Call It What You Want(56)

He stops there. His voice doesn’t break or anything, he just stops. Any emotion has vanished.

That doesn’t feel like a good sign.

“What happened?” I say softly.

“She stormed out. I heard the door slam. Then the garage door cranking up, and then back down. Then silence. And then a gunshot.”

His voice is so quiet and level and even, but the air in the car is dense with dread. We’re flying down the highway, but I feel like we’re heading for a brick wall. I want to brace my feet on the floorboards and stop whatever is coming.

But of course it already came. His father pulled the trigger last February.

I want Rob to stop. I don’t want to hear this. Not in this cool, dispassionate voice. I want my own pillow to pull over my head.

But then he says, “You know the rest.”

No. I don’t. I really don’t. But I feel like he’s given me a pass.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to relive it, either.

He shakes his head. “And I still haven’t said anything about Connor.” Rob takes a breath. “I couldn’t reach Mom that night. After Dad—after.” He swallows. “I couldn’t reach her. I was—I was all by myself. The house was full of cops and paramedics and the blood was … well. You can imagine. I didn’t know what to do. So I called Connor. I hadn’t been allowed to talk to him since everything happened, but I had no one else to call. So I called him.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.” Rob glances over. “He didn’t answer. I left some pathetic rambling voice mail, begging him to call me back.”

“And he didn’t.” Not even a question. I already know the answer.

Rob sniffs and looks out at the darkness. “No. He didn’t.”

I don’t know what to offer, what kind of platitudes would make this better. There aren’t any. I can’t fix Rob’s father. I can’t fix his friendship with Connor—if there’s anything worth fixing. I can’t imagine getting a call from a friend needing help and not responding. I can’t even imagine it about my worst enemy.

I frown. “Why?”

My question seems to surprise him. Rob looks away from the road briefly. “What?”

“Why didn’t he call you?”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he looks back at the road. He must punch the accelerator because the car picks up speed. “Because he’s an asshole.”

“No, but—” I bite my lip. I don’t want to make him angry. “He was your best friend, right?”

“Yeah.”

I think of Rachel. “Like—a real friend, though, right? The cry-on-your-shoulder kind?”

Rob’s eyes flick my way. He looks like he wants to deny it, but he also said Connor was the first friend he called after finding his father lying in a pool of blood. “Yes,” he says evenly, dragging the word into three syllables.

“And he ditched you because of what your father did?”

“He ditched me because he thought I was part of it. Just like everyone else.” Rob glances my way. “You realize you’re, like, the only person who’s speaking to me at school?” He rolls his eyes. “You and Owen Goettler.”

“Maybe Connor was never really your friend at all.” Because I still can’t figure out how a close friend could turn his back on someone so absolutely.

Rob flexes his hand. “I don’t think we’re on our way to making up anytime soon.”

We fall into silence again.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks eventually. “Do you want me to take you home?”

I blush again, and I’m glad he can’t see it. “Is it wrong if I say no?”

“Is it wrong if I tell you my mom said to stay out as late as I want?”

Okay, now I’m blushing. “No. But I think my mom would have a problem with that.” I pause. “Want to get coffee?”

He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles again. I wonder if it’ll ever feel normal.

“Wegmans?” he says. “They’re open until midnight.”

“Yes,” I agree, relaxing down into the seat. “Wegmans.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rob

Somehow, I forget about the earrings. I forget that I’m a thief.

Then I get home after midnight and shove ice-cold hands into my pockets for the walk to my front door. I feel the square edges against my fingertips.

Fear and guilt plummet through my body, like a rock dropping into my gut.

This is bigger than a few twenties from the cash box. This is bigger than a pair of shoes.

My breathing is tight and shallow, and I’m frozen in the space between my car and the front door.

I want to undo it. I can’t undo it.

Another thought strikes me: I wonder if my father had a moment like this. I wonder if he ever had these identical thoughts.

The realization is enough to make me move. I climb back into the car, open the glove box, and shove the earrings deep inside. Then I lock the glove box, lock the Jeep, and head for the front door.

It’s fine. It’s fine. They won’t even notice. I know they won’t notice.

These thoughts do nothing to loosen the pit of guilt that’s formed in my abdomen. It refuses to dislodge.