The Summer We Buried, page 5
“The old Tansy would have given me a second chance—though I can’t for the life of me understand why I should be the one begging here.” Her eyes glint in the twilight, catlike. “What I did was the ultimate proof of loyalty. I think you know that, deep down.”
I say nothing. This is old territory, a path we’ve walked down so many times, it’s well worn beneath our feet. Back when I ended our friendship, she wrote me countless letters stating this same basic tenet in a thousand different ways. When I didn’t answer those letters, she showed up at my apartment in Santa Cruz and screamed about her loyalty until I threatened to call the cops. I know from experience there’s no way to talk her out of this conviction. That’s why I gave up and went silent, choosing to move in with Marius so she wouldn’t know where to find me.
She stares at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Everything I did was out of love.”
I steel myself against her attempt to draw me in, remembering my goal here: keep the drama minimal, find out what she wants, get her out.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want.” My voice sounds flat, hollow.
Her eyes glimmer, but she blinks the tears away. In the evening light, the shadows beneath her cheeks are more pronounced, making her look almost gaunt. She shakes her head, sending her hair shimmying around her shoulders. “You know what I want. I made that very clear.”
“I can’t interfere with your daughter’s life.” I make my voice as firm and defiant as I can. “That’s not on the table.”
“My baby is being held hostage by a control freak with a violent temper.” Her eyes plead with me to understand. “I can’t even check in on her or I’ll be arrested.”
I feel a pang of sympathy, in spite of my resolve. “That must be terrible—I get that—”
“You know what these guys are like—they all have the same MO. He’s cut her off from everyone so he can do whatever he wants with her.” Her frustration makes her words come out in a tumble, like she can’t get them out fast enough. “The very least you can do is meet with her and let me know how she’s doing.”
“Selene, that’s not how it works.” I try to keep my tone firm and rational. “College counselors don’t report back to parents. It violates student privacy laws.”
Her neck muscles tense. “This is nonnegotiable. You’re doing it.”
“Or what?” I can’t keep the goading note from my voice. She thinks I’m still eighteen years old, in awe of her. Well, I’m not. She doesn’t hold all the cards anymore, and I’m not the insecure little girl I was when she learned to push me around.
She leans back, suddenly calm. Her throat relaxes, the taut wires smoothing to a gentle curve. “I’m this close to bringing us both down, Tansy.”
We stare at one another, her eyes shining with a dare.
I put my wine on the table. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll go to the cops, if I have to.” She tightens her grip on her glass, knuckles going white. “I’ll tell them everything.”
My pulse skyrockets again. I shake my head, like I can negate what she just said. “You wouldn’t do that. You would lose everything, more than—”
“I have nothing to lose.” She spits the words out with such venom, I flinch. With an impatient toss, she throws back the rest of her wine. “And a woman with nothing to lose is the most dangerous thing in the world.”
Selene always did have a knack for exit lines. She rises, crosses the deck, pulls open the back door, and strides through my house, letting herself out the front. The heels of her sandals strike my hardwood floors in hard, staccato beats.
I sigh and run my hands through my hair, wondering how I’ll ever go to sleep tonight. My body hums with fear, my system drenched in adrenaline. Selene just raised the stakes, and she knows it. Does she really have nothing to lose? Is she reckless enough to risk everything?
More importantly, do I call her bluff? Or do I fold to her demands?
I think about the restraining order Selene reluctantly explained that day in my office. I’m willing to guarantee Jupiter and Colton have a very different story about what happened there. Selene made it sound like Colton was the puppet master keeping Jupiter from her mother, but given my experience with Selene, I have to wonder. There were times during our traumatic “breakup” when I would have loved to get a court order keeping her away from me. Selene has serious issues with boundaries, and Jupiter is probably grateful to have some distance from her drama.
