The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  “You said this kid was Rita Sloan’s nephew?” Dad confirms, scratching his day-old beard growth. He doesn’t shave on his days off. “So does he know about why you’re working there?”

  “No, not yet.” Or possibly ever. “So please don’t say anything.”

  “But don’t you think you should—”

  The buzzer rings then, cutting him off, and I send up a quick thank-you to the timing gods. Dad would definitely not approve of me misrepresenting myself as a selfless do-gooder to Eli, especially since Rita knows the truth. Luckily, he seems to forget what he was going to ask and looks at me with a wistful expression instead.

  “When did you get old enough to date?” he says, shaking his head. “Actually, when did Rachel get old enough to date? Where did the time go?”

  I give him an indulgent smile and smooth down my skirt. Rachel has definitely gone beyond simply dating Amir. Her Instagram lately has consisted of mostly selfies of them together, taken in what appears to be his apartment or house or wherever he lives. It’s not her apartment, which she shares with two other girls. I think she would have told me if they’d moved in together, but maybe she’s keeping it a secret for now. I’ll have to grill her about it in person when she comes home in three weeks.

  Three weeks. I push the thought of her homecoming out of my mind and answer Eli’s knock.

  “Hey,” he says, his eyes raking over my white lace top and floral miniskirt. Then he turns his gaze to my father, who’s standing between the living room and kitchen, looking at him looking at me. Awkward.

  Dad moves forward, hand outstretched and his best car-salesman grin plastered over his face. “Eli,” he says, thankfully getting his name right this time. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  The words make Eli’s cheeks go slightly pink. He shakes my dad’s hand and says, “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

  They chat for a bit about Rita and the thrift store and I can tell Dad approves, even after the blatant ogling he witnessed in the doorway a few minutes ago. As they’re talking, Fergus comes in and rubs against my leg, then Dad’s, and finally Eli’s, like he’s tagging everyone in the room with his scent. Eli bends down to pet him, and I remember him telling me once that he’s allergic to cats.

  “We should go,” I say, afraid he might have some kind of reaction. Also, I’m feeling antsy and just want to get out of here. We leave my father to his slothfulness and head out.

  In the elevator, Eli starts rubbing his eyes.

  “Just a little itchy, that’s all,” he explains when I ask what’s wrong.

  “Great. You’ll have to dope yourself up with antihistamines every time you come over.”

  “Worth it.” He grabs my waist and pulls me toward him. “Damn, you’re hot.”

  “I thought you thought I was cute?”

  “I do. But today, you’re hot.”

  I reach up and kiss him, weighing the logistics involved in getting us trapped in this elevator for the rest of the day.

  Eli’s eyes are fine by the time we pull into his driveway. The house looks bigger in the daytime. Brighter and more imposing. Nervousness tickles in my throat. The top I’m wearing is one that I stole a few months ago. Suddenly, it feels scratchy and tight, like it’s protesting being on my body. There may as well be a huge red X across the front of it, marking me.

  I vow to put it out of my mind as we enter the quiet house.

  Eli leads me toward the kitchen and the back deck, where everyone has congregated. On the way, we pass the couch we made out on the last time I was here and my face gets warm. So of course I look like a ripe tomato when we step out onto the deck. His family is sitting around on patio furniture, sipping drinks in the shade. Rita’s here, as promised, and she winks at me as Eli does the introductions.

  Dr. Randall Jamison is the first to shake my hand. I try to hide my surprise at his appearance. After reading about all the amazing things he’s done, I expected him to be almost godlike in person. Intimidating. But he just looks like a regular dad. An older version of Eli, just as tall but without the muscular build.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Morgan. I’m Joanna,” Eli’s mom says warmly. She looks basically the same as she does in the family picture on their end table, but now I can see the resemblance between her and Rita. Eli’s mom is about ten years younger and thirty pounds thinner, but they have the same eyes.

