The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  Her words seep in despite my resolve to let them skim over me. She’s never said these things to me before. Never expressed regret over the affair and our fractured relationship. I’m not sure how to feel.

  “The shoplifting thing threw me for a loop,” she goes on. “It seemed so unlike you. I knew my actions affected you, but I’ll admit I didn’t realize how much. To think your anger at me drove you to be the kind of person who would—” She clamps her lips shut, probably realizing she has no room to judge. “Anyway. I’m sure I threw you and Rachel for a loop too. I was selfish, Morgan. I—”

  Her voice breaks and she presses a hand to her mouth, like I’ve seen her do so many times when she was trying not to cry in front of us. Something in me unravels, just a tiny bit. It always hurt me to see her cry, and I’m not immune to it now. Still, I’m not ready to touch her or give her words of comfort. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten how. Either way, I keep silent and wait for her to collect herself.

  “I know I’m not the person you thought I was,” she pushes on, her voice thick with tears. “I hurt you and disappointed you, and you have every right to be upset with me. But you’re my daughter, Morgan, and we’ve already wasted so much time. I want to watch you graduate from high school and go to college and grow into an amazing woman. You said I’m not the same mother who raised you, and I can accept that. Maybe I’m different now, but I’m still your mother. I still love you more than anything in the world.”

  A tear rolls down my cheek and I quickly swipe it away. I want all those things too. I want a mother who’s there for milestones and occasions and for no special reason at all. I want to see her in the audience, her face lit up with pride. More than anything, though, I want the mother I thought she was before all this.

  “I’m asking for a chance,” she says, resting her fingers on my forearm. Somehow I don’t flinch away. “We can start slow, if you want. A phone call once in a while. Even texts, if that’s easier for you. I know it’ll take time. But we just have to start, okay? Baby steps.”

  A bus passes by, shaking the car. I think about Alyssa, accepting my apology when she realized I was ready to change, to be better. I think about Rachel, and how easy it seemed for her to forgive. But it probably wasn’t easy at all. It takes courage, opening your heart to someone who hurt you once and might do it again. The kind of courage I’m still not sure exists in me. But I can’t expect people to forgive my mistakes if I’m not open to forgiving others for theirs.

  “Okay,” I say softly.

  “What?”

  I clear my throat and speak louder. “Okay. Baby steps.”

  She smiles, her eyes still glassy with tears. Then, without another word, she lets go of my arm and leaves the car.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  MY EYES POP OPEN AT SEVEN THIRTY THE NEXT morning out of habit, even though I barely slept all night. Seeing my mother evoked a mess of conflicting emotions in me, and my brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me sleep. Normally, when I feel overwhelmed like this, I deal with it by stealing or, lately, by organizing. But since I don’t steal anymore, and I’ve already organized the entire apartment, I don’t know what else to do besides lie here and wait for it to pass.

  In the meantime, I check my phone. Nothing. My heart sinks, even though I should be used to it by now. It’s been a week since I’ve seen or spoken to Eli, and missing him is a persistent ache that doesn’t fade. It’s worse than usual this morning, probably because this is the first Saturday since June that I don’t have to go to Rita’s Reruns. I thought I’d feel relieved to be done with my community service, to have the slate wiped clean, but it doesn’t feel that way at all.

  Nothing will erase what I’ve done. The effects of my bad decisions are everywhere. In the lines on my father’s face. In my friends’ eyes as they look at me. In the silence coming from my phone. When I think about shoplifting now, I don’t see it as an escape from the hostility that eats at me. Not anymore. Now I see it for what it is. Now, when I think of everything I’ve lost because of it, how much it’s destroyed, a different kind of anger burns through me. The determined, all-consuming kind that won’t let up until I figure out a way to somehow make it right.