Though I have no way of knowing what prompted Jupiter to bar Selene from her life, it’s obvious Selene is mortified by her banishment. I’m sure it messes with her ego. Maybe I can use Selene’s fear of losing face to my advantage. If she sees herself as the victor in our struggle, it might be enough to defuse the conflict. There’s no real harm in meeting with Jupiter, assuming I can arrange it. Whatever we discuss in our counseling session will be confidential, after all. I won’t interfere in her relationship; I’ll just talk to her. Sound her out. See what’s going on. Any kid who grew up with Selene for a mother could probably use a little counseling.
Selene won’t get what she’s asking for, but it will look like she’s won, which could be enough to get her off the destructive path she’s on. I recognize that glimmer in her eye. It’s the look she gets right before she burns everything to the ground. I don’t want to be the one in flames when she douses my world with gasoline and lights the match.
I go inside and start for the stairs, but something about my fridge catches my eye. With my heart in my throat, I creep closer, trying to read the words spelled out with my alphabet magnets. The lurid primary colors and the slightly crooked letters give it the creepy vibe of a ransom note.
HARVEST MOON BALL
SUMMER 03
U-O-ME
CHAPTER
4
JUPITER RATHBONE SITS across from me, her expression placid. The sunlight from my third-story office windows catches in her hair, bringing out the gold. It’s parted down the middle, hanging straight and smooth in two curtains that frame her face. She watches me with that blank-faced innocence only the very young can manage, a trusting serenity in her wide-set, crystal blue eyes.
I can’t help seeing something of myself in her. Not my current self, but the girl I was when I first met Selene at eighteen. Back then, I’m sure I had this same beguiling air of naïve trust. She sits in my visitor’s chair with perfect posture, her narrow shoulders erect in her pale yellow tunic. A gold necklace, gossamer thin, drapes over her pronounced collarbones and disappears into her V-necked bodice. Her hands rest in her lap, one wrist adorned with an equally delicate bracelet.
“I usually meet with Mr. Hernandez,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly deep for such a little slip of a thing. “Your office is nicer than his.”
I chuckle. “Is it?”
She nods, looking around at the small room, taking in the shelves lined with books, the bright yellow filing cabinets, the plants in ceramic pots, the framed prints of botanical illustrations: a passionflower on one wall, a dandelion on another. I can’t help the little flicker of pride I feel at her compliment. It took me the better part of a week to move into my office. I wanted to create an inviting haven for students, a place that would feel like a slice of home. Most of my colleagues treat their offices like sterile receptacles for files and paperwork, sometimes tacking up a cheesy inspirational poster as an afterthought. I detest those things, photos of mountain climbers with vague, condescending commands like Dare to dream!
“I like your hair,” Jupiter says, studying my curls.
Again, that little flutter of pride in my chest. This is a girl who deals in compliments, I note. She’s got an instinct for delivering what a person wants to hear.
“Thanks. I like yours, too. I guess everyone always wants what they can’t have, when it comes to hair, huh?”
She gives me an earnest look. “You could totally straighten yours, if you wanted.”
“True.” I smile. “I’m just lazy, I guess.”
“Not that you should.” She backpedals, apparently afraid she’s offended me. “It looks amazing. I could never get those kinds of curls in a million years.”
I decide we’ve exhausted the topic of hair and move on. “I appreciate you coming in to meet with me on such short notice.”
She regards me with solemn interest. “I was a little surprised when you guys called. Is it time to sign up for spring classes already?”
Her face shows no sign of wariness or resentment. If anything, she looks a little nervous, like she’s worried she might be in trouble. I’m relieved she doesn’t see me as the enemy. If her uncle knows about Selene’s plans to involve me, it’s possible Jupiter might know too. After a minute in her presence, though, I can tell this worry is unfounded. I had visions of a pissed-off teenager trudging into my office, rebellious and truculent, angry that her mother had interfered with her life yet again. Of course, I have no proof that Selene makes a habit of this sort of thing, but knowing what I know about her, it seems unlikely this is a first.
