The Good Goodbye (15 page)

“I’d kill a friend who went out with my ex.”

Hunter’s texting, his head bent over his phone. That’s the other thing he doesn’t know: he has an expiration date. The longest Rory ever dated anyone was Blake and his Axe vapor trail, and that was only because of his family’s beach place. I rotate my pencil between my fingers and draw a few quick lines. The intentness on his face emerges, the way his lips curve.

He glances over and whistles. “Hey. That’s amazing.”

I flush warm.

“Arden can draw anything,” Rory says. Like she’s in charge. Like she owns me or something.

“Let me try.” Hunter reaches for Rory’s pencil, which she gives up with a sly smile. He leans over and scribbles something on her notebook. She tilts her head to look at it, then giggles. Rory never giggles. My face burns.

She flips her blond hair over one shoulder, exposing the long line of her throat. “You dirty, dirty little boy.”

—

I stand by the window, looking down through the leafy branches to The Bowl.

You want it?
Rory had asked, holding out the green-and-white-striped top. It still had the tags attached. My mom would hike an eyebrow at the price before steering me to the back of the store to the clearance racks. I finger the soft cotton knit, then take out the backless black dress Rory wore to that frat party. Her perfume still clings to it. The string of bugle beads along the neckline’s loose. Rory will throw the dress away if she notices.

I tug down my jeans and pull off my T-shirt. I step into the dress and work it up over my hips. It’s snug and I have to suck in my tummy. I stand on my tiptoes and eye myself in the mirror. Rory wears tall silver rhinestone heels with it, but I don’t dare crouch in case I split a seam. I pile my hair into a knot on top of my head and fasten it with a clip. I try on a pair of long, dangling earrings and turn this way and that. From a distance, I look enough like Rory. But come up close and you’ll see the differences: my greener eyes a fraction farther apart, my lower lip fuller, and my chin not as strong. I’m not Rory. I can never be Rory.

I stole a bottle of wine from Double’s shelves. I’d just grabbed the first thing I saw and slid it into my backpack. When Rory read the label later, her eyes widened and she grabbed my elbow. “Shit, Arden. You know how much this is worth?”

All of me, it turns out.

—

I wake up. My mom’s talking. Her voice is cool, like a waterfall splashing down. I swim to it, spangles dancing all around.

“ ‘Is your mama a llama?’ ”

It’s that story I used to love when I was little. I know all the words. I can recite them in my sleep.

Am I sleeping now? Or am I dead?

Rory

I HAD TO TELL
my mom Hunter’s premed. It was the only way to get her off my back. I could have told her he’s a distant Kennedy, but she’d be on to me in a flash.
Which one?
she’d demand. You know how other people chart their family trees? My mom charts the Kennedys.
Four missing Kennedys,
she’d say, shaking her head.
One of life’s greatest mysteries.
And,
There have been more female Kennedys than males.
She would say this disappointed.

I wasn’t planning to tell her about Hunter at all, but she catches us coming back from class holding hands. I turn the corner, laughing at something Hunter said, and recognize her instantly even though she’s all the way across The Bowl. My first thought is to turn around and pretend I don’t see her, but she’s already spotted me and is waving.

“Prepare yourself,” I warn Hunter.

My mom eyes him as we approach, her perfect posture only making it seem as though she’s completely composed, but I know she’s seething inside. It’s the way she lifts her chin just a fraction to look down her nose at us.

“Cherie.”
She reaches out with both hands to grasp my shoulders. So it’s to be the kissy-kissy hello. I sigh inwardly. Too bad Hunter’s in bulky cargo shorts. My mother loathes them. She says they’re low-class. Sometimes I think the only reason she sent me to Bishop was because the boys at our brother school had to wear khakis and button-downs.

“Hi, Mom.”

“
Bonjour,
Madame Falcone.” Hunter holds out his hand.
“Je m’appelle Hunter Caldwell. Je suis un ami de Rory.”

I stare at him with amazement. He’s got a pretty good inflection.

My mother lights up. “Ah,
bonjour
.” They talk on for a little while and you might think Hunter’s won her over, but she’s not that easily won over. She’s only reserving judgment until she gets me alone. Hunter leaves for baseball practice and she and I go up to my room. She opens the mini-refrigerator to slide in a casserole dish.

