Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
I didn’t think she’d actually meet with me.
Hemlock had one Italian bistro that sat nestled between an upholstery store and a nail salon. I missed the little red, white, and green sign the first time; after a second trip around the block, I managed to snag a parking spot.
I hated having to find people in restaurants. It reminded me of Whack-A-Mole as a kid—I’d stand like a pillar in the middle of a rushing river, waiting for the right head to pop up, all while the rest of the patrons watched with curiosity as to who I was looking for.
“How many?” the hostess greeted me. She chewed her gum with unbridled aggression.
“Two. I’m looking for an Irene? She might be here already?” I held onto my bag strap. The bistro was brighter than I’d expected; the far wall was blanketed in faux dangling ivy. A neon pink sign hung in the middle that said, Italy wishes you were here.
“I don’t know any Irenes,” the girl said. She gathered two menus. Then rolled her eyes and muttered, “Follow me.”
She sat me in a corner booth, big enough for a family of eight, right next to the ivy wall. As soon as she left, I touched it. Definitely fake.
Irene bounced from another booth toward me, something tucked under her armpit. “I can’t believe she put you at a different table,” she muttered as she plopped into the seat across from me. She shot a look to where the hostess had disappeared. “Can’t find good help these days.”
I forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” she said. She gave a small headshake, forehead creased. “I’m so glad you texted me, though. I wanted to know how your issue was going.” She said the word issue in a whisper, like she didn’t want anyone to overhear.
“Oh, it’s going.” I rubbed my hands on my thighs. My answer wasn’t enough: She seemed to lean in a bit, her eyes attached to my hands, how I sat, my expression. Too observant.
So I said the only thing I could think of. And it was honest.
“Good, actually. Things have calmed down. I think it’s stopped, at least for now.”
Her eyes brightened. “That’s good! What did you do? Or did it just—”
“I think it was a culmination of things, like you’d mentioned.
Briefly. Bad things brought through the house, attached to items, and I found some of them, I think.
Got rid of them.” I forced a smile, willed the truth to my eyes.
Because when I’d thought about it, Sayer had been the one to go through the attic, and Meredith said everything had sold.
So everything likely was gone. And the teeth—out of sight, out of mind.
“That’s great, I’m so glad. I felt horrible for not getting you those things sooner. And at least you didn’t open the door, so whatever that’s for, it can just be left.”
“Exactly.” Little did she know.
An awkward bubble lifted between us. In the back, voices and clatters from the kitchen echoed around the otherwise empty dining area. Thankfully, a young man with braces and slicked back hair appeared out of thin air a moment later.
Irene ordered garlic bread. As soon as he walked away, she unfolded her menu. “To share, if you want.”
I nodded.
She nodded.
Then we both chuckled.
“I’m sorry,” I offered. I took a long sip of my water. “I just don’t know …”
“What to say?”
“Right.”
The text I’d sent hadn’t been specific—just that I wanted to talk. To ask questions, more for my own peace of mind than anything, but how did you bring up an ex without sounding too forward? My brain hummed like an air conditioning unit in the middle of summer.
“About Cadence—” she started, just as I said, “I was wondering if you knew—”
The tension cracked. Pieces rained down on the table. Another chuckle, this time a deep one from both of us.
I tried a different angle. “Can you tell me about it? About my aunt, I mean? What exactly did she tell you about the house?”
Irene’s brow crinkled, thoughtful. “Not much. Each time she talked about it less. I did the digging on my own time after I went to see what she was talking about, but …” She gave a shrug. “She didn’t lose interest, but she seemed kind of—defensive about it. I’m not sure.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment.
Irene sucked on her bottom teeth. “She did talk about you, though. All the time.”
“She did?” My stomach bottomed out. Here it was: the moment of truth. Had she been upset I hadn’t visited? I wanted to bury my face in my hands.
Instead, I braced myself, ready for the guilt to resurface.
“She always showed me pictures of the houses you’d redecorated. You do, like, interior design?”
I nodded.
A shred of sadness crept into her eyes when she looked at me. “She always said you would make it into Home Living or something one day. She tried to show me your website but couldn’t figure out how to get the newsletter pop-up screen to go away.”