“No, we won’t start registration for another month.” I hesitate, trying to find the right tone for what I’m about to say. I’ve rehearsed it in my head over and over all morning, but hitting just the right note—friendly and interested, but not cloying—is harder than I imagined. “Once in a while, we like to reach out to students and check in, see how things are going. Academically, or—you know, in general.”
“Oh.” She nods, but I can see confusion clouding her clear, wide-set eyes. “Okay. Is something wrong with Mr. Hernandez?”
“No, no, he’s fine.” To my annoyance, I can feel my neck going hot with a creeping blush.
She touches my desk with one hand. “Not that I mind switching counselors. Not at all. To be honest, I like you better.”
I’m getting flustered, but I fend it off with a deep breath. “Not everyone ends up with the right counselor on the first try. We like to mix things up sometimes, see if we can find the best fit.”
This is a patent lie, something I promised myself I wouldn’t do in this meeting. It pops out because her calm, steady gaze unnerves me. There’s something so familiar about her face, and I don’t think it’s a resemblance to Selene. She doesn’t actually look like Selene at all. Does she take after her uncle? I search for similarities, but I don’t see any. No, she must resemble her father, whoever he is. So why do I have this niggling feeling that I’ve stared into those eyes before?
Trying to get back on familiar ground, I launch into a series of questions about her major, her classes, her career goals. All standard fare. She answers with calm, unwavering poise, a preternatural serenity most girls her age couldn’t hope to possess. I learn she’s a psychology and criminal justice double major. She wants to be a criminal profiler for the FBI someday—either that or a homicide detective. She mentions that her uncle, who teaches here, was a consultant for the FBI on some high-profile cases, which got her interested in the field. That, and shows like Mind Hunter and Criminal Minds, she admits with a self-deprecating giggle.
I listen to all of this with genuine interest, guarding my expression when she mentions her uncle. His involvement with the FBI raises intriguing questions about the dynamic between Zack and Selene. Given her sketchy past and her chronic distrust of law enforcement, I doubt Zack’s connection with the FBI would have endeared him to his sister. I recall what he said when we talked two days ago: She’s secretive, especially with me. Could Selene be extra wary about sharing details with her brother because of his affiliation with the feds?
“How are things going at home?” I ask, going for casual and receptive. “Do you live in the dorms, or off campus?”
“I live with my boyfriend.” Her hand reaches up to touch the delicate gold chain around her neck. It’s the first time she’s fidgeted since she got here. Throughout her monologue about her career goals, she sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap like someone interviewing for a job.
I nod, saying nothing, hoping she’ll jump in to fill the silence.
She obliges. “He’s a student here too. He’s going to be a lawyer.”
“Nice.” I offer a bland smile. “So, you two rent a place together?”
She hesitates. “Well, his family owns the Stanton Building, downtown?” It comes out as a question.
The Stanton Building is a handsome old brick complex near the plaza, filled with high-end shops and a classy boutique hotel. I nod to let her know I’m familiar with it.
“There’s an apartment on the top floor.” Her expression is hard to read—almost apologetic, the way people sometimes look when they admit to some unearned good fortune, like a trust fund or a huge inheritance. “We’ve been living there.”
I widen my eyes at her in appreciation. “That sounds lovely.”
“It really is.” She gives me a conspiratorial look and leans a little closer. “It has four bedrooms, views of the whole downtown—and the kitchen! It’s like a full-on professional chef’s kitchen. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
It’s hard not to warm to her girlish awe. She’s so earnest in her appreciation. “That’s great. You like to cook?”
“Love it.” She looks down at her lap, her fingers going to the gold bracelet around her wrist. “I’m not very good at it yet, but I’m learning. I watch videos online to make all kinds of things—chicken cordon bleu, pot roast, stuffed salmon. I even made my own raviolis from scratch. Colton says they’re better than his grandma’s.”
“Is that your boyfriend?”
