Chapter 36
I leave Reeve and the rest of the party as a blur in my rearview mirror, turning my car out of the parking lot and taking city streets until I reach the highway. As I take the on-ramp, tiny raindrops begin to fall from the sky, smattering across my windshield.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I let it go to voicemail. When it happens again, I press the power button until the phone goes completely silent. The only sounds in the car are the soft pattering of rain on the roof and the rhythmic thwack thwack thwack of my wipers.
I wait for the tears to flow and the pain to wash over me. Or the denial, or the anger—whichever of those stages of grief is supposed to hit first. But all I feel is a hollowed-out numbness.
I don’t want to think about how long Reeve has lied to me or how much of the last few months was real.
I can’t yet.
His betrayal tonight has put me into shock, but that is only a surface wound. A scratch.
If I were to dwell too long on the idea that Reeve could have been lying to me from the very beginning, that he was always nudging me along, subtly, in his desired direction—that thought would split me open completely.
The tiny sprinkle that coated my car turns into a full downpour as I finally leave the city limits and hit the country highway. Then, and only then, when I’m back among the cornfields with the empty dark road ahead of me, do I let myself truly cry and allow my darkest thoughts to surface.
My foot presses against the pedal. Celine roars her engine, and I roll my windows down, letting the rain spatter my face and wash away the stream of tears rolling down my cheeks.
I hate you, Reeve Baldwin.
I hate that when I told you my worst fears, you looked me in the eyes and told me it was all going to be fine—that I could trust you.
I hate that you convinced me it was okay to be selfish, that I deserved this big life I imagined in my head, when all along I was just a way for you to close another fucking deal.
I roll my window back up and succumb to the sobs that rack through my body.
My chest heaves so hard I worry my ribs will break, and a part of me wants them to.
Then at least there would be a good reason for the aching pain that fills my chest, instead of the stupid one before me: that I believed him and fell hard even when I knew better.
Eventually, I return to numb.
The dark road and the quiet night lull me into a trance where I convince myself if I stay just like this, then maybe I’ll be fine.
Deep down I know I won’t.
And, as if the universe agrees, my car hits a pothole with an audible bang.
Celine swerves left, and my veins rush with adrenaline as instincts kick in and I counteract with a hard right turn of the steering wheel.
There’s a loud drumming in my ears, perfectly timed with the heavy thumping in my chest, as I slow the car to a more reasonable speed, suddenly aware of a bumpiness to the road that wasn’t there before.
“No, no. Please, no,” I plead as I pull the car off to the graveled shoulder, still clinging to a faint hope that the damage may be all in my head.
When I get out and confirm my tire is no longer a perky O but now a sad C, I almost laugh at how well aligned my life is in falling both literally and figuratively to shambles.
“Okay.” I breathe deeply, forming a plan. “I just need to figure out how to change a tire. It can’t be that hard.”
I turn my phone back on and a few moments with Google confirms that it is that hard, and not only that, I don’t have the tools to do it. I consider calling Zoe’s cousin Clive, who owns a garage in West Lake, but it’s almost midnight and the garage is long closed.
“Fuck” slips from my lips, followed by a few more profanities. I kick the flattened tire with my toe, which provides no relief other than a temporary reprieve from thinking about my problem as I shake my stinging foot.
“What the hell am I going to do now?” I say to the dark night sky. It doesn’t answer back, but my phone does.
My home screen lights up with an incoming call. I almost throw it into the dark cornfield, but it’s not Reeve’s name on the screen.
“Mom?”
My greeting is met with static and a series of thumping sounds, as if the phone is tumbling around the inside of a washing machine.
“Mom,” I yell a little louder. Whether she hears the desperation in my voice or what little parental instinct she has kicks in, I hear more scratching and then her voice.
“Julia. Is that you? Why are you calling me so late?”
I consider telling her it was the other way around but abandonit.
“My car broke down. I’m stranded on the side of Highway Six.” I consider my location. “I’m actually not too far from you, I think.” I can’t believe I’m even considering the next part. “Is there any way…”
I don’t have to finish my sentence.
“Send me your exact location. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
—
It’s twenty minutes until she arrives. Reeve calls twice while I’m waiting for her, but I’m too afraid to turn my phone off in case my mom gets lost. When her old Toyota pulls up behind me, I feel an unusual sense of comfort.
I get out, lock my doors, and make my way to her passenger door, which pops open just as I reach it.
“Thanks for coming,” I say as I settle into the front seat and tip the heating vents toward me. “I know it’s really late.”
“What are you going to do with the car?” my mom asks, glancing at it before signaling and pulling a U-turn on the empty highway.
“I called and left a message for Clive. He’ll come out and get it tomorrow. I’ll take a cab to work in the morning.”
My mom nods. “Or I can drive you?”
