26. Darcy
DARCY
As soon as the golfers dragged Flick off of Vince, she knew she could go because Flick was safe.
She plowed through the clubhouse doors so fast she didn’t see her brother standing at the window. “Adam!” She halted, swiping at her tears. The last thing she needed was for him to get upset, too. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” He started to say something, but she pushed past him. “Not now, Adam. I’m in a rush.”
“Darcy!” he called after her, his voice strained with worry. “Darcy, wait.”
But she could not wait. She ran into the women’s locker room. Thank God, no one else was in there. In the shower stall Darcy pulled the curtain closed behind her, and sank onto the cold tiles.
Her body heaved with each memory; every instance Vince had made her feel helpless and dirty rolled over her like a tidal wave. In the beginning, it was a word or a look, things offered with a flippancy that left her wondering if she had been the one to misread the situation—if she had said or done something wrong. Today any doubt had been silenced. Now it wasn’t just about her; now Flick had been dragged into it, too. She’d tried to stop him—she’d screamed his name, but he wouldn’t listen. The moment she picked herself up off the ground and saw the look on his face she realized Flick knew. There was no more pretending.
All year she’d listened to the voice that urged her to keep it quiet—keep it secret—don’t tell. But it was too late for that now. Now, there were other eyes. As soon as the golfers had raced over in their cart, it was out of her hands. It was out, in the full sun, for all to see. So she’d run. Like the very coward who’d kept her mouth shut all this time, she did the only thing she knew, and she ran to hide.
When she couldn’t shed another tear, she stood at the sink until the water ran ice cold. She splashed her face, smoothed her hair, and took a deep breath. There was no telling what was happening on the other side of the locker room doors, but she couldn’t hide anymore. All that mattered was finding Flick.
Outside, the hallway was quiet—too quiet. She stole a peek out the nearest window, and saw campers coming up the hill. The golfers were gone, as was their cart. So, too, were Flick and Vince. The sun was still shining.
Softly, Darcy tiptoed down the hall toward her father’s office. Before she reached the door a sound came from the base of the stairwell, and Jane stood up. She’d been sitting guard, Darcy realized. “Your dad’s a bit tied up right now, honey.” Jane made a face. “You can’t go in there, I’m afraid.”
Darcy studied Jane’s face for clues. “Tied up?”
“It seems there was some kind of altercation. He’s talking to the person involved.”
“Person?” Until today there were two people involved, now there were three. Darcy forced herself to ask. “What happened?”
“It seems one of the kitchen staff had a disagreement with poor Vince. He got pushed around a bit, but he’ll be fine. Your dad sent him home to recover.”
Her father had sent Vince home. Which meant Flick was the person. Not her. Not the grown man who’d made her feel strange and sick and ugly in her own skin. Darcy felt like she might throw up. “I need to see my dad.”
“You’ll have to wait, honey,” Jane said, steering her gently away, down the hall, to the doors. With each step, Darcy felt her bravery falter. Each step closer to the exit door was like a step toward safety. Sweet, gentle Jane was unknowingly ushering her away from doing what she needed to do, and yet Darcy did not turn around. She didn’t even try. In her ear, Jane’s words sounded like they were coming from underwater. “I’m sure everything will be okay, don’t you worry.”
The campers were leaving, and Darcy would, too. “Where are you going?” Lily called after her. “I’ve been looking for you!”
Darcy could barely get the words out. “I don’t feel well,” she said, brushing by her best friend. She forgot all about Adam. All she could do was picture her bed, which she would crawl into, and the thick curtains, which she would pull closed.
Later, she heard her mother’s voice coming up the stairs. “Darcy?” Then a knock at her door.
“I’m sick,” Darcy managed.
Her door opened. “You left Adam at work. I had to drive up and get him.” When Darcy offered nothing in return, her mother sighed. “Do you want some tea? Ibuprofen?”
Darcy pulled the pillow over her head. “What I want is to be left alone.”
Not long after Adam knocked. “Go away,” she hollered. But he would not. She could hear him pacing out in the hallway. What was he so worked up about? Well, she had her own problems. Finally, he gave up and left.
In the darkness beneath her covers, Darcy replayed the afternoon again and again.
Hours later, there were more knocks at her door. It was Adam, again. “Please come out, Darcy. I need to tell you something. It’s important.”
“Just go!” Darcy screamed. She didn’t even have the energy to feel bad when he finally did.
She stayed in bed until she heard the front door slam. Finally. It was the cue she’d been waiting for, and she got up and slipped down the hall. Her father stood in the foyer, unlacing his sneakers. Even from the top of the stairs she could see how wrecked he was. Had Flick told him the truth? Had Vince been called back in?
