How the Light Gets In

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How the Light Gets In Page 18

by Katy Upperman


  It’s a scary notion.

  At the same time, it’s not.

  Again, I look across the fire, but Tucker’s not there. My heart falls because all at once, being near him is imperative, an elemental need.

  He’s behind me before I can look any farther, reaching an arm across my chest, sweeping my hair behind my shoulders. His breath is warm on my neck, his voice a tendril of smoke. “I’ve come to reclaim you.”

  Happily, I pass Brynn my half-full can and take a lap around the fire with Tucker. He introduces me to more people than I can count, referring to me as his “friend” in a tone that’s protective and passionate and raw, and this thing we’re doing, this thing I keep telling myself is casual, feels exactly the opposite.

  After we’ve made the rounds, we find a spot of our own. “Do you want something else to drink?” he asks.

  “I’m good. Are you drinking?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m your chauffeur, remember?”

  A whoop erupts from the crowd. Drew and a group of guys are opening huge, cellophane-wrapped packages of fireworks. “Morgan,” one of them calls. “You gettin’ in on this?”

  “Nah, I’m cool.”

  “Oh, come on,” Drew says. I hold my breath, waiting for the obligatory you’re so whipped remark, but he refrains. “You sure?”

  “Dude, I’m sure.”

  “You should go, if you want,” I tell him. “I’ll be okay here.”

  He takes a step forward, gazing at me with intensity that makes my face flush hot. “Fireworks are what I did before I brought girls to parties.”

  I cross my arms. “Just how many girls have you brought out here, Tucker Morgan?”

  He tips forward, so his prickly cheek brushes mine. “One. And I’m not gonna leave her by herself so I can play fire with my caveman friends.”

  A thunderous boom sounds behind me, so horrifically loud it makes the earth shudder. I jump, then whirl around to find the source of the noise. Drew and his associates surround a shoebox-size explosive with a charred top. They’re cracking up, as if fireworks are the world’s greatest entertainment.

  Tucker draws me close, until I feel the soft vibration of his laughter. “Maybe we should go for a walk.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He toys with the ruffled edge of my sleeve, leaning in, whispering, “Callie. Please?”

  That kiss earlier, in Bell Cove. The burst of excitement, my craving for more …

  “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

  37

  We walk far away from the strangers, the beer, and the too-loud fireworks. When we stop, the bonfire’s barely visible, Tucker’s friends hardly discernible.

  “Wanna sit?” he says.

  We sink onto the sand. I rest my head on his shoulder, wishing his arrival in my world meant I’ve atoned for mistakes past. I’m still not sure I deserve this kind of happiness, this sort of contentment, but I’m not about to turn it away.

  He draws shapes on my arm with the tips of his fingers. “What’re you thinking about?”

  I work to condense my feelings into words that’ll make sense. “Remember when you said you feel peaceful at the beach because your mom loved it?”

  He clears his throat, an uneasy sound. “Yeah?”

  “I want that. A sense of peace. You know?”

  There’s sorrow in the idle way he strokes my skin. “I bet you’ll find it.”

  I’m not sure. Closure’s hard to come by when my sister’s ghost, my only shot at salvation, can’t recall the night that changed everything.

  Brynn’s comment about Tucker’s mother, her tone so full of revulsion, bounces around in my head. I don’t care that she knows so much of his past; what’s bothersome is that I know hardly anything at all. I sift a fistful of sand through my fingers and ask, “Tucker, when you said your mother took off … What happened?”

  His hand goes still, and I worry I’ve crashed through a boundary I didn’t know existed.

  “Never mind,” I say, fanning the air, as if my question is smoke I can clear away. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No … I just don’t know a lot of the details. She was young. She wasn’t happy with my dad. She thought he was holding her back, stealing her freedom or whatever. And then I was born, which made things worse. She went to visit a friend, and she never came back.”

  I try to imagine how a woman—a mother—could do such a thing. As depressed and dependent as my own mom has become, I know she’d never leave my dad and me.