“They feed me here, you know,” I say.

She’s crouched, peering at the shelves. My lucky day. I’d just finished off the bottle of spiced rum, so if she doesn’t glance into the trashcan, I’m safe. At last she straightens. “Your father made it. I told him I would drop it off.”

“I thought today was Jean-Pierre.”
Only the French know how to cut hair,
she insisted. Last time I’d been in, his shampoo girl had pressed her breasts hard against the side of my face and looked down at me with a smile.

My mom hikes an eyebrow, letting me know she doesn’t care for my attitude. She begins looking through my closet, pulling out things and eyeing them before hanging them back up. “I have a new client in Salisbury. Her husband’s looking to run for governor next year. She has to change her entire look.”

It’s a rope twisted tight around my wrists. Whenever my mom talks like this, it means tons and tons of hours. She’s going to be here all the time. “Great.”

She smiles at me. You’d never know from looking at her that she’d had to trade in her Mini Cooper or that she’d found her bag on clearance. “I have some more good news.” I brace myself. “You remember Mitchell?”

“Yeah.” I have the champagne glass from his restaurant right on my dresser, holding earrings. Aunt Nat used to work for him before she and Dad started Double. They have this playful competitiveness going, like who could get the best ad placement or the better Yelp reviews, though sometimes I don’t think it’s really so playful. “And?”

“He’s been talking to your dad about buying Double.”

I frown. No way is Mitchell going to take it over. I mean, I know every single tile on that floor—I’ve mopped them enough times. I know that the right oven runs five degrees hotter and that the early-morning light slanting in through the windows turns the entire place golden. “Dad can’t sell.”

“Of course he can, and he should. You had to know something like this might happen.”

Maybe I did. But I’d still hoped they’d figure something out. Arden and I had brainstormed ways to save Double. Our parents could teach cooking classes; we could hold contests. We could name entrées after celebrities and get them to come for dinner, along with the media. But my mom had shot down every suggestion. “Daddy loves Double.”

“I know, but it’s time for him to move on. For all of us to move on.”

My mother’s a big one about moving on. Things change and you change with them. Bad things happen and you get over them. When good things happen you prepare yourself for the bad times that are sure to follow. She’s the least sentimental person I know. It’s my dad who plans special occasions, who brings home flowers, and who, when I confessed that horses terrified me, sat down on the hilltop beside me and watched the girls jump the hurdles in the ring instead. “Does Aunt Nat know?”

My mother sighs. “She’ll be fine.”

So she doesn’t. I sink down on my bed. Things were changing. What did I expect? “Does that mean I’m going to Harvard after all?”

“Of course! That’s the plan!” My mother sits down and puts her arm around me, gives me a reassuring squeeze.

This is good news, right?

“How are your classes coming along? Are they rigorous enough? Are you working hard?”

I will myself not to groan. “Yes, Mom. I’m killing myself.”

“Please don’t take that tone. You have to stay on top of it. Harvard won’t make any allowances.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” She pats my knee. “So, tell me about Hunter.”

Her casual voice doesn’t fool me. She’s like this with every boy I date. But in high school who you hung out with did matter. You could rise like helium if you made the right choice or sink like lead if you didn’t. Here, at Podunk U, no one cares. Except for my mother. “Nothing, Mom. He’s just a guy.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Arden’s right. There’s something about Hunter. I’ve never dated a nice guy, just ones with agendas. Hunter doesn’t have an agenda. I can almost be myself with him.

“It can start that way and grow into something else before you know it.”

Oh, God. Is she about to tell me that’s what happened with her and Dad?

“Tell me about
just
this guy,” she says.

I can’t hear it, I never can, but Arden’s told me my mom pronounces things differently.
Listen to her say
just.
It’s not like we say it.
“He’s premed. He plays baseball. What else do you want to know?”

“Where is his family from?”

“Bel Air.”

Her face brightens. She’s thinking California, not the suburb outside Baltimore. I know how she feels about Baltimore. I’m not going to correct her.

—

“Where did this come from?” Arden says later, pulling the glass dish out of our mini fridge.

“My mom brought it.”

“Seriously?” She pries off the top. “Eggplant Parmesan, yum. You sharing?”

“Help yourself.”

“Nice that your mom drove all the way to deliver dinner.”

