Pull

by Anne Riley

  I wave a hand at the scene. “Why? How? When?”

  He glowers at me and shoves the rest of the minis into the backpack. “It’s not a big deal, okay? I got them at the airport while Mom and Dad were filling out customs forms.”

  “While we were supposed to be in the bathroom?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “There was a duty-free store right by the men’s room.”

  I hold my hands up, eyes closed, trying to unravel what he’s telling me. “Wait a second. You’re saying the airport duty-free store sold minis to a fifteen-year-old?”

  He cuts his eyes to the side. “Not exactly.”

  I squint at him. “Then how—oh. You stole them.”

  “They were only, like, a dollar apiece,” he fires back. “Big friggin’ deal. Nobody’s going to send me to jail over that.”

  This is what drives me crazy—he scrambles to cover his tracks, but when he gets caught, he acts like he hasn’t done anything wrong.

  “If it’s not a big deal,” I say, keeping my voice low so Nana won’t hear me, “then why were you trying to shove them all into your backpack before I saw them?”

  “Because you’ll tell Mom.”

  As if on cue, the front door opens downstairs. Mom’s quiet footsteps shuffle around the entryway as she drops her keys on the table and rustles out of her jacket, answering Dad’s mumbled questions with one-word answers. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mom’s flat tone conveys everything I need to know. Whatever she needed for her research, she didn’t find it.

  “Maybe I should tell her. Maybe it would do you some good.” I pull the door shut and head for the stairs.

  If I don’t find a way to reach my brother soon, I’m afraid I’ll lose him forever.

  SEVEN

  PAUL NEVER CAME BACK DOWN TO DINNER LAST NIGHT. When Mom went up to check on him shortly after they got home, he told her he was resting up for SPARK tomorrow.

  Yeah, right.

  I almost told my parents about the minis before they went to bed, but they seemed irritated with each other throughout the meal (not surprising, given how scattered most of Mom’s research trips are), and I couldn’t do it. So now I’ve decided to tell Mom before they leave for SPARK orientation this morning. Yeah, it sucks to tattle on my brother, especially when he’s so fragile—but sometimes you have to sacrifice cool points in the name of helping people.

  I’m waiting in the entryway for Mom to come downstairs, running through the speech in my head. Hey Mom, I know you’ve got a lot going on right now, but you need to know what Paul has done. That’s how it starts. Her face will wilt with disappointment, but I can’t let that stop me. She has to know. He’s still drinking, and it’s worse than we thought. Oh, and you can add “kleptomaniac” to his list of compulsions. So there’s that.

  Hmm. Better work on that last part.

  Finally, the door to Mom and Dad’s room opens, and Mom appears wearing full makeup and a maroon pantsuit—the one she’s always saying gets hopelessly wrinkled. If you ask me, the whole concept of a pantsuit is a little hopeless, but it actually looks nice on her, rogue wrinkles and all.

  I step toward her and open my mouth to rat out my brother, but then the stairway squeaks at the very top as if someone’s weight has landed on it. I can’t see him from this angle, but Paul is listening.

  “Uh, Mom?” I begin, but she’s focused on the pearl necklace in her hands and doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “Rosie,” she says, waving the necklace at me. “We’re late for orientation. Can you help me with this thing?”

  “Sure.”

  She turns around and shoves her short hair out of the way. The clasp is stubborn, and as I’m trying to coax it open, I hear Paul coming down the stairs. My eyes lift to meet his.

  “Did you tell?” he mouths.

  I shake my head. Until now, he probably assumed I told them last night.

  “Don’t,” he mouths. “Please.”

  The fear in his eyes is so heavy. The right thing to do is to ignore the sour feeling in my stomach and tell Mom. But I can’t force the words to come. They stick in my mouth.

  When the clasp finally cooperates, I pat my mom on the back and smile. “There. You look really nice.”

  Paul exhales.

  “It will do, I guess,” Mom says. “Is that what you’re wearing, Paul?”

