They’re almost at the door when Chelsea stops and runs back to me. Her arms are around my neck, and she squeezes me tight. All my worries about her secrets vanish in that moment. We’ll talk when she’s through this. When life is normal again.
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” she says.
“You’ll never have to.”
Then they’re inside. I slump down in my chair with a happy sigh. A game show is chattering on the TV in the corner, and there’s a flower arrangement at my table, so maybe I was wrong about the flowers. I pull the basket closer and look it over. Roses, irises, lilies.
I finger the white edge of a calla lily, the first one I’ve touched since their mother’s funeral. I wore a navy-blue skirt and an itchy sweater. I’d never been to a funeral before. Couldn’t quite get my head around the idea that Chelsea’s mom was in that strange box. Chelsea sat on her dad’s lap, sobbing softly into his lapel. Deacon stood like he was carved from stone.
After the service, everyone gathered back at their little family sailboat—no big business then—and they tossed flower after flower on the deck of the boat. Once we were done, everyone headed up the block to the house to make small talk and eat casseroles. I’d wandered back down the road to the water. Deacon was there, picking out the lilies and throwing them overboard.
I’m guessing his mom didn’t like lilies.
I climbed aboard to help, and he let me. It felt like it took hours. By the time we were done, the water around us was black and stars were blinking their own memorial. But there was not one damn lily in sight—and that felt good.
“Eddie.” Joel’s voice yanks me from the memory. He’s standing by the table when I look up, hair still damp from a shower and tie only half-done. “Is Chickadee in with Daffy?”
“She’s in with him right now,” I say, and then I smile. “I think he can talk now. Oh, and I found Deacon. He’s in there too.”
The shock on his face makes me laugh. Almost anything would make me laugh right now. I’m just so relieved.
“Well, I’ll be,” Joel finally manages.
“Never underestimate my powers.”
“I never would.” He winks. “I can take Dink home if you want. They’ll have lots to discuss.”
I hesitate, not sure what I should do, but I don’t think I should leave him. Joel must see as much in my expression.
“Emmie.” Joel presses his lips together, like he’s choosing every word carefully. “We still don’t know Deacon’s role in all this.”
“I’d bet my life he didn’t do it.”
“Don’t bet that,” Joel says softly. “Never bet that.”
“Do you really think he could do something like this?”
“I shouldn’t talk to you about what I think at all.”
“Because I’m under eighteen?”
“No, because I’m the attorney for the Westfield family, and there is a strict client confidentiality law that protects them and me. Something you’d do well to read up on, because I can tell you there’s a good bit of work on that subject on the North Carolina Bar Exam.”
“Which I have about thirty-six years to prepare for.”
The door slams open, and I jerk back in my chair, surprised when Deacon storms out, barely looking at Joel on his way to the elevator. I lurch out of my chair, and he gives me a look that breaks my heart.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You can add Chelsea to the list of people who think I did this.”
• • •
I follow him down out of instinct alone. Three nurses join us on the elevator before I can ask him a single thing. We ride down in silence while they chatter about the jewelry one of them is selling. I watch Deke out of the corner of my eye, my body tensing as he clenches his fists.
The doors whoosh open, and Deacon waits until the nurses file out. Then he bursts from the elevator, and I’m right on his heels.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “What’s happening? What went wrong?”
“I’m leaving,” he says. “You can stay or go.”
“Just hold on a second!” I smack my toe into one of the chairs in the main lobby and cry out. Deke turns, not exactly sympathetic but not exactly ignoring me either.
“Are you all right?”
“Never mind me—what happened up there? Talk to me.”
The other elevator doors open, and Chelsea and Joel slip out. Chelsea charges at Deacon the second she spots him.
“I’m going,” Deacon says.
“How could you?” Chelsea snarls. “How could you hit him?”
Oh. Oh. He told her.
My insides snag on the pain in her voice or maybe at the unsteadiness of Deacon’s breathing. They’re both hurting, and hell if I know who to help or how. Deacon tries to back away until Chelsea scoffs, face purpling with rage.
“You’re going to just run away,” she says. “Watch me not be shocked.”
The elderly volunteers at the front desk are casting worried glances in our direction. Deacon edges closer to me and his sister.
“You’re the one who told me to get out.”
I step right, toward Chelsea, and then back, hesitating. I don’t get this. Any of it. All she wanted was for him to come. And now this? I know he messed up, but this rage isn’t like her.
“Do you have any idea what it was like for me to see that?” Deacon says to her.
“Don’t you dare! I don’t care what it was like for you. You aren’t lying in the hospital right now!”
The woman at the desk picks up a phone, but Joel lifts a hand, walking briskly across the lobby to talk them down. The three of us watch warily, clustering a little closer. I can’t hear what Joel says, but he must smooth things over, because he’s back with us fast, and the woman is no longer holding the phone.
“Chickadee, Dink, let’s just all calm down here. We’re scaring these poor ladies to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Chels says, voice much lower, head ducked.
“Sorry for scaring them but not for accusing me.”
Deacon’s laugh sends chills up my spine. I’ve played referee for plenty of their sibling fights—but this? I don’t even know where to start.