For a second, her expression clouds over, but it clears almost immediately. “Yeah. He loves to eat, but he hates to cook.”
I wait for her to say more, but she leaves it at that.
I wade in carefully, not wanting to seem invasive. “How long have you two been together?”
“Seven months.” She looks out the window. “I know it’s not that long, but we just really clicked.”
“When did you move in together?”
“A few months ago. June, I think?” She gives me that conspiratorial look again as she returns to the topic of the apartment. “Every day I wake up and I’m like, I can’t believe I actually live here. I’ve never even had a living room before.”
“Do you come from a big family?” I know she doesn’t, of course, but I decide this tiny lie of omission is an acceptable transgression.
She shakes her head. “No, it was just my mom and me. We never had nice places to live, is what I mean. Like, one time we stayed in this tepee for over a year. She’s kind of … well, she’s hard to explain. Not a hippie, exactly, just not … conventional.”
“Sure,” I say. “That makes sense. Did you grow up around here?”
She nibbles at her bottom lip, her gaze going out the window again. “We moved around a lot. My mom gets restless. She’s a massage therapist? So, like, anyplace that had a spa was fair game, I guess. We were up in Washington for a couple years, then San Diego, then Oregon. She says she’s a free spirit, but really she just messes up a lot, and when that happens, she’s got to move on. My uncle says she never crosses a bridge without burning it behind her.”
“That sounds hard.” I can’t say any of this is surprising. It’s exactly the kind of instability I imagined when Selene told me she has a daughter. Selene was constantly moving when I knew her, finding peculiar, quirky places to rent. She always made them homey, no matter how squalid or impractical, but that sort of nomadic, unstable lifestyle couldn’t have been easy for a kid. No doubt the financial stability Colton offers feels like an antidote to all that chaos for Jupiter.
She pastes on a thin smile. “It was okay. I’m sick of moving, though. I just want to settle down.”
I see my opening and nudge the conversation back to her relationship. “Are you and Colton pretty serious, then?”
“Well, we live together.” She chooses her words carefully, a hint of wariness edging into her voice. “I guess that’s serious, in a way.”
“Do you get along pretty well?”
She nods, but her smile looks insincere. “Yeah. He says all my cooking is going to make him fat, but I doubt that. He works out like three hours a day.”
“Wow. Is he an athlete?”
“Not, like, team sports right now. I mean, in high school he played football, but these days he’s focused on law school.” She smirks. “He’s just obsessed with going to the gym.”
I try to picture him, this wealthy, muscle-bound boyfriend. “So he’s in law school already?”
She nods. “Yeah, it’s his first year. He’s four years older than me. He’s pretty focused.”
“It can be tough, living with a boyfriend for the first time,” I venture.
She seems determined to keep the conversation away from any signs of trouble with Colton. It’s hard to tell whether this is because there is real trouble, or she’s protective because her mom’s been judgmental about their relationship. Either way, I’m careful to keep even the slightest note of criticism from my questions.
Her gaze falls to her lap again, her pale, slender fingers worrying at her bracelet. I wonder if the matching set of jewelry was a gift from him; she seems to fidget with it whenever he comes up.
“It’s not all sunshine and roses, I guess.” The sadness in her voice catches me off guard. There’s a deep pool of melancholy there that contradicts her earlier, perky, everything-is-great tone.
I don’t respond, waiting for her to go on. The silence stretches for several more seconds, her eyes fixed on her lap with the blank, preoccupied stare of someone replaying memories—difficult ones, if the tightness around her eyes and mouth is any indication.
Her gaze floats up to meet mine, and there is something so vulnerable in her face, so naked my heart melts a little. Her next words catch me off guard.
“I hate sharing a bathroom,” she admits, her tone a disarming mixture of confession and disgust.
I recall my own experience of moving in with Marius and Scottie back in college. Though I’d shared a bathroom with my brother growing up, Tim’s a neat freak, so nothing prepared me for the level of grossness young guys are capable of.