  “Um.” He looks down at his jeans and Bob Marley T-shirt. “Yes?”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her quietly. “He looks fine.” Giving Paul a hard time about his clothes definitely isn’t the right way to begin this whole SPARK thing. Hopefully, she’ll realize that and drop it.

  “All right,” she says with a weary sigh. “Let’s go.”

  She grabs a house key off the table and a rush of urgency floods my chest. Mom and Dad made me promise not to keep secrets about Paul back when he first started acting out, and I swore I’d always keep them in the know.

  “Mom, can I talk to you later?” I say. My eyes cut to my brother, whose jaw drops in disbelief. “About— something?”

  Mom eyes me. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well…”

  I glance at him again. Suddenly he looks so young, like he did before all this started. More than that, he looks betrayed. And if he feels like I’ve betrayed him, how will he ever trust me?

  I can’t do it. I can’t rat him out. “I just wanted to find out more about that guy James. The one I’m going out with tonight.”

  Mom brushes a lock of hair back in place. “I don’t know much about him, Rosie. It’s your father who knows James’s parents, so you should talk to him.” She turns to Paul, who’s loitering by the stairs. “Come on, honey, we’ve got to hurry.”

  As Paul moves to follow her out the door, I catch him in a hug that almost surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him. His muscles tense under my touch.

  “Let them help you,” I say in his ear. “Remember—it doesn’t have to be this way.”

  He gives me the tiniest of nods and then closes the door behind him.

  EVEN THOUGH I NEED TO SPEND THE EVENING contemplating—yet again—how to stop my brother from getting drunk at every opportunity, and even though Papa’s death is a fresh wound on my heart, I can’t bring myself to cancel my blind date with James the Angel. Nana’s too excited about it and I’m too desperate to get out of the house before everybody gets home. My parents and Nana left a while ago to pick up Paul from SPARK orientation. Once he gets settled in, he’ll come home on his own, but today they wanted to ride the train with him.

  I’m glad I had the house to myself while I got ready. It made things a little easier, not having to act excited about meeting James. My enthusiasm for this date is still hovering just below zero, and it’s raining—so not only do I have to go on a date with a stranger, I have to slog through a downpour to do it.

  The prospect of going out with someone who’s not Stephen still feels wrong and uncomfortable, like trying to ride a unicycle when you’re used to a bike. I would much rather spend the evening in my pajamas, finishing off the Cadbury bars I spotted in the back of the pantry. But I suppose it won’t hurt me to get out there and meet someone new. At the very least, I might make a local friend who’s younger than fifty.

  As I turn away from the door to search for an umbrella, my hand drifts to the interlocking golden rings that still hang from my neck. I take a deep breath and rub them between my thumb and index finger. I didn’t take my necklace off the other night, even though I promised myself I would, and I know it will only get harder the longer I wait.

  He doesn’t love you, I remind myself. He loves Rebecca.

  The thought rips me open like barbed wire.

  Armed with Mom’s polka-dot umbrella and Nana’s lavender rain boots, I slog down Camden Row and across the grassy area by a cluster of houses called Grotes Buildings. Fat raindrops pound the pavement around me as I splash through puddles and squint into the wind. I cut through a small access road and hang a right by the he
ath, picking up my pace when I see the flower-filled window boxes hanging over the gold HARE & BILLET sign.

  Rounding the corner, I dart through the pub’s black doors, which are framed by lanterns and more flowers. I shake the rain from my umbrella onto the sidewalk before letting the door fall shut, then examine the water damage to my outfit. I’m not wearing anything fancy—just a gray T-shirt and jeans—but I sure looked a lot cuter when I was dry. Oh well. Maybe James likes his women on the disheveled side.

  Not that I’m looking to impress him, but whatever.

  The Hare & Billet is one of those places that brims with vintage charm. Its ceiling is fairly high for a pub and painted a shade of cream that makes the whole space feel open and airy. Clusters of tables sit amongst black columns, and the walls are a soft shade of olive. Wide wooden planks make up the floor, and there’s a fireplace set into one of the walls.

