The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  “Your phone has been awfully quiet lately.”

  “Huh?” I say into his chest. Those aren’t the words I was expecting.

  “Usually, when we’re together, you’re getting texts and messages from your friends the whole time, but that hasn’t happened for like two weeks now. And we haven’t done anything with them for a while either.” He pulls back to look at me. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

  Damn it. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice, but how could he not? Things have been awkward with Sophie and Zach since the night I walked out of his basement, and we haven’t hung out or texted much since. Dawson’s around, but lately our schedules have been conflicting, so I haven’t seen much of him either. As for Alyssa, she’s still not talking to me, even though I’ve sent her several messages, begging for a chance to explain.

  “Kind of,” I say vaguely.

  There are times, like right now, when I want to tell him so badly. When the truth scratches against my tongue, just waiting for me to open my mouth and let it spill. I think of how liberating it would feel, even if he ended up hating me. At least I’d be free.

  I press my face into his T-shirt again. “Eli . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  His heartbeat echoes in my ear just like it did earlier, when I rested my head against his chest as we lay together in my bed, savoring our last few minutes. Thinking of it makes my throat ache. I’m not ready to let go of that. I’m not ready to let go of him. The truth would probably be easier if our relationship were just a light summer romance, like I intended it to be at the start. But at some point over the past few weeks, we’d become something else. Something I don’t want to risk losing.

  So rather than tell him about the shoplifting, as I know I should, I confess a different kind of truth instead.

  “I love you.”

  His arms tighten around me. “I love you too,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve wanted to tell you a million times, but . . . I don’t know. I think my last relationship affected me more than I thought.”

  I wish I could promise him that I’ll be different, that I’ll never hurt him like she did, but I can’t. At least not yet. All I can do is press my lips to his and hope it’ll be good enough for now.

  “Last day, huh?”

  I glance up from my oatmeal and look at my father, who’s leaning against the counter and holding a glass of pineapple juice. “What?”

  “At the thrift shop,” he says, smoothing down his tie. “Today’s your last shift.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  He puts his glass in the sink. “Do you have plans tonight? Now that Rachel’s gone, I think you and I should have a talk.”

  I stand up and grab my car keys. “I’m probably going out with Eli. Maybe tomorrow.” I know exactly what he wants to talk about. Rachel obviously told him her version of what happened at Mom’s, and now he wants mine.

  “Okay. Well, have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  As I drive into the city, I try to figure out why I’ve been feeling slightly uneasy around my father since my visit with Mom. All week, certain things she said kept popping into my head, triggering bursts of memories I didn’t even know were there. Quiet arguments between my parents, their tones carefully controlled. Dismissive remarks. Loaded silences. They never really yelled—at least not in front of Rachel and me—but sometimes there was this undercurrent of tension that even I, as a child, could sense.

  My mother said she was unhappy. Looking back, there were signs. A few times I walked in on her sniffling as she did the dishes. Or I’d hear her muffled crying through the bathroom door. Or I’d hear the frustration in her voice when she was talking to my father and he didn’t want to see her point of view. But he was my father. He might not have been the perfect husband, but he also wasn’t the one who had the affair, so I’ve always taken his side.

  So why do I feel mildly pissed off whenever I’m in the same room with him?

  Rita’s Reruns is looming on my right, so I vow to put it out of my mind for now. Maybe I will take Dad up on his offer to talk later. Before I tell him my version of events, maybe I’ll ask him to tell me his.

  “Morgan!” Rita trills when I enter the thrift shop. “I’m glad you’re here a few minutes early, because today is going to be wild.”

  I look around. The store is liberally plastered with handmade signs, each one spelling out Fill a Bag for $10! Beside the entrance is a towering stack of large paper bags. I’ve never seen this before.

  “Fill a bag for ten dollars?” I ask, peering at the sign closest to me. The letters are ornate and curly—clearly Rita’s work.

  “That’s right.” She strides around the store, bracelets jangling. “Customers pay a flat ten dollars for as much as they can stuff in one of those bags. Clothes, books, toys, dishes . . . anything that fits without falling out or ripping the bag open. Fun, right? I do this a few times a year, and it’s always a smash.”

  “Fun,” I agree, picturing swarms of people grabbing anything they can get their hands on, like Walmart on Black Friday. “Where’s Eli?”

  “Oh, he had to drive his sister somewhere this morning. He’ll be in a little later.”

  I nod and move behind the register, where I assume she’ll need me today. And I’m right. As soon as the doors open at nine, the customers start piling in. For the next three hours we’re flat-out busy, me on cash and Rita on the floor, trying to prevent the place from getting ransacked. When an older lady comes in with a shopping cart and tries to fill five different bags (the limit is two), I start feeling less sentimental about today being my last day. By the time noon and the end of my shift rolls around, I’m completely exhausted. I wish I could lean against Eli’s sturdy body and go to sleep for a while, but he never did show up. He must have known it’s Fill a Bag for $10 day and decided to stay away. Smart.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” Rita says when I approach her at the back of the store during a lull in customers. The place is empty save for a guy flipping through what’s left of the men’s outerwear rack.