I touch Chelsea’s arm to ground myself. “You’re both stressed,” I say. “So stressed.” I give her a squeeze, and she shrugs me off hard.
“Don’t. You have no idea what’s going on here.”
My breath lodges like a knife between my ribs. “I’m trying to help, Chels.”
Her expression gives me frostbite. “You can’t help. Don’t you get that? You can’t do anything, Emmie!”
“Hey! Don’t turn this on her,” Deacon says.
“Oh, now you notice her? After how many years?”
My spine goes iron-stiff at her words, embarrassment knotting every muscle.
“Chelsea.” Joel’s voice coupled with her real name is a rare warning, but she’s too far gone. Her eyes are dark with rage, and I’m still stunned by her words.
“You’re unbelievable,” Deacon says.
“What you did is unbelievable. That’s the last thing Dad remembers, Deke. You hitting him.”
Deacon’s red now, and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitching, but he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at the door.
“Just go,” Chelsea says. “You’ve got your precious freedom now, and hey, you’ve got Emmie too, trailing around behind you like a puppy.”
The words hit like a hard slap. I reel back, too shocked to respond.
“You’re done,” Deke tells her, and this time he steps in front of me. I feel the heat rolling off his back and the lingering sting of Chelsea’s words.
“I agree,” Joel says. “That’s too far. Eddie didn’t do a thing to you.”
I close my eyes, fighting tears. How could she? How could she? She knows I
didn’t want him to know. Not ever, because I knew it was stupid and it would make everything weird. And now she does it here? In the middle of all this?
I’m out of my depth and sinking fast. No time for maydays or lifeboats, just a quick spiraling descent to nowhere.
Joel touches Chelsea’s arm, and he doesn’t get shrugged off. That stings. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“Chickadee, let’s you and me run Emmie home.”
“No,” Deacon says. “I’ll take her.”
Chelsea’s laugh is the cruelest sound I’ve ever heard her make. “Of course you will.”
I inch closer to Deacon, barely suppressing a shudder. I don’t know this person. It’s like a stranger wearing Chelsea’s skin. Is this what grief does? Does it strip away every good and sweet thing until there’s nothing left but darkness?
I take a tremulous breath but lift my chin. I don’t know whose courage I borrow to meet Chelsea’s eyes, because mine’s used up.
“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling,” I say softly. “I know I can’t. But that was crap, and you know it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, and the words are strangled on the edge of a sob. It breaks things in me to see her like that, but I need time. I need to breathe.
I feel warm, rough fingers on my arm, and then Deacon’s looking at me. The apology is written all over his face. “I’ll take you home.”
The last thing I see is Chelsea’s tear-rimmed eyes. They wring me out and leave me hollow as I follow Deacon outside.
Chapter Seven
Outside, the humiliation hits me like a truck. My face is so hot I’m surprised I don’t smell smoke. He knows. I’ve hidden this secret for years, and boom, just like that, it’s out.
What should I say? What can I say? Deacon’s not talking, so maybe I should follow his lead.
He hands me my helmet and puts his own on too. I check that damn strap and climb on the bike. The pain quickly wins out over the humiliation, and I hold on tight without being asked. I’ll have to deal with the awkward fallout later if it comes, and after everything Chelsea said, it probably will. For now, being close to him helps.
Deacon stops at the Hess station, and I check my phone while he pumps the gas. Six o’clock. I have no idea where the day went. It’s a miracle my phone didn’t blow up with all the texts my mom sent. Will I be home for dinner? Where am I? Is everything all right? Will I please check in?
I fire back a quick response heavy with apologies.
I’m so sorry. Was with Chelsea at the hospital. With a friend now. Be home by ten.
Mom’s reply flashes back fast.
I’d like some details. Are you back in town? Who drove you?
Battery low. On way back to town.
I turn off my phone and put it away with a wince. I’ll pay for ignoring that later, but it’s going to be bad enough explaining this. Doing it over text is just too much.
Deacon puts the cap back on the gas tank and heads inside. A couple of girls in a convertible follow him with their eyes, but he doesn’t even notice. Now I know he’s upset.
When he returns, he slips me a pack of Big Red gum and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. My favorites. I can’t even thank him though, because he’s being just as weird as I am. I guess we’re both embarrassed.
I’m grateful when he climbs on the bike and those helmets are back in place, keeping us apart. But at the first light, he flips up his visor and turns so that I can see the scar on his chin in the waning sunlight.
“Are you in a hurry to get home?” he asks, voice rough.
“No.”
“Can we just ride a bit?”
I bury my head between his shoulder blades and tighten my grip. It’s all the answer he needs. He takes us west from the city, deep into the Croatan forest. Spindly pines line the road as far as I can see, and the sun dips fast below the trees, leaving the air cool. My arms prickle with goose bumps, and my lower back is aching, but I don’t let myself care. I press my palm against Deacon’s ribs and feel his heartbeat instead, strong and steady.
It’s almost dark when he takes us back into Beaufort. He doesn’t turn on my street, thank God. Just drives us down to the farthest edge of the waterfront, where there are new stretching boards for joggers and a freestanding climbing wall.