  Thanks to Nana’s explanation of his “dreamy good looks,” it’s easy to spot James once I look around properly. He’s at a table in the middle of the room, slugging down a dark beer and checking his phone. The pub lighting is low, but somehow this only serves to highlight his blond hair, strong jawline, and expensive—maybe even high-end designer?—clothes.

  “James?” I say as I approach the table.

  He glances up and then looks back down at his phone. His lips remain in a tight line. “You must be Rosie,” he says to the screen. He punches a few more icons, then shoves the phone into his pocket and gestures at the chair across from him. I sit down and run a hand through my scraggly hair. The wet weather has made it curl in all the wrong places.

  “What’ll you have?” he asks with a nod toward the bar. “Gin and tonic? Rum and Coke?”

  “I think I’ll go with a Coke for now. Minus the rum.”

  “Just Coke?” he repeats.

  “Yeah.” When he doesn’t get up, I say, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no.” He stands, and he’s shorter than I expected. “You’re sure? Just Coke?”

  I try to keep the sting out of my words. “I’m only seventeen. Gotta save the rum for next summer.”

  If James notices the slight edge in my voice, he doesn’t show it. He strides to the bar, where the bartender—a petite girl in a white tank top—waits with a pouty grin. James leans close to her as he orders our drinks; she looks from him to me and then laughs. I feel my eyebrows pinch together. What is she laughing at? Surely I’m not the only one who’s come in streaked with rain tonight.

  Then I see her lips form the words “Just Coke?” and her nose scrunches up. James shrugs, then props his elbows on the bar and whispers something to her. She rolls her eyes and laughs.

  Oh, please. We’re two minutes in, and I already hate this guy. Okay, that’s not fair—he deserves more of a chance before I label him a total jerk. But that doesn’t mean I can’t mentally print the label up and have it ready to go.

  When he returns to our table holding another beer and my Just Coke, I squash the reluctance bubbling up inside me and give him a smile.

  “My grandmother talks about you all the time,” I say.

  It’s a lie; I’d never even heard of James until yesterday. But I’m hoping it will start a conversation that turns this night around.

  He lifts his perfectly tweezed eyebrows while taking a long sip of beer. “Really. What has she said?”

  “That you’re handsome, mostly.”

  “Interesting.” He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Anything else?”

  “Not really. You’ll have to fill me in.” I giggle in an attempt to flirt like the girl at the bar, but it comes out all ditzy and unnatural. James gives me a funny look. I clear my throat. “Have you heard anything about me?”

  His eyes travel from my face to my chest, then back. “That you are newly single and gorgeous.” He looks away and runs his tongue over his teeth. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.”

  I squint at him. Surely he didn’t just blatantly insult me. Did I misunderstand him?

  He takes a swig of his drink and licks his lips, surveying me with his chin lifted just a bit higher than normal. “Anyway, I’m nineteen years old. Studying law at King’s. When I’m not studying, I’m out with my mates. No time for anything else, ’cept the Addicks, of course.”

  “Ah,” I say with a slow nod. Leave it to an English guy to steer the conversation to soccer. “Charlton fan, eh? Wow. That’s…”

  “Wicked?” he offers with a gleaming smile.

  “Not really, considering I go for Crystal Palace.”

  “Ugh!” His face twists in disgust. “I’d prefer you were a Millwall fan over Crystal Palace, and that’s saying quite a lot. I hate Millwall, but Crystal Palace are a load of—”

  “Hey,” I snap. “I grew up watching Crystal Palace matches with my dad. It’s a family thing, and it’s special to me. So why don’t we talk about something else?”

  He looks at me like I’m a leper. “Right. Um…want another drink?”

  I shoot a pointed glance at our full glasses. “I’m good.”

  He sighs and looks away. The silence between us feels like a chasm of awkwardness, even though the pub is swollen with chatter. I stare at the front door. It’d be great if that vortex thingy would come after me again, maybe swirl me out the door and into an alternate version of my current reality. One where James doesn’t suck.

  I wait for the vortex.

  It doesn’t come.