  There’s a sonic boom from down the beach. Though we’re too far away to hear laughter, I’m sure the bonfire crowd is in pieces, good and buzzed. They’re a world away.

  “Do you think being without her is the reason your dad’s the way he is?” I ask.

  “Uh, yeah. There’s more to the story, stuff I’ve heard around town over the years, stuff my dad never wanted me to know.”

  “Like what?”

  He gives a humorless laugh. “A bunch of shit-shooting I’m not sure I buy.”

  I lift my head to study his profile; his jaw is tight, his gaze trained on the waves. “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He turns to look at me, eyes piercing through the darkness. “You already have a hell of a lot going on. You sure you want something else to be sad about?”

  “Tucker, you listen to me. I can do the same for you.”

  He stays quiet, though I don’t push—I know how that feels. My patience pays off because at last he says, “My mother was tight with one of the Stewarts. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I say, taken aback.

  “That’s why my dad’s never wanted me near the property.”

  I recall the time I found him poking around in the parlor, his vague curiosity about what’s in the Gabriel, the rifling around he did in the attic yesterday. “Then why’d you choose to work for Lucy?”

  He lets go of a sigh; his frame sags beside me. “My mother hung out at the house a lot when she was in high school. I thought there might be something left over. I don’t know … something that might help me figure out why she was so messed up. A clue pointing to what happened to her, maybe.” He shakes his head. “Stupid, right?”

  He clings to Stewart House like I cling to Chloe.

  Stupid is relative, I guess.

  “It’s not stupid,” I say. “Not even a little bit.”

  He makes a gruff sound deep in his throat. “I’m over it now. I work for your aunt mostly because I need a job. Living in California isn’t cheap, and my dad … Construction doesn’t pay all that well. Anyway, I like Lucy, I like it up on the hill, I like working outside.” He pulls his attention from the rising tide and gives it to me, staring so deep into my eyes I swear he can see my soul. He touches my cheek. “And I like seeing you.”

  His fingers on my skin make me weary of our heavy conversation, of the gloom that’s settled over us. He’s right; we shouldn’t be hashing this stuff out—not tonight.

  I lean in, and he meets me. He’s so gentle, cupping my jaw as if I’m made of blown glass. He moves slowly, tentative and tasting of restraint, like I’ll shatter if he’s not vigilant. I pull back, resting my hands against the warmth of his neck.

  “Hey,” I say, sinking into his gaze, bright with surprise. “Why are you being so careful?”

  “I just—I don’t want to push you. You’re so…”

  Sad? Damaged? Crazy?

  What am I, in his eyes?

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Fragile. Sweet. I’d hate myself if I upset you.”

  “Tucker, you won’t. Not by kissing me.”

  He considers this, then smiles and eases me back, until I’m stretched out on the sand, my head cradled in his hand. I loop my arms around his neck and pull him close.

  “Kiss me for real?” I whisper.

  He does. And it’s perfect.

  * * *

  It’s a l
ong time before he pulls away, hair tousled by the strengthening breeze. Hovering above me, he squints down the beach, looking troubled.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Hang on.”

  I do, waiting to see what’s distracted him. The night is quiet but for the crashing waves and whistling wind.

  “Did you feel that?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Rain?”

  “No.” But his body is very effectively shielding mine.

  He studies the sky, ominously dark now, rolling and rippling as if the clouds hold breath, and then, with a muttered, “Shit,” he scrambles to stand. He grabs my hand and pulls me up, too. “It’s gonna storm.”

  As soon as the words are clear of his mouth, a fat raindrop lands on my shoulder, followed quickly by another. He yanks on my hand. “Come on!”

  We run, stumbling through the sand and the sudden, relentless downpour. By the time we’ve made it to the parking lot, empty now, we’re drenched. Tucker unlocks my door and propels me in, then hustles around to the driver’s side, where he drops into his seat, wet shorts squeaking across old leather.

  “Well,” he says. “That sucked.”