  An idea breaks though the flurry of thoughts in my head. I jump out of bed and go the kitchen. Fergus watches me from his perch on top of the fridge as I grab a garbage bag out of the box in the cupboard, then bring it back to my room. I start in my closet, pulling out tops and belts and shoes, stuffing each item—even the things that still have price tags attached—into the trash bag. Then I go through the rest of my room, grabbing clothes and books and trinkets, until the garbage bag is almost full and the fire in my stomach has dampened to a flickering ember. Satisfied, I close the bag with a tight knot and drop it on my floor.

  Inside is everything I’ve ever stolen. All the things I thought I couldn’t live without. Unopened makeup. Jewelry. The striped bikini with the turquoise beads, meant for Jasmine Tully’s pool party but never worn. Even that damn penguin statue is in there, buried among the clothes.

  None of these things are really mine, so they shouldn’t be in my room. But since I obviously can’t return anything to the stores, and I refuse to throw away perfectly good things, there’s only one place left for them to go.

  I knew, seeing as it’s Saturday morning, that Eli would probably be around. But I wasn’t expecting him to be the first thing I see when I pull up to the thrift shop an hour later.

  He’s kneeling in front of the garden, like I’ve seen him do countless times over the summer. The marigolds are brighter than ever, thriving under the late-summer sunshine and Eli’s meticulous care. I remember how distracting they were when I drove in here for the first time, so distracting that I accidentally ran over a box of breakables with my car. Today, though, I barely see anything but Eli.

  At the sound of my car, he glances over his shoulder in my direction. We lock eyes, and he straightens up, his arms falling to his sides. He’s wearing his dark gray T-shirt with the rip in the neck, the same one he wore the first time we kissed. My breath hitches in my throat. Everything in me wants to jump out of my car and run to him, but the rigid set of his jaw warns me against it. I slowly get out of the car and walk toward him instead.

  “Hey,” I say, stopping at the edge of the garden.

  He looks at me for a moment, his expression guarded, then turns back to the marigolds and continues to dig out the weeds sprouting up from the soil. “Hey,” he replies after a long pause.

  His voice is toneless, empty, not at all like I’m used to hearing from him. Shame washes over me again, hot and swift. I did this. I made him sound that way. I put that wariness in his eyes. It’s my fault, and only I can make it go away.

  Hesitantly, I move closer and kneel down beside him on the warm grass. He keeps on weeding like I’m not there. I watch him for a minute as he loosens each weed at the root before yanking it free, then I copy his movements on the one closest to me. The scents of flowers and fresh dirt fill my nostrils, and surprisingly, my anxiety starts to recede. Eli told me gardening was calming, and now I see what he means. There’s something about the warmth of the sun on my back and the coolness of the soil between my fingers that makes me feel almost peaceful.

  “I just want to say a few things,” I tell him, my eyes on my hands. “And then I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. Okay?”

  He raises his arm and rubs it across his forehead, his shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. I decide to take that as a yes.

  “I regret a lot of things,” I begin haltingly. This is probably my only chance to do this, and I have to get it right. “I regret that I ever started stealing, of course. And not being open with my father and asking for help. I definitely regret keeping it a secret from everyone, and lying to my friends—and you—all summer. What I did was shitty, and I’d understand if you were done with me forever. But I hope you’re not.”

  He’s completely quiet beside me, but I don’t want t
o look at him. I’m afraid that if I do, the sobs building in my chest will rise up and break free. And I can’t cry now. Not until he hears every single word that I’ve been writing and rewriting in my head for the past week.

  I swallow and keep going. “The one thing I don’t regret is getting caught. Because if I hadn’t gotten caught, I never would’ve ended up here, and I never would’ve met you.”

  His body goes still for a second, a weed gripped between his fingers, and I hold my breath. But then he rethinks whatever he was about to do or say and tosses the dead weed on the grass like it personally offended him.

