CHAPTER 20

My hand are still under the tap, the hot water stinging my skin. Its not possible, but from her expression, I know its true. "How did you..."



"Jessy knew the poem wouldn't be enough to keep me happy for long. That letter though? She can sit at my table through the end of exams for that. Let me tell you, this is some juicy stuff. My Dad has contacts in publishing who'd be very interested in the story." Sweat breaks out on my neck as I reach for a paper towel to dry my hands. "Its not true." She shrugs. "I'm sure a bit of grunt work can undercover the truth. Its amazing what a detective can do, right Emily Carlton?" Panic starts deep in my gut, but I swallow it down. She smiles, and when she lowers her voice conspiratorially, I almost think its genuine. "We all call our parents names, give them hell for their choices. But at the end of the day, its our dirty laundry. And its one thing to argue at the dinner table but something else for the world to tear down your walls, rip away your privacy. Isn't it Emily, dear?!" Her words make me shiver, but I force myself to focus. "What do you want from me, Carla?" Her eyes brighten as she moves closer. "I love when you're not as stupid as you look. If you want your letter back, you'll back out the musical." "No way! Are you fucking insane, Carla?! Opening night's in a week. If I back down, I'll look like an asshole to the entire cast and crew. Miss Norma will never cast me in anything again." "Its not my problem, Emily. Its yours. Think about it idiot?!" My entire body tingles as if my brain's stopped sending blood to my fingers, my toes. "You're doing this for a role? You know how fucked up that is, Carla! You are the one who is idiot!" She smiles. "You're considering letting your entire family get ripped to shreds for role. You know how fucked up that is? I warned you, my dear Emily." she goes on. "Don't take things that don't belong to you. The role. Chris Albright and Timothy Adams." Her eyes flash, and my nails dig into my palms until I swear they draw blood. She brushes past me but stops at the door. "I'll give you until this weekend to decide. I'll have a lot of rehearsing to catch up one. Think about it. Bye, Emily Carlton."


When I get home from school, I run to my room and yank open the drawer, then flip open my notebook. The letter's gone. The numbness from earlier starts again, this time filling my chest, my arms, my legs. I search the rest of the drawer, the one below that. The floor, my books, binders, pockets, even though I know it can't be in there. When I go back through the kitchen, no one’s there. The patio’s dark when I shift through the door, closing it after me. I cross to the edge of the pool, staring into the shimmering water. The low buzz of the filter fills my ears with white noise. Jessy didn’t just take my poem—she took my letter. I tug off one sock, then the other. She gave it to Carla. I take the steps one at a time, the water lapping at my toes, then my calves. Then my thighs, soaking the edge of my plaid skirt. If it gets out, it could ruin my family. When the water’s up to my waist, my Oxford shirt stained dark up to my breasts, I dive, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling myself through the water. When I make it to the deep end, I sit on the bottom. The blackness and the silence surround me. One bubble slips past my lips, then another. My dad taught me how to swim, back before I knew he was my dad. He rented out an entire wave pool so it could be just the two of us so I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be the only ten-year-old who needed water wings. I haven’t thought of that in years, but now— Something grabs my arm.


My eyes fly open, and I gulp pool water, twisting in the unrelenting grip. I’m trying to breathe and cough at once as I’m dragged upward. My chest burns, crying out. We break the surface, and the grip drags me out of the pool and up onto the tile, where I lie face down and contorted while I cough water. “What the fuck?” Timothy’s voice is a rasp in my ear as I melt into the tile. “It’s called swimming,” I groan. “You should try it.” “Bullshit.” He crosses to the cabana, grabs two towels, and comes back. I shift to sitting and take one from him, wrap it around my shoulders, and squeeze the water from my hair. “I opened the letter from my mom. She said my Dad knew about me for a year and a half before he came back. She said he didn’t want me.” Timothy stiffens. I wait for him to defend my Dad… or to say it’s all in my head. He doesn’t. “If your dad didn’t want you, he’s an idiot.” My eyes are burning for the second time in two days. My tears mix with the salt water on my cheeks. “Come on.” His voice lowers, soothing. “Don’t do that again, Emily.” “Because of your fucked-up attraction to crying girls?” “Exactly. If I grope you within view of the kitchen, it’s gonna get bad.” I try to smile but suck at it. “Carla has the letter.” I explain how Jessy stole it, and every muscle in his body goes tight, his face pale in the lights from the patio. A shiver grabs me, and Timothy wraps the second towel around my feet. “She wants me to step down from the musical, which, apparently, I won.” I lift my hands in the air. “Yay?” “Congrats.” Misery lodges in my throat as I stare at his handsome face. “You can’t quit,” he says. “You’ve earned it, and most importantly… no one rocks a garbage bag tail like you.” My lips curve, and I taste salty tears. The sound of the sliding door from the house drags my attention away as Haley rushes out. “I looked out the window and saw you dressed and soaked. Did you fall in the pool?” My Dad’s hot on her heels, Sophia in his arms. I curse under my breath. “I’m fine. It was a joke.” Haley doesn’t look comforted, and my father looks alarmed as he stares between me and Timothy. It’s too dark to read whether the shock is tinged with suspicion. “Take a shower, then come in for dinner,” he says at last. “Both of you.” Dad heads back into the house, Sophia in one arm and the other wrapped around Haley. But I can’t worry about the way my Dad is looking at me and Timothy. I’m thinking of the man who taught me to swim, what the letter Carla has would do to him.


