:: C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N | MY MISSIONARIES IN A FOREIGN FIELD ::
I could've cut the awkwardness in the air with a chainsaw — if I was the sort of person who made a habit of trying to fit shop tools in my bag. For once Liam kept his eyes on the road, and I did my best to avoid looking at him, fidgeting with the zipper on my jacket and sliding up and down anxiously as we sped down main street. I braided loose strands of my hair behind my ear to keep myself from breaking the silence. I was pretty sure that climbing into a car with an angry Inheritor was a stupid idea, but I didn't really have an option when Liam had been waiting by my locker with the same blank, shuttered look he'd been wearing since lunch. I'd only had time to give Jules a helpless smile before Liam dragged me away.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why he'd only spoken two words to me for the last half of the day.
But I hadn't meant what I said to Meg. I did care, and I cared too much. There was something about Liam that made me forget about all of the horrible things that I'd experienced at the hands of the Inheritors.
"Where are we going?"
"Karen's house," he answered a few minutes later.
"Oh." My bag, sitting on my lap, suddenly felt a lot heavier. "Is she expecting us?"
"I called her last night. It'd be rude to cancel on her now."
I winced. "I don't want to force you to do something you don't want — I can go by myself."
The car whipped around a corner, and my head smacked against the window. "Yes," Liam said through gritted teeth. "I'm completely aware of how much you need me, but I'm not just going to sic you on Karen with a bunch of questions that are only going to upset her."
"Sinclair—"
"Is that why you won't call me by my first name? Because I'm just some thing that's going to help you get answers?"
"We've been through this before," I said impatiently as we pulled up in front of Mrs. Daniels' house. "I'm—"
He ripped open his door and hurled himself out of the car.
"Okay then," I muttered. "Go ahead and sulk or whatever you're doing. I don't care."
"That's the problem with you, Reed," he snapped, whirling around to face me on the walkway that led up to the front door. "You never care enough!"
"You don't know anything!" My hands curled into fists, my fingernails digging into the flesh. "I care, goddammit! Too much!"
My mouth swung shut with an audible click, and he froze.
"Reed—"
"Forget it," I muttered, shouldering past him before ringing the doorbell.
She answered almost immediately and I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from gasping. Mrs. Daniels still retained her graceful beauty, but her gaunt frame caused the shoulder seams of her flowered blouse to hang nearly to her elbows and her grey trousers were cinched so tightly around her waist that the fabric folded in spots around the belt. Her silver hair, pulled in a half-up style with a silver clip, pooled listlessly around her shoulders and despite small hints of eyeshadow and mascara, her big eyes looked sunken in her thin face.
"Hello," she greeted softly. "Please come in."
"Thanks for seeing us, Karen." Liam prodded me through the threshold, obnoxiously stepping on my heels as he closed the door. "I'm sorry to bother you again."
"You never bother me." She smiled, but the emptiness in her eyes didn't disappear. "I always enjoy your visits." Mrs. Daniels led us to the living room where a tray of tea, cookies and fruit was set up on the coffee table. The house was scrupulously clean, but it felt empty — like it hadn't really been inhabited since Kian's death. The pictures on the mantle were meticulously lined up in chronological order, their matching gold frames gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. There was a trophy beside the last picture, and when I squinted, I could see the engraved plate that said, "Most Valuable Player."
"Did you forget a few of your questions, Reed?" Mrs. Daniels asked me as she sank into the pale blue armchair while Liam sat beside me on the couch.
"Yes," I said, deciding that that was the easiest answer. "I did."
"I'll do my best to answer them."
"Karen, you don't have to," Liam interjected. I glared at him. Was he seriously trying to stop me when he'd already promised that I'd learn everything?
"You said that Reed only wants to learn more about Kian." Mrs. Daniels poured tea into each of the cups. "I trust that the information she thinks would hurt Kian's image won't end up in the article."
"It won't," I said, taking the cup from her. "I'm just having trouble understanding who Kian is, and I hoping that learning more about him will make the feature better."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"
"Did Kian lose the university scholarship that he thought that he'd get?" Liam glanced at me sharply, but I ignored him. I wasn't going to waste time gently prodding for information that I needed.
She sniffed, already reaching for a tissue from the box on the coffee table. My stomach twisted, but I ignored the remorse. I had to be harsh — that's how journalism went. "Kian didn't get the athletic scholarship to Toronto that he wanted. He didn't tell me how he felt, but I think he was so ashamed because he had thrown himself into making sure that it would happen."
I took a long breath. I hadn't wanted to believe it when I'd read Kian's last journal entry, but if his mother thought that was the reason for his death, what else was I supposed to believe? There was no doubt that it had brought Kian down. He had lost his ticket out. That was true pain — losing what you had dedicated your whole life to achieving.
"But what about an academic scholarship?" I blurted out, hoping that something had changed after his last journal entry. "I mean — he must have had good grades to be in St. Benedict."