  “I know that doesn’t cancel out what I did or make it okay,” I say quickly, in case he thinks I’m trying to make excuses. “I’m just saying there are some things I’d never want to take back.” I lay my hands on my lap, not caring that they’re coated in dirt and I’m wearing white shorts. “I don’t know what else to say, other than I’m sorry. And I still want to be with you, if you’d be willing to give me a second chance.”

  My mother’s words from yesterday echo in my head. I’m just asking for a chance.

  “One more thing,” I say, turning to face him. He doesn’t look at me, but it doesn’t matter. I need to see his face when I say this next thing, so I can be sure he hears me and understands. “I didn’t steal the ceramic pot from your house.”

  He stops what he’s doing and leans back, wincing as his knee flexes with the movement. “I know.”

  They’re the first words he’s spoken since hey, so it takes me a moment to respond. “You know?”

  “It wasn’t stolen,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “It was broken. Meredith accidentally knocked it off the shelf weeks ago. She knew it was valuable, so she didn’t want to admit she broke it, but she finally came clean the other day. So that’s what happened to it. I apologize for falsely accusing you.”

  I shrug. “It was a logical conclusion, after the bomb I’d just dropped on you.”

  “Still.” He shifts his weight and turns until he’s seated on the grass, his legs stretched out in front of him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so quick to assume the worst. It’s just, when you feel so sure about someone and then you find out they’ve been lying to you since the day you met them . . . it’s a lot to take in.”

  “I know.” I turn around and sit cross-legged beside him. “But not everything about me was a lie. Yes, there were things I should’ve told you, but everything I felt for you was real. Is real,” I correct, glancing over at him. He’s gazing out into the parking lot, his brow furrowed, and I try to remember the last time he smiled at me. Probably the night he came over when Dad was gone, taking Rachel to the airport. The night I told him I loved him, and he told me he loved me too.

  Maybe he hasn’t stopped. Maybe there’s still time to show him that the girl he thought I was is exactly the girl I’m hoping to become.

  Or maybe not. He doesn’t respond to what I’ve said. He doesn’t even look at me. Clearly, he’s not interested in working things out. Embarrassed, I stand up and start walking toward my car, hoping I can make it there before bursting into tears.

  “Morgan.”

  I stop and turn around. Eli is standing a few feet away, a conflicted look on his face. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

  “What?” I ask in a shaky voice. If he’s about to tell me to screw off, I’m not sure I can take it.

  “Where are you going?”

  Without taking my eyes off his, I answer, “To get something out of my car.”

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks away, like he’s trying to decide something. After a few agonizingly long seconds, he looks at me again. “Do you need any help?”

  Everything falls away, except for the two of us and the tiny spark of hope blooming inside me. Without even thinking about it, I nod. “Yes.”

  We walk to my car and I open the trunk, where I stowed my garbage bag full of stolen treasures. Eli lifts it out easily and swings it over his shoulder.

  “What’s in here?” he asks.

  “Just some things I don’t need anymore.”

  I walk with him to the donation bins and watch as he tosses the bag inside. Just knowing those things are in there, waiting to be sorted and tagged and put on display for someone else to find and take home, balances me more than stealing them ever did.

  “Well, I’d better get back to weeding,” Eli says. He brushes past me and starts walking away, then stops after a few steps and turns around. “Did you . . . want to help me?”

  I smile. I can’t help it. Helping him in the garden is such a small thing, but it feels like the start of something more. Baby steps.

  “Maybe later,” I tell him. “I have to do something first.”

  He nods and keeps walking, leaving me by the donation bins. Where we first met. I smile again at the memory as I push open the side door and step inside the thrift shop. Rita’s behind the register, chattering away to a woman with a toddler on her hip. I hang back until the woman leaves, then walk up to the counter.

  “Hey there, Morgan,” Rita says when she sees me, like she was expecting me to show up all along. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  “I was wondering if you still needed help.”

