Maybe I did, too.
***
After they left, I sat in the living room in the warm and furry crowd of Hex, Jinx, and Jonah, and made mental lists.
The DON’TGOlist had three points. First was the past, as in memory of courtrooms, judges, and the media. Second was the present, as in adding me to the spotlight now focused on Grace and Chris and jeopardizing my anonymity in Devon. Third, and legally crucial for my future, was Michael Shanahan.
The MUSTGOside wasn’t as me-centric. It involved keeping Grace moored. And freeing Jay from the distraction of an unhinged client, so that he could focus on his job. And, yes, being there for Chris.
But there was something else. It had to do with character. I tried to push it aside with arguments like,It’s not my responsibility, I’m too bruised myself, I can’t save the world.But I kept returning to it. My being in court to support my friends was the right thing to do.
Character? Oh, yeah. Who did I want to be in this life? Was I willing to stand up for something I believed in? I did believe in Chris and, even, in Grace. Neither was malicious. And what they faced? We weren’t talking hurdles; we were talking roadblocks that could obstruct their entire future.
Sitting there, even with seconds of hot chocolate, my problems with Edward seemed suddenly mild.
***
I barely slept. The first time I came awake, I breathed deeply—in for five, hold for three, out for five, repeat. The next time I woke up, I made sleep tea—one cup, then a second. I dozed again, woke up, used the bathroom.
Barely sleeping wasn’t new for me, but this night wasn’t about Lily. It was about Michael Shanahan. If I went with the Emorys tomorrow and he found out, he might decide I had violated my probation and take me back to court, in which case I would be exposed. That, way more than prison, was my fear. I wanted to look at my probation agreement, just to check on what he could or could not do, but that meant opening the green velvet box under my bed to get it, and I couldn’t yet, couldn’t yet.
In an ideal world, I would have called Edward. He was one of the most rational people I knew. He had been able to think clearly on even the most emotional matters, until those emotions had grown bigger than us. But I no longer knew where he stood on me, much less on Devon or hacking. If he was part of whatever entity was buying the Inn, which would suffer negative fallout from this, he sure as hell would be no fan of the Emorys.
So, no Edward.
And no Mom.
And no Cornelia, though I did consider telling her everything, just for her advice.
That left Kevin. I waited until five thirty—just couldn’t wait longer than that—and, telling myself that he would be up soon anyway, texted,You awake?
He replied a minute later.Sorry. Couldn’t find the phone. I’m calling.My cell rang. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
His voice was low. Jimmy would still be sleeping, but he wouldn’t want to leave the bed’s warmth. I didn’t care where he talked from. He had been asleep himself, I’d woken him, and his first concern was for me. Talk about defining a true friend.
“I love you, Kevin,” I breathed, then quickly told him what Chris had asked and the dilemma I faced. “Am I right? Wrong? Noble? Out of my freakingmind?”
“Not that, honey. Never that. But you’re asking the right questions. The problem here is Grace.”
“Please forget that you don’t like her.”
“I don’t really know her,” he admitted. “But do you? You say she has no one else, but why doesn’t she? Where are her parents?”
“Where are yours?”
There was a pause, then a quiet, “Touché. Family rift. But this kid has a father somewhere. What’s with him?”
I hadn’t told him about that part of my discussion with Chris. “Funny you ask.”
“Funny?
“Chris wonders the same thing.”
“Well, he’s how old? Fifteen? Heshouldwonder. Lemme tell you, when I reached his age, I was looking at my father and thinking I had to be like him but couldn’t. He was looking at me and thinking I didn’t have his beard or his build or his guts. He was disappointed. I knew that. I told myself it was okay. I told myself that I must look like one of my uncles. Or my grandfather. That’s what boys do at that age. They look in the mirror every time someone tells them to brush their teeth or use deodorant. It’s like, who am I? Who do Iwantto be?”
Passion had driven his voice higher. I heard a groggy murmur in the background and a reply aimed away from the phone. “I’m good, I’m good.” Back to me. “Sorry, the old hurts hang around.” He paused. Then, softly, he asked, “Who are you, Maggie?”
The question wasn’t a literal one. He knew where I had come from and who I had been. How he could zero in so perfectly at not-even-six in the morning, I didn’t know, but it was why I had called.
