The sky drops closer and changes to a dingy gray.
After Smith drops me off, I watch from the front window as he pulls out of the driveway, rain falling in sheets, slanted and cold, carried by wind blustering in from the foothills. Thunder rumbles overhead, beads of water beating against the windows, rolling down the glass like tears. It's normally soothing, the persistent cadence of a downpour, but not today. Today it only adds to the gloom weighing down my head and chest; the heavy burden draped across my already aching shoulders.
The soccer game only lasted one quarter before lightning made them quit, a text from a fellow teammate notified me of that. She said no one's heart was in it anyway—not even Coach's. They were too busy worrying about Jordan, wondering if she's okay.
From what I've pieced together after texting with friends, Jordan and a group of girls hung out in the diner's parking lot until sometime after midnight when she told them she was heading home. Whether she'd planned to come to my place, or if it happened on a whim, I don't know. So, I decide not to mention her texts. It wouldn't change the outcome, anyway. Her car still would have gone over the rail, crashing into the valley below.
I hope she pulls through. Not only because she knows something I don't, but because she didn't deserve to get into an accident. No matter what she's done, what she may be guilty of, Jordan shouldn't be in that hospital, fighting for her life.
Mom senses something's off as soon as she returns from her appointment. After telling her about the accident, she leaves me to my thoughts, glancing up from her computer every few minutes with worried eyes. "When I'm finished with this proposal, do you want to grab a bite to eat? Your choice. Except not that Italian place by the mall. Last time we ate there I was bloated for a week."
"That's because you scarfed down all the garlic breadsticks," I tell her, my eyes never leaving my phone. I've been searching for news articles about Jordan's crash, but they all say the same thing—which is a whole lot of nothing.
What I really want to do is call Dad and ask him to check into it for me, but I hate to put him in that position. Sharing information about patients in his hospital is against the law, and even though he'd never break that confidentiality, he'd feel awful telling me no.
"That wasn't me," Mom says. "It's called PMS. It has a mind of its own." She closes her laptop and sets it on the table next to her. "Anything new about Jordan?"
"Not since you asked ten minutes ago."
"Wow. Sorry I'm concerned about your friend."
Guilt squeezes my chest. When I look up, Mom's tucking her hair behind her ears, a sure-fire sign that she's pissed off or worried. Probably both. I blow out a breath. "Sorry. I'm just tired of all the drama."
"I get it," she says with a slow nod. "You've had a rough year—first with Emma, and now Jordan. You're due for some good news. I mean, Emma coming home was great news, but things haven't been the same between you two. Especially now that she knows about Smith."
Outside the window, lightning streaks across the sky like veins, leaving the air charged with electricity. I swipe the article from my screen and set down my phone. "Actually, she's okay with it."
Mom's eyes widen. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." I bite back how it happened, how she waited for me in my room. In the dark. Didn't make herself known until I was almost naked, like her presence was a threat. "But honestly, I don't think we'll ever be as close as we were. She's changed too much—and not in a good way."
I can't explain what I mean and don't even want to try. It's too much, and I don't want Mom to make me regret my decisions.
Mom sinks into the cushion and criss-crosses her legs in front of her, the same way preschoolers would during story-time. "How do you mean?"
She's not about to let me off the hook. I hesitate. "I don't know. Her personality's different. I expected her to be fragile and closed-off, not bitter to the point of abrasive. It's like she doesn't care about the things she used to and has no empathy in regard to how people feel."
"Maybe it's a defense mechanism? Her putting up a front to protect herself? I read an article once about how psychological trauma can change the brain. In younger people, it can affect their entire personality and, in extreme cases, their identity. They have no control over it."
"But she doesn't even act like she's been kidnapped. She acts like ..." I shrug, not sure what to say. How to finish the sentence. "I don't know. Just different."
Mom gives me a sad smile. "Give her some more time. I know her parents don't believe in therapy, but maybe they'll change their minds. Or maybe, with some extra support from her friends, she'll start feeling like herself again. The worst thing you can do is give up on her. Whether Emma knows it or not, she needs you right now. Don't write her off because she's different than how she used to be."
I break eye contact and turn away, not wanting her to see what I'm really thinking. What if Emma was never kidnapped at all? What if she's involved in something else? Something she's keeping a secret? I don't say these things out loud, but I want to. It'd be nice to share my thoughts so they'd stop bouncing around my head all the time, immense and out of control.
"Maybe we can convince her parents to let you two hang out sometime?"
