont was pretty small, so I’d probably recognize them at least.
Then I remembered that no, we weren’t in Crestmont anymore. So how did Brett know them?
He lifted his head off the wheel and rested it back against the seat. His eyes were closed, his chest moving in and out too quickly. Was he having a panic attack? Should I call an ambulance? When I took my phone out, he placed his hand on top of mine. “I’m fine,” he said, sounding anything but.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was that?” I tried instead.
“I don’t want to know.”
This was making
less and less sense by the second.
Then my heart dropped, plummeted right into my stomach, because Brett said, “I think that was my dad. And that woman wasn’t my mom.”
Oh.
Oh.
“But I— You said your dad was in Ohio.” As soon as I said it, I realized how dumb it was. And then everything sort of clicked into place, a puzzle neither of us wanted to solve.
“I thought he was,” Brett whispered.
I reached for him—his hand, his arm, anything. I latched on. Tight. I knew what it felt like to drown without water. It was worse when no one was there to bring you back to shore.
I held his hand. Squeezed it really tight.
“Are you sure that was him?” I asked because it was dark out and I was desperate for this look to leave Brett’s face.
Brett didn’t say anything. We sat there, parked on the side of the road while cars rushed by. I didn’t know what to say. Hell, I’d been through this too. Well, a different version, but it was still the same. And if that really was his dad, I knew there were no words to help. No “sorry” could fix this wound.
“Do you have a book?” Brett asked.
What? “Um. Yeah. Somewhere in here.” I pulled my bag onto my lap, rummaged through it.
“I need a distraction.”
Right. That made sense. Mom’s baking. My reading. They were both distractions.
“Do you have it?” he asked again, sounding panicked.
I pulled out the book. Brett sighed, undid his seat belt, and reclined his chair back. He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes. He looked so different than he had earlier. Smaller. Sadder.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, wanting to reach out and hold him.
“Read to me” was all he said.
“I don’t think you’ll like this book.” It was romantic. Like, embarrassingly so.
“Please, Becca.”
I flipped open to the page I had bookmarked and began to read. My voice sounded weird at first, more high-pitched, but then it evened out and I started to sound like me again.
Reading out loud was weird. I was so used to occupying this fictional world alone that having Brett there with me felt different. Not a bad different. Just different. I wasn’t sure if he was even listening. He kind of looked like he was sleeping. I kept pausing after each paragraph, sneaking a peek at him.
After I finished the first chapter, our eyes met. He said, “Keep going.”
So I kept reading.
That was the first time I missed curfew.
Brett
HE WASN’T IN OHIO.
That was his car. His suit. Those were his hands holding someone else’s.
That was my dad.
But it wasn’t my mom.
It didn’t make any sense, because my dad would never . . .
I couldn’t even think the word. It all felt wrong. A never-ending nightmare.
He was supposed to be on a business trip. In Ohio. At a hotel. He was supposed to be in meetings and talking to staff and dealing with financial stuff. He wasn’t supposed to be at diners in the middle of the night with a woman I’d never seen before. And he was not supposed to be holding her hand like that.
Like Becca had said, it was dark. And even though I knew it was my dad, there was this voice in my head that kept saying but what if it wasn’t? I clung to that voice because it was easier to be confused than to be angry. With confusion there were still possibilities; it wasn’t black and white just yet. And there was a shred of hope somewhere in the gray that I needed right now.
It was better than the opposite: convincing myself it really was my dad. What would that mean? Were all those business trips a lie? They couldn’t be. He brought back souvenirs from each state. But what else was he doing while he was away? What was he doing when he wasn’t working?
Then I remembered when he came home from New York last weekend and didn’t bring me anything. Was he even in New York? Probably not. He was here the whole time. Wasn’t he?
But maybe it wasn’t him.
It was, though.
It was him.
The next morning my head felt like it had been put in a blender. I woke up to a text from my mom. She was at yoga, then going for lunch. She wouldn’t be home for a few hours. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. My mom. My mom, who was in love with my dad. My mom, who had spent nearly twenty years of her life with him. I realized that this wasn’t just about me. This could ruin her too.
I decided then that I couldn’t tell her what I had seen. Not until I knew for sure.
I needed answers.
I took a shower and called Becca. She picked up right away, probably still worried about me. I remembered her voice in the darkness last night, reading to me. I needed that again right now. That small sense of peace. That certainty.
“Can you come over?” I asked.
A half hour later my doorbell rang. Becca was standing on the porch, hunched over. “Hi,” she said, out of breath.
