“But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” I say, as if that’s supposed to make everything better.
We stand from the steps. Max waits until I get the door unlocked and open—until I’ve inserted, turned, and extracted the key; twisted the knob; and pushed the door wide.
“Good night,” I say.
There are so many questions on his parted lips, but he doesn’t speak one of them, which somehow makes things worse.
I watch him walk away, toward his car. The night sky swallows him up. It also creeps inside my heart and tears a gaping hole.
Tuesday, October 20
Night
I remember it was scorching out that day, because I was barefoot in the driveway, and the hot-top burned the bottoms of my feet. I could hear the cartoon show inside the house. Little Ferngrow’s Garden—the part where the snail sings the song about moss.
I was five years old.
“Go stand in the grass where it’s cool,” Mom said.
We’d been locked out of the house. I wasn’t sure why, but I suspected it had something to do with Steven.
“Come on, Juju,” Mom said, taking my hand and bringing me into the backyard. “I want to show you something.” She grabbed a couple of shovels from my sandbox, along with a few pieces of colored chalk.
She led me to the picnic table and crawled beneath it. She started to dig a hole.
“Help me out here, will you?” she asked.
I joined her under the table and dug in with a shovel, happy to be playing this game with her. I loved my mother more than anything.
She fished one of Dad’s handkerchiefs from her pocket, and with the chalk, wrote a word across the fabric. “See that,” she said, pointing to it. “It’s the word PAIN. The p makes the puh sound, a-i makes ay, and the n sounds like nnn. Pain.”
“Pain,” I repeated. “Are you in pain?” I asked her.
Her eyes looked sad. “If we bury our pain, we can make it go away.” She dropped the handkerchief into the hole.
“Just like we buried Steven.”
“That’s right,” she said. “We can bury anything we like. Pretty neat, huh?” She smiled. “Now, it’s your turn. What would you like to bury?”
I wanted to bury Steven’s bed and storybooks. I thought that if they went away, maybe we could go back to the way things were before. But things never went back, no matter how much I buried.
I started to distrust my mother then. She didn’t protect me. She hadn’t protected Steven. And she never protected herself. What kind of a mother is that?
In my room, I grab my phone and look for Misty’s text, eager to distract myself from the fact that Max and I kissed.
Our lips mashed.
Our tongues touched.
I close my eyes, able to picture the confusion on his face, almost unable to believe that it happened.
But it did.
And I did it.
I push RECORD on the tape player, set my phone to speaker mode, and press Ariana’s number. The phone rings, and suddenly I realize that I have no idea what I’ll say to her.
ARIANA: Who’s this?
ME: Is this Ariana?
ARIANA: It is, and who’s this?
ME: I’m a student at Crest Hill State University.
ARIANA: Oh, right. Misty texted that you might call me.
ME: Is it okay if I ask you some questions about Julian Roman’s case?
ARIANA: For the record, I’m not friends with Julian, so I have no reason to try and cover for him or anything.
ME: Cover for him?
ARIANA: Like when I told the police that I saw him at the beach on Saturday rather than Sunday. To be honest, it was weird to even be talking to Julian Roman. He’d never said a word to me prior to that day.
ME: Do people think that you were lying about the day?
ARIANA: Apparently some people do.
ME: So, was it Saturday or Sunday?
ARIANA: That’s obviously the problem. I mean, I originally thought it was Saturday. But when I really stopped to think about it, I was at the beach on both days. I remember because I was participating in this volleyball tournament thing that weekend. Anyway, when the police told me they caught Julian on surveillance video on Sunday, rather than Saturday, and then when they asked me if I was a hundred percent sure about the date, I couldn’t help but second-guess myself. I mean, could it have been Sunday?
ME: I guess that’s a good question.
ARIANA: I know, right?
ME: Why did you originally think it was Saturday?
ARIANA: Because I had a soccer game that day. I vaguely remember him asking me about it. I think we might’ve even laughed over the fact that I’d headed my soccer cleat—by accident, mind you—during the second half of the game.
ME: Did you tell that to the police?
ARIANA: I did, but then they kind of messed me all up, pointing out that we could’ve been talking about the soccer match from the day before. I couldn’t really argue. I mean, my mind was scrambled. My heart was racing hard-core. I seriously hate talking to cops. But wait, I thought the whole alibi-at-the-beach thing wasn’t even relevant anymore.
ME: Why wouldn’t it be relevant?
ARIANA: Because when Julian came home from the beach, his father was still alive.
ME: Wait, what?
ARIANA: You don’t know?
ME: Know what?
ARIANA: Okay, so I don’t have all the details, but apparently a UPS guy delivered a package to the Romans’ house sometime after Julian had gotten home from the beach that day. The guy overheard Julian and Mr. Roman fighting, and so he peeked into the window.
ME: And what did he see?
ARIANA: Julian and his dad, in the living room. I guess the fight was pretty loud. The UPS guy confirmed it happened on Saturday, by the way.
