How the Light Gets In

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How the Light Gets In Page 17

by Katy Upperman


  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want to go to college. I was more interested in moving to Los Angeles and going to casting calls. She wouldn’t support me until I had an education. Beauty school it was.”

  “Did you ever work in a salon?”

  “Nope. I needed my days for auditions. I did my friends’ hair, though.”

  That night last summer, when my sister and I huddled in Lucy’s bed to watch movies and drink Mountain Dew, she spent forever weaving our hair into braided crowns. We looked like royalty, gilded, even in our pajamas.

  I wish Chloe was here now.

  “So you didn’t want to go to college,” I say, “and my dad doesn’t want to leave college.”

  Lucy starts on another section of damp hair. “Funny how that worked out, isn’t it? He and I are different in a lot of ways, but he’s a good big brother. A pretty great dad, too.”

  Well. I wasn’t a fan of his parenting style all those months ago when he insisted I try therapy, and I thought he was the absolute worst when he decided I couldn’t spend this summer in Seattle. But what he said about my needing a change of pace … He might’ve been on to something.

  “He has the right idea working at a university,” Lucy goes on. “He’s teaching what he loves, and his students keep him young. Relatively, anyway.” In the mirror, her eyes find mine, and she winks. “Have you thought about where you’re going to apply come fall?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Not even a little bit.”

  “But college is in your plan?”

  What plan?

  Except lately, surprisingly, the idea of college has been flitting around the fringes of my consciousness. I’m not considering where I want to go, but if I want to go, and what my transcripts will look like as part of an application packet.

  I veer us in another direction. “Did you know Tucker goes to Pepperdine?”

  “No! I knew he went to school in California, but whoa. Good for him,” Lucy said.

  “I think he’s one of those people who’s good at everything he puts his mind to.”

  “Like you?”

  I make a face at her reflection and deflect again. “If you never worked in a salon, how’d you make money while you were going to all those casting calls?”

  “Bartending. My mother hated it, but I thought it was a blast. I was better than Tom Cruise in Cocktail.” She flips the hairbrush like it’s a liquor bottle, catching it smoothly on its way down. “I worked in a swanky lounge, and the pay was good. That’s where I met my husband, actually.”

  I don’t miss her slip, the way she refers to him as her husband instead of her ex, though I don’t call her on it. It’s hard to believe I’ve never heard this part of her history. “And then you got married,” I say.

  “And then I got married,” she parrots. Sighing, she unclips the topmost layer of my hair and goes to work with the dryer. “My mother called the demise of my marriage before it was a week old. She wasn’t impressed by a license signed in Clark County, Nevada.” She turns off the dryer and brushes my hair out; it spills over my shoulders in loose, shiny curls. She stoops to study my bare face. “What are you going to wear?”

  “Jeans, probably.” I hear a feeble mewl and look to find Buddy circling my leg. I reach to pick him up. He curls contentedly in my lap, his weight almost unnoticeable.

  Lucy pats his head. “I have the perfect top for you to borrow. Can I do your makeup?”

  I nod, affection trickling from my chest, outward. Even considering everything she’s done to aggravate me since I came back to Stewart House, I love her a lot.

  “So,” I say as she brushes smoky shadow over my lids. “Guess who called the other day.”

  She pauses. “Please tell me it wasn’t the asshole.”

  “Aunt Lucy—”

  “Callie. Based on what you told me last summer? Definitely an asshole, and I don’t feel bad about saying so.” She goes back to my makeup. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Briefly. I asked him not to call again.”

  “Smart.”

  “I’m not sure he was trying to make trouble.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he has to try. How often have you heard from him during the past year?”

  She saw him at the reception that followed Chloe’s wake; she approached him, red-faced and wild-eyed. As much as I wanted her to let him have it, a scene on the day meant to honor Chloe’s life would have been atrocious. I managed to drag her away before she had a chance to crush him.

  “A little bit last summer.”