"He did, but he had let his grades slip this year. He was so focused on sports that they dropped a tiny bit, but when it's that important ..." said Mrs. Daniels, her voice trailing off. "You see, I couldn't afford to send him to Toronto. But he could have gone to a smaller college, a good college — I could have helped him."
I heard what she left unspoken. Kian had only wanted U of T, and he wouldn't have settled to go to another school that his peers would have ridiculed.
Her watery eyes met mine. "Please don't think any less of Kian because he was scared. He was just so used to being good at what he did, at reaching all of his goals. When things didn't work out, he just didn't know how to cope with failure."
Mrs. Daniels reached for my hand. "Kian was a good person, but when he finally go into St. Benedict and became accepted by the . . . the wealthier students, I think he forgot who he was and where he came from."
"I understand," I said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, Liam's presence making everything ten times more awkward. "He wanted to fit in."
Mrs. Daniels' hands trembled as she set down her water glass. "I wish that I never sent him to St. Benedict. Maybe he wouldn't have been so talented without the school's teachers and resources, but at least he would have still been alive."
"Was he different after he learned that he hadn't received any of the scholarships that he had applied for?" I asked.
"No, because he was still positive that he would get some kind of bursary," she said as she pulled an envelope from under a pile of paper on the side table and handed it to me. "This letter was delivered a week before he died."
I opened the flap of the slender envelope and read the words on the single sheet of thick, expensive paper while Liam read over my shoulder. It had been written a day before Kian's last journal entry. The letterhead showed that it was from a private foundation connected to U of T — some organization named after a billionaire philanthropist, I guessed. The foundation's director apologized profusely for rejecting Kian's financial aid application before wishing him good luck with his post-secondary education.
Had that man just expected Kian to brush off the setback like it meant nothing?
"I think that's what pushed him over the edge," whispered Mrs. Daniels. "He knew that he wouldn't be able to go to U of T, that he would have to settle for a second-choice university and work instead of focusing on sports."
"And he couldn't bear to give them up?" I questioned. It was strange to learn about the selfish side of Kian — was it really that bad to give up on a dream of being a star athlete at an nationally recognized school? Had the Inheritors' spoiled-rich-kid attitude rubbed off on him over the past four years?
"He devoted his entire life to sports. He couldn't give them up any more than you could give up writing, Reed."
I felt a rush of anger. "And you blame yourself because you couldn't give him this one thing," I said sharply.
There was a resigned sadness in her face as she plucked the rejection letter from my hand, examining it before shoving it back in the envelope. "I was supposed to give him a better life."
"You did give him a good life," defended Liam. "Kian loved you."
Her lips trembled, and her eyes grew glassy. "Yes, he loved me, but I wasn't enough for him." Mrs. Daniels picked up her teacup, her hand shaking so badly that drops of tea spilled over the rim. "I got a letter from Social Services a few days after he died. It was a follow-up asking if Kian was going to search for his p-parents." She began to sob, burying her face in her hands.
Liam sprang from his spot on the couch to wrap his arms around her fragile shoulders. "Don't think that his death is your fault," he said fiercely. "Kian just wanted to understand where he came from. He never meant for you to feel like you hadn't given him a good enough life."
I sat frozen on the couch while he continued to comfort her. Something about Kian's correspondence with his father didn't sit right with me, and I made a mental note to check his journal when I got home.
I could almost understand why Liam had tried to keep Kian's secrets away from me; Kian had been my idol. He'd been perfect — the shining example of what a person should be — but after seeing how much his selfishness still tormented his mother, I couldn't help but think of him as a villain.
I didn't say much as we left Mrs. Daniels' house.
I couldn't.
Suddenly, Kian wasn't the boy who could do no wrong, but someone who was just as ordinary and just as scared of failure as I was. Learning about Kian's flaws — his selfishness and his inability to compromise — knocked him down from the pedestal I had unconsciously put him on. I was no longer freaked out about describing him on paper, but I didn't know how to write him in a way that wouldn't completely butcher the image that he'd so carefully built.
In fact, I was angry with Kian. He had been so caught up in the agony of failure that he hadn't even thought of the one person who loved him without question. Instead, he had been more concerned about the opinions of people who really didn't care about him unless he was winning them championships.
I thought of how Mrs. Daniels would never stop blaming herself for something that wasn't her fault. It had been Kian's choice to kill himself, and no matter how terrified he was of a future that didn't fit his long-term game plan, he hadn't made the right decision.
Science tells us that atoms aren't created or destroyed. When they split, the energy is only transferred. Pain is the same way. Suicide doesn't make the hurt go away; it only transfers all of that pain to someone else.
Liam didn't start his car after we climbed in. "Do you see why I didn't want to tell you now?" he asked quietly.