  The lull in conversation is killing me, so I chug the rest of my Coke and plunk the empty glass on the table. “Okay, now I’ll take another drink. Just Coke again.”

  But James isn’t listening. I follow his gaze as a couple of girls walk in. Instead of making them look sloppy the way it did to me, the rain has upped their sexy factor by at least five points. They brush their tousled hair out of their faces and head for a table in the corner.

  “Hey, James,” I begin, “I’m not feeling so great. Maybe—”

  I stop short. He still isn’t paying attention to me, but at least he’s not staring at the girls anymore. This time, he’s completely hidden behind a menu.

  “Ordering something else?” I ask, not bothering to sound polite.

  He slides the menu to the side and peeks around it. “I used to go out with one of those girls,” he whispers. “The blonde. Didn’t end well.”

  “Because?”

  He clears his throat. “Because I cheated on her with the brunette.”

  The words knife my insides as I glance at the blonde girl. He cheated on her just like Stephen did with Rebecca. If, for whatever reason, I wasn’t already one hundred percent turned off by James, then that would have been the nail in the coffin.

  “Well, everyone makes mistakes,” I say, keeping my tone light so my roiling emotions won’t betray me. “You should probably try to get her back. I mean, she looks like a supermodel.”

  “She is a supermodel.”

  Of course she is.

  James leans toward me, moving the menu so that both of us are hidden from the girls’ view. “You know, Ruthie,” he says with a throaty purr.

  “Rosie.”

  “Yes, of course. Rosie.” He reaches for my hand across the table. I plant the very tips of my fingers into his palm. As he strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, I notice the diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist. “If you want to look like her, I could tell you what diet she follows,” he says. “I still remember. It’s sort of a mixture of Paleo, vegan, and Atkins. Works wonders on love handles. I’ll write it down, if you’re interested.”

  Oh hell no.

  I push my chair back with a screech and stand up. “Sorry, James, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”

  “What?” he says from behind the menu. A few people at nearby tables are staring at us. “What did I do?”

  I glare at him, grab my umbrella, and head for the door. About halfway there, I change course for the table where James’s former victims sit.

&n
bsp; “Hey,” I say, sidling up to them. “Don’t y’all know that guy over there?”

  I point to the table where James, still cowering behind the menu, is doing his best to disappear. Unfortunately, his watch is exposed. I haven’t seen many people in the village wearing that kind of bling.

  “Is that James Murphy?” the blonde asks with a scowl.

  “Yep, that’s him,” I say. Their expressions darken. “He was just telling me the two of you might know a good place to pick up some guys. I think his exact words were, ‘They’ve hooked up with every guy in this pub.’ So I was just wondering if maybe you could point me in the direction of a good club or something, because I’m looking for…”

  I trail off because they’re getting out of their chairs, eyes narrowed with catlike disdain. They stride to his table and the brunette snatches the menu out of his hands.

  “Rosie!” he calls out to me, but I’m already halfway out the door. Maybe it’s cruel to leave him like that, but I don’t really care. I just want to get out of here.

  Outside, I press myself to the wall of the building to avoid the downpour. How long did my date last? According to my phone, twenty minutes. Great. If Irene thinks James is a nice guy, I shudder to think what her definition of rude might be.

  I can’t go home yet because my family will be there, and Nana will be upset if she finds out the date turned sour. The handful of acquaintances I have in London are my parents’ age or older, and they’d ask too many questions if I showed up on one of their doorsteps. That leaves one option—find somewhere to lurk for about forty-five minutes, then go home and tell Nana I had a good time but I don’t think James and I are right for each other.

  The nearest place to take shelter is Taste of Raj, the Indian restaurant behind the church. I brace myself against the pounding rain and jog, using my umbrella as a shield, across the muddy grass. Nobody else is crazy enough to be walking around in this weather; once again, I’m mostly alone.

  With the heath stretching out to my left, I hurry through the rain to the cluster of willow trees on the corner of Tranquil Vale and Royal Parade, stopping beneath their branches to catch my breath—