“Becca—did you run here?”
She stepped inside, chest heaving. “Y-Yeah. It sounded urgent. Didn’t have a ride. You good?”
I stared at her: hair sticking to her forehead, bent over like she was about to pass out, mouth hanging open as she tried to catch her breath. This girl had literally run across town to my house. She looked like she needed an ambulance, yet the only thing she seemed to be worrying about was me. I hugged her, wrapped her into my chest until my chin was resting on the top of her head. I felt it then, the same feeling as last night, when she was reading to me. That stillness. A break in the storm.
“Thank you,” I said.
I let go. She fixed her hair, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Of course. What’s up?” I led her to the kitchen. She kept glancing around. I thought she was admiring the house at first—my mom went overboard with the decorating—but then I saw her peeking through doorways and trying to look upstairs.
“No one’s home,” I told her.
She visibly relaxed.
We took a seat at the kitchen table. I got her two water bottles, just in case. “I need your help,” I said when she’d nearly finished the first.
“Does this have to do with your dad?”
I nodded. “Read any books about detectives?”
Turned out that yeah, she had.
We started in his office. It felt weird being in there—my dad was pretty strict on no one going inside. I looked around the room. Everything was organized. The books in the shelves were in alphabetical order; the papers on the desk were stacked in neat-edged piles. Everything looked polished and shiny. Becca went right to his computer, saying something about checking his credit card history. “The computer has a password,” she said, staring at the screen with her eyes narrowed. “Any ideas?”
She was going all Nancy Drew. I was kind of into it.
I walked over and stood beside her. “Try my name.” She typed it in. The password box shook and turned red. It was wrong. “Try Willa, my mom’s name.” Again, no luck. We tried birthdays, anniversaries, names of pets my parents used to have—nothing worked.
It was a dead end.
“What now?” I asked.
Becca rubbed her hands together, placed her chin on top. She was thinking hard, chewing on her lips. I realized she did that a lot when she was deep in thought. Even sometimes when she read.
I was staring at her mouth, kind of mesmerized, when she said, “We need to check something that’s not on his computer. Do you know what time his flight left yesterday? Brett?”
I cleared my throat. “Ten thirty.” She typed something into her phone. “Hey, let me see,” I said, crouching to peer over her shoulder. She was on the airport’s website, checking the flight records for anything out of Atlanta, Georgia, to Columbus, Ohio. She kept tapping. Every time the screen reloaded, my chest constricted. I couldn’t look anymore. I walked to the other side of the room and sat on the couch, fingers crossed.
All I needed was a little hop
e. Some good news.
“Found it!” Becca ran to the couch and showed me the screen. There was a flight to Columbus out of Atlanta and it left yesterday morning. At ten thirty.
It felt like my heart had just been connected to a defibrillator and given a shock. It was beating again.
“That’s a good sign,” Becca said. “Maybe he really is in Ohio and that man you saw last night was . . . someone else.”
“You really believe that?” I asked her.
She said yes, but the look on her face said otherwise.
“You’re not a very good liar, Becca.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to stay hopeful. Do you know what hotel he’s staying at? We can call and see if he checked in.”
That was a good idea. My dad usually stayed at the United Suites, the hotel company he worked for, but I texted my mom to make sure. When she typed back that same hotel, I looked up the phone number—luckily, there was only one in Columbus—and Becca made the call.
The phone was ringing. My hands were trembling. I couldn’t stop bouncing my foot against the floor.
“Hi,” Becca said. I almost fell off the couch. “I was wondering if you can see if a guest checked in yesterday afternoon? The name is—” She looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“Thomas,” I mouthed.
“Thomas Wells,” she finished. “Yeah, he’s my, uh, dad. He hasn’t been answering his phone and we’re worried.” Becca was nodding along to whatever the receptionist said. I leaned in closer, trying to hear. “It’s Thomas. Yeah, W-E-L-L-S. Sure. I’m on hold,” she whispered. A second later, she said, “Oh. Okay. Thanks anyway. Bye.”
She hung up.
“Well?”
I didn’t like the look on her face.
“She said there was no reservation under that name.”
It felt like the floor had turned to quicksand and I was being sucked under.
“Brett—” She reached for me. I walked away. Down the hall and up the stairs until I was in my parents’ room. I searched through the closet. Checked inside all his jacket pockets. Then the dresser drawers, the nightstands. There was nothing there. No shady restaurant receipts. No perfume that smelled nothing like my mom’s. Jesus Christ. It was dead end after dead end.