ME: So then Julian lied about coming home from the beach and finding his parents dead?
ARIANA: Who knows. I mean, maybe he lied. Or maybe, like me, he got mixed up, too. Let’s face it: police aren’t exactly the easiest people to talk to.
ME: How come I’m just hearing about this UPS guy now? Why wasn’t he in any of the news reports?
ARIANA: Well, for one, I guess the guy came forward really late, which is why I initially got raked over the coals about when and where I saw Julian at the beach. And, for another, I don’t think news reports disclose everything. I mean, right?
ME: Do you think Julian did it?
ARIANA: I don’t know. He never struck me as the killing type. But then again, like I said, I barely knew the guy.
ME: I really appreciate your talking to me.
ARIANA: So cool that your group is researching the case. You have my number if you think of anything else.
I press STOP, suddenly realizing that, like Misty, Ariana has my number now too.
“We need to talk.” It’s after nine when I push past Julian into the barn.
“Did something happen?” he asks.
I turn to face him, noticing right away: smooth tan skin and chiseled jawline.
He shaved his face.
And changed his clothes.
Wearing a pair of jeans that hug his thighs, and a blue waffle shirt that clings to his chest, he looks undeniably beautiful.
I look away, trying to stay focused. “I read something,” I utter. “A news report. It said that a UPS guy spotted you and your father fighting after you got home from the beach that day.”
“That’s right,” he says, without the slightest flinch.
“So then you didn’t come home to find the bodies.”
“I did. It’s just…” He moves to sit down on a bale of hay. “I was so screwed up after coming home and finding them, I didn’t think to mention going out for a drive in between. And then, when I did think to mention it, it was way too late.”
“Hold on,” I say, pulling the tape recorder from my pocket. I sit down beside him and push RECORD.
ME: What do you mean “it was too late??
??
JULIAN: I mean, I was too scared to correct myself, and so I just stuck to my original story.
ME: We need to back up. What time did you get home from the beach?
JULIAN: Probably around five.
ME: And what happened once you got there?
JULIAN: My dad and I got into a heated argument that ended up getting physical.
ME: What were you fighting about?”
JULIAN: I don’t know.
ME: You don’t remember?
JULIAN: What difference does it make?
ME: It could make a big difference in the scheme of things—what you and your dad were fighting about shortly before his death….
JULIAN:…
ME: Okay, so you got into an argument that became physical. What happened after that?
JULIAN: I took off before things got really ugly. About an hour later, I came back. That’s when I found his body—in the middle of the living room floor.
ME: Where did you go when you took off?
JULIAN: I went by Barry’s house. No one was home, and so I just ended up driving around.
ME: Where was your mother during the fighting?
JULIAN: Honestly, I don’t know. She didn’t come out.
ME: Did you hear the bathtub water running?
JULIAN: Not that I can remember. I’m thinking she must’ve been asleep in her room.
ME: And she wouldn’t have heard the fighting?
JULIAN: Not if she’d taken some of her sleeping pills.
ME: Is there a chance she wasn’t home?
JULIAN: That would’ve been highly unlikely for her. She was almost always home.
ME: In which room were you and your father fighting?
JULIAN: It started in the kitchen and ended in the living room.
ME: Is the bathroom visible from both of those rooms?
JULIAN: Yes. It’s a small house, but we keep the bathroom door closed for the most part.
ME: So, you came home from the beach, got into a fight with your dad, took off, returned an hour later, and found your father dead.
JULIAN: I found them both dead.
ME: And what did you do then?
JULIAN: I called the police. They came. I told them what happened, but I left out the part about the fighting.
ME: Intentionally?
JULIAN: No. To be honest, I was lucky to form sentences, never mind explain precisely the way things had played out. Days later, the story was out there, that I’d come home from the beach and found my parents dead. I didn’t want to correct the story at that point. I didn’t think I needed to either. I mean, what was the point? I wasn’t guilty. But then that UPS guy came forward, and suddenly it looked like I’d lied.
ME: How come you never mentioned any of this when we were talking about your beach alibi?
JULIAN:…
ME: Lying by omission is still lying. Didn’t you think I’d eventually find out?
JULIAN:…
I press STOP and get up from the bale. “You lied to me.”
“That’s right. I did.” He stares straight into my eyes. There isn’t a hint of remorse on his face. “You should tell me to go.”
“Is that what you really want?”
He stands, towering over me. “I lied to you. I’ve been accused of a heinous crime. How many more red flags do you need?”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” I turn away and go for the door.
At the same moment the words “please don’t go” float in the air.
I stop, my hand wrapped around the door handle. “What did you say?” I swivel to face him.
“I said ‘please just go.’”
My jaw tenses. “You’re lying again.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
I open the door a crack, able to feel him coming closer: a hot, tingly sensation that spreads like fire across my skin. The smell of burning leaves fills the dank space. “I really need some air.”
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
I swallow hard, spotting his lip quiver. “Do you want to come too?”