A small smile pulled at my lips. “That sounds like her.”
The waiter came back with the garlic bread. We both gave plastic smiles, our orders, and thanked him before waiting for him to walk out of earshot.
“She said you grew up here?” she asked. “In Stetson, I mean?”
“I did,” I said, then launched into my abbreviated life story, similar to the one I gave Hadrian that one night, while skimming the painful parts. When I took a sip of my drink and asked, “And you?” I felt it.
Irene’s eyes were thoughtful.
Knowing.
Our waiter returned with our orders and centered a basket of fried pickles between us. I’d just gathered enough courage to beat around the bush, when she said, “You know Ivan Kenneth, right?”
I paused. Glanced up.
“Why?” Hundreds of bees came alive in the center of my throat. There was only one reason she would be bringing him into the conversation. “Did he say something about me?”
Was she still in his good graces? Surely, she wasn’t if she’d removed his pictures. But the towns were small, and it seemed like the circles were even smaller, which meant it was only a matter of time before he started sputtering on about what I’d said to him in the foyer, right?
What if he’d told people I was giving him the listing, only to back out? To flake? Use him for clout or attention or whatever—just like before?
She sighed. Her cushioned lips parted, closed, then parted again. A pink glow cast over her cheekbones, her nose, from the neon sign to my left.
“No, it’s just—you sent this to me.” She flipped her phone around.
My mouth opened in surprise.
A photograph of Ivan and I, together from years ago, had been sent from my phone to hers before the text message I’d sent asking her to meet for lunch.
But I didn’t send that picture.
Fire crawled up my spine, curled around my chest cavity, hissed along my heart. I wanted to push my plate aside and smack my head into the table in embarrassment.
“Oh,” was all I managed. I knotted my hands in my lap.
Irene locked her phone and set it back on the table. She made quick work of splitting her wrap in two halves and dipping one in sauce. She took a small bite, chewed, swallowed.
I wanted to melt into the seat. I thought of all the times my phone had turned on by itself. Maybe … Maybe it hadn’t really been me. Maybe it had been someone else.
Or something else. Maybe for the same reason the doors closed, the lights turned on. The things I’d seen as a child that I didn’t remember.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it?”
I found myself shaking my head. “I must have sent that on accident. I didn’t mean …” My words fell away.
Where was this coming from? Yes, I wanted to talk about it.
Before I could talk myself off the ledge, I jumped—right into the railcar this time. Not just a step on the platform.
This was the reason I’d texted her. And I needed to take the jump.
“Ivan Kenneth assaulted me while we were dating,” I whispered.
“Multiple times. And I never said anything.” The words felt like arrows being ripped from my skin.
From the disk in my spine, from the hinge of my jaw.
Everywhere, bleeding. “He told me things I only realized later was manipulation. And I’m having a really, really hard time forgiving myself for putting up with it for so long and I thought maybe since you two dated that—”
I shook my head.
“I wondered if maybe it happened to you, too,” I breathed.
And I realized then how terrible that sounded.
How someone might take it as me asking, or wishing, my own ill will onto them.
My skin splotched at my neck, burned, and my nails found themselves at a semi-healed scab at my wrist. I started to pick it off.
“It’s wrong to assume, and I don’t want to put you on the spot or anything, and you don’t have to—”
“You’re not alone,” Irene whispered. Her syllables cracked.
“It sounds terrible, and I’m sorry, I don’t mean that I wished—”
She stood from her seat. Then I found her scooting into my side of the booth. She didn’t touch me, only existed three inches away. Her shoulder the same height as mine, her lashes curled to her browbone, wispy and beautiful. Glittering with tears.
“You’re not, Landry,” she choked.
You’re not.
My lip started to wobble. I didn’t remember leaning in—I wasn’t so sure she realized she did, either.
Her arms wrapped around my neck, mine went around her back. Her body, so slight, somehow felt like a life raft. Like she would take me to shore eventually. I didn’t know how; I just knew she would.
A sob broke my chest.
“I promise,” she whispered. “You aren’t alone. You are never, ever alone.”