More Than We Can Tell Page 11

  “No!”

  “Why?”

  She glances away. “It’s silly. Like I said. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. I want to see.”

  “I don’t want you to see.”

  Her words stop me in my tracks. I’m not entirely sure how to take them, and my brain is such a twisted, screwed-up place already. “Okay.”

  Her blush deepens. “It’s not perfect yet. I haven’t even shown my father. It needs to be perfect before I show it to him.”

  “And probably not your mother, either?”

  “God, no. She wouldn’t be impressed by any of that. She finds it disappointing. So I spend all my time resenting her but also wishing I could please her. If that makes any sense.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.” Light and shadows play games with the trails of water on her face. My eyes trace her lips, the lines of her face, the soft curve of her jaw. I want to touch her so badly that my hand aches for it.

  “Are you stalling?” she whispers.

  It breaks the spell. I blink and look away. “No. Come on.” We start walking again.

  Are you stalling?

  Much like her refusal to let me see her game, I don’t know what to make of that. Maybe this attraction is one-sided. Maybe my head can’t even wrap itself around normal social cues.

  Then again, she’s still holding my hand.

  Maybe she’s not ready to talk about her mother any more than I wanted to talk about my father.

  Maybe I really am stalling.

  “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to mind you bringing a friend home this late?” she says. “A friend with a dog?”

  “Don’t worry.” I glance down at her. “My parents are used to me doing bizarre things.” As we turn the corner to my street, anxiety has my stomach in knots. My father, my parents, Emma at my side. I don’t know if I can do this.

  I wish I could take her to Declan’s house instead.

  I have to clear my throat. “I live just up there. The blue house.” Lightning flashes.

  Emma shivers. “You sound like you want me to just go tell them for you.”

  “Is that an option?” I mean it as a joke, but the words come out too heavy, too serious.

  “No.” She peers up at me. “Or … yes? I mean, if you really want me to?”

  The scenario plays out in my head. Geoff and Kristin have never flinched at anything I’ve ever done or asked, but this would be a new level.

  “No,” I say. “I was kidding.”

  I don’t sound like I’m kidding at all.

  “Would you have really done that?” I ask her.

  “Sure. I mean—I don’t have anything to lose. Any reaction wouldn’t be about me, really.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Do you think they’re going to have a reaction?”

  “That your abusive father is e-mailing you? Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re going to have a reaction. What other things has he said to you? Does he threaten you?”

  The very existence of his e-mails feel like a threat. I stop in the rain again. “Here. I’ll show you the rest.”

  We’re on the sidewalk in front of the house now. Geoff or Kristin could look out and see me standing here. It’s unlikely, though. Their bedroom is at the back of the house. So are the kitchen and the family room. I told them I was going to Declan’s, so they’re not going to expect me to come home from this direction. We have time.

  Emma reads quickly—but it’s not like his e-mails have a lot of text. It’s the underlying messages that hit so hard. Her hand hovers over the screen as she flicks to scroll.

  “I thought his e-mails were going to sound nuts, but they don’t. He sounds pretty lucid. I can see what you mean. It’s almost diabolical.”

  Diabolical. That’s such a good word for my father—and one he would hate, because it means devil-like at its root.

  I love that Emma used it to describe him. It brings me a measure of comfort. When people dismiss him as crazy, I know they don’t understand. He wasn’t crazy. He was … deliberate. Calculated.

  Then she looks up again. “Is Rev Fletcher not your real name?”

  I blink, thrown. “What?”

  “In his first e-mail, he asks where you came up with Rev Fletcher.” She winces. “Am I not allowed to ask that?”

  “No. No, you can ask me anything.” I run a hand through my hair. I’d forgotten that. “Fletcher is Geoff and Kristin’s last name. I took it when they adopted me.”

  “And Rev? Is that short for something?”

  “Yes. Sort of.” I pause. “When I first came here, I used to jump every time Geoff and Kristin said my name. Because my father would only use it when—” I have to stop. Close my eyes. Take a breath and shake off the memory. “They let me choose a new one.”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  It’s not the next question I was expecting. “What?”

  “A kid just came around the back of your house, saw us, and ran back into your backyard.”

  “What?”

  Emma points. “You said you live in the blue one, right?”

  My eyes zoom in on the house with laser focus. The garage, the trees between our house and the neighbor’s, the shadows along the shrubbery. No motion at all.

  “Wait here.” I sprint up the lawn.

  “Hey!” shouts Emma. Texas barks.

  And then the dog is beside me, and we’re sprinting into the backyard, her leash trailing in the grass. There’s no one here.

  Texas bounces on her front paws, panting excitedly. Then she stops, one paw raised. Her ears are trained on the backyard of the house next door.

  With a loud woof, she bolts.

  I follow her.

  She finds Matthew crouched behind an air-conditioning unit. She’s barking like crazy, her tail wagging fiercely.

  Matthew flattens back against the siding. He’s already soaked from the rain. He looks from me to the dog and back. One hand is behind him, against the house.

  I think of the first night, when I found him with a knife.

  Emma appears around the side of the house. She’s panting. “Rev. What’s—what’s going on?”