She knows it’s just the lame kind of thing my mom would do. “I wish she’d leave me alone.”

“She will.”

I’m annoyed. She says it so casually. Aunt Nat never checks up on Arden. She doesn’t call her a thousand times a day. I rest my chin in my hands, watching Arden move things around on top of our dresser. I swear she spends half her life looking for things. I’ve told her she needs to get more organized. “She met Hunter. Did you know he speaks French?”

“No kidding.” Arden’s got her back to me, but I know my barb stuck. It’s in the way she freezes for a split second, like she’s holding her breath. You don’t have to be a mind reader to know my cousin has a thing for Hunter. It’s spelled all over her face whenever she sees him, her eyes softening and her cheeks going pink. Her voice gets weird and choked-up, like she’s squeezing out the words, measuring them carefully. I’ve told her a million times that if she wants a guy to like her, she has to pretend she doesn’t. But Hunter’s mine, so I’m not going over that again.

“I told her he’s going to be a plastic surgeon.”
It’s the best specialty,
I’d heard my mom say a million times.
Good hours and you can charge what you want.
She was probably driving home right now, dreaming about what a great couple he and I make, a plastic surgeon and whatever law specialty she’s currently thinking I should go into.

“Poor Hunter.”

“I saved poor Hunter’s ass. She’d be so pissed if she knew he’s a scholarship student.”

“
We’re
scholarship students.”

I hate when she talks like that. We’re not scholarship students, not really. Grandpa George worked out a deal where we have reduced tuition. I’ve told Arden to be careful not to talk like this around D.D., who is, as Aunt Nat puts it, the lead piranha. Aunt Nat says the only way not to end up as fish food is to eat the mean fish before they eat you. “My dad’s thinking about selling Double.”

Now she turns to look at me, her face wide with alarm. “What?”

“Mitchell wants to buy it.”

“But he can’t.”

“You got a thing against Mitchell?”

“That’s not the point and you know it. Double’s our restaurant. Ours.”

“I think we’re going to have to face the fact that there is no
ours
anymore.”

“How can you say that?” But there’s no bite to her words. Arden knows how it is. “Your mom told you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she’s wrong.”

I shrug. Thing is, it doesn’t matter if my mom’s wrong or right.
She
wants to sell the restaurant. And when my mom wants something, she has a way of making it happen.

Arden carries the casserole down the hall to the kitchen. I press my thumb against the scar on my arm, hiding it.

—

Later that night, lying on my bed with Hunter, the sheets twisted around our legs binding us together, I tunnel my hand through the covers to find his.
“Je t’amuse,”
I whisper.

“
Cherie
Rory,” he murmurs, his lips against my temple. The rolling
R
s sound like a kitten purring, the wind sifting through the leaves. He rolls toward me, grabs my shoulders, and presses them hard against the mattress. I open my eyes and find him staring down at me. He’s not smiling. I try to wriggle free. “Cut it out.”

He blinks. Just like that, he’s Hunter again.

Natalie

I SIT BESIDE
Arden’s bed, my legs curled beneath me, and study my phone. People have been calling, leaving messages. I should listen to them. I should check in with Liz to see how Double’s doing. I set the phone down and reach for the book Theo brought me from home, the 1970s spiral-bound community recipe book I found a few months back at a yard sale. Jell-O and mayonnaise, hot dogs as protein, sangria made a dozen different ways. I switch off the flashlight and slide the book back into my bag, glance at the clock on the wall. Have the hands even moved?

I look at Arden. It’s been two and a half days since she opened her eyes, sat up, smiled. Two and a half days since she did anything but lie here, motionless, helpless. I can’t even tell if she’s thinking.

A nurse comes in every hour, on the hour, to read the pressure gauge. If the number rises even a fraction, we have to catch it immediately. No one has spelled out why. I don’t want to know. It’s okay to allow myself this small cowardice. It’s enough to know that Arden has to be kept calm, that nurses and doctors regularly check all her vital signs.
It’s harder to come back from a brain injury,
Christine has told me gently.
You want me to cancel my operation? I can be there in a few hours.
I’d started to cry and it took all I had to tell her,
It’s okay.
Those conjoined twins needed her. They really did. No one else could save them. What could my sister do for me here other than sit in the chair beside me and stare at my injured daughter?