Chapter 36
Will
I know it’s a bad idea when I get out of the car. The same way I knew what would happen when I told Greta who I really am. But the game is more important. The game can’t be interrupted because of whatever happens between her and me.
And that’s why I’m here, in front of the door to her house.
I’ve waited twenty long minutes. She won’t answer her messages.
She obviously doesn’t intend to keep going.
And if the situation were different, I’d stand aside and that would be it.
But I have a note in my pocket with an address, and we need to go there.
I imagine Lucy planning each step, thinking of all the details, talking to her grandfather, creating this for her sister, and I can’t leave it unfinished. I refuse to take on that guilt.
I ring the doorbell and hold my breath.
A silver-haired man with eyes that remind me of Greta’s (and of the ocean) opens the door. His stare is deep and hides secrets. He looks tired, like one of those people who used to shine and has grown duller. But there’s something else there: an iron determination.
“Can I help you?”
“My name’s Will. I’m looking for your daughter.”
He doesn’t break his stare as he shakes my hand.
“Jacob Peterson. Pleased to meet you.” He steps aside to let me through and closes the door behind me. “You can wait in the living room. I’ll go tell Greta.”
Normally I would walk through the room to absorb all the details, especially the photos hanging all around, but as things stand, I feel like an intruder, so I just stand still and wait for her to appear, which she does after a couple of minutes.
“What are you doing here?”
If looks could kill, I’d be lying dead on the Petersons’ carpet. I feel uncomfortable, short of breath, like a lab rat. I shove my hands in my pockets and say, “Can we talk? Outside, if you don’t mind?”
She nods and walks silently toward the door.
It’s a bright day. I feel grateful for that.
She keeps going until she reaches the picket fence around the house, and she stops there.
Endless ideas are whirling around in my head, in no order whatsoever, and overshadowing them is one single certainty: Greta is fascinating.
Even now, standing there frowning, with those eyes like daggers.
I don’t know what it is about her that attracts me most, and that not knowing somehow makes her even more attractive.
It could be physical; she’s so different, so unique, with that face that has a special something so different from a classical beauty, or maybe it’s her way of looking at me and talking to me, the arrow-like resoluteness within her.
“I understand why you’re…upset.”
“Upset doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.”
I love hearing her talk, how she chooses each word so carefully, how she knows exactly what each one means. But generally, I prefer it when her barbs aren’t aimed at me. I try to look indifferent, to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“How about mad?”
“Disappointed,” she says flatly.
“I told you I’m sorry, but I can’t change the past.”
“Yeah, but it’s all you didn’t say. That you knew Taylor. That you were born here. That you went to school with my sister. That you can’t be faithful. That…”
“Okay, so I left some things out.”
“You lied,” she replies.
“I didn’t know you. I didn’t want to tell you my story, and I didn’t have to. And then it got complicated, okay? You got complicated, and I was selfish. I wanted you to know the new me starting from zero without worrying about the past.”
“Were you trying to deceive me, or yourself?” she asks.
That catches me off guard. And I guess that’s why it cuts me so deep. But then I remember her kissing Taylor right where we’re standing, in front of her house. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I’m surprised you can be with a guy like that.”
Her eyes are like shards of glass. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “You understand nothing.”
I can see she’s about to turn and go, and I stand in her way.
I should leave her. I should forget what we have, for her own good and mine.
I should focus on the game. But I can’t.
I can’t because she’s here in front of me and I want to touch her hair.
I want to touch that mole on her clavicle again.
I want to feel her tongue damp in my mouth.
I want to know the secrets tucked away in her head: the serious ones, the silly ones, the irrelevant ones.
“You’re right, I don’t. So try and explain it to me,” I practically beg.
“What’s the point, Will?”
“So I can stop thinking.”
That seems to have an impact. It’s the truth, though.
I need to stop thinking all the time. Life, or my life anyway, was so much easier before.
No doubt about it. The sex and drinking kept me from feeling anything real.
But when you start to question that, everything gets confusing, new roads branch off and you realize there is no straight and simple path.
You have to deal with detours. Morally. Emotionally.
“Taylor never mattered to me, but you do. I told you before: The only people who can destroy you are the ones you let inside. Others can scratch the surface, but nothing more,” she says.
How can I get her to understand that if she’d let me in, I’d do whatever it took for her, would cherish everything about her, no matter how messed up I am?
I can’t get the words out, so I just shake my head and return to my original reason for being here: “Don’t let this interfere with the game. If it’s easier, we can go back to pretending we’re two strangers.”
“We don’t have to pretend, Will. That’s the problem. We are two strangers because nothing we’ve experienced in these months has been real.”
“Greta, look at me. You know that isn’t true.”
“I just can’t trust you anymore.”
I try to take a deep breath, but the sharp pain in my heart won’t go away. I turn around. Just to try and get ahold of myself. I walk a few feet down the street. But I can feel her presence behind me.
“Hey, where are you going?” she calls out.
“Just give me a minute.” I hate her seeing me like this, and I try to avoid it.
I guess old habits die hard. I can hear Josh’s voice in my head telling me never to let anyone see my weaknesses.
He was right, in a way: There are still pieces of the person I used to be there, lots of them, buried so deep I can’t find them and get rid of them.
So why bother letting another person know about them?
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Of course.” I force myself to function. “It’s just…the game, Greta. That’s the important thing.”
“I know. Stopping never even passed through my head. It’s all I have left of my sister. But it would be easier to do it on my own now. You can leave me the box and the letters and everything. I’ll free you from the burden.”
“Sorry, but you know I can’t do that.”
Her shoulders sag with defeat. “Fine. Then let’s just get it over with as quickly as we can.”
“Your call. Let’s go.”
What I actually want to tell her is that I know: I know she can do better than me, I know I’m light-years away from being her ideal man, but I want her—maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s impulsive, maybe I’m just a ruin and will drag her down with me.
But I want her. I’ve never felt so close to anyone else.
I want to tell her how my heart ached when I saw her in Taylor’s arms. I want to tell her how much I love her restless intelligence.
How I’ve never met anyone else who could make me smile like that.
How she’s bubbly like soda, like Pop Rocks.
How I took her to the fair for her birthday because her subtle smile reminded me of cotton candy and bright lights.
But I keep it all in.
I get in the car. She sits down next to me. I turn on the radio to fill the silence. I don’t look away from the road. Soon enough, we’re there.
“Why are you stopping here?” Greta asks.
“This is the address in the letter.”
“There’s no way.” She freezes, then looks out the window, then murmurs softly, “Oh, Lucy. You’re such a disaster.”
“Why? Where are we?”
Greta shakes her head, and I realize she won’t respond.
The house is normal, just like the ones around it. An old wooden swing is hanging from one of the trees. Vines climb up the fence, looking like serpents. It’s pleasant, tranquil, the kind of place you could imagine settling down in.
I watch Greta’s fingers settle on the metal of the door handle.
She’s not sure what to do. I wish I could accompany her, help her unravel whatever’s hidden in her head, but the gulf between us is all too real, and two things I know for certain: She won’t let me, and I can’t do it on my own because the fear that I could disappoint her again is paralyzing me.
At last, she opens the door.
“Hey, Greta. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
Once she’s out, she turns around. “There’s no need, Will. I can get back home on my own.”
I nod with resignation. Sometimes you know what you want to do, but the gulf is just too wide between knowing and being able.