Chapter Twenty

I switch the phone to my other ear, sure I couldn’t have heard what I thought I heard. “Wait a minute, what?”

“I want to plan a reconciliation trip,” Maggie says. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” I say, because I am trying to listen. I can’t stop thinking about Adam. “I’m just confused.”

She sighs. “I d-don’t still hate you, okay? B-but I’m not ready to go sing ‘Kumbaya’ or whatever either.”

I drop my chin into my hand, staring blankly out my window. “All right, then why are you proposing I go with you to California?”

“Okay, you weren’t listening,” she says. “My mom was invited to be a part of some big d-deal Thanksgiving dinner in L.A.—she’s doing all the breads.”

“Right,” I say.

“And we could go with her t-to reconcile our friendship or whatever.”

“But you said you didn’t—”

“We’d be going to find Julien, Chloe. God, are you sleepwalking?”

I wish. I wish I could go to sleep right this second and not wake up until my entire universe is normal again. Though at this point, what the hell would be normal?

“I’m sorry, I’m listening. Just tell me the plan again.”

“We go with my mom to L.A. We convince her t-to let us take a day trip to San Diego to rekindle our friendship.”

“No way they’ll let us drive around California unsupervised. My parents watch way too many documentaries for that crap.”

“There’s a train. What’s more wholesome and trustworthy than Amtrak?”

I bite my lip, staring at the dust on my windowsill.

“I’ll give it a try,” I say, “but I’m grounded for the rest of my life right now.”

“I think you should let me try. I’ve already g-got my mom convinced.”

It’s not a bad idea. My mom has always loved Mags. “You want to stop by today?”

“We’re going out for lunch. We’ll come b-by after.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you then.”

I change my outfit four times and my hair twice while I’m waiting. I have to find the perfect mix of happy, normal teenager and contrite, refocused daughter. Lip gloss? Yes. Mascara? No. I make a succession of similar choices until I’m pretty sure I look right.

Now comes the hard part. I head outside and slip down the hallway, careful not to bump the laundry chute or step on the creaky part of the floor. I hover at the top of the stairs, listening for my parents.

I hear the TV, but it’s down too low to be of any serious interest. I head down the stairs and find them in the kitchen, Dad leaned into the fridge and Mom peeling carrots at the sink.

“Are we eating at home tonight?” I ask.

Mom gives me a passing smile. “I thought I’d do vegetable soup. It feels like a soup kind of day.”

Feels kind of like a plotting and scheming day to me, but I’ll keep that to myself.

I look through the window above the sink where wind is sending fallen leaves skittering against our fence. And of course, the leaves make me think of Adam, which makes my head hurt.

“I could peel potatoes if you want,” I say.

Mom looks up, clearly surprised. Dad closes the fridge and pops the tab off a Samuel Adams. “I think that’s a terrific idea.”

“Of course you do,” Mom says, arching a brow at him. “It was your job until she showed up.”

I’ve got the potatoes peeled and cubed when I hear the doorbell. It takes crazy willpower to stay at the table—to pretend I’m still reading the magazine I’ve been blindly thumbing through.

Mom looks up from the stove with a frown. “Who could that be?”

I just shrug, turning the page without looking up. In the living room, I hear my dad’s jolly greeting. And then I hear Mrs. Campbell. And Maggie.

“Well, that sounds like—”

“Virginia,” Dad says. “Why don’t you and Chloe come out here for a minute?”

I stand up, exchanging a clueless look with my mom that she swallows hook, line, and sinker. She wipes her hands on a dish towel, and I follow her out of the kitchen, praying my knees will stay strong and that I will not start trembling like the nervous wreck I am.

And I shouldn’t be nervous. This is just Maggie.

Maggie here to hatch the biggest plot we’ve ever dreamed up, that is.

Mom gasps, and I force surprise onto my face.

“Mrs. Campbell,” I say, and then, more softly, “Maggie.”

Maggie looks up at me, eyes and nose red. Has she been crying? What happened? She wasn’t crying on the phone. Did her mom figure her out? Oh God, she figured it out, and I am about to be busted. Again.

I’m going to be grounded until I have grandchildren.

Maggie hesitates for a second and then rushes across the room. I feel her arms around me and hear her half sob into my hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I don’t know if it’s part of the plan. I don’t know why she’d go to these lengths to be convincing, but I don’t care. When I hug her back, I don’t have to force my own tears to come. They just do.

***

Maggie and I are side by side at the top of the stairs. She hasn’t said a thing about the crying, and I haven’t asked. I’m not sure I want to know. Her reasons might not be as sweet as the ones I’ve dreamed up.

It’s like we’ve regressed to our twelve-year-old selves, spying on the grown-ups from the top of the stairs. A plate of gingersnaps sits between us, and occasionally one of us will grab one and take a nibble. Mostly, though, we listen.

Without a whole lot of success, because all three parental units are obnoxiously staying put in the kitchen, where it’s only possible to hear every third or fourth word.

“Do you have any idea what they’re saying?” I ask in a whisper.

