by Paula Stokes
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” I ask, hurt bleeding into my voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t support you?”
“No, it’s just like you said. Some things are hard to bring up out of nowhere. I kept thinking maybe Holden would mention it or you’d pick up on something and ask me, but you always just assumed I was straight, and I never knew how to correct you.”
She’s right. Even just the other day when I was teasing her about her New Year’s Eve dress, I assumed she was trying to look good for some guy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume things . . .”
“It’s fine,” Julia says. “I mean, I also assumed I was straight for a while, so I’m not blaming you or anything. Just saying I know what it’s like to need to talk but freeze up when it comes to starting the conversation.”
“So you and Ness are . . . together?”
“Not officially. But who knows what might happen if we end up at the same school next year.”
“But no one knows about you two?”
“Just Ness, and Holden, and now you. It’s not some huge secret, but you know how my parents are. They don’t mind gay people but they don’t want one in their family. Last semester I was reading an LGBT website on my iPad and I left the page open and my mom found it and started acting really weird, suggesting maybe I should look into getting a remote internship instead of going to DC for the summer. I played it off, like I’d been doing some research for a class, but my parents still seemed to be second-guessing letting me go away. So I figured, why not ask a boy to prom to get them off my back.”
“I hate that your parents would . . .” I trail off, unsure of how to finish that thought.
“Me too, and I’m hoping they’ll come around, but like you said, there’s only so much stress a person can handle at one time. So I figured I could wait and tell them in a year or two. Dating Holden helped assuage their fears, even though they didn’t think he was good enough for me. He agreed to play along for a while.”
“No wonder he kept saying you were never that into him, that I should just be honest with you.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you the truth. He’s a better guy than I even imagined.”
“Probably too good for me,” I say. “Just like Luke . . . Just like you.”
Julia softens slightly. “Look. I don’t hate you or anything. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust you again. You really hurt me.” She looks away, toward the window.
I can see her lower lip trembling. “I understand.” I scramble to my feet and turn toward the door. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Hang on.” Julia turns back to me. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you either. What did the police have to say about your blackmailer? Can they trace the text messages?”
“Um . . . I actually haven’t gone to the police.”
“Embry!” Julia’s eyes widen. “If this guy really tried to kill me, who knows what he might do next?”
“The problem with that is . . . Holden and I are kind of responsible for the Sea Cliff fire. We used to hang out there sometimes. With candles.” I look down at my hands. “It was an accident.”
Julia sighs deeply. “I thought I recognized the background of that video. Well, if it was an accident then the cops aren’t going to charge you with arson or anything, right?”
“No, assuming they believe us, probably just trespassing and some sort of reckless-negligence kind of thing. The bigger problem is when we get sued for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Shit,” Julia says. “I didn’t think about that. Did you tell your mom?”
I shake my head. “She’s doing okay physically, but she’s behind on some bills from when we had to close the coffee shop all summer because of her treatments and I . . . I just can’t.” I blink hard. “She’s the reason I stole your purse. I didn’t know what to do, and then I saw some mail she’d left out and it was stamped with stuff like ‘Final Notice.’”
Julia nods likes she understands, but there’s no way she could really get it. Her family has probably never gotten a “final notice” for anything in their lives. She doesn’t know what it’s like to worry about losing her home.
“Do you have any idea who’s sending you the messages?” she asks.
“Not really. I’ve considered a few suspects, but no one that I can honestly believe would try to kill you.”
“What about the guy you pulled out of the fire? Do you know if he’s okay?”
“Sam? The newspaper said he was supposed to make a full recovery, but I haven’t checked up on him or anything.”
“I was just thinking that if he died, maybe someone close to him found out the truth and is after you for that.”
“Don’t you think I would have heard something if he had died?”
“Maybe not if the cause of the fire is still under active investigation. Look, I’ll let the police know about my allergy attack and how it might be connected to my purse getting stolen. But you have to tell someone about being blackmailed—Holden’s mom at least. Otherwise what if the next time this psycho wants you to do worse than steal?”
“I’m kind of hoping there won’t be a next time.” Even as I say this, I know it’s unlikely. If Unknown really wanted to kill Julia, they’re not going to be satisfied with a close call.
Twenty
JULIA LOOKS EXHAUSTED from her time in the ER and I’ve said everything I need to say, so I tell her I’m going to go home so she can rest.
The two of us head back downstairs. Julia’s mom is striding around the kitchen in a black pantsuit and three-inch pumps. She’s tall and thin, with light blond hair that requires biweekly touch-ups according to Julia. You’d never suspect she was in her fifties, though. Right now she’s putting fresh herbs and vegetables into one of those fancy Vitamix blenders. “Embry, hi,” she says. “Julia mentioned you were coming by. Do you want to stay for dinner? I’m making tomato basil soup.”
I force a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Worthington, but I actually need to be getting home.”