  He turns the ignition over and cranks the heater, then leans into the back seat. I hear the unzipping of a bag, his rummaging around, before he passes me a beach towel.

  I dry my face and arms while he does the same with a towel of his own. I angle the rearview mirror in my direction. My hair hangs wet and limp around my face, and my makeup is ruined. I run the towel under my eyes, hoping to erase blackness that’s making me look strung out.

  The storm continues, soaking anything unfortunate enough to be stuck outside. Tucker rubs his towel through his hair as he watches rain pound against the Woody’s windshield. “Guess I should’ve been paying attention to the weather. Sorry you got wet.”

  A bolt of lightning zigzags across the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder. I shiver, the drenched fabric of my shirt like a second skin.

  “Hey,” Tucker says, adjusting the heater vents so they’re all aimed at me. “You okay?”

  I nod. “Just cold.”

  He takes the towel from my hands and uses it to squeeze the water from my hair. Then he turns on the radio, a local country station playing twangy songs about lost love and apple pie and battered trucks. The heater fires up in earnest, pumping warmth into the small space. The car smells like Tucker: cedar and spice, chlorine, and something else, something very boy yet distinctly him. I focus on it, trying to quell my shivers.

  Taking my hand, he tugs me closer. He weaves his fingers through mine as he always does, reverently, like this is the first and last time he’ll get to touch me. The way my arm’s angled makes my scar glow in the light of the dash. Tucker’s looking at it, and I’m looking at it, and I’ve never hated it more.

  “I got hurt after Chloe died. Right after she was found.”

  His gaze jumps to my face. “How?”

  “We went out looking the night she went missing. We searched the beach for what felt like forever, and when we couldn’t find her, Lucy called the police. They called in the coast guard. I wanted to stay, keep looking, but Lucy made me go back to the house because I was practically delirious. My parents had arrived by then—she’d called them, too. When the police finally came with news, it was morning, barely light. I was in my room—the room I used to share with my sister—but I could hear them talking to my parents and my aunt in the kitchen. My dad took it all in; he’s good in a crisis, it turns out. But my mom fell apart.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I did, too.”

  Tucker’s holding tight to my hand. “You didn’t—”

  “No. No. I couldn’t have done that to my parents. Not after the news they’d just gotten.”

  “Then … How?”

  “There used to be a mirror in that room, freestanding. Really pretty. I found out later it was an antique—an original to Stewart House. I don’t even know how it happened. I shoved it, or fell into it. Lucy heard the crash and came running. She found me sitting in shards of glass, bleeding.”

  “Jesus, Callie.”

  “Yeah. My parents were beside themselves. Lucy had to drive me to the urgent-care center in Shell City so I could have my arm stitched up. And now I get to live with a constant reminder of those hours and how unbearable they were.”

  Tucker lays his hand against my forearm. Palm to fingertips, he covers the whole of the space, putting gentle pressure against my skin. “Brutal,” he whispers.

  “I know.”

  He looks from my arm to my face. “I really want to say the right thing, but I have no fucking clue what that is.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t try to convince me that it’s beautiful. That would’ve been the wrong thing.”

  He leans in, drops a kiss on my cheek, then moves beyond me, reaching over to open the glove compartment. He pulls out a package of candy—Jelly Bellies. He tears the cellophane and holds the bag out to me. I take a handful and sample them one by one, trying to discern flavors. Root beer, bubble gum, cherry. I hold my palm out for more, and Tucker obliges.

  “Better?” he asks after a few minutes.

  “I think so.”

  He covers my knee with a warm hand. “I bet your sister loved you a lot.”

  This, I know, is true. Our parents used to say that Chloe idolized me. She picked up my sport, read my books, begged to have sleepovers in my room. But our relationship was more than that. The adoration was mutual. Her spirit waited for me in Bell Cove even after her body was placed in the ground.

  Our bond is that strong.

  38

  Stewart House is quiet and dark when Tucker pulls up, the rain just a drizzle now. He coaxes the Woody into park but doesn’t kill the engine. Instead, he runs his hands around the circle of the steering wheel, eyes tracing the movement.

