Chapter 5
Early morning sunshine dazzles off the smooth surface of the Charles as I sprint along the pavement path lining the riverbank. I’m soaked with sweat, breathing heavily, and setting a pace even Scout is struggling to keep up with. In his defense, he’s stuck wearing a fluffy fur coat while I’m dressed in shorts and a tank top. The temperature feels like we skipped over the end of spring and jumped straight to summer.
I pause at a bench to gulp down half of my water bottle, watching a pair of pigeons fight over a crust of bread that fell out of the overflowing trash can.
Scout laps greedily from the collapsible rubber bowl I keep clipped to my running bag, the annoying bang against my hip for the past couple of miles worthwhile as I watch his pink tongue inhale liquid as quickly as possible. This is farther than we usually run, and today is rapidly turning into the warmest day in about eight months.
“That’s a great invention.”
I glance at the man approaching from the opposite direction. A golden retriever is tugging him straight toward me and Scout.
He’s looking at the water bowl Scout is drinking from.
“It is,” I reply. “A real lifesaver in the summer.”
“I always try to pour some out of the bottle, but most of it just hydrates the pavement.” The guy grins. He’s cute. Tall with dark hair and lots of laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes. “Do you remember where you got it?”
I shake my head. “No, sorry. My boyfriend bought it.”
His smile dims, barely but noticeably, in response to the lie.
Prescott is not a pet person. He’s allergic to cats, and he’s never shown much interest in dogs either. He was more than a little taken aback when I adopted Scout, but he’s been a good sport about the two times Scout chewed on his shoes. That tolerance hasn’t extended to buying Scout anything, but it seemed like the easiest way to respond to this guy’s interest shifting from the bowl to me.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out the next time I’m in a pet store,” the guy says. “Enjoy the rest of your run.”
“You too,” I reply before he jogs off.
I toss the small amount of water Scout left in the bowl toward the grass and collapse it, then clip it back to my bag. A few stray droplets of water trickle down my thigh as we start running again.
Twenty minutes later, we reach the right street. A familiar car is parked halfway down.
Prescott stands when he sees me, smiling from his spot on the steps that lead up to the brownstone. “Morning.”
I manage a, “Hey,” between heavy breaths.
I’m going to be sore tomorrow. My legs feel stiff and heavy, the muscles tingling with lactic acid. The discomfort would be worthwhile if I felt any better. But all the thoughts I was trying to escape are rapidly catching up to me.
Prescott raises the bakery bag and tray of coffees he’s holding. “Thought I’d surprise you before your run. You left early.”
I nod as I fish my keys out. “Wanted to beat the heat.”
Not even nine a.m., and I’m losing track of all the lies I’ve told today. Lying to my boyfriend feels worse than fibbing to a random runner.
“You’re way too hot to do that,” he tells me.
“Lame.” I’m smiling though when he presses me against the tall mirror that takes up one wall of the entryway and kisses me. “I’m all sweaty.”
“Don’t care,” he murmurs.
I glance at the open door. “My neighbors might.”
“If they’re up this early, they deserve a show.”
I laugh as I kick off my sneakers and peel off my sweaty socks, then unclip Scout’s collar. “Surprised you’re up this early.”
“I wanted to see you,” he tells me, following me into the kitchen. “Was kinda hoping you’d still be in bed.”
“I have a breakfast meeting.”
Twin lines form between Prescott’s eyes as he watches me hobble toward one of the stools along the island. “At Gray Ellington?”
“No.” I rub my calf. “With a friend of my dad’s. He’s a partner at Pearson. We’re just grabbing coffee so he can congratulate me on graduating and offer some advice on bar prep.” I open the bag he brought and take a big bite of the muffin.
Prescott still looks concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I hide the grimace that wants to appear as I shift on the stool. Why did I buy these? They’re so uncomfortable. “Just pushed the pace a bit. Was feeling a little stressed.”
“We still have two months to study,” he tells me.
I nod before taking another bite, not bothering to correct his assumption about the bar exam being the source of my stress.
I’ve dated four guys since high school, and I’ve never so much as mentioned Ryder to a single one of them. He was always so removed from my life. But now … there’s a chance Prescott could meet him. I’m planning to bring him as my date to Keira’s wedding this fall, and she’s marrying Ryder’s best friend. Ryder will most likely show up for Tucker.
Another bite of muffin gets shoved into my mouth. I really need to stop thinking, and six miles didn’t do it. I’m not sure what else to try. Downing a couple of tequila shots during breakfast won’t reassure Prescott I’m fine, plus I have to drive in about twenty minutes.
“Well, I’ll let you get ready for your breakfast.” Prescott snags the second muffin out of the bag, then reaches for his coffee. “Got a big golf date to get ready for.”
I swallow, then cough. “You do not need to do that.”
My dad invited Prescott golfing at the country club during my graduation lunch. I thought Prescott was just being polite, accepting. Not that the outing would take place in less than a week.
I have this irrational fear my parents will ruin us. Their dreams for my life have never aligned with my own desires. Stupid as it sounds, their obvious approval of Prescott feels like a ticking clock to me. A bad omen. That’s nothing I can mention to Prescott or my parents, and it’s a problem I’ve pushed to the back of my mind. Easily, since every spare second has been spent thinking about Ryder James instead.
“I want to go,” Prescott says. “I’ll get to see where you grew up.”
“Not much to see.” My smile feels tight and forced, but I don’t think he notices.
I lived in Fernwood for eighteen years. And eleven months defined my entire perception of my hometown. Everything I loved about that place, everything that haunts me there—all tied to Ryder.