The engine stops, but my ears are still buzzy with the noise. When I lumber off the bike, my legs feel weak and spongey. I’m still shaking out my hair when Deacon crosses the grassy yard, headed straight for the climbing wall.
“You don’t have a harness,” I say, trudging more slowly behind him.
It’s obvious he’s not going to stop. He’s burning adrenaline. Burning all the darkness from that encounter in the hospital. He reaches the top in less than a minute, and I heave a breath, glad it’s halfway over. Now it’s just the descent.
Except it isn’t. Deacon tilts his head. I’ve seen that look before. It’s like the whole world is a dare and he’ll be damned if he’s backing down.
“Deke, don’t.” It’s barely a whisper, lost instantly on the soft breeze.
He pulls himself higher, until he’s clinging like a monkey to four pegs at the very top of the wall. I know what he’s planning before he starts to rise. My vision swims as he slowly straightens, one foot on one top-row peg, one foot on another.
He starts to stand up, and the wind gusts. My stomach churns so much it might as well be me on top of that wall. I stand at the bottom for what feels like hours. Days maybe. Finally, he starts clambering back down. He’s breathing hard when he hits the ground but looking more relaxed than he has since the hospital.
We fall into step without discussion, heading down the boardwalk toward the center of town.
“I’m sorry about Chelsea,” he says finally.
“Forget that for now. Tell me about your dad.”
“He’s weak. Confused. He hasn’t been able to talk because of the ventilator, and he doesn’t remember much.” He jerks his gaze away, takes a shuddery breath. “We tried to see what he knew. Tried to fill him in on bits and pieces. He just…asked me why I hit him and left. Over and over, he asked me.”
“Does he remember anyone else being there?”
“Nope. Just me hitting him.” He shakes his head. “Maybe it’ll come back, but Chels didn’t take well to the punching news.”
“Of course she didn’t,” I say. “Do you blame her?”
“No, I really don’t. I feel like shit about it. I never should have—” He stops himself, looking disgusted with himself. I sigh, because the feeling’s a bit mutual.
“Yeah, you definitely never should have,” I say. “You know how protective she is.”
“Daddy’s little girl,” Deacon says. “She always has been.”
He’s right. And it got twice as bad after their mom died. Knowing her own brother hurt their dad? I’m sure it made Chelsea crazy.
But that doesn’t change the bruised feeling in my chest when I think about the things she said to me. I didn’t hit anyone. And I sure as hell didn’t deserve that.
“Hell, I did hit him,” he says. “Maybe I earned this.”
“Earned the possibility of a few years in jail?” I shake my head. “I don’t know, Deke. It’s screwed up and wrong, but I can’t imagine your dad would really want you to go to jail over one punch. I don’t think Chelsea would want that either. You’re her brother.”
“I’m also the guy they found standing over Dad. The same guy who’s been fighting with him for days.” His expression goes hard. “Chelsea made sure to point that out.”
A sailboat slides by on smooth water. We’re near the dockside office for Westfield Charters now. Deacon unlocks the door and slips inside. He returns carrying a zip-up sweatshirt for me, something folded—a map maybe?—and a backpack slung over one shoulder.
I slip on the sweatshirt, smelling
a mix of unpleasant things with a hint of Deacon.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
“What, they don’t make a Cosmo quiz for this situation?” His humor is a thin cover for the sadness in his gaze. “You shouldn’t even be dealing with this mess. You should be home or out doing something that isn’t…this.”
“This isn’t some noble sacrifice for a stranger,” I say. “You’re my friend.”
He tilts his head. “Still.”
“Still nothing. Like you’d walk away if it was me.”
A couple strolls down one of the piers closer to town. The woman’s high heels are dangling from one hand.
Deacon locks up the office again and stuffs the folded paper into his back pocket. Something about that makes my shoulders heavy. Pieces fall together, snapping me out of my fog. The snacks. The backpack.
“Are you going somewhere, Deacon?”
He smirks at me. “Why? You worried I have a hot date waiting?”
Chelsea’s words come back to me, and I feel myself go red, my fists clenched. Deke scuffs the ground with his shoe.
“That was shitty. I shouldn’t have said that after—” He stops with a sigh. “Hell, I’m not good at this. I don’t know what to say. But you being here? It helps.”
I don’t say anything. I have no idea where to start. I feel like we’re cresting the hill of a roller coaster, but I’m not ready for the drop.
I turn away, pushing my hair behind my ears. “How long will your dad be in there?”
Deacon takes my hint at a subject change. “He’ll need to go to a care facility for a while.”
“Like a nursing home?”
His gaze seems to go hazy then, eyes drifting to the water. “Something like that.”
“Maybe he’ll start to put together the pieces and then this will all be a bad memory.”
Deacon doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
My insides shrivel. Go cold. I look over, wind whipping my hair into my eyes.
What if Deacon did snap? No matter what I feel, I have to acknowledge the possibility. He could have just closed his eyes and punched and punched and…
Deacon exhales, and I hold my breath.