My head whips back to her in shock. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Come on, kiddo." Mom's voice is borderline pleading, which I despise. Nothing good ever comes from her using that tone. "It would do her a world of good to get out of that house. Being cooped up like that isn't helping anything. And you could use the break, too." Her eyebrows form perfect arches as she studies me, as if she's expecting a challenge. So, I give her what she wants.
"I take breaks all the time. I'm watching Rowan tonight—that's something. And I went to the football game last night and out to eat afterward."
Mom cocks her head. "You know what I mean. You need to release some of that pent up tension."
Because kicking my ass on the soccer field every day isn't enough? I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out. I'm not convinced Mom knows what she's talking about, but it's pointless to bring that up.
So instead, I roll off the couch and stretch, back arched, arms reaching above my head. "I'm going to get ready. Dad's expecting me around four-thirty."
"Four-thirty? That's early," she says, her brain switching gears. "Will you have to make dinner?"
"If I do, they usually leave money to order pizza or something. No big deal."
I'm about to climb the stairs when Mom calls me back. "All I'm asking is that you think about what I said, okay? Emma could use a friend, and what better friend than her best friend?"
I give her a reluctant nod and drag myself upstairs. Maybe she's right? Maybe all Emma needs is a little more understanding? After all, I have no idea what she's going through, or if the experience changed her brain.
That's what I tell myself, anyway. But a small voice inside insists I shouldn't let my guard down.
And this time ... I'm going with my gut.
"Your dad's still getting ready," Meredith says as soon as I step inside the house. "How do I look?"
She spins in her chunky heels, the skirt of her emerald green dress flaring out around her calves. The material's fitted in the middle, emphasizing a slightly pooched belly, but I pretend not to notice.
"Amazing." And I mean it. With her dramatic make-up and honey-blonde hair smoothed into a fancy up-do, she's completely transformed. It looks like she's about to walk the red carpet, not attend a boring hospital party. "Is Rowan around?" I ask, though there's really no need to. Notes from the Grand Piano carry throughout the house and swirl around us.
"You know where to find her." Meredith gives me that special smile, the one reserved for Rowan's many accomplishments, and heads toward the stairs. "Meanwhile, I'm going to hurry your father up. And he says I'm the one who takes forever!"
I follow the melody through the house, across the foyer, beneath the crystal chandelier, past the curved staircase winding into an open balcony overhead. The great room is exactly how it sounds: a vast area with cathedral ceilings and an entire wall made of glass. It looks over trees turning red, orange, and gold, a vibrant backdrop to Gull Lake's normally peaceful waves. But today, raindrops pelt the water, creating millions of tiny splashes across its black surface.
Opposite the window is a massive fireplace framed in local river rock. Beige and gray stones climb up the wall and touch the ceiling, but the mantle of antique barn wood deserves an equal amount of appreciation. The knotty timber hosts a number of family photos, all developed in black and white and mounted in brushed steel.
Like everything else in Menteuse, the scene is picture perfect: a fire sizzling in the hearth, bathing the room in a comforting glow. Rowan's blonde hair falling in waves down her back, her fingers gliding over the ivory keys as if that's what they were made to do.
An ebony piano graces the far corner, the shine on the hinged lid visible from across the room. The music rising from the strings is both eerie and breathtaking. For a moment, all I can do is absorb the classical piece she's creating, the inflection of notes more mature than her seven years.
Suddenly, Rowan stops, and her back straightens. "Arbor, is that you?"
It still amazes me how she just knows. I smile and cross the room, slide in next to her on the bench. "Hey, munchkin. Just enjoying the show. I've never heard you play that one before. What's it called?"
"Comptine D'un Autre Été by Yann Tiersen," she says, not even stumbling over the pronunciation. "I'm still learning it."
I needle her in the ribs until a grin stretches across her face. "You sounded pretty good to me. I can't wait for the day when we can watch you in a real concert. Someplace big—like Carnegie Hall."
"Carnegie Hall is for amateurs. I'm going to play at the Wiener Musikverein in Austria. It's the greatest concert hall in the entire world."
There's a gleam in her eyes that makes me laugh out loud. "Well, then I stand corrected. Wiener Musikverein it is."
"There they are! I love it when my girls are together," a voice says from behind. I swivel around just as Dad and Meredith walk into the room. And just like his wife, he's dressed to impress: tailored black suit, a starched white shirt underneath, and a black bow tie to top it off. On anyone else, that tie would look ridiculous, but my dad pulls it off without a problem.
"Hey," I say when he plants a kiss on my forehead. "You're looking especially handsome."
"Already thinking of your Christmas list, I see," he teases with one eyebrow quirked higher on his forehead.
