26
My father speeds the entire way home and heads straight for my parents’ bedroom without saying a word. It’s as if he can’t get away from us fast enough. Fine by me. I don’t have anything I want to say to him. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to make up.
At this point, I never want to see his face again.
With Andromeda on my heels, I hike up the stairs and shut the door to my room so hard, one of my glow-in-the-dark stars falls off the ceiling. It’s weird to be back here. This used to be a safe space, but now it feels tainted. Everything smells weird. Dusty and artificial. I think I was out in the wild for too long, because this feels like a prison, not a sanctuary. Andromeda is the only happy thing in this apartment. At least she seems to have missed me.
It’s one in the morning, and I’m in that weird state of being exhausted but not tired. I can’t even look at my wall calendars. Summer is a disaster, and right now, instead of helping me stay calm, they are a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong. So I busy myself with what I can control, steadily unpacking my gear. And I’m in the process of making a pile of dirty clothes to take to the washer when I hear a soft knock on my door.
“It’s open,” I say flatly.
My mom’s face appears in the doorway. “Can I come in for a second?”
“How am I going to stop you?”
She sighs, closes the door behind her, and sits on the bed next to my backpack. “I know you’re angry with us right now.”
“You have to admit, I have pretty good reasons to be.”
Dark circles hang beneath her eyes. “And we’ve got reasons to be angry with you, too. You lied to me, Zorie. When we talked a couple of days ago, you could have told me you were with Lennon.”
“Did you already know?”
She fiddles with a zipper on my backpack. “Reagan’s mom called me. Apparently, Reagan came home early with Brett Seager, but she didn’t tell her mother that they’d abandoned you and Lennon in the national park. The glamping compound got in touch with Mrs. Reid, and they’re the ones who informed her what actually happened. Kicked out for stealing wine?”
“I wasn’t a part of that plan,” I argue. Mostly. “It was Brett’s idea.”
Mom sighs and shakes her head. “Regardless, the glamping compound’s phone call poked holes in Reagan’s story, and that’s when Reagan admitted that they left you and Lennon. Mrs. Reid called me in a panic, a couple hours before I heard from you. Your dad wasn’t here, so I went next door and talked to the Mackenzies.”
I groan quietly.
“Yeaaahh,” Mom drawls, and then gives me a tight smile. “It stung to find out that they knew you were on the trip. Lennon had told them, but you hadn’t told me. It made me feel like a bad parent.”
“I didn’t know before I left, honestly. I knew . . .” I hesitate, but what’s the point of lying anymore? “I knew Brett and the others would be there. But I didn’t realize Lennon was coming until we were leaving.”
“But you obviously made up with him. That wasn’t a friendly kiss.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She sniffles. “I always knew it would be a matter of time before your friendship changed. The way he looked at you. The way you looked at him . . .”
“What’s so wrong about that? You should be happy. You used to like Lennon.”
“I still do. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She doesn’t answer, just pets Andromeda, who’s jumped onto the bed and is trying to insert herself into the conversation.
Fine. She doesn’t want to talk. I don’t either. I lift my portable telescope out of the backpack and set it on the floor. Check all the pieces. So stupid to think that I lugged it up and down mountains for days and I didn’t even use the damn thing.
“Lennon and you spent a lot of time alone,” my mom finally says. “I hope you were safe.”
“We were.”
She makes a small noise and then blows out a hard breath.
I don’t want to talk about that right now. I set my camera next to the telescope and steer the conversation in a different direction. “We had plenty of time to talk about all the secrets that everyone’s been keeping from me.”
“Zorie . . .”
“Did you know his father died last year?” I say angrily.
Mom blinks at me. “Adam . . . ?”
She didn’t know either. I think this might be worse, somehow. Were we all so caught up in our own petty issues that we didn’t realize our neighbors needed us? It makes me hurt all over again.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Adam died. You can say it. He killed himself last October. None of us knew because Dad tore our families apart.”
She covers her eyes and makes a low noise, and then pushes up from the bed to pace around the room. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” I say. “Can you imagine what it must’ve felt like for Lennon? He was there for me when we first moved here and I was grieving. And all this time, he’s been alone, trying to cope. How unfair is it that—” My voice warbles, and I have to stop for a moment. “None of us knew because Dad was too busy trying to cover up the fact that he was banging some side chick.”
“Don’t talk like that to me,” she says sharply.
“Dad can do those things and get away with it, but I can’t say it?”
“We went to counseling.”
I stop unpacking. “Counseling? Counseling? Not only did you fail to mention that my dad was a cheating asshole, but you secretly went to counseling?”
“It was our issue, not yours.”