  More than I’m proud of, is the truth. Nights I wasted away, high, staring silently at the blinking skyline while Isaac sat next to me, saying all the right things in all the wrong ways. The day of the Seattle Summer Triathlon, I banged on the Parks’ front door, sobbing. Isaac scooped me up while his mom looked on, wringing her hands. He took me upstairs to the patio, where I spent the better part of an hour alternately screaming at him and begging him to help me.

  “Help you how?” he kept saying, until he was crying, too.

  Help me heal. Tell me the truth about what happened. Save me from the guilt.

  But I didn’t say any of that because I was hysterical and so full of self-loathing I couldn’t form rational sentences. Still, we were so carelessly loud it wasn’t long before Mrs. Park came up to see what was going on. She ended up calling my dad to come get me, a humiliating event he and I haven’t spoken of since.

  “And I saw him once around Christmastime,” I admit to Lucy.

  She sweeps peach blush over my cheekbones. “But not since?”

  I shake my head, running my hand down Buddy’s back.

  She scrutinizes her work, me, with a tipped chin. “Is there still something between you two?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Last summer, I thought he was everything.

  This summer, I know better.

  “Good,” Lucy says. “Because you’d be nuts to settle for him.”

  “You’re just saying that because you think Tucker’s dreamy.”

  She rolls her eyes, fishing around in her makeup drawer before unearthing a tube of mascara. She swipes the wand over my lashes, bottom lip between her teeth. “I think Tucker’s good for you, whether you two are friends or otherwise. And I bet you’re good for him, too.” She swipes another coat of mascara over my lashes, then steps back to evaluate my finished look. She nods, satisfied. “You’ll tell me if Isaac bothers you again?”

  “Aunt Lucy, I can handle it.”

  “I know you can. But you shouldn’t have to handle it alone.”

  * * *

  When Tucker knocks on the door just after seven, I’m pacing the parlor, too anxious to sit still. I give my reflection a quick check in the hall mirror; I’ve gone with jeans, the nicest pair I brought, and a satiny blouse I borrowed from my aunt, the same blue as my eyes.

  I swing the front door open, and Tucker steals my breath. The fading sunlight makes his hair look even lighter than usual, playing off his bronze skin. He’s in shorts—suspiciously new-looking—and a butter-yellow T-shirt. He’s all smiles, and he’s reaching for my hand, pulling me out onto the porch and into him. I wrap my arms around him, close my eyes, and press my cheek into the softness of his shirt.

  His hands sweep up my back. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  “I’m glad you asked.” I poke my head through the doorway and call, “Aunt Lucy? We’re leaving.”

  “Have fun!” she shouts from the kitchen. “Be good to her, Tuck!”

  Tucker lifts a mischievous eyebrow and calls, “Always!”

  He takes my hand as we walk to the Woody, then opens the passenger door for me, chivalrous. I’m not sure what to make of him tonight; I sense his nervousness, and frankly, it’s making me more nervous.

  “Will there be a lot of people at the bonfire?” I ask as he steers away from Lucy’s property.

  “Probably. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, totally. Where on the
beach will it be, exactly?”

  He glances at me, his face shrouded with sudden distress, because he knows, now, why I’d ask such a question. “Up shore, toward Shell City. Is that…?”

  I let go of a relieved breath. “That’s fine.”

  I spend the next few minutes agonizing over how to behave when Tucker introduces me to his friends, giving myself a mental pep talk: Stretch your smile to your eyes so you don’t look like a robot, keep conversation light, don’t stare at the surf—it won’t rear up and take you under.

  In town, Tucker steers through heavy traffic, parking in an alley behind the Green Apple Grocery, one I’ve never even noticed. It seems every other space in Bell Cove is occupied by a car or a mass of people.

  He keeps my hand as we emerge from the relative emptiness of the alley and join the crowd on the street. Most have congregated in the center of town, sprawled out on low wooden benches or colorful blankets. There’s food everywhere: sandwiches thick with cold cuts, platefuls of creamy potato salad, ice-cream cones dripping in the day’s lingering heat. The humid air is laced with brine and charcoal and excitement. Tucker buys hot dogs and fountain sodas from a vendor manning a food truck, and we snag the end of a prime bench.