  “Yeah.” Pushing down a twinge of sadness, I hold out my hand. “Thank you for the opportunity. It was great working with you.”

  She waves my hand away and folds me into a long, rib-crushing hug instead. “Remember what I told you,” she says as she releases me. “You’re a good girl, Morgan, and someday you’re going to believe it. Don’t let those bad decisions define you, because they don’t. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. “Thanks for, um, keeping things between us. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.”

  She shrugs lightly. “Not my story to tell.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” I reach into my back pocket and bring out a folded sheet of paper, which lists all the hours I worked. “You need to sign this time sheet for the diversion coordinator so they can give it to the judge. It just shows that I completed all thirty of my community service hours.”

  “Of course.” She takes the paper and carries it up to the counter. I follow her and watch as she signs it with a flourish. “Here you go,” she says, handing it back to me.

  I fold the paper back up and return it to my pocket. “Thanks. I’ll come back and visit soon. And I’ll probably see you around Eli’s house too, I guess.”

  Rita smiles. “You bet.”

  I wave at her and leave, holding the door open for a couple pushing twins in a double stroller as I go. When I get in my car, I put the signed paper in my glove compartment and send a text to Eli.

  Where are you?

  Five minutes pass without a response, which isn’t like him. He’s probably still chauffeuring his sister around. I still have a six-hour shift at Royal Smoothie ahead of me, so it’s not like I’ll be able to spend any time with him anyway. I drive away from Rita’s Reruns for possibly the last time and head home to change.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE MINUTE SCOTT SENDS ME OFF ON MY HALF-hour break, I dig
out my phone and turn it on. My body lightens when I see a text from Eli.

  Can you meet me after work?

  Where? Your house? Starbucks?

  His response comes quickly: Somewhere more private so we can talk. Crawford Park? By the maple trees?

  Crawford Park is a huge grassy square in the middle of the city with playgrounds, basketball courts, a skate park, and lots of open spaces. We’ve never gone there together, and I’m not sure why he wants to start now. And what does he want to talk privately about?

  I text him back a yes and put away my phone. There’s no point in asking for details now. I’ll find out soon enough.

  After work, I drive straight to Crawford Park. Eli texted a few minutes ago to tell me he’s already there, waiting. I park as close as I can and head in through the South Street entrance, my palms already sweaty even though I have no idea what to expect. As I get closer, I spot Eli, standing under one of the massive maple trees that line one edge of the park. He’s not smiling. My stomach lurches, and I have to push myself the rest of the way.

  “What’s going on?” I ask once I’ve joined him in his secluded spot under the tree. The park is still crawling with people, even though it’s starting to get dark and the air smells like rain, but they’re all a good distance away.

  “I wanted to ask you the same question.” He looks at me, his expression a mix of hurt and confusion.

  It hits me then. He knows. He knows about me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask anyway, my mouth going dry. A summer’s worth of stress and worry and paranoia are about to come to a head, and all I can do is stand here and let it happen.

  “I was there this morning,” he says. “At the thrift shop.”

  “What?” His words make zero sense. “No, you weren’t.”

  “Yes, I was. I came in late. You and Aunt Rita were both busy with customers and didn’t see me.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I was in the stockroom, trying to make some space for the donations that came in yesterday. I heard you talking. You and Aunt Rita. A few minutes before you left.”

  My body goes from warm to cold as his meaning sinks in. He was there. He heard us. I replay that moment in my head, Rita and I saying good-bye. Her telling me I’m good, and that my past decisions don’t define me. Me asking her to sign the paper, verifying my completion of thirty hours of community service.

  Community service. I spoke the words out loud, completely unaware that Eli was in earshot. Unaware that he was even there at all.

  This is bad.

  “Rita told you, then.”

  “No,” he says, surprising me. “I wanted her to, but she kept telling me to ask you. So I’m asking you. What the hell is going on?”

  “Eli . . .” I trail off helplessly and look away, across the expanse of grass to the busy streets beyond. I wish I could take off running, past the soccer field and skate park, past the food stands and benches, until this spot under the tree—and Eli—are just dots in the distance. But I won’t. It’s my fault he’s looking at me right now like he’s not sure who I am, and I have to stay and make it right.

  “You told me you were volunteering so you could use it on your college applications,” he reminds me in an accusing tone. “Or at least that’s what you let me think. Either way, it was a lie, right? You were never a volunteer, were you?”

  “No,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t volunteering at Rita’s Reruns. I was doing community service for shoplifting.”

  My confession lands like a brick between us, and I watch as his expression shifts from confused to shocked. I have no clue what he’d thought I’d done to get community service, but it clearly wasn’t this.

  “Shoplifting,” he repeats, like he’s not entirely sure I’m being serious. “You shoplift.”

  “I did,” I correct. “Not anymore.”

  He unfolds his arms and rakes both hands through his hair, looking up at the graying sky. After a moment, he drops his gaze to mine again. “Why?”

  “Why shoplifting?” I nudge my shoe into a patch of dirt at my feet and shrug. “I’m still in the process of trying to figure that out.”