  Meredith, Eli’s sister, is the last to greet me. She looks like her picture too, though the braces have come off since it was taken. And like the rest of the family, she’s tall. At least five inches taller than me, but whereas I’m rounded in certain areas, she’s lanky and rail thin.

  All in all, they’re way less daunting than I expected, though I wonder if they’re inwardly comparing me to Eli’s gorgeous ex, who must have had some good qualities if he stayed with her for two and a half years. I’m the first girl he’s dated since she dumped him, and part of me feels the need to prove myself to both him and his family.

  Soon, I’m sitting in one of the comfortable patio chairs with a glass of lemonade that tastes like chilled sunshine. The light breeze carries the scent of trees and fresh-cut grass. I could maybe get used to this.

  “So, Morgan.” Eli’s mom crosses her toned legs and looks at me. “Rita was just telling us about you.”

  My stomach folds in on itself. Oh God. My worst fear come true. Rita has chosen today to spill all my sins to the very people I’m aiming to impress. I glance over at her, trying to read her expression, but half her face is hidden behind extra-large sunglasses. “Really,” I say. I take a sip of lemonade, which suddenly tastes like nothing.

  “She was talking about what a hard worker you are and how much she enjoys having you around the thrift store,” Dr. Jamison says with an affable, Eli-like grin.

  Relief whooshes through me.

  “I think it’s great,” he goes on. “I wish more teenagers were willing to give up their time to volunteer.”

  My body tenses again. His undeserved praise makes me want to slink under my chair. I force myself to return his smile, aware of Rita’s gaze on the side of my face. I don’t get her. She could have told the truth about me on numerous occasions. She doesn’t owe me a thing, so why keep my secret? As grateful to her as I am, I can’t help wondering if I’m under some sort of deadline I don’t know about. Is she just biding her time, hoping I’ll come clean so she doesn’t have to do it for me? If that’s the case, I hope she’s willing to be patient.

  Conversation shifts to something else, and I slowly start to relax. I drink another glass of lemonade, which is a mistake. All the liquid instantly rushes to my bladder, and I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom.

  When I emerge from the main-floor powder room, the house is empty and still. The icy air-conditioning feels nice on my skin, so I stall for a few moments before heading back outside, detouring through the dining room instead. I know I shouldn’t be skulking around the house by myself, but it’s not like I’m planning on pocketing the silverware. I just love things, and there’s a long sideboard in the dining room with several interesting items displayed across its surface.

  I move closer, my feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. My gaze is immediately drawn to an oval-shaped picture of a small gray bird sitting on a tree branch. At least I think it’s a picture. Upon closer inspection, I realize the image is actually made up of thousands of colorful grains of sand, walled between two glass panes. It’s beautiful. I run my fingertip over the smooth, cool surface.

  “It’s a sand painting.”

  I straighten up, my face igniting in embarrassment when I see Eli’s father in the doorway, watching me. I didn’t even know he was in the house.

  Luckily, he doesn’t seem put off by my snooping. “I got it in Vietnam a few years ago,” he explains. “The wife of one of the surgeons I worked with gave it to me as a gift. I usually bring back something from wherever I go.”

  “It’s nice,” I say. He talks about his tr
ips like they’re interesting vacations, not humanitarian missions during which he operates on children for free, just because he cares. He—along with everyone else in the family, including Eli—radiates this fundamental sense of decency that seems to be missing from my nature entirely.

  Dr. Jamison heads to the kitchen to gather the food for grilling, while I go back outside to the deck. Shortly after I sit down, Eli goes inside to help his dad with the food, leaving me with his sister, mom, and aunt. His mom is in the middle of telling Meredith a story, something about a trip she took to Mexico when she was in her last year of college.

  “I don’t remember that,” Rita says when the story is over. “Why didn’t I go with you?”

  “Oh, I think you were pregnant with Bradley then.”

  The air goes still and everyone freezes. I look at Rita, whose face is rigid behind her sunglasses. Pregnant? I remember Eli telling me she didn’t have kids.