  I’m pretty sure the whole town—vacationers and locals alike—has turned out for this event. Tucker apparently knows everyone; he’s waving and shouting hellos left and right. For a moment, I feel like an outsider, one of the fanny-packed tourists for whom Bell Cove is a stop on a summer exploration of the Oregon coast. Then, halfway through my hot dog, I spot Rex from the animal shelter, sitting on a plaid blanket with a woman and two small, dark-haired boys. It’s obvious he recognizes me, and I smile. Moments later, I see Shirley, standing across the street with a group of comparably old ladies, plus Lucy. I wave to Shirley, then my aunt, suddenly an active participant in the celebration.

  The fireworks begin as Tucker and I finish our food, while the sky is still lilac, dotted with clouds rolling in from the Pacific. The explosions of color are gorgeous, vibrant pinwheels of pink, yellow, white, and blue. I’m mesmerized.

  When the air cools, Tucker wraps an arm around me, cocooning me in his warmth. I tear my attention from the sky to look at him; his eyes are dazzling, starbursts reflected in pale, pale green. They disappear as his lids fall closed, as he leans in and presses his mouth to mine.

  I’m dizzy with the magic of it.

  36

  After the fireworks, we weave through the crowd, back to the alley where the Woody waits. It’s a short, quiet drive up the coast. Tucker parks in a public lot, among a dozen other cars.

  “You can leave your shoes in here,” he says, kicking off his flip-flops and tossing them into the back seat. I place mine neatly on the floor mat beneath me.

  We walk down the beach toward a distant, flickering bonfire. The sand feels nice on my feet, residual toastiness from the afternoon sun clashing with the crispness of the night. It’s completely dark now, the sky robbed of its stars by a blanket of clouds, and the waves crest higher than I’ve ever seen in Bell Cove.

  “When was the last time you went to a party?” Tucker asks as we near his friends.

  “You mean besides the ones I threw myself in my bathroom at home? It’s been a while.”

  “We can do our own thing if you want. You’ve met Drew and Brynn. The rest of my friends aren’t even that great.”

  I smile. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  The bonfire looms closer. There are more people than I expected, more than the smattering of cars in the parking lot suggested. My apprehension progresses to full-fledged anxiety, and the desire to smoke hits me harder than it has in days.

  A dark figure lumbers toward us. Drew, barefoot, in jeans, a cotton button-down, and a ratty cowboy hat. I can tell he’s already a few drinks in by the way his feet drag through the sand.

  “What’s up, buddy?” he hollers, pulling Tucker into a one-armed hug while managing a quick assessment of me, head to toe, culminating in a cheesy grin.

  Tucker throws an elbow into his ribs. “You remember Callie?”

  “Callie Ryan … of course.” Drew assumes a mocking tone that sounds remarkably like Tucker. “Don’t flirt with Callie. Don’t ask Callie for her number. Don’t check Callie out—in fact, don’t look at her for more than three seconds. And … Don’t touch Callie in any way that might make her uncomfortable.” He pauses to raise a brow at Tucker. “Did I remember it all, Morgan?”

  Tucker gives him a shove. “Thanks a lot, wiseass.”

  I’m laughing—I can’t help it.

  Drew pushes him back, chuckling, then slings an arm over my shoulder. “Come on, Ryan. We’ve been waiting for you guys.”

  Partygoers ring the fire, perched on coolers and canvas beach chairs. Almost everyone’s drinking. It’s weird, being surrounded by people—smiling, laughing people—after so many months of quiet seclusion. I breathe lungfuls of ocean air and manage my nerves.

  Brynn comes skipping over, dressed in a red sundress. She’s got a can of beer in her hand. She gives Tucker a sloppy hug before turning to beam at me. Despite my bare feet and wind-tossed hair, I feel more comfortable with her than I did at A Good Book, though a lot has happened since then. Also, she’s visibly drunk, which lessens the intimidation factor. When she asks about the town’s fireworks display, I tell her about it, like I’m chatting with any one of my forgotten friends back home.

  When I finish, she links her arm through mine and says, “Time for some girl talk.”