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Were you ever going to tell me about this? Or did you plan on keeping it from me forever and hope I never found out?”

  I take a step closer to him, and he immediately retreats, crossing his arms again. Defensive posture. I’d seen him do the same thing with his ex at Zander’s party. The same ex who’d pulled the rug out from underneath him, the same way I just did. I’m no better than her. No, I’m worse than her.

  “I was going to tell you,” I say. My arms ache to reach out and touch him, but I know he won’t let me, so I cross them instead, mirroring his stance. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but I just . . . I couldn’t. I was ashamed. My friends—they look at me differently now because of this. You’re—you were one of the only people I had left, and I didn’t want to—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” He turns and paces a few steps away from me, then switches direction and returns to the same spot. “I feel like such an idiot. You let me think— God, I thought you were amazing. You were the first girl I met in a long time who I could actually see myself falling in love with, and then I did, and now it turns out you’re not who I thought you were at all. Now you’re just this girl who’s lied to me all summer.”

  I’ve never really seen Eli angry before. I’ve seen him annoyed, I’ve seen him moody, I’ve seen him bitter and trying to hide it like at Zander’s party, when he found about Colton Latimer playing for the team he wanted, but I’ve never seen him truly angry. And he’s certainly never been angry at me. One of my biggest fears before we got together was that I’d wind up hurting him, and now here we are. The reality of it is even worse than I imagined.

  “Eli, I’m so sorry.” My voice breaks on the last word as the significance of what I’ve done crashes into me all at once. I misled him in the worst way. Distorted my real self and let him believe I was a different kind of person. A better kind of person. And even if I am better now, it’s too late. The damage is done. He’ll only ever see me as the girl who lies, steals, and deceives.

  He turns away again, and this time I’m sure he’s going to keep walking, leaving me alone under the canopy of branches. But again, he changes his mind and walks back to me, this time stopping just a foot from where I’m standing. His face is flushed and his eyes blaze as he looks down at me.

  “Did you take it?”

  I blink at him, confused. “What?”

  “The little ceramic pot my father got when he went to Tunisia a few years ago. It was always on the shelf next to the TV in the main floor family room, but it’s been missing for the past month or so.” His jaw twitches again. “Did you take it?”

  Goose bumps rise on my skin, even though the evening air is still warm. I know I deserve this. I deserve accusations and mistrust and blame, but that doesn’t make it any less painful, especially coming from him. “No,” I manage to say. “Of course I didn’t take it.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?”

  I remember my father saying basically the same thing, in basically the same tone, a few weeks ago. Maybe it’ll be the automatic response to everything I say now. Established liars and thieves don’t get the benefit of the doubt.

  “I get why you’d be suspicious of me after everything I just told you,” I say, trying to sound calm and even, though I feel the opposite. “But I didn’t take the ceramic pot or anything else in your house. I swear. I like your family, Eli. I’d never steal from them.”

  He lets out a humorless laugh. “So if we were assholes, then stealing from us would be justified? What kind of fucked-up logic is that?”

  “No. That came out wrong. I just meant—”

  He holds up his hands and backs away again. “You know what? Never mind. I’m done.”

  I start to follow him. “Eli—”

  “I’m done,” he says again, louder this time, so I
’m sure to get it.

  I do get it. He’s done—with this conversation and with me. And I don’t really blame him for walking away from both, so I stay where I am and let him go.

  Dad’s sitting on the couch, a takeout pizza box open on the coffee table in front of him, when I enter the apartment a half hour later. The smell of sausage makes my stomach roll.

  “Hey,” he says when I walk past the living room, ignoring both him and the pizza. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No.”

  I go to my room and close the door behind me, startling Fergus, who’s balled up against my pillows. I sit on my bed and stroke his head until he settles again, then dig my phone out of my purse. No messages. Not that I expected a change-of-heart text from Eli after what he said, but it never hurts to check.

  My thumb hovers over a different name. Alyssa. I miss talking to her so much. I wish I could talk to her right now. I wish I could pour out everything that happened in the park and then listen to her calm, reasonable voice telling me that life will work itself out eventually. Alyssa believes everything works itself out eventually. Except for our friendship, apparently, and that makes me sad.

  We’ve never gone this long without speaking. We used to tell each other all our secrets, even the most embarrassing ones. I know about ninth-grade gym, when she got her period while doing yoga and ruined both her pants and her yoga mat. She knows about last summer, when my then-boyfriend Nathanial and I lost our virginity to each other in the woods near his parents’ lake house and I got bug bites where no one should ever get bug bites.

  Alyssa has always been there. Before this year, she knew everything about me, good and bad. She never judged, never turned her back on me . . . until she discovered something about me that she just couldn’t forgive.

  I turn off my phone and set it facedown on my nightstand, then flop back on my pillows next to Fergus. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to handle rejection, but not tonight.

  “Morgan?” Dad knocks on my door, three sharp raps. When I don’t answer, he slowly opens it and pokes his head in my room. “Are you sure you don’t want some pizza?”