“We’ll figure this out,” Timothy murmurs as if reading my mind. He brushes a thumb over my cheek, and my heart presses against my ribs. And that squeeze in my chest gives me hope that I’m not in this alone. “I have the answer,” I tell Timothy after English the next morning as we head down the hall to our lockers. “Purple satin.” His gaze narrows. “I think we’re asking different questions.” “Last night after dinner, I took Avery prom dress shopping. I didn’t want to kill her buzz with the Carla situation.” “Did you try on any dresses?” I hold out my phone, a picture Avery took. The dress is pale purple, my favorite color, and mermaid cut. We got it at a vintage boutique. It has a bit of an eighties vibe, but someone took off the taffeta from around the skirt, so now it’s more streamlined. Simple. Timothy’s gaze locks on the screen for a long moment, then his fingers move over the keyboard. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Sending it to someone.” “No!” I protest, reaching for the phone. “If you took me to prom, you could see it yourself, and then I’d get to see you in a tux.” “You’ve seen me in a tux.” “Yeah, and I’d like to see it again.” His eyes change color. “I can’t take you to prom. It would be a statement to the entire fucking world.” “What kind of statement?” “That you’re mine.” The possession in his tone makes me shiver. I want to be his. It’s not as if I grew up dreaming of big dresses and dates. Still, the idea of Timothy taking me to prom, of spending the night with him and dressing up and feeling special, sends waves of wanting through me. I know I have bigger problems—Carla-shaped problems—and I’m working on solving them, but this would be one hell of a reward in the meantime. Speak of the devil. Carla waltzes down the hall and cuts in on us. “Hi. Can I talk to you a sec?” she asks Timothy sweetly.



As if she’s not a conniving snake. Push her away. I want him to do it so badly. But if there’s loathing underneath, Timothy hides it better than I ever could. “Sure.” Ugh!. I force myself to head the other way. I get that he has a reputation to uphold. What he did in rehearsal was enough of a risk without blowing off his entire crowd for me overnight, which would not only fuck the rest of my year but his too. Rehearsal is canceled on account of senior prom, so I run through options for dealing with Carla. I want the letter back, but unless I can get the help of Jessy or one of the minions, that probably won’t happen. I can call her bluff, deny everything in the letter if it gets out. My Dad’s lawyers can deal with the fallout. I don’t like the idea of that. No matter how much is true, Carla’s right—family issues should be private, and I don’t want to learn what’s accurate and not in some tabloid. The last option is that I can step back from the musical. My stomach flips just thinking about it. It’s the most feasible but in some ways, the most gut wrenching. It finally feels as if I have something of my own, somewhere I can belong. I’ve earned it, and I’m not ready to give it up. I’m still grappling with it after school, pretending to study at the kitchen island when Haley breezes in wearing a black dress and boots, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail. “I’m off for the night.” “Where to?” “Work meeting.” She kneels down to nuzzle noses with Sophia, who’s in her bouncy chair. Dad clears his throat, and Haley lifts a brow. “You want your nose rubbed too?” “Not exactly.” She plants a kiss on my dad that no child should ever see but pulls away a moment later and strides for the front door as if he might go after her if she waits too long. Smart woman, my stepmom. “I thought we could have a movie night,” Dad says when she’s gone. I straighten. “Really?” “Really. I’ll even get takeout. What do you want?” “Ziti.