“I thought we were friends.”
Her face falls. “We are friends. Zorie, I care about you more than anyone else on this planet. More than . . .” She stops. Start again. “I only wanted to keep this family together. I didn’t want to poison you against your father.”
“Too late. He did that all on his own.”
“Relationships are complicated,” she says. “You will understand when you’re older. Things aren’t always black and white. People make mistakes because they’re damaged inside, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve forgiveness. It doesn’t mean they can’t change.”
“Dad is damaged all right,” I mutter. “And I don’t see how his forgiveness is elevated above the respect that you deserve. How is he worth more? He cheated on you with God knows how many women—”
“It was just one, and he was still mourning your mother.”
“My mother? She’s been dead for years! I never even saw him cry over her death. Never! Not once.”
“That’s how he coped. He tried to compartmentalize it—to box it away and forget about it. I don’t know if he learned this from his jackass of a father, but it’s something he does. He thinks if he ignores a problem, it will go away.”
She’s right. He does do this. All the time.
So do I.
Sighing, Joy looks out my balcony window. “Grief is sneaky. Sometimes you think you’re over something, but you’ve just been lying to yourself. If you don’t face up to it, grief will hang around until you do, whittling away small parts of your life. You don’t even know it’s happening.”
This I understand.
My birth mother’s death came unexpectedly. One day she was there, and the next, she was gone. It was the worst kind of surprise. My world was upended. I never even got to tell her goodbye. And that sudden loss triggered my anxiety problems . . . and altered how I dealt with change. If I have a plan for something that’s stressful, if I’ve carefully considered all the angles and possibilities, then I’m controlling it. I’m in charge. Nothing can pop up and surprise me, because if I’ve planned very carefully, then I’m ready for any situation.
Except I’m not. Because you can’t control everything. Sometimes, you can be minding your own business, but your father is busy having affairs. Sometimes, you can plan all the details of a trip with friends, but those people weren’t really your friends at all. Sometimes, you can follow a well-planned route through the woods and still get stalked by mountain lions.
And sometimes, sometimes, you give up on your best friend, but he never gave up on you.
“I never knew Dad was struggling with my mother’s death,” I tell Joy. “But you know what? When I make bad choices, I have to pay for them. He’s a grown man, so he gets a free pass? I think that’s shitty. And I think you deserve better than him. We deserve better.”
“Zorie,” she pleads softly.
“I was so worried about what would happen if you and Dad got divorced, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to live with him. I imagined you deciding that you were done raising a kid who wasn’t really yours, and then my life would fall apart all over again. I’d lose another mother.”
“That will never happen,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “Do you hear me? You’re the reason I agreed to make this marriage work. You, not him.”
“What?” I say, confused.
“I stayed for you. Because you need me, and I need you.” She cups my head in her hands. “I am raising my own kid. You are mine. I didn’t need to give birth to you to love you, sweet thing.”
I’m crying now, and I think she is too. We’re apologizing in whispers, and she hugs me as she always does, hard enough to hurt.
And it’s a good pain.
When the tears slow, she eases up on the hugging and strokes my back. “I’m sorry about tonight. About the meteor shower and the scene . . . about Lennon.”
“I can’t believe we left him there. He would never leave me.”
“I called Sunny and apologized before I came up here to see you.”
“Is she mad?”
“She’s not happy. I didn’t tell her much, but she sounded like she already knew more than I did about what’s been going on.” Her eyes catch mine. “Are you in love with Lennon?”
Am I?
Oh, God.
I am.
I’m in love with my best friend.
I blink at her through tear-stung eyes. “I think . . . I may have been for long time.”
She nods and sniffles, smiling softly. “I’ll talk to your father. He’s emotional now, but maybe he’ll realize that he’s being stubborn. I can’t promise he’ll change his mind tomorrow, but eventually he’ll have to see reason. Okay?”
That’s actually not okay. I don’t want to live with my hand out like a beggar, asking for my father’s permission to see Lennon. But I don’t say this. I know she’s trying.
“It’s late,” she tells me. “And you’ve had an eventful night. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Yes?”
I nod, and she gives me a tired smile before leaving my room.
Here I am, selfishly talking about being in love, as if she didn’t have any problems of her own in that department. I can only fathom what she’s gone through with my father. I think about how she matter-of-factly rattled off the name of Dad’s mistress, as if it was just something she’d accepted.
Molly.
That’s the name my mom used.
Only, that’s not the name that was on the photo book’s envelope.
Catherine Beatty.
One of many.
