Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

39 | You Know What You Know

|photo by Sigmund from Unsplash|

Conner leaves the penthouse at 4:30 p.m. He agrees—with extreme reluctance—not to contact me. But he cheats before he even makes it to the subway: Scarecrow loves Dorothy. 4-ever.

I knock on Chase's door at 4:40. He takes in my red eyes and wild hair and his shoulders drop. "Come inside," he says, offering his hand.

He leads me through the kitchen, where he grabs a box of tissues from the counter before we head down the hall to his bedroom. I sit cross-legged on the edge of his platform bed. Chase closes the door, pulls his desk chair in front of me and sits: leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands. This is a position I've come to know well from our lunches together. He's ready to hear what I have to say.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I came to say goodbye—and sorry for ditching you. I won't be attending the Allemande."

He leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, that sucks. I was going to make my big move after that dance."

"My life would be far less complicated if you would've made a move when we were in the Hamptons," I say.

"Conner didn't tell you about Montauk?"

"No, I guess I forgot to ask."

"I won't bore with the story, but—"

"Please tell me the story," I beg.

Chase sighs his concession. "One summer Conner and I met a girl from Montauk. We were both interested so we made a gentleman's agreement. I staked a claim."

"That's a very short story."

Chase nods but doesn't offer any additional information.

"So with me it was just Conner's turn?" I ask.

"The agreement doesn't work that way. Conner asked me to step aside. I asked him not to drag you into the middle of the crazy shit-trap he's got going with Paige."

I never thought of it that way. Conner is trapped. He can't run away.

"That's the warning you should've..." I can't finish because my tears start again.

A better warning wouldn't have mattered anyway—I was already too far in. And it's not like I regret the time I've spent with Conner.

"He said you were going to help him get out of it," Chase says. "Apparently, he was wrong."

The tears come faster. I pluck a tissue out of the box.

Chase stands. "You're going to dehydrate. I'll get you some water."

He leaves the room. I scoot off the bed and walk over to his desk, which is very modern and tilted just slightly, almost like an easel.

"It's a drafting table," he says when he comes back with a bottle of water. He pulls a drawer open, takes out a piece of paper and presents it to me. "Your parting gift."

It's a drawing of my house. Not a house that looks like mine but my house, complete with Helen's porch furniture and the crepe myrtle trees Dad planted on either side of the wide steps.

"How did you do this?" I ask.

"Emily gave me a picture." He points to the shelf above his drafting table. A snapshot of my house—accessorized with a fifteen-year-old Thea, arms wrapped around Monty. It's leaning against a framed photo, similar to the one Megan found online: Chase and Conner at the State championships.

"Your aunt has quite a few pictures of you," he says. "I saw you naked. Not very thrilling, though. You were two."

He hitches a hopeful eyebrow. I'm sure he's waiting for me to play along. But right now, I'm sort of fixated on that photo of him and Conner. "Do you by any chance have an extra one of those I could have?" I ask, pointing. "Or I guess I could just swipe it off the Internet."