  I’m sitting in uncomfortably damp jeans, but I’m reluctant to say good night. “You should come in,” I say impulsively.

  He gives me a look that’s hard to read. “Yeah?”

  “I mean, if you want to.”

  “Your aunt won’t mind?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s late. If you’d rather get home…”

  He grins, endearing, and yanks his key from the ignition. “I could give two shits about getting home.”

  I lead him to the parlor, where any well-mannered girl visits with a boy. I leave him sitting on the settee, across from the windowsill where Daisy and Buddy sleep in a tangle of fur, while I hurry down the hall to change. On my way, I peek through my aunt’s cracked bedroom door. She’s out, her even breaths audible in the hallway.

  In my room, I find my phone on the middle of the bed. In my rush to be ready for fireworks, I left the house without it, though I’m sure the last place I saw it was on my nightstand, plugged into its charger. Beneath it, there’s a sheet of paper from the pad Lucy uses for grocery lists in the kitchen.

  Isaac called, she wrote. I thought you weren’t in touch with him?

  I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.

  Except, he doesn’t understand the meaning of We’re done.

  When Isaac came to Bell Cove, he charmed Lucy, even though it had taken some persuading to get her permission for the visit. I told her he was our neighbor, a friend, because I still hadn’t come clean to Chloe. Lucy didn’t understand why I couldn’t spend a couple of months away from this boy who’d only recently moved in next door, but I’d pushed because Isaac was pushing.

  He rolled into town on a Saturday morning, parking his dad’s Subaru in the driveway and emerging with a box of fresh doughnuts. Chloe was ecstatic—she’d raised her eyebrows at me over her orange juice as if to say, See what he did for me?—while the four of us had breakfast in the still-dilapidated kitchen.

  Later, Lucy left for a meeting with contractors, and Chloe went for a run. Isaac and I sat outside on the porch steps to catch up. His mom had recently dragged him on an epic dorm-room shopping spree, which he described i
n his wry way before asking about the work happening at Stewart House.

  “Slow going,” I told him. “I think Lucy was expecting Chloe and me to have a clue about home improvement. We definitely don’t. She’s come to terms with the fact that she’s going to have to bring in professionals to take care of the plumbing issues.”

  “I’d offer my services, but unless she has bikes that need maintenance, I won’t be much help.”

  “Actually, there are a few in the shed,” I said, pointing to the outbuilding. “They’re rideable, but in rough shape.”

  “I’ll take a look this afternoon. Has she been keeping up with her swims?”

  “Yep. We’ve been going together, down to the ocean.”

  “Whoa. Extreme.”

  “Totally. Who needs a pool when you can freeze your ass off in the Pacific?”

  He laughed. “You don’t miss your swim team?”

  “Sort of,” I said, shrugging. “You know what I miss more?”

  Isaac made a show of contemplating.

  I poked him in the side. “You, dummy.”

  He kissed me then, because he’d missed me, too. I was glad he’d come, even though his appearance was complicating things where my sister was concerned. I hated that there was a secret between us, but it would work itself out. Chloe would understand.

  Isaac pulled back, giving my ponytail a teasing tug. “I missed that.”

  “Me too—” I started, but movement in the yard grabbed my attention.

  My sister, in running clothes, forehead glistening with sweat, standing near the tree line.

  I scrambled back from Isaac, hissing, “Did she see?”

  “Not sure … Maybe not?”

  She was still looking at us, her expression murky.

  “She saw. God. She’s going to be furious.”

  “She was bound to find out eventually,” Isaac said. His tone was so indifferent, anger flashed through me, hot and ardent.

  He hopped up and jogged out toward where Chloe stood. I watched as he bumped his fist easily against hers, grinning, like this was a routine greeting between them. I watched as he said something that made her eyes clear, turned her gaze deferential. I watched him sling an arm over her shoulders and walk her back to the house.

 

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