  “Rita, I’m sorry . . . ,” Mrs. Jamison starts, but Rita is already on her feet, heading toward the door in a swirl of patterned fabric. Eli’s mom watches her leave, then sighs and puts a hand to her forehead. “Shit,” she mutters.

  I glance at Meredith, but she’s looking out into the woods, bottom lip caught between her teeth. What just happened?

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Jamison says in my general direction, and then follows her sister inside.

  Now it’s just me and Meredith, who, for an actress, has seemed pretty reserved so far. I keep my eyes on the door, wishing Eli would hurry up and come back.

  “Bradley was her son.”

  My gaze swings back to Meredith, who’s looking right at me. Her eyes are a warm, beautiful hazel, like Eli’s.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “He died when he was a baby,” she adds. She says the words quietly, like they’re too horrifying to be voiced at a normal pitch. And they are.

  “That’s awful,” I say over the tightness in my throat. Poor Rita.

  “Yeah.”

  The door flies open again, making me jump a little. It’s Eli, finally, carrying a platter of various meats. His dad trails close behind with a dish of aluminum-wrapped objects that I can only assume are vegetables. Mrs. Jamison emerges next, carrying a bottle of barbecue sauce and smiling like everything’s normal. Eli catches my eye, and the apologetic expression on his face tells me he’s aware of what just happened out here. I give him a brief smile, letting him know it’s okay, and he nods at the food as if to say he’s busy now, but will explain later. I want to tell him he doesn’t need to, that it’s none of my business anyway, but I figure it can wait until after dinner.

  I assumed Rita had left, so I’m surprised when she reappears at dinnertime and loads up a plate like nothing happened. Everyone else follows suit, laughing and talking and eating like everything is perfectly normal. Maybe Rita storming off and going missing for almost an hour is normal for them. I’m beginning to realize that Eli’s family has cracks just like anyone else’s.

  The moment dinner’s over, Eli claims he wants to give me a tour of the rest of the house and leads me downstairs to the family room. I have just enough time to glimpse a dark red couch and a cool stone sculpture in the corner before Eli’s wide chest blocks my view. He shoots a glance toward the stairs and then starts kissing me.

  Okay. I kiss him back in the quiet of the room, my hands on the back of his neck, pulling him lower as I strain to move myself higher. He must get tired of bending after a few minutes, because he puts his hands on the backs of my thighs and lifts me up until our bodies align more evenly. I wrap all four limbs around him and hang on.

  “I vote that we kiss like this from now on,” he says in my ear as he backs me gently against the wall.

  My legs tighten around his waist. “Or I could just buy a step stool.”

  He laughs and kisses me again, his hand skimming over the lace of my top. After a few minutes, he backs us away from the wall and toward the living room area. When we reach the couch, he sits, bringing me down on top of him.

  “I like where this is going,” he says, smiling down at my bare legs on either side of his hips.

  I give him a shove and slide off his lap, settling onto the couch next to him. His family is still just one floor above us, likely to come down here at any second. I straighten my skirt and try to look innocent.

  “That’s a cool sculpture.” I gesture to the abstract carving in the corner, which is about two feet tall and shaped vaguely like a teardrop.

  Eli tips his head back and lets out a breath, like he’s struggling to shift tracks. “It’s soapstone,” he says after a pause. “My dad got it in Brazil.”

  I try to imagine what it would be like, traveling the world, collecting things from each place to remind you of where you’ve been. The things I’ve collected mostly remind me of how badly I messed up. Like the stolen penguin statue, which is currently sitting on my dresser, partially hidden behind a framed picture of Rachel and me.

  “About Aunt Rita . . . ,” Eli says, drawing my attention back to him. He sounds hesitant, like whatever he’s about to say isn’t usually discussed.

  I shake my head. “Your sister already told me. About Rita’s . . . about Bradley.”

  “The whole story?”

  “Well, no. Just that he died.” I swallow and run my palm over the smooth, velvety fabric of the couch. “You don’t need to tell me anything else. It’s not— It’s her business, not mine.”

