|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."
Chase takes the frame off the shelf and hands it to me.
"I can't take this one," I say—as I latch onto it with my free hand.
"Yes, you can. I don't need a picture of Barlow. I see his sorry ass every day."
I nod my agreement because I don't want to argue—and because I really want the picture. "I want it because you're in it," I tell him, which is true. "And you're half-naked. Which is probably all I can handle."
He laughs like he did that day at the beach.
"Thank you, Chase. And for the beautiful drawing, too. I'm going to frame it when I get home. You're the best pretend boyfriend I've ever had."
"You're the only girl-who's-just-a-friend I've ever had," he says. "And I'm going to miss you."
I'm going to miss him, too, but I can't say it because my throat is closing and my eyes are stinging. Chase takes the drawing and the frame out of my hands and pulls me against his chest.
"I can't rescue him from the crazy shit-trap," I sob.
"You shouldn't even try. You were right yesterday when you said Conner needs to learn to take care of himself. That's what you're doing, right?"
"I don't know," I say, breaking out of his arms so I can pace. "This was supposed to be a nine-month detour. I'm supposed to go back with a diploma, proof that I'm not afraid to leave home. Nothing about this feels right. I mean, I'm not sure if..." I stop in front of him. "Do you believe things happen for a reason?"
"I think people have a tendency to want to assign meaning to things that happen. It helps them process."
"So then you don't believe in fate."
He gives a noncommittal shrug. "I believe in intuition. You know what you know, Thea. Trust that."
He's right. I've gathered enough information to know I can't stay here. "But going home..." I groan and let myself collapse onto Chase's bed. "It won't be the same—I'm not the same. I don't want to navigate these consequences."
"Ah," Chase says. "I forgot about your ex."
"That and a pissed-off mom. Starting yet another new school. My life-plan obliterated."
"Blame it all on the tornado, Dorothy."
"Oh believe me, I do."
But that doesn't feel right either.
"I think...if it didn't hurt so much...that I might actually be grateful for the tornado," I say, and Chase smiles, like that's the exact thing he's been waiting to hear.
* * *
I'm more than half packed when the Wicked Witch appears in my doorway holding Toto. "Your mother's not happy with your decision," she says.
Aunt Emily sounds pretty irritated herself. I'd like her to know I'm not leaving because of her. But I can't talk about Conner right now so I nod and keep folding.
"I told her she was being too hard on you," she says.
"You did?"
She takes this as an invitation to sit on my bed, which No-No takes as an invitation to climb into my suitcase. "I think it annoys her that you take after me," Emily adds.
"I take after you?"
She laughs and I realize how horrified I sound. "Sorry," I say.
My apology is dismissed with a swipe of a freshly manicured hand. Happy hour must have started at the office.
"Maybe you inherited it from your father," she says, "but you and I have the trait in common. We're leaders. We stand up for ourselves—and for others. Helen was a follower. I'm sure you can imagine, now that you've spent time at Zachary, how miserable your mother was there. Her ilk would never have befriended a girl like Paige Lyons."
"Mom never talks about her friends from Zachary," I say, steering the subject away from Paige. I can't talk about her either.
"Helen didn't have friends at Zachary," Aunt Emily says, and there's a finality to her tone. She walks to my closet and pulls out the garment bag that protects Dorothy's gown. "I'll have this mailed to you. Along with anything else you don't want to lug through that horrible airport."
Yep. The door is closed on the topic of my mother.
"Thanks," I say. "There are a few things that won't fit in my suitcase." Things that won't fit because my silver shoes have to be packed in their box so they won't get crushed. I put the overflow items on the dresser, next to the stack of clothes made of Zachary plaid.
"I'm sorry you wasted all that money on my uniforms," I tell her.
"Not a waste, darling. I'll give them to my girls."
She laughs—because my mouth is gaping.
"The girls I sponsor," she clarifies. "And I'll box Ms. Ambroise in her pointy nose if she tells them they can't deviate from the dress code any more than the rest of us did."
The rest of us? Meaning she and Ambroise were at Zachary together?
I have got to hear this story.
"I think you and I should start a new tradition," she says. "Would you like to visit me without your mother every now and again?"
"Yes. That would be amazing."
She leans in to kiss my cheek. "You have a standing invitation from Jesminda for long weekends at the Water Mill estate," she says.
"That's very sweet of her but..." I wouldn't dare, now that I know I was taking Conner's spot.
I blow out a breath, shake my head. "Right now I need to concentrate on getting back into school."
"You start Chesapeake Collegiate next week. Ambroise will send the transcripts and a very complimentary letter of recommendation first thing Monday morning."
Wow. "What do you have on her?" I ask.
My aunt smiles. "Let me know when you're ready for a break from packing," she says. "We'll go out for dinner."
"Okay, so you have your secrets."
"And you have yours," she says, raising a challenging eyebrow. "Any more questions?"
"Um, yeah. Why aren't you mad at me?"
"Should I be mad at you?"
"You wanted me to be a debutante."
"Yes, well, who wouldn't want their very own Socialite Barbie?"
"And I was such a bitch about all of it. I'm sorry."
"Two things, darling. Never refer to yourself—or allow anyone else to refer to you as a dog. And never apologize for standing up for yourself." She waits for my nod before she continues. "I am disappointed that I won't be sponsoring the belle of the ball but I'm not angry. I got over that two vodka tonics ago."
"Speaking of which..." She heads for the door. "Can I get you anything?" she asks, already in the hallway.
"I'll take a beer."
She comes back to my doorway. "Really? You don't know your father well enough to know I got my posterior chewed for contributing to your delinquency?"
The you-ungrateful-brat is implied. "Sorry," I say.
"Apology accepted," she calls out on her way back to the bar.