Chapter 46
Lark
I deleted Harbor Westcott from my life a long time ago.
His number.
Our photos.
And as many memories as I could purge over the years, though the bin in the back of my mind is overflowing because I refuse to empty it.
The truth is that I didn’t want any hint of him seeping into the life I had after him.
Then why did I beg Margaret to trade shifts with me on Saturday—me taking her morning—so I could be ready at five for him?
Why did I try on the same red dress that had Harbor readjusting his pants at graduation last year?
But more importantly, why am I texting his sister to get his phone number to ask if said red dress is appropriate?
Ugh!
Marina replies: It’s the same number he’s always had.
I type: I deleted it back in Beacon.
Three dots do the wave thing and then her next message pops up: Harsh.
Me: No, not harsh. What he did to me was harsh.
Marina: Not if you knew why he did it . . .
I stare at the screen and read the message again and over again. She knows why he left me? Has she known all along?
Marina’s his little sister, his only sister.
I know they were close, so I assume they still are, but she and I were close for a time as well.
I miss her. She was like the little sis I never had.
I remember going to their house in The Pointe after graduation and her crying on my shoulder because he left. We were in this together. So I thought.
Harbor used to say she couldn’t keep a secret. Well, she’s done a fine job of keeping this one. I call her immediately.
“Hello,” she answers like she doesn’t have a care in the world while I’m over here panicking.
“Why did Harbor leave?” I pluck the dress away from my skin, not wanting to nervously sweat on it.
“I don’t think it’s my place to tell you, Lark. I’m sorry.”
Exhaling from the wind of hope being knocked out of me, I then ask, “But you knew why all along?”
“No . . . I found out when he returned.”
“Tell me something, anything, Marina, about why he left me?”
“He didn’t leave you.” She pauses, and then I hear her mom calling her name in the background. “One minute, Mom,” she yells, holding the phone away from her mouth.
She’s going in circles and not getting to the point. I’m seeing a pattern with the Westcotts.
“I’m back. You still there, Lark?”
“Yes?” I cling to her voice, holding my phone tighter and needing anything that will help me put this nightmare behind me once and for all.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything, but I’m not sure Harbor ever will.” Is it wrong that I’m silently praying she shares what she knows with me?
My mind speeds through every reaction he’ll have once he hears she told me. I’m okay dealing with the consequences because I’ve never wanted to hear something more in my life. “Please tell me.”
I hear her blow out a deep breath, and then she says, “Don’t tell him I told you, though, okay?”
“Okay . . . Hey, how did you know we’re talking again?”
“You asked for his phone number, so I figured talking was involved somewhere in that equation.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” Am I ready to finally hear the truth? Damn right, I am. “Now tell me.”
“What?”
“Marina.”
“I was kidding,” she says, laughing. “Settle down. Aren’t you supposed to be the adult between the two of us, Doctor?”
I burst out laughing. I miss her and her humor. And she’s right. I take a deep breath, shaking my restlessness out by waving my hands, and then say, “I’m good. Let’s go.”
“Harbor traded his education for yours.”
“Wh—” I must have misheard. “What did you say?”
She repeats herself, but I still can’t wrap my head around what she means. My head spins through hundreds of scenarios, but I still can’t make sense of it. How would his education have been traded for mine?
What did he do? I need to sit, but I lie down on the bed, setting the phone next to my ear. My head hurts, but my heart is aching.
“Lark, are you still there?”
I turn just enough to say, “Kind of,” in the direction of the phone.
“I know, it’s a lot.”
“It is a lot.” Pulling the phone closer, I turn on the speaker. “I don’t understand how he sacrificed himself for me. Tell me again, slower this time.”
“Harbor . . . talked my parents . . . into paying,” she says, overenunciating every word like we don’t speak the same language. “For your medical school . . . instead of his.”
I sit up, take it off speaker, and hold the phone to my ear again. “I hear what you’re saying, but that’s just not true, Marina. Your parents didn’t pay for my education. I got a full scholarship from Yale for medical school. I still have the letter.”
“I don’t know the details, Lark. I just know that’s what went down. I remember them having a big fight months before he left. I found out later that’s what caused it.”
I just can’t make sense of this, and the shuffling on the other end of the line keeps distracting me. She says, “I need to run, but it’s good to hear from you.”
“You, too. Let’s talk soon. I want to hear about everything going on in your life.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
When we hang up, I pace the floor a few rounds because I can’t stop thinking about what she said. I shouldn’t give it a second thought, but it makes no sense. Why would she be under that impression? Weaving around the bed, I kneel in front of the two-drawer filing cabinet I use as a nightstand.
Flipping through the bottom drawer, I find the Yale file and the letter tucked inside. When I read it, though, nothing jumps out as odd. It’s even on official letterhead with a seal from the financial department.
I set it down on my small desk by the window and take my dress off, not wanting to wrinkle it.
I hang it back up and slip on my Yale School of Medicine sweatshirt, sit down at the desk, and pull up the department’s webpage.
Locating the number, I call and ask to whom I speak with regarding the scholarship.
The lady on the other end transfers my call to a man who sounds ready to call it a day, telling me he’ll look into it and send me an email in response.
Why am I nervous?
I’m a doctor. It doesn’t matter now. What will they do, tell me they made a mistake and force me to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars back? I exhale, thinking it’s wise not to get worked up over imaginary scenarios. I might not have been nervous before, but I am now.
Pretending this is a normal Thursday night isn’t working, though. Even though I don’t expect to get an email back, the week’s almost over. What if I don’t get the answers? What answer am I looking for?
My thoughts are jumbled, unsure of what to think. I keep refreshing my email account every few minutes, hoping to solve this mystery. I call it a night just after ten and go to bed.
I’m good at keeping the world outside my shifts.
Being present can mean life or death. But I check my emails on my break and then at lunch.
When I’m home and finally settling in with a bowl of tomato-basil soup and a grilled cheese, I start a movie, determined not to waste another night on this email business.
Not even ten minutes later, my email pings, and I dive from my desk across the bed to where I left my laptop.
“Dammit.” Spam. “This is ridiculous. I got the scholarship and went to school. End of story. Harbor doesn’t get to steal the credit from—” I stop, remembering something he once said. “Those four years were laid out perfectly for you. It was the perfect plan, and it worked.”
It worked.
What worked?
What was the plan?
My laptop pings again. I roll my eyes and go to close it down for the night, annoyed that it owns my complete attention.
But the word Yale in the sender’s name catches my eye.
I bend down and click to open the email.
I scan it so quickly that I need to reread it just to make sure I understand.
“Blah, blah, blah . . . your scholarship was made in donation . . . by the Safe Haven Trust managed by Westcott Law Firm . . . Those are the only details we can share as part of the agreement. Blah, blah, blah . . .”
Westcott Law Firm.
Safe Haven Trust.
Safe Haven . . .
“Harbor.”