  Tucker looks unsure about my going, but Brynn’s already towing me along, and when his eyes meet mine, I give him an I’ll be fine nod. He smiles, then gives his attention to Drew.

  “We must get you something to drink,” Brynn says.

  “Oh, I’m good.”

  “Callie, it’s the Fourth of July! What fun are fireworks without brews?”

  Before I can put up a fight, she’s procured a second can of cheap beer. She pops it open, then tugs me toward a log lying in the sand. She stumbles, nearly taking me down with her. Thanks to some help from my arm, she regains her balance, blots beer from the hem of her dress, and plops down. I do, too.

  “I’m glad Tucker brought you,” she says over the reggae music floating on the wind. She sounds mostly sincere.

  I sip my beer. It’s foamy and warm, not very good. “Me too.”

  “So you’ve got to tell me—what’s it like living at Stewart House?”

  “It’s okay. Quiet.”

  “Quiet?” She gives a little shiver. “More like creepy.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh yeah. Did Tucker tell you I saw a ghost there once?”

  I shake my head, dubious.

  “A couple of years ago we were all up there, you know—” she shakes her beer can and giggles “—and I saw something spooky out by the driveway. It was shimmery and white, kind of … indistinct? It even made this weird ooohhh-ing sound. Have you seen anything like that?”

  I blink, certain her story’s fiction. “I sure haven’t.”

  “Well, be careful. People have died at Stewart House.” She leans in, like she’s about to give me a taste of some juicy gossip. “There was even a murder.”

  Goose bumps fan out over my arms. My bathroom … the blood.

  Brynn shrugs, like oops, I shouldn’t have said anything, but she’s got a grin the size of Oregon plastered to her face. I can’t decide if she’s fake or flaky or snotty, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know anything about any Stewart House homicides—not that I’d stoop to begging for information if she did.

  I swallow a sip of beer and broach a new subject. “I hear you and Tucker have been friends a long time.”

  She switches gears easily. “Forever. He’s awesome, right?”

  I scan the crowd; he’s standing on the other side of the fire with a group of guys, aglow in orange light. He must feel me looking because he turns my way, his expression a blend of curiosity and concern. Our eyes lock, and
he lifts a questioning eyebrow. I nod. He winks. I smile. He laughs, and somehow we’ve developed a nonverbal means of communicating, like we’re an actual couple.

  I’m ready to ditch this party—with him.

  “Yeah,” I tell Brynn. “He is pretty great.”

  She swigs from her can, one gulp, two gulps, then three. She’s a tiny person, but she can chug. “I hate that he chose Pepperdine,” she says. “Though I can’t say I was surprised. I wish he would’ve settled for Oregon State like the rest of us, but Tucker’s never been cool with the idea of hanging around. I’m actually surprised he came home for the summer. Not that it matters—we’ve hardly seen him because he’s busy with work and … stuff.”

  Stuff. Me, clearly. “I don’t mean to—”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she says quickly. “You’re obviously fantastic. He wouldn’t want a girl who isn’t. It just sucks, you know, when people you’re close to move on with their lives. One of the drawbacks of growing up in a small town. You assume things will always be the same, and you’re disappointed when they’re not.”

  I feel a pang of sympathy for her. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Tucker; it’s no wonder his friends are a little jealous. “I’m sorry he’s been busy.”

  Brynn finishes the last of her beer and balances the empty can on our log. “Don’t apologize. Things haven’t been easy for Tuck. Benjamin’s not one of those openly loving dads, and don’t even get me started on his mother. But since he met you, he’s been really happy.”

  Don’t even get me started on his mother?

  I have the sudden, nagging feeling that I’m missing something.

  Brynn props a hand under her chin. Her eyelids are droopy. There’s beer on her breath when she says, “Tuck never complains, but he never lets go, either. He’s been different, though, lately.”

  I’ve rarely seen Tucker anything but happy, so I’m having a hard time merging this morose boy Brynn’s describing with the person I’ve grown to know. But to think of our friendship as give-and-take instead of me take-take-taking … It dawns on me that I’m becoming half of a whole.

 

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