  She laughs and pushes her glasses up on her head. “Look around you, my dear. I always need help.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because I’d like to volunteer.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ALL FOUR ES IN THE BEACON STREET DINER SIGN are working again. Alyssa and I make our way inside and immediately spot Sophie and Zach, sitting side by side in our usual booth by the kitchen.

  “Hey,” they say as we slide into the opposite seat. Sophie adds, “Didn’t we say six? It’s quarter after. The waitress keeps giving us the stink eye.”

  “Sorry,” Alyssa says, glancing at me. “Morgan wanted to wait outside for a few minutes before coming in.”

  “Why?”

  In response, I take out my phone and show them the text I sent Eli a few hours ago:

  I’ll be at the diner at six, if you wanted to drop by.

  I’d planned to ask him in person yesterday, after I finished pricing another box of paperbacks for Rita. But when I got back outside, he wasn’t at the garden anymore, and his Jeep was gone from the parking lot. I wasn’t entirely sure how we’d left things, if I still had a shot or if he wanted to stay done with me after all, so I figured sending this text would give me my answer. But he never answered and, as of now, he’s still nowhere to be seen.

  “He’ll show,” Alyssa assures me.

  Sophie nods in agreement, and Zach says, “Yeah. I mean, who’d want to miss all this?” He waves a hand to indicate the sticky booths and peeling wallpaper and the subtle yet persistent aroma of stale grease. I laugh, even though my heart aches. I really missed hanging out with my friends.

  The door opens then, and the three of us look over. But it’s just Dawson, unusually late. Or maybe I shouldn’t say just Dawson, because there’s a girl with him. A tall, pretty girl with short, blue-streaked hair and multiple piercings in each ear. She looks vaguely familiar, and then it hits me that I’ve seen her once or twice at Ace Burger. She works there too.

  “Hey, guys,” Dawson says, leading the girl to our table. “This is Peyton.”

  We all greet one another, and Alyssa moves over to Zach and Sophie’s side of the booth to make room for the new girl. I watch Alyssa’s face as Dawson squeezes in next to Peyton, searching for signs of jealousy or regret, but there’s nothing. She just looks happy. Maybe even a little relieved to see that he’s moving on.

  “Should we order?” Sophie asks, directing the question to all of us but looking at me.

  I check my phone. It’s six thirty and still no answer. Still no Eli. Maybe I need to consider moving on too, even though the thought of it kills me. But I’ve done all I can do. Said all I can say. What happens next is up to him.

  “Sure,” I say. “Let’s order.”

>   Sophie gets the waitress’s attention. As she’s heading over, order pad at the ready, the door swings open again, this time with a little too much force behind it. At the last second, a large hand shoots out and grabs the corner of the door just before it slams against the wall. My breath stops. There’s only one person I know who makes entrances like that.

  “Eli,” I say as he steps inside and glances around. Our eyes meet and he smiles, setting off a million tiny explosions inside my stomach. He showed up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says when he reaches the booth. His eyes lock onto mine again. “My phone died earlier, so I just got your text about an hour ago.”

  Before I can answer, the waitress sidles up next to him and raises her eyebrows like she’s wondering if he’s going to leave or sit down.

  “I think we’re going to need a bigger table,” Zach says, glancing around at the cramped quarters of our booth.

  Everyone agrees and starts to file out of the booth, much to the waitress’s annoyance. We find two four-person tables and push them together, making one big one. The chairs aren’t as comfortable as the booth, but that’s okay. I have Alyssa on one side of me and Eli on the other, and nothing can bother me tonight.

  Everyone is talking and laughing and complaining about school starting tomorrow, but I’m having trouble following the different conversations. I’m almost entirely focused on Eli’s presence beside me, and I think he feels the same. Our knees brush under the table and he looks at me, his eyes darkening like they do when he wants to kiss me. I hold his gaze, hoping my own eyes convey exactly how grateful I am that he’s here, giving me the chance I asked for but wasn’t sure I deserved. He must get what I’m trying to tell him, because he nods slightly and reaches for my hand.