Her father veered into the kitchen where she heard her parents talking, the rise and fall of urgency, the timbre of their voices grave. When she couldn’t stand it a second longer, she tiptoed downstairs. From the doorway she heard her father say, “I fired him. I had no choice.”
“Vince?”
They looked up and saw her in the door. “No, honey. Flick.” Her father blinked in confusion. “Why would I fire Vince?”
Darcy stepped into the kitchen. “I quit.” She hadn’t planned to say this, she hadn’t even thought it. But there it was. “I will never go back to that place. Ever.”
Despite his exhaustion, this roused her father. “Darcy, it’s been a rough day, what’re you talking about?”
She looked between them; her father looking wrung out, her mother like she was trying to decode the message. “Is this about Flick?” her mother asked.
Darcy coughed out a laugh; it was a strange, strangled sound. They still didn’t know. Her parents harbored no suspicions, no gut instincts. There would be no spotlight on her, no interrogation or examination of the ugliness that had coursed beneath the surface of her skin for so long now. Their intense conversation did not concern her, and they were blind to her brokenness, standing right there in front of them, in their very own kitchen.
She swallowed her anger. “I said I quit.” Before they could say anything else, she ran back up to her room and slammed the door.
No one called her for dinner. No one tried to coax her out. Everyone retreated to their corner, wrapped in their own disappointments.
Later that evening, she heard her parents come upstairs. There was the sound of more footsteps. Adam said something. His voice was shrill with frustration, but all Darcy heard was, “Not now, Adam.” Her parents’ bedroom door banged closed and then so did his.
When the sky grew dark a note was shoved under her door. It was from Adam: Talk to me Darcy.
Poor Adam didn’t understand what was going on.
But she was too raw to pretend everything was normal and listen to him go on about his Xbox game or his car videos or whatever he was doing. She was afraid if she opened her mouth ugly truths would come out. It was better to pretend to be sick. Tomorrow, Adam would have forgotten all about it. Tomorrow she’d sit down and watch YouTube car videos with him.
Midnight was too far off, so she didn’t wait for it. Neither had Flick. He was already sitting in the grass at the base of the RV steps, head in his hands. He got to her before she got to him.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, falling against him.
“Don’t say that,” Flick said, burying his face in her hair. “Don’t you ever apologize for any of it.”
And yet there was so much to be sorry about.
When they separated, she ran her hand down his cheek. “Are you hurt?”
He put a finger to his nose. “Nah. Just got a bloody nose.”
“And him?”
Flick’s jaw flexed. “I wanted to kill him. But he’s fine.”
But Flick was not. “You got fired.” All because he’d defended her. And kept her secret, too. “What did your parents say? They must be so upset.”
“They’re not happy. But I’ll tell them the truth at some point.”
Flick couldn’t even tell his own parents the whole story, because it was hers to tell. “My parents have zero clue,” she told him. “They look right at me and can’t even see what’s wrong.”
Flick sat back down in the grass, and she lowered herself next to him. He took her hand. “Are you going to tell them?”
It was the last thing she wanted to do, but now Flick was involved. “I can’t let you take the blame.”
“That’s not the reason. You should tell them because they’re your parents. Darcy, they would want to know. If they know, they can help.”
Help. It meant blowing a whistle. Sending up a flare. Showing her distress to the world. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She didn’t want help. There was too much shame, too much uncertainty about her role in all of it.
Flick lay back in the damp grass and she let herself, too. It was like a cool compress to the hot ache within her. “I feel like you started to tell me all summer,” he said, his voice rich with regret. Darcy rolled over and lay her head on Flick’s chest. She pressed her ear to his heartbeat, its steady rhythm the only thing certain.
“You know, I wasn’t sure it was really happening, until today. There were always little things, things that made me doubt myself—maybe I had misunderstood him, maybe I had sent the wrong signal. There were times I actually wondered if I was crazy.” She thought back—to Vince’s hand brushing her backside when he instructed her to adjust her setup. To the way he sometimes winked at her, which could’ve been nothing more than a high five between coach and athlete. But then the comments started, comments that made her want to crawl out of her own skin at a time she was already uncomfortable and unsure of herself. Like the day she showed up at her last tournament in a new golf top that her mom had surprised her with for good luck. Vince had stared at the shirt a moment too long: “Wow, you’re really blossoming. Going to make a lot of boys squirm.” After shoving her trophy to the back of her closet, she’d peeled the top off and bypassed the laundry bin for the trash. “I started to hate the game I loved. I started to hate myself.”
Flick squeezed her, his arms warm and strong and safe. When the tears came, there was no shame in front of him.
Before dawn, she snuck back in the house and slid between her bedsheets. For the first time that summer Darcy finally felt like she could sleep. She was on the verge of a dream when she thought she heard the rumble of a car engine, outside. Then there was a screech, like tires. But her eyelids were so heavy. In the morning she assumed she’d dreamed it.