Chapter Twelve
Taylor
It’s been twenty-four hours since I left the island, and I still feel like a stranger in my own body, carrying guilt and sadness like a raw, wounded, and unbearably painful second skin.
I didn’t even call Becca or my dad when I got home last night.
I knew they’d be able to tell something was off, and I couldn’t deal with that.
But I’m even more exhausted today. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw the confusion and devastation on Seth’s face when he offered to come with me and I brushed him off like every word wasn’t driving a knife deeper into both of us.
It makes me sick that I did that. So sick that this morning I texted my father and Becca and pretended I was still out of town.
I promised myself I’d surprise my father with dinner tonight to make up for it.
The universe is paying me back with a vengeance.
Unpacking was hell, each outfit I wore on the island a painful reminder of the way Seth looked at me in it and the way I felt as he stripped it off.
I’ve been trying not to think about him, but that has every wonderful second of our time together playing on a destructive loop that always ends with me running away like a coward.
My hatred of my cowardice is second only to how much I hate myself for lying.
I tried to scrub that hatred out of my system by cleaning every inch of my townhouse until it was too damn clean and too freaking quiet, and I still hate myself for what I’ve done.
Even though I deserve every second of this torturous day, I went to the animal shelter, hoping the dogs would cheer me up enough to make it through dinner with my dad.
But I think the dogs felt my anguish. I texted my father from the shelter to tell him I was home from the trip and was going to pick up dinner and come over.
I asked what he was hungry for, but he never texted back.
He may not be verbose, but he usually answers my texts.
Worried he might have gotten himself into trouble during my stolen hours of wanting to be invisible, I drive straight to his house.
His car is in the driveway, which amps up my worry, but as I head up the walkway, annoyance that he might have simply ignored my text claws its way in.
“Dad?” I call out as I head inside.
Answered in silence, I check the kitchen.
Half-empty take-out containers litter the counter, dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, and a half-eaten doughnut sits on a napkin beside a mug of cold coffee on the table.
That ache in my chest is joined by a knot in my stomach.
My father may be scattered and reckless, but he’s not a slob.
He can’t stand dishes in the sink or food lying around.
He says it’s wasteful, but I think it reminds him of my mother.
She could never be bothered to put things back in their proper places or clean up right after meals.
She used to say there were more important things to be worried about than the messes a family made.
A terrifying thought slams into me. Is she here?
My heart races. My mother has skated into town unannounced before, kicking up a flurry of dusty memories, then taking off without a moment’s notice.
I tell myself that’s a ridiculous thought.
She hasn’t come around in years, which is probably because I pushed her away every chance I got, and Becca was cordial but not exactly kind.
But that does nothing to stop my rising panic.
“Dad?” I call out, weaving through the empty rooms. I check the basement, then head into the garage. It’s empty. I rush outside and sprint to the backyard, searching for ladders, scanning the roof and the trees, because God knows what he might be up to.
I try his phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail. My panic mounting, I call Becca as I head up the side yard. She answers on the second ring. “Becca?”
“Welcome home, Tay. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find Dad. His car is here, but he’s not, and the kitchen is a disaster.”
There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Taylor, breathe. He’s fine. Steve came into town last night, remember?”
“No, I don’t remember. Nobody told me Steve was coming into town!” Steve is my father’s oldest friend and a first-class slob. I head up the porch steps and lock my father’s front door.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. That’s on me.”
“Becca.” I climb into my car feeling like I’ve run around the block five times.
“Excuse me, but you made it clear that you were busy getting your groove on. I wasn’t about to ruin that rare moment.”
I close my eyes, telling myself to calm the hell down as my car’s Bluetooth takes over the call. “Sorry. You’re right.” I back out of the driveway to head home. “It’s been a rough day. For a minute I thought Mom was back.”
“I would have warned you if that were the case, but it’s not. Dad and Steve took off this morning to visit some friend of theirs who got an old band together for a retro event or something.”