  Matthew takes advantage of the distraction. He bolts.

  Texas is not a police dog. She barks and gives chase, but she doesn’t tackle him or anything.

  That’s okay, because I do.

  We roll to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He goes down fighting. I’m ready for a blade to catch me somewhere, but he either dropped it or he never had one. Matthew hits with power, like he’s learned how. He gets some solid jabs into my ribs. The rain makes his skin slick and difficult to grab.

  But I’m stronger than he is. I get an arm around his neck and pin a leg so he can’t get free. He’s got one arm loose, and he’s trying to pry at my arm, but I’ve got leverage and I know what I’m doing. He struggles until I tighten my grip.

  “Knock it off and I’ll let you up,” I say.

  He tries to drive his elbow into my rib cage in response.

  “Rev!” cries Emma. She’s still panting. Rain pours down around us. “Rev—”

  “Go to my house,” I tell her, my voice tight with strain. “Tell my parents where we are.”

  She turns and runs. I love that about her—no hesitation. No second-guessing.

  Matthew finally goes still. His breathing is rough and ragged. “Let me go.”

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Do you want me to let you go or not?”

  “I don’t have anything.” He grinds the words out. “Let me go.”

  I let him go. He immediately digs his feet into the ground and tries to run again.

  I catch his arm. He swings around and drives a fist right into my face.

  Stars explode in my eyes. He breaks free.

  I’m still faster than he is. I tackle him again, and this time I trap him more effectively. I’ve got an arm around his neck and his lower b
ody pinned. He can’t even struggle.

  My jaw hurts. No one has hit me in anger since my father. A dark thought flashes through my mind, that I could break Matthew’s neck right now.

  “Rev!” Geoff’s voice. “Rev! Let him go!”

  I open my eyes. I don’t remember closing them. Matthew’s fingers dig into my forearm, almost a panicked clawing. Geoff, Kristin, and Emma stand in the rain, staring down at us. Texy is straining against her leash, barking wildly. Emma holds her back.

  “Rev, honey,” says Kristin. Concern threads through her voice. She touches my arm. “Rev, let him go.”

  I let him go. I fall away into the grass.

  Matthew doesn’t run this time. He’s making choking sounds, coughing into the grass.

  I did that. I hurt him.

  Shame hits me like a sledgehammer.

  Geoff and Kristin go to Matthew. I’m glad. I don’t deserve their attention right now. I can’t look at any of them.

  “Hey.” Emma speaks right beside me.

  I turn my head and find her crouching in the grass. Texas thrusts her nose into my face and starts licking my cheek.

  It hurts, and I wonder if I’m bleeding. I push the dog’s muzzle away.

  “Are you okay?” Emma says.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not.”

  Then I get to my feet.

  Emma reaches out and touches my hand. “I’m still here,” she whispers.

  “I know.” I don’t want to look at her.

  She frowns and leans in a bit. “Rev, you—”

  “Don’t,” I say. I wish she hadn’t seen any of this. “I’m a mess, Emma.”

  “But—”

  “Please go home. Please forget this happened. Please—” My voice breaks. I can’t take much more of this.

  “Rev.” She says my name softly. “It’s okay. I can stay.”

  I force my eyes to open. Geoff and Kristin are helping Matthew to his feet.

  I don’t know what they’re going to do.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen.

  I do know I don’t want her to see it. I run a wet hand across my face. “Please, Emma. Please just go.”

  “Okay,” she says softly. “Here.”

  She slips out of my coat. It pools in my lap.

  It feels warm and smells like her, something fruity, like oranges and sunshine.

  The rain pours down to steal the warmth and scent.

  “Are you sure?” she says.

  I hold my breath. I’m not sure of anything.

  I’m always worried I’ve inherited his violence.

  I have. It’s always waiting inside me.

  I nod. “Go. I can’t do this.”

  “Okay.”

  And that’s it. She turns and walks out of the yard.

  SEVENTEEN

  Emma

  The walk home feels miles long, even though we only live five blocks apart. I keep wanting to go back, to make sure he’s okay. My hand tingles from where his fingers wound through mine.

  He told me so much about his life—but everything that happened in the rain shows that a lot is still a mystery.

  Was that boy his brother? He didn’t mention a brother during all the talk about his father and the years of abuse he must have suffered.

  My head is so twisted in knots. A week ago my entire life made sense. Now nothing makes sense.

  I’ve never seen boys fight before. The movies make it seem exciting, with clear stakes. A good guy and a bad guy. This was dirty and frightening and I didn’t understand what was going on at all.

  And now I’m walking home alone. At least the rain has slowed to a drizzle.

  I shiver and jog a little. My body needs to spend an hour in a hot bath, just to soak the cold out of my bones. When I turn the corner onto my street, even Texas lags a bit. It’s been an exciting night for her.

  Both my parents’ cars are in the driveway. The lights in the main level are on.

  I almost fall over in the street. My father is home? At a decent hour?

  “Come on, Texy.” I sprint for the door, bouncing up the porch steps.

  They’re just inside, sitting in the living room. They both look up in surprise at my entrance.

