Chapter 26
Jess
Up close and in person, the pea-green houseboat isn’t nearly as charming as it might initially have seemed: the siding cheap aluminum, the porch railings grayish-white and rickety, the windows dirty around the edges. The sign by the front door—the one emblazoned with the name of the man Mom left us for—is easy to overlook, because the rest of the space is cluttered: a broom leaning against the wall, a pair of shoes next to a faded welcome mat, a terra-cotta pot with no plant that I can see growing inside it.
It’s certainly no movie set, but I guess it’s a fine place to hide.
“We should probably go up,” says Tegan from beside me. “We’re kind of lurking out here.”
Her voice sounds good. Not upbeat, really, but not nervous, either. It sounds normal, which is a relief.
But I still can’t look over at her, not yet, and I doubt she wants me to. We’ve been avoiding each other’s eyes since this morning, when she stepped out of the hotel room bathroom. Her hair smooth and curled carefully at the ends. Mascara on to darken her pale lashes. Glowy pink on her cheeks. This morning, she took more care with her appearance than she has on this entire trip, and I knew she didn’t want me to notice, let alone to comment on it.
I don’t really know if all teenagers are like Tegan. But I do know that sometimes, the hardest, most heartbreaking moments with her are the ones where I’m reminded that all her flintiness, all her toughness and sarcasm and attitude is only a front. A cover for her tender vulnerability, a cover for the fact that there’s a part of her—a big, beating part—that’s still desperate for approval.
From a woman who left her ten years ago.
Right this second, I’m so raw and angry and sad over Tegan’s curled hair and dark lashes and sparkling cheeks that I hardly trust myself to go inside this little houseboat.
I breathe through my nose, determined to calm down. I’ve already decided that Mom doesn’t get any of my emotions today. I decided to leave them all in the parking lot before sunrise. I think of Adam’s arms around me, strong and steady; I think of his low voice in my ear.The way I feel about you . . .
It gives me a strange sort of courage to remember it. As though everything I’m overwhelmed about is stored somewhere safe for now. I can take it all out and look at it later.
“Sure,” I say to Tegan now, relieved about the normal sound of my own voice.
But when I take a step forward, to the small ramp that crosses the water and leads up to that cluttered front porch, Tegan doesn’t move.
I turn to look back at her, have another of those heartbreaking moments. I knew her hair would have trouble holding up in this humidity.
“You okay?” I ask her. It sounds as silly as it did when Adam asked me.
“Yeah, I’m good.” But her eyes are locked on that porch. “There’s two chairs. On the porch.”
I briefly look over my shoulder. I guess I didn’t really notice, but she’s right. Two plastic chairs.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
About Lynton, I mean. He’s almost certainly dead, and even if he’s not, Salem doesn’t think he’s here. She asked around yesterday.
“It means she probably has a friend. At least one friend. Someone who comes over. Someone she talks to, or whatever.”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
“That’s so shitty, you know? That she like—hasfriends.”
Beneath her sparkly blush, there’s an added flush to her cheeks now. It’s hitting her now, maybe: After all this time, the frustration she’s had toward me is finding a new target in Mom. Probably I should revel in it, be glad that we’re finally fully on the same page.
But there’s really no revelry about this.
“We don’t have to go in there. We don’t have to have anything to do with this. We’ve led them right to her, and that can be enough.”
She nods. “I know. But I still want to go.”
“Okay.”
She still doesn’t move, though. She keeps her eyes on those two empty chairs.
“I think we should get Adam and Salem.”