Was it the same woman? Maybe she was using a fake name to send the package. All I know is that Lennon recognized the woman from the photo book because he’d seen her in the hotel with my dad. And then there was Reagan’s accusation that my dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the Olympic fund-raiser. I don’t know if that’s true, but my mom said they went to counseling this past winter. The Olympic fund-raiser was this spring. Something doesn’t add up.
What should I do?
I perch on the edge of my bed and begin analyzing my options. I could give her all this information and risk my parents getting into a fight—or worse. I could confront my dad privately and hope to what? Shame him into telling the truth? Then what? I could keep all of this to myself, and maybe things would go back to normal.
Isn’t that the result I want? To avoid pain? To cling to some semblance of normality? Dueling images of my parents together and apart float in my head, and I try to sort them out and solve all the equations, but other things erode my thoughts. Things from the last week. The bear attacking Brett’s tent. My snake bite. The mountain lion. Lightning in the sequoias. Falling asleep in Lennon’s arms.
Unpredictable outcomes. Some of them bad, some good.
All at once, I realize that I need to let go. Of planning. Trying to control everything. It doesn’t work. The best-laid plans of mice and men often turn to shit.
Could I have avoided some hives and a whole lot of nail biting if I’d just handed over the photo book to my mom? Because all that worry got me nowhere. Here I am, still knowing my father’s a liar, but unsure what will happen. Still wondering about the fate of my family. Still unable to prevent a disaster.
I can’t constantly be on guard, trying to avoid every single catastrophe, measuring and managing every expectation.
Besides, Lennon’s right. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.
From now on, no new plans. No trying to control every detail of my life. You can plot a course that will get you to your destination, but you can’t predict what you’ll find along the way. So I’m just going to let life happen, and whatever that brings, I’ll face.
Starting now.
The photo book is still in the drawer where I left it. I take it out, along with the letter. It’s not my secret to keep. It never was.
My purse is where I left it in the closet before the camping trip. I stuff clean clothes and my cell phone charger inside it. Then I head downstairs, calling Andromeda to follow and get in her dog bed at the foot of the stairs. All of the lights are off but the one over the kitchen sink, where Mom is drinking a glass of water. My dad is nowhere in sight.
“Here,” I tell her in a quiet voice when she looks up at me. “This is the package you asked me to get from the Mackenzies the week before my camping trip. I told you they didn’t have it, but they did. They opened it by accident, and when I was carrying it back to the office, I peeked. I hid it from you. I’m sorry.”
Hesitantly, she takes it and opens the letter. Her hand shakes. She blinks several times. And then she closes the letter and slips it inside the photo book.
“Dad lied to you. It wasn’t just Molly, or this Catherine person. Reagan knows about another incident. I saw Razan Abdullah at the glamping compound, and she asked me if you and Dad were still together.”
She stares at me with a shocked look on her face.
“People are talking,” I tell her. “That’s probably why Dad’s been losing clients and you haven’t. Because everyone knows he’s a scumbag.”
We stand there, neither of us looking at each other for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I love you, and I’m so sorry. For everything.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says quietly, and heads toward my parents’ bedroom. A second later, she disappears, shutting the door.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but dread knots my stomach, and I feel the urge to run after her and snatch the photo book away.
But it’s too late. Nothing I can do will turn back the clock. Deep breath. I scribble a quick note to my mother and leave it on the kitchen counter. And as the sound of my parents’ voices arguing gets louder, I quietly head out the front door of the apartment.
It’s cool outside. A soft breeze rustles through the fronds of the palm tree outside our house. I jog down the front steps, hiking my purse higher on my shoulder. It’s so much lighter than the backpack. I almost miss its weight. Almost.
Half the stars have disappeared out of the sky. Like the universe just swiped a hand and erased them. But as I’m walking, a pale white streak appears, and I hope Lennon is watching it with Avani. Miles away, but the same starry sky.
I head toward the left apartment in the blue duplex across from our house. Lights are still on in the windows. The Mackenzies have always been night owls—another thing my dad points to as proof of their hedonism. But I’m not thinking about him now as I ring the doorbell and wait. In fact, I’m not thinking or planning anything past this moment, and when Sunny’s oblong face appears, and she’s blinking into the porch light, I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late. Can I spend the night here with you and Mac? My parents are having problems.”
She stares at me, surprised, standing in a pair of pajama bottoms printed with tiny cartoon trolls. “Of course you can, baby. Come on inside before you freeze to death.”
Then she pulls me over the threshold, past the photos of Lennon and his dad dressed in Halloween costumes. Their house smells just like it always has, like vanilla frosting and old books. And when I see Mac curled up on their worn living room sofa in front of the TV, looking up at me with welcoming eyes, I feel as if I’m finally home.