Rowan giggles next to me. "Momma says he looks like a giant penguin!"
"Well, now that you mention it—he sort of does." I give dad a wink so he knows I'm only joking.
A sudden clap of thunder shakes the house and Meredith lets out a groan. "Of course it had to rain tonight. My hair's going to be a frizzy mess before we even get to the party."
"Oh, stop. You'll be the prettiest one there. Same as always." Dad leans in as if he's going to kiss her cheek, but he must whisper in her ear instead, because a pink tinge creeps up Meredith's neck and devours her face.
She tries not to smile but fails. "There's money for pizza on the kitchen island, and please make sure Rowan stays on schedule. She'll be a cranky monster, otherwise."
"No problem."
"If I were you, I wouldn't bother waiting up," Dad adds, his hand finding the small of Meredith's back. "And remember: no parties."
The only party I'm planning is a party for two. Me and Smith. Not the same thing, though I'm sure he'd be just as disappointed. Probably more.
Rowan releases another giggle. "Don't worry, Daddy. I'll make sure she behaves." He readjusts his tie and ruffles her hair.
After they kiss us goodnight and disappear into the garage, I turn back to my sister. "So, what do you want to do?"
Her lips pinch together before she responds. "My friend Ellie had a slumber party last weekend and we played a game called Calling All Ghosts. Do you want to try it?"
"A spooky game? No way—your mom would kill me!"
Rowan cocks her head and flashes an incredulous expression. "What's the matter? Are you afraid?"
"No, I'm not afraid," I repeat, my voice borderline defensive. "I just don't think second graders should be playing those kinds of games. You'll be up all night with nightmares, and I don't want to deal with it."
"I'm not a baby, you know."
"I never said you were. But the answer's still no."
"Oh, come on," she pleads. "I'll be your favorite sister."
"You're already my favorite sister!" My arms wrap her in a tight bear hug. "Tell you what. I'll tell you one semi-spooky story before bed, but that's it. Deal?"
"Since you're bigger than me, I guess it's going to have to be."
"Good. Now what do you want on your pizza?"
Rowan jumps in her seat, jarring the bench along the floor. "Pepperoni!"
It's nice to see her this way; happy and excitable. Sometimes, I worry the challenges she'll face will turn her jaded and bitter. Then again, maybe it's not a challenge if it's all she's ever known.
While we eat, I put on a Disney movie with audio description narration and we spend the next ninety minutes singing along with the characters. But as soon as it's over, my eyes shoot towards the clock. Smith will be here around eight-thirty. For that to work, Rowan's bedtime routine needs to move along.
"Bath time," I announce after everything's tidied up.
"But I'm not ready yet."
"Sorry, kid—I don't make the rules. Your mom wants you on a schedule."
"I won't tell if you won't."
"Ha! Nice try though," I say, trying to hide my amusement. "Upstairs. Now."
I march her up the stairs and start the bath while she takes her sweet time getting undressed. Before long, the tub is heaping with a mountain of scented bubbles and the mirror above the double sink fogs over with steam. After what feels like an eternity, Rowan finally sinks into the warm water, the tips of her blond hair floating atop its surface. I drop to my knees alongside her and watch as she plays with her toys.
"Arbor?" she asks as she squeezes a plastic narwhal. Remnants from a previous bath spray out a hole in its tusk.
I scoop water into my hands, and pour it over her head. "Yes?"
"Do you still talk to Emma?"
Her question catches me off guard. I pause, something uneasy spreading in my chest. "Um, sure I do. Why's that?"
Rowan doesn't answer, she just shakes her head.
"Come on. You must have asked for a reason." I tuck a dry washcloth into her hand so she can wipe her face. When she does, waves ripple across the water.
"Just curious."
It's an odd question to ask out of the blue, so it must have been weighing on her mind. But her lips remain sealed, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the bath. "Emma told me she misses hanging out with you," I tell her.
Rowan's head dips, but I can still make out her eyes beneath those impossibly long lashes. Her voice, when it comes, is quieter than before. "I don't want to do that anymore."
"You don't want to hang out?" I sit back on my legs, trying to ignore the prickly sensation creeping up my spine. "Why not?"
"I just don't want to."
Some time passes before I respond, my head trying to wrap around Rowan's sudden angst. "I'm sorry if Emma makes you uncomfortable. What happened wasn't her fault, you know. But you don't have to see her if you don't want to. I'd never force you to do anything that makes you feel bad. Okay?"
"Okay." Rowan feels for the mound of bubbles in front of her and gathers them in her arms, then smashes it on top of her head and laughs, the conversation over.