  “I don’t think she’d mind if I told you.” He clears his throat. “Her baby was born premature. Like, really premature. He slept in an incubator and needed machines to breathe for him. The doctors told her that if he survived, he’d have all sorts of problems, both physically and intellectually. But Aunt Rita was prepared to face whatever happened. She just wanted to take him home.”

  My stomach sinks. I know the ending to the story, but I still have to say it. “But then he died.”

  He nods. “He stopped breathing one day and the doctors couldn’t bring him back. Aunt Rita never really got over losing him. It happened over twenty years ago and she still can’t talk about it. And if someone slips up and mentions him . . . well, I guess you saw what happens.” He sighs and slouches down, pressing his shoulder to mine. “That’s why I said no that time when you asked me if she had any kids. I didn’t know you well enough then to tell you the truth.”

  I spread my hand across his scarred knee, something I’ve taken to doing since he told me the warmth of it made him hurt less. “She would’ve been a great mom. It’s so unfair.”

  “I know. I think that’s why she raises money for the group home, because she knows her son might have lived there if he’d survived. It’s her way of dealing with the unfairness of what happened—by turning it into something positive.”

  I know this makes sense. What I don’t know is how. When I think about Eli trading sports for horticulture, and now Rita honoring her son’s death by helping others, I long to know how people take their pain and channel it into something good.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A WEEK LATER, I DRIVE STRAIGHT TO BEACON Street Diner after work. It was Sophie’s idea to introduce Eli to the wonders of our favorite eating spot. But when I arrive, she and the rest of my friends are nowhere to be found.

  I check my phone and find a text from Alyssa, saying she’ll be late, and another text from Dawson, saying he’s not coming. I sigh. He’s been withdrawing from us since the night at Zach’s house, choosing instead to hang out with work friends on his nights off. I almost dread the thought of school starting in a few weeks. He and Alyssa will have no choice but to see each other then, and if they don’t work things out, one of them will probably leave the circle entirely.

  Shaking off the thought, I head to the diner’s tiny bathroom and exchange my Royal Smoothie T-shirt for a red lace-up tank top. When I come back out, I discover Eli loitering near the entrance.

  “Did you notice the e is burned out in the sign outside?” he says when he sees me. “
How have I never noticed this place before?”

  “Maybe because you don’t usually hang out in bad neighborhoods.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, and I realize my tone sounded more contemptuous than joking, which is how I meant it. I think. Since dinner at his house, I’ve been aware of our differences more than ever. He frequents Starbucks and pristine supermarkets, I frequent run-down diners in a sketchy part of town. His family is strong and whole; my family is messy and fractured. He’s wonderful and giving, and I’m . . . me. Sometimes these things are hard to overlook.

  Eli lets the comment drop and we go to secure a booth. Sophie and Zach arrive soon after, and my weird mood starts to lift. I’m probably just hungry.

  Alyssa doesn’t show up until after we all have our food. She squeezes in with Zach and Sophie and swipes a fry off my plate and a slice of pickle off Zach’s. Sophie pulls her own plate closer, guarding her chicken strips against roving hands.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Alyssa says after she swallows. “We had an incident at the store today.”

  I take a sip of Coke. “What kind of incident?”

  “An idiot shoplifter.”

  My glass collides with the edge of my plate, sloshing Coke everywhere. I grab a couple of napkins and start wiping it up, barely aware of what I’m doing.

  “Are you okay?” Eli’s voice filters through the loud roaring in my ears.

  I nod and keep soaking up the mess. When I asked what Alyssa meant, I was expecting her to go into another rant about her mother’s incompetence with social media or something. Not that.

  Everyone’s talking at once, asking questions, and it takes everything in me to act normal and focus on the conversation.

  “My mother noticed this guy lurking around the necklaces,” Alyssa is saying. “She was watching him, but then she had to take care of another customer. By the time she was done, the guy was gone and so was a seventy-dollar necklace.”

  Sophie’s mouth twists in disgust. “How can anyone do that? And to a small business?”