“Yeah. A golf course is a golf course, I guess. Speaking of parents, I’m thinking of visiting mine in early July. I know it’s close to the bar exam, but the firm is throwing my dad a retirement party. Anyway, think about it. They’re dying to meet you.”
I nod. “I will.”
I was supposed to meet Prescott’s parents at our graduation, but they had to miss the ceremony because of some health issues Prescott’s grandfather was having.
He gives me a quick kiss. “I’ll call you later!”
“’Kay.” I listen to the front door open and slam, methodically chewing my muffin and trying to muster some excitement about the rest of today.
Breakfast with Ian Kennedy, take my car for an oil change, get groceries. And of course, study for the bar exam. That’s basically a given until I take the test mid-July. A few weeks later, I’ll start working at Gray Ellington LLP, and … that’ll be my life.
I should feel grateful, I know. For having parents who support me financially and make the absence of a paycheck hardly noticeable. For having a position waiting at one of Boston’s top law firms. But I feel like an actor playing a part. Like I’m comprehending emotions, but not experiencing them.
My laptop is open on the kitchen counter. I close it without waking the screen, glad Prescott didn’t knock it accidentally. He would have had questions about why I’m researching lung cancer. Pretty pointlessly, considering I have no medical background or any knowledge specific to Nina’s case.
I should have asked her more questions about her health when she called. I barely stumbled through a coherent goodbye after she told me about Ryder’s early release. Reaching out for more details—ignoring her wishes to stay away—seems inconsiderate when she has so much going on.
And, selfishly, I’m terrified to. Scared of showing up at Nina’s trailer and him being there. Frightened of calling and him answering.
I’ve had time to prepare to see him again. Lots of time.
Just not enough.
Because there’s also a tiny part of me that wants to drive to Fernwood and demand answers. That wants to scream and yell and sob and rage. That wants a glimpse of the only guy I’ve ever loved.
But he’s gone, even if Ryder is back.
It’s a struggle to stand when I finish my muffin and coffee. Lying down and napping sound wonderful. Instead, I limp upstairs to shower and change into a navy shift dress. I have to search through my bedside table’s top drawer for some ibuprofen, my hand stilling when I accidentally brush the paper flower. I should have ripped or burned it a long time ago. But I’ve never been able to.
I hastily shut the drawer and then head downstairs after swallowing a white pill.
Driving downtown takes twenty minutes, but I’m running early as I walk into the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet Ian. The line is long but moves quickly. Three customers from the register, I pick up a newspaper to skim.
After paying for my latte and the paper, I head for an open table. I sip and scan, not looking for anything in particular.
And then I see his name.
Ryder’s case garnered a decent amount of news coverage seven years ago. Crime is common in the city. Not so much in Fernwood, Massachusetts. The local police force is made up of two middle-aged officers who spend most of their time settling arguments over lawn decorations or parking ordinances. His arrest fanned a lot of flames of the ongoing outrage regarding the trailer park in town, which made for some flashy headlines.
I skim the article that restates a story I have memorized. I was grateful for the amount of media attention back then. Desperate for details no one would tell me.
Now, it’s all reminders I don’t want.
“I remember that case.”
I startle, biting my tongue instead of the lower lip I was gnawing on. I quickly fold up the paper and stand. “Good morning, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Ian, Elle,” he corrects warmly as we shake hands.
Ian Kennedy is a longtime friend of my father’s. They attended Harvard Law together and have kept in touch since. He’s been a mentor to me since college, offering advice on studying for the LSATs, applying to law school, interviews, internships, and most recently, jobs. I’ve known Ian and his family my entire life. But his serious attitude, so similar to my father’s, has always made me act more formal around him.
I match his smile. “Right. Sorry. Morning, Ian.”
He takes the seat across from me and reaches for the newspaper I abandoned on the table. “I haven’t read today’s paper yet. Ryder James was the kid’s name, right?”
Hearing his name burns, like salt poured in an open wound.
“Right.” I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind one ear, hoping my tongue will stop throbbing soon. Praying that will be the end of the topic.
“I had some friends in the DA’s office back then,” Ian tells me. “They threw the book at that kid, and he landed Boyd as a public defender.” He snorts. “Would have been better off representing himself.”
I reach for my water and take a long sip, wishing I could cover my ears. Looking into Ryder’s case as a licensed attorney was a thought in the back of my head ever since I started law school. Before then, honestly. I knew he couldn’t afford to pay for representation. That he took a crappy deal.
My heartbroken seventeen-year-old self was in no position to do anything about it. Armed with a law degree, I could have. If he’d let me represent him, which I doubt he would have. The rejection might have been worth it, to see the look on his face.
“Surprised it’s getting this much attention,” I say.
One article in a major newspaper isn’t wall-to-wall news coverage. But it’s more than most cases get. And it would have been a hell of a way to find out Ryder is getting released early if Nina hadn’t called me last week.
“Drug-related deaths have increased by twenty-eight percent in the past five years,” Ian says. “It’s a hot topic in the mayor’s reelection campaign. Half the city wants to crucify him for not doing more; the rest want to criticize him for ruining the lives of kids who get in over their heads.”
I nod.
Ian takes a sip of coffee. “He lived in Fernwood. Your paths ever cross?”
“The town is pretty segregated,” I hedge.
“Mmhmm,” Ian replies. He taps the paper with one finger. “Cases like this don’t help.”
“He’s a fucking Two, Elle. What the hell were you thinking?”
I push the memories from the past away, where they belong. “No, they don’t.”
Ian relaxes back in his chair. “So, how is studying for the bar going?”
“I’ve barely started,” I admit.
“That’s all right. You just graduated. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Ian and I talk for another hour, sipping coffee and discussing various legal topics.
And the entire time, I’m fighting not to look at the paper.