"No I don't." My voice trembled. "I've always thought that Kian was perfect. I thought that he couldn't do anything wrong. I've always tried to be as good as Kian was. Shit, I've been beating myself up for so long because I couldn't be as good as him!"
"He wasn't perfect, but he was better than most of us."
"Does Davina think that?" I demanded. "What about Mrs. Daniels? She's slowly killing herself over something that she didn't even have control over!"
He stared at me, his cobalt eyes flashing with undisguised curiosity. "What do you care so much about Kian?"
I didn't realize that I was half off of my seat until his words deflated my anger, and I fell back into the seat with a dull thud, rubbing my arms where the old bruises still haunted me. "I never actually had a conversation with Kian, but he ... helped me last year, and I've always felt like I owe it to him to, you know, pass on the good deed."
"Did he help you with your homework?" joked Liam weakly.
I watched the streetlights flicker on in the early evening light. "Not funny," I said, my voice flat. "Not funny at all."
I'd never told anyone about what'd happened to me last October, not even Jules. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I'd tried to give myself therapy using tips that I'd found on the internet. It wasn't my fault — I knew that — but I couldn't help but think that if I hadn't agreed to stay late in the journalism lab like Meg had demanded or walked by the vending machine that only sold water, my memories of my first kiss wouldn't be of an Inheritor pinning my body against the lockers as he shoved his tongue down my throat.
Kian was the one who had rescued me — pulling Skylar and Dave away before they'd stolen any more of my firsts.
We fell into an uncomfortable silence.
"Put on your seatbelt," he said suddenly, and before I could protest, he stomped on the accelerator. "We're going for ice cream."
"Please drop me off at Jules' house," I asked wearily. "I don't want to go anywhere."
"Reed." He completely turned in his seat, one hand on the wheel while his other hand tucked hair behind my ear. We swerved into the other lane, and it was lucky that the street wasn't busy or else we would've died in a car crash because Liam couldn't drive to save his life. Literally. "I'm not driving to Jules' house until you explain."
I sighed, still hyper-aware that Liam wasn't driving with two hands. His thumb lingered on my chin, just below my lips. My instincts screamed at me to move away, but I didn't.
"There's a place that I used to go with Kian," he said, replacing his free hand on the wheel when I didn't speak. "Kian loved their pineapple milkshakes. I think they're disgusting, but they make me feel like I have my friend back again."
"I love those things." Liam parked his car, managing to take up three spots, and I clambered out. "We always get them when my mom's home."
Milk Ice—Scire's ice cream shop on main street was bursting with people when we walked through the door. It was a popular place, and well-liked for its ancient jukebox that only accepted quarters older than 1989, black-and-white checkered floor and red vinyl seats with matching chrome-trimmed tables. A pretty blond girl was serving customers behind the counter, her baseball cap slightly askew as she loaded pink and blue ice cream into a cone.
"We'll take ours to go," decided Liam as we ordered two fluorescent yellow pineapple milkshakes. "It's too crowded in here."
He paid (and I couldn't really protest because it was his idea to go for ice cream and I also didn't have any money with me) while I pretended not to notice when the girl whose name tag said Lillian slipped him her number hastily scrawled on a napkin. He tossed it in the garbage when she wasn't looking, and I tried not to smile.
"These are so bad." He grimaced, chewing on his straw as he leaned against the hood of his car. "How can you even stand them?"
I shrugged, letting the familiar flavour of cold cream and sweet fibres of pineapple mix. Pineapple milkshakes were an acquired taste—when my mom had introduced them to me, I'd hated them before realizing that it was a way I could share something with her before she jetted off to another country.
For a few minutes, the only noise we made was the slurping of my straw as I cleaned up the last dregs of the shake and Liam's disgusted grunts as he forced it down. He tossed his empty cup in the garbage can before doing the same with mine.
Liam shifted closer to me, his arm brushing my shoulder. "So," he began. "Are we going to talk?"
I exhaled through my nose. "I-I c-can't." A part of me wanted to spill everything to Liam, but a larger, smarter part knew that it wouldn't end well. I'd been hurt too many times; I couldn't suddenly decide to trust someone because they asked nicely.
He didn't bother me for more information like I expected. Instead he pulled me into a hug. I stiffened until I realized that all he wanted was for me to wrap my arms around his waist and hug him back. I buried my face in his shirt, inhaling his scent—a mix of cloves and evergreen needles and Old Spice—that had become so familiar that I hadn't even realized how much it made my heart race.
"I don't know what happened to you," he said, his voice muffled by my hair. "But I want you to know that I'm here when you're ready to talk about it."
I tightened my arms around his waist and hoped that he understood it as a silent thank you. We hugged for such a long time that I lost track of time—until Davina's voice broke us apart.
"Don't procreate on the pavement," she said wrinkling her nose, a pineapple milkshake clutched in her hand. "Public indecency is against the law."
"We were just hugging," I mumbled.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "That's what they all say, Elliot."
***
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