She’s looking up at me with such sincerity, her brow knit in concern.“You didn’t know,” I say, tucking my hands into the pockets of my jeans.“And anyways, I was a delinquent. So you weren’t wrong.”
“I think it’s really great,” she says, punctuating thegreatwith this firm nod of her head, really committing to that particular adjective.
“You think it’s great that I’m a delinquent?”
“I think it’s great that you…are you. That you’re this way now. That you made a mistake and you paid for it, and that you didn’t let that mistake determine your future.”
It’s not a whole lot different from what other people—old teachers, Jasper, even my dad, though not in so many words—have said to me over the years about what I did. But coming from Kit, it feels different. I realize that I want Kit to know the best things about me, and if she has to know the worst ones, I hope she thinks of them this way.
“Thanks.”Fuck—my throat feels tight. Somehow I always forget what thinking about that night does to me.
Kit looks over her shoulder to where Zoe and Greer laugh at something Zoe has pulled up on her phone.“Ten to one that’s a video of a puppy playing with a lemon,” she says, smiling.“Zoe loves those.” She looks down, toying with the hem of her shirt.“I’d better get going. Thanks for coming out.” There’s a moment, I think, when both of us are wondering what the right goodbye is. A handshake would be ridiculous now—we’refriends—but a hug feels dangerous, too big, too close. So Kit gives a wave and a smile, and starts to head toward her friends.
“Kit,” I call, once she’s a few steps away. She turns to look at me, a question in her eyes. I should not, I shouldnotsay what I’m about to say, but I guess almost always say the wrong thing around Kit, so at least I’m being consistent.“What I said before, about you being the gem?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re that—you’re that, anywhere. Even if you don’t go to Texas.”
I don’t stick around to see her reaction. I just turn and hustle to my truck.
Chapter 11
Kit
Over the next week, it’s hard not to hear Ben’s words in my ear every time I see him—you’re that, anywhere.And I do see him, a lot. We fall into a strange sort of rhythm, texting about our days, me ending up at the salvage yard or Ben stopping by to show me something for the house. There’s an easy, laughing cadence to the way we speak to each other, but we don’t shy away from the complexities of the business with Beaumont anymore, either. Last night, we’d debated for over an hour about corporate science—me giving Ben every example I could think of, from the food industry all the way to my own, where shoddy science had led to disastrous results, him offering an equal number of examples of for-profit scientists who’d changed the world, some of them, even, from Beaumont’s own ranks. Ben is smart, determined. He knows his company inside and out, and there are times, when he’s talking to me about what I could do at Beaumont, that I wish I could be someone else for him, someone who is going to give him a different answer.
But we don’t only talk about work. We also talk about my house, about ideas I have, about what’s at the salvage yard to help make it happen. On Tuesday, I’d even asked him to come by while I met with the contractor who would be doing the kitchen, and my favorite thing about that had been the way he’d stayed entirely quiet during the meeting—this was my house, these were my decisions, and he’d never let the contractor think any different. Once we were alone, though, we’d gone through the information together, strategizing about what questions I’d ask, what I might change.?Today, though, I passed on Ben’s offer to meet up at the yard to check out some new furniture inventory they have in, because all my attention needs to be here, on getting ready for my most important, longed-for guest.
My brother is coming.
I’m more nervous than I should be for Alex to arrive, tinkering with every last thing in the house so it’s exactly the way I want him to see it. Despite the many miles that separate us most of the time now, despite the strain that’s been between us for the last six months, he’s the person I’m closest to in the whole world, and I want him to feel about this house the same way I had when I’d first seen it.
And I also want him relaxed, happy—because part of this visit is going to be tough. When our numbers came up, I’d called Alex in tears—tears of panic and relief and guilt, and I didn’t even have to explain all of that to him. We’d lived through the same things. He knew why I couldn’t just take the luck joyfully, why I had such a hard time accepting it. And because of all that, he’d known exactly what to say to make it okay for me to take the money and move forward. He’d been in Australia then, an extended job he was doing for a conservation trust, and the line had been crackly and unreliable, but he’d stayed on with me until I’d calmed down enough to make some semblance of sense out of having all my financial problems—past, present, and if I was careful, future—wiped out in a matter of seconds.
But as much as Alex was willing to listen to my panic, he wasn’t interested in listening to my proposal. Ever since I’d first floated it to him, he’d kept more-than-usual distance. Sure, we’d talked occasionally, standard check-ins we did about our dad, and he’d kept up with the emails we sent back and forth regularly since I’d left for college—short messages, photos snapped, links to interesting articles. It’d always been some small way of staying connected after so many years of being in each other’s pockets, or, I guess, me being in his, since Alex had always, always been the one to take care of me.
But six months was the longest we’d gone without him coming to wherever I was for at least a couple days’ visit, and even when he’d been in the States for three weeks two months ago, he’d not managed to make it here. And I don’t think it was because of his schedule.
I refold the blanket I have draped over the edge of the couch, smoothing it over the arm.
“Hey, Martha Stewart,” Zoe says from the dining room, where she’s setting out plates.“You need to chill. It’s not a head of state.”
“I know,” I grumble. Her presence is a balm but also another reminder of the stakes of this night. Despite the fact that Alex has been to town a couple of times before, he’s never met Zoe and Greer. So tonight, my surrogate and real families are finally coming together.
I look around the living room, feeling pretty satisfied, overall. With the floors refinished and the windows replaced and Packy’s new coat of antique white paint on the walls, it’s not the crumbling wreck that the rest of the house still is at this point, and just today I’d hung pictures on the wall, including a special one over the mantel that I can’t wait for Alex to see. In here, it’s got the look of a home—myhome, and I want Alex to recognize that, to see that I’m getting everything I need. If he knows that, maybe he’ll be more open to taking what I’m offering.
I drift into the dining room, smoothing the front of my sundress, and Zoe sets down her stack of silverware and comes over to put an arm around me.“It’ll be fine,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
I nod, swallowing a sudden constriction in my throat.“Have you heard from Greer?”
Zoe goes back to setting places, giving me the small comfort and then the distance that I need.“She’s on her way. She got stuck working on a group project at the library.”
This probably means that Greer was the only member of her group actually working. Greer’s one glancingly negative report about college so far is the age difference between her and most of her classmates, the fact that she often took work more seriously than them. But, true to form, she’d never really blamed them.“They’re young,” she’d told us.“I don’t mind, and anyways, everyone makes mistakes.” I swear, Greer would give Voldemort the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay. I’ve got everything set up in Alex’s room, and we’re set in here, and the food should be ready in”—I steal a quick look at my watch—“thirty minutes, so I think that’s about everything.” I catch the edge of Zoe’s knowing smile, and nudge her with my shoulder.“It soothes me,” I say.
Right then, the sound of the house’s old mechanical doorbell rings out, and I smile to hear it, wishing I could have caught Alex’s expression when he twisted the handle. I know he’d love that old detail about the house as much as I had.