  My mother frowns. “Emma. What on earth happened to you?” Her eyes go to my shoes, which are streaked with mud from the adventure in Rev’s backyard. “Have you been out in this storm?”

  Where did she think I was?

  “Yeah.” I’m breathless. “Got caught in the rain with Texy. What’s going on?”

  She exchanges glances with my father. “We’ve been talking things over, and we both agree some changes need to be made to keep the peace—”

  “The peace?” I say.

  She nods. “Among all of us.”

  “Catharine.” My father’s voice is a low rumble. His tone is mellow. Calm. “Why don’t you let her go get changed first.”

  Calm. It’s so foreign in this house that I want to lie down and bask in it.

  “Okay.” I fling the leash at the hook by the door and kick out of my sneakers. “Okay. Just give me a few minutes.”

  The bath can wait. I jog up the stairs and strip out of my wet clothes.

  Some changes need to be made to keep the peace. Among all of us.

  She could break out a detailed chore chart and I’d be okay with it. I’ll cook every day if it means the sniping will end. We’ll have to eat macaroni and cheese for every meal, but whatever. I’ll vacuum every night if it means my father will come home at a decent hour.

  They’re proposing a change. I can feel it.

  Maybe I can show OtherLANDS to my father. Maybe he’ll finally have a few minutes to spare.

  He’ll be so proud. He’ll be so proud.

  I have to brush a tear away. I don’t know what he’ll do, but it’ll be amazing.

  They’re still not yelling. No one is drinking. I can’t believe this.

  Maybe they’ve been with a marriage counselor all day! Maybe they’ve learned to effectively communicate.

  I don’t even know if my clothes match, but they’re dry. I almost fall down the stairs to get back to them.

  Once again, they stare at me in surprise.

  I need to be chill. “Sorry.” I drop onto the couch. “I’m just happy that you’re both here.”

  They exchange glances again.

  “Emma,” says my father, and his voice is gentle.

  “Emma,” says my mother.

  And then the room shifts. Tilts. Changes.

  Something here isn’t good.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “This isn’t working,” my mother says. Her voice is deathly quiet.

  “We can’t do this anymore,” says my father.

  My heart is pounding in my head. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I can’t hear anything.

  “Emma?” my mother’s tone takes on a familiar note of impatience. “Emma, do you understand what we’re telling you?”

  “You just said you wanted to make a change. You wanted to keep the peace.”

  “We do,” says my mother.

  “We’re getting a divorce,” says my father.

  I watched Rev tackle that boy in the rainstorm. The boy was running, and Rev plowed into him, full out, and brought him down.

  That’s what this feels like.

  I don’t know how I’m on my feet. I think I’m going to be sick.

  I try to speak, but my mouth is too thick.

  “I’m going to take a few things and stay with Kyle,” my father says. Kyle is another guy who works for Axis Games.

  “Don’t do this,” I whisper.

  “I’ve told your father we’ll have to put the house on the market.” My mother’s lips are pursed. “We can’t support a mortgage and an apartment—”

  “Could you wait before we start talking about money?” My father heaves a sigh and rubs at the back of his neck. “She doesn’t need the details—”

  “Well, someone
has to worry about the details,” my mother snaps.

  “Of course,” my father scoffs. “You’re so good at details.”

  “And it’s a lucky thing for you, or we’d have nothing. I’m going to carry you through this divorce just like I carry you through everything.”

  “Can’t you get one of your doctor friends to write you a prescription for something that would make you less of a controlling—”

  “Don’t you dare call me names in front of my daughter.”

  Her daughter. Her daughter.

  “I’m not your daughter,” I snap. “I’m his.” I look at my father. “I can pack a bag, too.”

  He looks taken aback. “Emma—sweetheart—I’m going to Kyle’s. He doesn’t even have a second room. I’m sleeping on the couch—”

  “I can sleep on the floor.”

  My mother makes a disgusted sound. “You are not going over there.”

  “I don’t want to be here,” I yell. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to be here with you.”

  Her face pales a shade. She looks stricken. “Emma—”

  “Catharine. Stop.” My father looks at me. “Em. I’m sorry. You need to stay here. When I find a place, we can talk—”

  “She is not coming to live with you.” My mother has recovered and her voice is full of ice.

  Even now, she’s trying to control me. Even in this. I can’t speak.

  My legs don’t want to move anymore. Maybe I can go back upstairs and do this again. I can come back down and we can have an entirely different conversation.

  I saw this image online once. It was a picture that said, If you’re seeing this, you’ve been in a coma for twenty years, and we’re trying a new way to reach you. Please wake up.

  I stared at that meme for a full minute.

  I’ve never wished for something to be so true.

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  My parents are still bickering. I’m still here. Or not here.

  “Can’t you—” My voice breaks. They don’t even hear me. “Can’t you—can’t you go to a counselor?”

  “We’ve been to a counselor,” my mother says.

  “You’ve—what?”

  “For the last year,” my father says. “It’s not working, M&M. We have to do this.”

  The nickname is like a punch to the face.

  Now I’m awake.

  “Don’t call me that,” I seethe. “Don’t ever call me that again.”