“Okay, maybe next time. Tell your mother Merry Christmas for me.”
“Will do,” I say.
There’s an awkward moment when Julia and I reach the front door. I want to hug her, but I don’t want her to push me away. And worse, I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I settle for another forced smile. “Thanks for listening.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
She nods. “You’re welcome. Thanks for, you know, telling me everything.”
I wait a few seconds for her to say more. I’m hoping she’ll tell me she’s going to call me after she thinks about everything or that we should get together after the holidays to talk again. I’m hoping she’ll tell me she wants to still be friends.
But she doesn’t say any of that. So I say, “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” she says. Her voice wavers, and I realize I’m not the only one who’s about to cry. But Julia turns back to the house before the tears start to fall.
By the time I get home, I have multiple messages from Holden.
Holden: I just got off the phone with Julia.
Holden: You ok?
I want desperately to respond, or to call him, but even Holden feels wrong right now, so I ignore his texts. I head into my room and flop down onto my bed. The urge to cry has left me but the sadness hasn’t. It’s a dull, heavy ache, like a bag of bricks sitting on my chest. After lying there for a few minutes, struggling to breathe, I decide there’s one other thing I can do that’ll maybe ease the weight a little.
I’m going to tell Luke the truth too.
I try calling him, but when his voice-mail message pops on I hang up without saying anything. Flipping to my email account, I start to compose a letter.
Dear Luke,
I’m sorry to put this in an email, but it can’t wait anymore. It shouldn’t have waited this long, but I’m a coward who didn’t want to lose you, even though I’ve known
for a while now that I can’t be the girl you want. You are amazing and when we first started dating, all I wanted was to be amazing back to you. I convinced myself that I could make you happy.
As much as being apart from you has sucked, it’s also helped me realize some things about myself. Mostly, I’m not sure what I want. I’m not sure if I want to get married, especially before college. I’m not sure if I want kids. I’m not sure what I want to study or where I want to live. I admire you for having so much of your life figured out, but I’m not there yet.
When I suggested that we take a break, I really did do it because I wanted you to be free. I wanted you to be able to deal with the stress of being a soldier without any danger of feeling guilty if you needed someone else. But it turns out, I’m the one who needed someone else. I’ve been seeing someone here. I’ve been with him for months. I should have told you, but I thought I was hiding the truth for your benefit. But lying only benefits the liar. I know that now.
Again, I apologize for sending this to you in an email. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer, and I figured a letter would be better than a voice mail. Call me when you get this, though, if you want to talk about things. I don’t want to lose you from my life completely, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to be around me anymore.
I’m so sorry, Luke. I hope someday you can forgive me. I know you’ll find someone who wants the same things you want, a girl who will be able to make you happy without pretending to be someone she’s not.
As I’m thinking of how to end the message, there’s a knock at the front door. I slip my phone into my pocket and pad down the hallway into the living room.
When I peek through the peephole, I see Holden standing in the rain, shocks of brown hair peeking out from under the hem of his black knitted cap. I open the door.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You didn’t respond to my texts.”
I nod, letting him in. “Sorry. Long day. What’d Julia have to say?”
“Thank you, mostly, for keeping her secret.”
I smile slightly. “She told me you were a good guy.”
“She’s not wrong.” He cracks his knuckles. “Look, this is just my opinion, but I think she’ll forgive you someday. The tougher question is whether you’ll forgive yourself.”
I nod. “Trying. I’m actually writing Luke an email right now.”
“Ah,” Holden says. “That’s cool. I don’t want to interrupt. I wanted to give you this and I didn’t want to just leave it in the door because I didn’t want to freak you out.” He thrusts a green envelope at me.
My fingertips close around the envelope. “What is it?”
“It’s a Christmas card, duh.” He grins. “Okay. I’m going to take off. Good luck with the Luke thing.” He slips back outside. I watch him jog toward his motorcycle, which is parked at the end of our driveway.
He gives me a little wave as he pulls away. Betsy pads into the living room to see who is at the door. “We got a Christmas card,” I tell her. I shut the door and take a seat on the futon. For once she curls up obediently at my feet.
With shaking fingers, I open the envelope. The card inside is handmade and hand-painted. It’s a single Christmas tree left in a lot, illuminated by fluorescent streetlights. There are no people around, but two deer stand off to the side, as if they’ve come to investigate. The inside of the card simply says Merry Christmas in Holden’s neat handwriting.
There’s a folded piece of paper tucked inside the card, an advertisement for a small art gallery in Cannon Beach, a city about an hour north of here. Apparently they’re running a photography exhibition through the end of December. Holden has written two words at the bottom of the flyer: Wanna go?
I glance up at the clock. He lives only a couple blocks away. He should be home by now. Grabbing my phone, I dial his number. “This card is beautiful,” I tell him. “You should sell these online too.”
“No way. That’s a one-of-a-kind. I made it just for you.”
“Well, in that case, you should sell other, less special designs.”