Maggie holds up a hand to quiet me. She’s always had the better hearing of the two of us. She says it’s a side effect of her crap vision. There’s been no celebration in our history that has yet to live up to The Day Maggie Got Contacts.

I eat another gingersnap and watch her brow furrow as she listens hard. I’m only hearing bits and pieces. “So much pressure” and “terrible seeing them apart” and things like that.

Then she looks at me, clearly shocked. “I think it’s working.”

“You’re kidding.”

Just then, I hear chairs and feet in the kitchen. We scuttle back to my bedroom in record time.

Barely a minute passes before we hear the call.

“Girls, can you come down here for a minute?”

My mother. She sounds happy. Which means…we won. Maggie and I exchange a smirk, waiting just long enough before we open the door to not be completely obvious.

Maggie goes ahead of me, moving down the stairs with a bounce in her step that I try to mirror in my own.

“You know holidays are a special time,” my mother starts. “Under normal circumstances, I’d want you home with us, Chloe.”

My dad huffs and cuts in. “Oh, stop torturing them. You’re going.”

My mother looks irritated briefly, but her anger relents when Dad kisses the top of her head. Maggie leaps up with a squeal, and we hug and dance around in circles like we’re ten years old and we’ve just been given concert tickets to see the biggest boy band around.

It’s almost like we aren’t faking it at all.

“But you’d better not come back here without one of those snow globe things or a keychain or something,” Dad says.

“Thank you, Dad,” I say, kissing his cheek. And then I turn to my mother and hug her tight. “Thank you.”

Mom hugs me back, and I feel the strength in her hands as much as I hear the sniffle in her voice. “Don’t thank me. It’s Mrs. Campbell who agreed to take on the two of you. I hope you’ll make sure she won’t regret her generosity.”

“She’s never been a bit of trouble,” Mrs. Campbell says. She slings an arm around my shoulder, and I smell yeast and cinnamon and of course that makes me think of Adam.

How am I going to explain this to him?

“Chloe?” Mrs. Campbell asks. “Is that okay?”

Crap, I wasn’t paying attention. I shake my head to clear the thoughts and smile widely. “Yeah, it’s great.”

Maggie knows me better and frowns. “So we’ll pick you up tomorrow right after school.”

“That’s what I just said,” her mom says, chuckling.

“Tomorrow’s great. I guess I’d better go start thinking about what to pack.”

We exchange our good-byes and I head upstairs to my room. After ten minutes pulling out a few outfits, I can’t resist any longer.

I have to at least tell him I’m leaving.

Adam answers on the third ring, and I can hear music in the background. “Are you finally not grounded?”

“Sadly, I think that sentence has a couple more years on it,” I say. “But I do have some good news.”

“What’s that?”

“Maggie and I sort of mended the fences or whatever.”

“Hell of a feat when you can’t even leave the house,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, Mom is fine with Maggie coming by.”

I wince as the silence on the other end of the line stretches. Damn it. That came out completely wrong.

“I’ll take it your mom disapproves of the company you were keeping as much as the lie.”

I sigh, sinking onto the foot of my bed beside a pile of tank tops. “She’s upset that I lied, but yeah, she’s concerned about you too.”

“But not about Blake,” he guesses, his laugh so low and bitter I feel my stomach clench at the sound. “That’s rich.”

“Look, she doesn’t know you, okay?”

“But she wasn’t exactly ready to give me the benefit of the doubt, was she?”

“It’s not—” I cut myself off and press my free hand to my forehead. “My mom works at the hospital. She was on shift the night you hurt your arm.”

Silence greets me on the other end of the line. It stretches out long enough for me to wonder if the call dropped or if maybe he’s not planning on responding. And then he does.

“So I suppose she gave you the whole story then.”

“She told me what she knows of it. Or what she thinks she knows. She’s just worried, Adam. All moms worry.”

He laughs, and it’s so caustic, I’m surprised my ear doesn’t sting. “No, Chloe, not all moms worry. So now you’re worried too, right?”

“I’m not.”

“Then why is this bothering you, because it obviously is?”

“Look, just because I pulled a damn fire alarm and snuck around a construction site doesn’t mean I’m cool with felony, okay?”

A beat passes, and I imagine my words spraying at him like bullets.

When he speaks, he’s quieter. “You think I stole drugs. That I was dealing maybe.”

“You broke into a pharmacy. Am I supposed to think you did it for the free measuring spoons?”

“Why I did it doesn’t really matter to you, does it, Chloe?” he says, and I hear him scoff.

The thing is, it does matter, and I want to tell him, but I’m somehow frozen. All I can think of is that newspaper article and sitting my parents down to explain why dating a thief is a smart choice. And I can’t. I just can’t imagine it.

Not any more than I can imagine Adam breaking into a pharmacy.

“I think your silence is a pretty good answer,” he says.

The line goes dead while my mouth is still opening to speak.

My throat is hot and swollen, and my eyes itch like crazy. I swipe at the tears that find their way out with the heel of my palm and tell myself that I will figure this out. I will calm down and call him back and everything will be fine.

Except that deep down inside, there’s a scared part of me that doesn’t think it will.