We drive for a few moments in silence. The adrenaline from the last few hours is finally exiting my body, and I’m exhausted. I tip my head against the window and consider closing my eyes, but my mom clears her throat.
“What are you doing out in the middle of the night?”
I desperately do not want to answer her question, but I know my mother, and if I say nothing, she will continue to pry until I give in.
“I was in Toronto at a party. I had to come home for work tomorrow.” I leave it there, hoping it’s enough.
“Was it with this new boyfriend?” Her voice teases with the word boyfriend, and it sends a physical pain through my chest.
“He’s not…We’re not…”
I am saved by the sound of crunching gravel under the wheels. We pull up in front of a small detached house with weathered white siding and an overgrown yard.
My mother catches me eyeing the sloping front porch. “I know it’s not much, but it’s temporary.”
“No, it’s great.” I try my best to sound enthused—sunny—then grab my overnight bag and get out of her car.
As soon as we’re inside, my mom immediately starts tidying: loading the sink with dirty dishes, gathering strewn-about clothes and yesterday’s socks and tossing them in the closet.
It gives me time to take in the generic Berber carpeting and white walls without her watching me.
Although I’ve never been to this particular place, the worn IKEA sofa and the wall of cityscapes in mismatched frames give me a strange nostalgia for the various rentals we lived in when I was growing up.
“There’s a guest bedroom.” My mom points at one of the three closed doors. “It’s just a twin bed, but it’s comfortable.”
“That’s perfect,” I reassure her, grateful to have a place to sleep. “And thank you again.”
I stand there for a moment letting the awkwardness hang between us before picking up my bag with a “I guess I’ll head to bed then.”
The room is exactly what I expect. A single bed in an old wrought iron frame spray-painted white. An old wooden desk with nothing on it. A single framed poster of Audrey Hepburn on the wall.
I yawn at the sight of the white bedspread with its polyester frills, hoping the universe will grant me a solid and sleep will come quickly tonight, but no sooner do I toss my bag on the floor than my mom appears in the doorway.
“So are things serious…with your boyfriend?” she says, stepping into my room.
I close my eyes to prevent any tears from forming. “It’s done.”
I hear her sigh and then sigh again.
“Not tonight, Mom, please,” I beg, noticing how raw my voice sounds.
I feel the bed indent as she sits down next to me. “Relationships aren’t all sunshine and roses. He sounded like he had so much promise. Did you at least give it a chance?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s just that you have this tendency to do this, Julia. You could have so many opportunities if you branched out a little, hung out with someone other than Zoe Buchanan, and let yourself think about a life bigger than West Lake.”
I hate this argument. I hate that we are still having it after twenty-four years.
“I always tried to encourage you to expand your horizons, but you are so set in your ways.”
Like a switch has been flipped, the sorrow simmering in my stomach boils into a full-blown rage.
“You want to hear a funny story, Mom?” I pause for effect but not long enough for her to answer. “I tried to leave West Lake. Branch out like you said, and you screwed that up for me.”
I allow her to rebut now, but she only rolls her eyes dramatically, removing her hand from my leg with a “Come on, Julia.”
“It’s true.” I shake my head, needing to tell her what I should have told her two years ago.
“I had a plan to go to medical school in Toronto. I was finally ready to start this exciting life you always wanted, but when I tried to inquire about financing from the bank, I was informed that my mother ruined my credit and there was no way in hell they were ever going to give me any more money.”
My mother goes still.
“Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”
“Julia…” She reaches her arms out, but I stand.
“I need to go to bed. It’s been a really shitty night, and I am exhausted.”
“Julia, I—”
I don’t let her finish the sentence. I grab my bag, head for the bathroom, and slam the door behind me.
—
When I come back in, she is gone.
I open my bag and stare at the cute pajamas meant for a night in Reeve’s bed, and I can’t bear to put them on.
Instead, I pull out my scrubs for tomorrow’s shift to get them ready for the morning.
When I throw them over the back of the chair, something falls from between the folds and lands on the floor with a hard smack.
Kitty’s diary lies open. Her loopy blue writing looks so innocent and adolescent.
While I once may have thought of the diary as a welcome distraction—maybe even a friend—tonight, it brings no comfort at all. Quite the opposite.
I lift my face to the popcorn ceiling above me, as if Kitty herself can hear me from the heavens.
“This is all your fault,” I tell her. “I was fine. My life was fine, and then you came along and…”
Changed things?
Changed me?
I grab the diary and slam it shut, shoving it back into my bag and zipping it up tight. “I’m done with this, and I’m done with you,” I say to Kitty, wherever she is.
I keep to my word, and it’s not Kitty I’m thinking of as I climb into bed, close my eyes, and try to slip into sleep.
It’s Reeve. My sweet summer boy.
My tears return, soaking my pillow, and I try to stifle my crying, fearing the thinness of the walls.
I knew it was all too good to be true.
I hate that I’m right.