“You are bound and determined to make me into some sort of Etsy mogul, aren’t you? Not all beautiful things need to be mass-produced and sold.”
“Sorry. Maybe I’m projecting my own fears about not knowing what to do with my life onto you.”
“Yeah. Maybe you are. Stop doing that.” He laughs lightly. “So what do you think? Wanna get out of town for a day? I have to work at the gas station on Saturday morning, but we could go Sunday morning.”
“You mean . . . like a date?” I hold my breath while I wait for him to answer.
“We don’t have to call it that,” Holden says. “I just wanted to take you somewhere fun. I figure your mind could use a break from everything that’s been happening here.”
“I’d love to check out this gallery with you,” I say. “But I don’t want to hide from what’s going on. Julia yelled at me for not going to the cops—she said letting Unknown run wild might be putting other people in danger, and she’s right. I want to figure out who’s blackmailing me, make sure they don’t hurt anyone else.”
“Fair enough. What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should get together and strategize,” I say. “Can I come by?”
“Sure,” Holden says. “My mom is working. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
“Okay, give me about ten minutes. I need to finish up this email.”
“Take all the time you need,” Holden says. “And Embry, it probably sounds lame, but I’m proud of you . . . for telling the truth.”
“Thanks, I guess.” It feels like more credit than I deserve.
I disconnect the call and switch back to my email. I reread the message to Luke and envision the way he’s going to feel when he gets it. I can see his smile fading, his jaw clenching as he realizes after the first few lines that I’m breaking up with him. Then what? Sadness or anger? Probably both. My index finger hovers over the trash can icon for a few seconds. Focus on the things you can control, my mom’s voice whispers. There’s always something.
Being honest with Luke is never going to be easy, just like it wasn’t easy to tell Julia the truth. But telling her was the right thing to do, and so is this. I type “I’m sorry” again at the end of the message and sign my name. Exhaling hard, I press send.
Twenty-One
TEN MINUTES LATER I’m sitting on the sofa in Holden’s living room, one leg twitching repeatedly as I try to figure out if there’s a way we can unmask Unknown without going to the police. I think about what Julia said about Sam, how if he had died it would give anyone who cared about him motivation to hurt me.
I glance over at Holden. “Do you think the guy I pulled out of the fire could have died?”
“I don’t know. I guess anything is possible.”
“I mean, if Sam died in the fire, it was my fault for starting it. Morally and legally. I would be guilty of manslaughter.”
“We would be guilty, not you. It’s as much my fault, and even Betsy’s. I brought the candles and alcohol, which probably helped the fire spread. Her big silly tail spilled the vodka.” He taps one foot. “And I don’t like to point fingers at the less fortunate, but anyone squatting in there was breaking and entering, so he wasn’t a completely innocent victim.”
“Great. Except none of that makes me feel any better, Holden.”
“No? I guess misery doesn’t always love company.”
“No it doesn’t. I always thought that was the dumbest saying ever. If I’m suffering, seeing that other people are suffering too just makes me feel worse.” I pick at a loose thread on the edge of the sofa cushion.
Holden laughs lightly. “I like that about you.”
I scoff. “That I’m not a huge bitch who enjoys seeing other people in pain?”
“Yeah. And that you don’t cut other people down to build yourself up.”
“Well, I’m sure not going to try to pin the blame for the fire on a
homeless guy,” I say. “Dead or alive.”
“Well, let’s try to figure that out first,” Holden says. “Maybe he’s totally fine and you’re considering this angle for nothing.”
“Okay.” I open a browser window on my phone and do a search for “Sea Cliff fire.” I avoided most of the news write-ups in the days after it happened because each time I saw my name or “a local teen” mentioned as a hero who saved a man from the burning building, it was like swallowing a rock.
I find the article my mom read that mentions how the man pulled out of the fire was Sam Lark, a twenty-one-year-old former Tillamook resident who dropped out of Tillamook High his junior year.
I pass the phone over to Holden. “The article lists him in stable condition and says he’s expected to make a full recovery. But there’s no updated information on whether Sam has left the hospital or where he is now.”
Holden scans the article and then gives the phone back to me. “So call the hospital.”
I glance at the time. “Now? It’s pretty late.”
“It’s not like they aren’t open twenty-four hours. Just say you need to leave a message for Sam Lark.”
I search for the number for Tillamook General Hospital. When the operator answers, I clear my throat. “Hi,” I say. “Uh, I know it’s late, but I was trying to leave a message for a patient—Sam Lark. Can you transfer me to someone who can help me with that?”
“One moment.” There’s a long pause and then the operator returns. “Did you say Lark? L-a-r-k?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. It looks like Mr. Lark checked out earlier today.”
“Checked out? So he got better already?” I ask. “He’s okay?”
“Checked out means the patient has left the hospital,” the operator says. “I don’t have access to whether they’ve recovered or left against medical advice.”