Eleven

Henley

I lied. To everyone.

Finished packing, I wheel my suitcase across my room and park it in next to the door.

I told Conner I was arriving tomorrow morning.

Lie.

I told my Jeremy I was staying at the Hawthorne.

Lie.

I told my mom and Spencer I was serving my internship at a library in Chicago.

Lie.

I told Ryan I wanted to go home to see our father.

Lie.

Wheeling my suitcase across the room, I park it next to the door before checking my ticket. I have a little over two hours before I need to be at the station to check in.

I’m going home.

Pressing a hand against my stomach, I try to smother the flurry of butterflies that suddenly take flight. Looking down at the phone in my hand, I reread the conversation I just had with Conner. Me, proper and polite. Him, short and succinct. The last text I sent went unanswered. His lack of response said everything I need to know.

He’s meeting me tomorrow because Ryan asked him to. That’s it. He has no interest in seeing me again.

Knowing that should make everything easier. It doesn’t.

I almost text him back. Tell him I changed my mind. That I’m not coming after all. That he’s off the hook.

Instead, I turn off my phone and tuck it into my train case, along with my ticket. Loud music seeps in through the crack under the door. Celine and I share the fourth floor. At fifteen, she reminds me of the mean girls I used to have to deal with back in Boston. She looks like a Jessica and Penny clone. Long, shiny blonde hair. Smooth, tan skin.

I try not to hold it against her.

Glad for the distraction, I turn away from the door and give my room a quick once-over. When my gaze lands on the spiral staircase tucked into the corner, I smile. The library is on the fifth floor, directly above my room. As soon as Spencer realized how much I love books and that I’d never owned any of my own, he hired a work crew to cut a hole in my ceiling and install the staircase.

The man gave me a library, and I’ve loved him ever since.

Climbing the stairs, I think about leaving and lying. I don’t feel bad about lying to my mother. But lying to Spencer is a different story altogether.

“What’s the matter, Sparkplug?”

I stop short on the landing. As if my guilt pulled him out of thin air, I find him sitting in the library’s sitting room, in front of a cold fireplace, a book in his lap, a glass of bourbon on the side table next to him.

“What are you doing here?” I say, crossing the space between us to slide into the chair next to him.

“Waiting for you,” he says, raising his glass to take a sip. “I knew you’d make it up here eventually.”

I used to worry about him drinking. What it would lead to. Wonder how long it would take him to disintegrate under the pressure of being married to my mother. I’d imagine having to drag him down the hallway. Roll him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit.

Eight years later, I realize Spencer is made of stronger stuff than my father. I don’t worry about him drinking anymore. At least not for those reasons.

“You shouldn’t be drinking with your medication,” I remind him, giving him a sour look.

“I don’t,” he says setting his glass down, giving me a quick wink. “I do them both separately.”

He laughs for the both of us when it becomes obvious I don’t find him amusing. “An occasional glass of the good stuff isn’t going to kill me, Sparkplug.” He closes his book and sets it aside. The Call of the Wild by Jack London. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

I shake my head, sinking into the soft leather chair. “I’m going to miss my books.” I look up. The mezzanine level of the library is nothing but books. Bright-colored spines, stacked from floor to ceiling.

“They’ll be here when you come back,” Spencer says, trying to comfort me. I don’t know how to tell him that there will be no coming back for me. Jeremy and I will announce our engagement over the holiday season, and then before I know it, we’ll be married. My life here is over.

“Maybe I’ll miss you.” I give him a weak smile, chewing on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

“I’ll be here too,” he says, turning in his chair to lift something off the table. He hesitates for a moment like he’s having second thoughts, before finally deciding to hand it to me. It’s an envelope. Long and thick. Written on its face is an address.

 

1334 Boylston St.

Boston, MA. #14C

 

Boylston Street is the apartment my mother, and I moved into when she left my father. We lived there for three weeks while Spencer finalized his divorce from Celine’s mother. Some wannabe actress even younger than my mother. I had no idea he kept it.

As soon as I see it, my heart catapults itself into my throat, I know what it is. What it means. He knows I lied.

“Boston City Library called my office line last month to confirm you received your service contract,” he says before I have a chance to speak. “You put me down as your emergency contact, and they couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“I’m sorry.” I manage to push the words, forcing myself to look at him. “I’m sorry, Spencer.”

“For what? Lying?” He waves his hand at me before I can answer. “I understand why you did it.”

Even though I know what it is, I open the envelope. Cash. A brand-new credit card with my name on it. A set of keys.

“I can’t take this,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t.” I reserved a room at a boarding house not far from the library. I had some savings from the private tutoring sessions I offered in college.

The irony of that nearly chokes me.

“You can,” he says, his usually pleasant face going hard. “And if you want me to keep my mouth shut to your mother, you will.”

I’m still shaking my head. Still refusing when he sighs.

“Then do it for me, Sparkplug,” he says quietly. “Let this old man set things right.”

“What are you talking about?” His words snap my head up on my neck. “You haven’t done anything.”

“I beg to differ,” he says. “What your mother and I did was wrong. We took you away from your life. Your brother.” Spencer sighs, sitting back in his chair. “I wanted your mother so badly I told myself that we were doing what was best for you. I was giving you a better life.”

I think about it. The fact that my mother’s ruthless pursuit of wealth and a life of privilege tore me away from everyone and everything I knew and loved. Thrust me into a life I was never supposed to have. One I never wanted.

However much I want to hate her for that, I can’t because her selfishness led me to Spencer. The man who has been more of a parent to me than my own ever were. “You’ve given me a great life.” The words come out, barely a croak.

“But I took things from you too, Sparkplug.” He looks sad, his fingers closing around mine, squeezing tight. “Important things. I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for that.”

He gives me a long look like he’s weighing a grenade in his hand, trying to decide whether or not to pull the pin. “I know about Jeremy—I’ve known for a while,” he says. “I know what the two of you are planning—and why.”

No, no, no…

I feel my hands clamp tight around the envelope. My eyes bulge. Mouth gapes. Before I can deny or dispute what he’s saying he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “It’s okay, Sparkplug,” he says. “I… understand.” His face crumples for a moment under the weight of emotion. Love. Fear. Pride. “That’s why this is so important. That’s why you’re going to take my help. Because I took things from you and I want you to go find them before it’s too late.”