I clutch the steering wheel tighter. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Philly, I think, but don’t worry. He texted me a picture earlier. They were smiling and arguing about directions, so business as usual.”
“That’s what worries me. When is he coming back?”
“In a few days. He’s fine, Tay. Now stop worrying and tell me about this amazing trip,” she says, her voice bright. “I want to hear all about the island man you hooked up with.”
I take a deep breath and face the music. “It was Seth.”
“What?” she shouts excitedly. “You manifested the hell out of that, didn’t you? Way to go, sis!”
“Becca, don’t,” I warn.
“Okay, sorry,” she says seriously. “Wait, your plane wasn’t supposed to get in until five. How’d you get home from the airport so fast?”
“I came home yesterday.”
“Oh, shit. Where are you going now?”
“Home.”
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to. I’m fine.”
“I’m coming anyway.” The line goes dead.
I drive the rest of the way trying to figure out how to explain what happened without falling apart.
When I get home, there’s a package on my front porch.
The ache in my chest deepens as I scan the label.
It’s the care package Seth sent, forwarded same-day delivery from the mailing service, driving the knife of guilt deeper.
In my heartache and rush to get home yesterday, I forgot to send him a thank-you note from Taylor.
I head inside, walking through my living room and past my office, feeling lost in my own life. How do people who lie on a regular basis live with themselves?
In the kitchen, I open the box and find a small envelope on top of a nest of gifts.
There’s a large insulated bag with two containers of handcrafted chicken soup, which I put in the fridge, a beautiful tin of herbal teas, and a sleek black box stamped with The Macallan.
Inside the black box is a bottle of eighteen-year-old whiskey, the amber liquid gleaming in the fading light. It’s top-shelf, like the man himself.
My fingers shake as I slide the card out of the envelope.
T, Sorry you’re not feeling well, but rest assured, I’m keeping your sister entertained. Get well soon, slacker. We’ve got work to do. S
I close my eyes against the tears I’ve been holding in all day.
The words shouldn’t hurt, but they speak volumes about a relationship built on trust for a man Seth thinks he knows well enough to coin a term like my man T.
The thing is, he does, because somewhere between the lie and the truth, Ellie became the part of me that feels most real.
The front door opens, and Becca breezes in like the whirlwind she is, juggling a pizza box and a bottle of wine.
A vision of old Hollywood with platinum curls, cherry-red lips, and a bright-red swing coat to match, she announces, “I’m here, and I come bearing emotional support in the form of carbs and alcohol. ”
She spots me sitting on the couch wearing my biggest, comfiest, most threadbare sweatshirt, which I confiscated from my father and wore for weeks after Cody left me at the altar, my legs tucked beside me.
She eyes the whiskey bottle on the coffee table and the half-empty glass in my hand, and her brows knit.
“Oh, Tay.” She puts the pizza and wine on the coffee table.
“This is worse than I thought if you brought out the sweatshirt and bought whiskey.”
“I didn’t buy it. Seth sent it.”
She strips off her coat and tosses it on the armchair, looking too bright and cheery in a Marilyn Monroe–style white halter dress and heels that shouldn’t be physically possible to walk in. “Hold on,” she says, striding into the kitchen like a speed walker.
She returns in a whirl of white fabric, sets two plates on the coffee table, and pours herself a glass of whiskey. She toes off her heels and plops down beside me with a loud sigh.
“Okay. Tell me everything. If he hurt you”—her voice drops, threatening—“I swear I will hunt him down and make sure he never has a chance to hurt anyone again.”
I smile, but I also want to cry. “He didn’t hurt me. He was wonderful. Everything I always thought he would be and so much more,” I say quietly. “But I ruined it.”
“How can two nights ruin anything? Why did you come home early?”
Lowering my gaze to my glass, to avoid any judgment in her eyes, I say, “Because I lied to him.”
Becca freezes with the glass halfway to her mouth. “Define lied.”
“He thinks I’m Taylor Mitchell’s sister.”
“Why?” she exclaims.