“Is that what you want?”
I nod and exit the barn. Julian follows me.
I lead Julian through the yard, toward the wooded conservation land that borders our property. With the town’s permission, my dad made a path that cuts through the land and extends to a clearing. “Just stay on the wooden planks,” I tell him, wishing I had a flashlight. Still, I know these woods by heart—every tree, rock, bough, and shrub.
With each step, it gets colder, darker, the moon blocked out by the tops of trees. I swipe a tangle of brush from in front of my eyes, able to hear Julian behind me—the snapping of twigs beneath his step, the sound of his breath blowing through the air.
My mind starts to wander, thinking how far we’re getting from the house, remembering how the cell reception can be patchy in these woods.
Could I call someone if I needed to?
If I screamed, would anyone hear me?
I reach into my pocket for my phone. It slips from my grip and tumbles to the ground. I scurry to find it. Julian crouches down beside me. Together, we sift through fallen leaves and broken tree limbs, until Julian finally plucks the phone from a heap.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from his hand. His skin is rough and calloused. I imagine how it’d feel against my palm. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
His forehead furrows. He looks surprised and disappointed at once.
My mouth trembles open, but I don’t know what to say or how to explain this uneasiness I feel.
“You’re right.” He turns away so I can’t see his face. “This wasn’t the smartest.”
I check my phone screen. There are still two bars. “No,” I say, on second thought. “Let’s keep going. There’s something I want to show you.” I begin on the path again, using my flashlight app to pave the way.
After a couple more minutes of walking, we reach a clearing with boulders set up in a circle. There’s a fire pit in the center, dug into the earth, with rocks all around it.
I take a seat on one of the boulders. “Come on,” I tell him, switching off the flashlight app and pointing up at the sky. “The moon followed us here.” It shines directly over us like a spotlight of sorts.
Julian sits beside me.
“My dad created this space,” I say. “We used to come up here as a family—like our own personal campground. We’d toast marshmallows and tell ghost stories or sing songs.”
“Used to? Not anymore?”
“It’s probably been a couple of years, sort of a reflection of how distant we’ve all become.”
“Not toasting marshmallows at the fire pit hardly constitutes a family in distress.”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling stupid for bringing it up. “It’s just they’re separated now. I kind of wish I’d seen it coming.”
“I watched my parents’ dysfunction for years and it didn’t make me any better off.”
“Were things always tough at home? Were there ever happy times?”
“Not after Steven’s death.”
I venture to touch his forearm, wishing I had something inspiring to say. But the truth is that I don’t. I have nothing to compare. And I don’t want to pretend I do.
“Sometimes I think that maybe Steven was the lucky one.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true though. Maybe my father wouldn’t have been so angry. Maybe my mom wouldn’t have sunk into depression.”
“And maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all, at least not as far as your parents were concerned.”
“But, for me. I wouldn’t have felt the loss of Steven or the guilt of living. Or had to have put up with years of my parents’ bullshit.”
“Yes, but you also wouldn’t be here right now,” I say, thinking out loud, trying my hardest to understand.
“You’re right. And being here is actually the only good that’s come from all o
f this.”
I look up at his face, checking to see if I heard him right, but he’s staring off into space. “How come you didn’t tell me that when you came home from the beach that day your father was still alive?”
“Because I really wanted your help, and I was afraid that if you knew I screwed up my original story, you wouldn’t believe me about anything.”
“What else are you keeping from me?”
“Just one thing: I meant what I said before. You should forget you ever met me.”
“If you really feel that way, then why don’t you leave?”
He swallows hard; I watch the motion in his neck. Finally, he meets my eyes again. “Because I can’t bring myself to go.”
I slide my hand down his arm and cradle my fingers around his palm, able to feel his warm, rough skin. Julian rubs his thumb along my wrist, and I can’t help but wonder, how many nerve endings are in the hand? Five hundred? A thousand?
It’s as if I can feel every last one.
We remain like this—holding hands—for several seconds without uttering a single sound. I gaze up at the sky. It’s the perfect shade of midnight blue. There’s a perfect number of stars in the sky. Everything about this moment feels perfectly amazing.
Except this is only the illusion of perfection.
Julian is on the run.
We have so much work to do.
I steal my hand away, putting an end to the moment. Julian responds by grabbing a long stick and poking at the fire pit, moving the brush around inside, as if there’s an actual fire burning.
I look at his hand, wanting to touch it once again, imagining sitting on the boulder just in front of him, with my back pressed against his chest, and his breath heating the nape of my neck, while a fire crackles before us.
“Everything okay?” He’s staring right at me.
My face is absolutely blazing. I look away, trying to refocus, and press the record button on the tape player in my pocket.
ME: I read that there was some confusion about when you mowed your neighbor’s lawn.
JULIAN: The neighbors say I did it in the afternoon on Saturday, but they weren’t even home that day. They’d left the keys to the shed in the mailbox, as usual. I mowed the lawn in the morning.