Call It What You Want(92)

“Dad said you were arrested.” Maegan’s eyes are warm and intent on mine. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I’m nodding, but this feels like the last few months, when I kept my head down and faked living.

I remember how it felt to finally let loose in Mr. London’s office, and I take a deep breath.

“No,” I say to Maegan. “No, I’m not okay.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she says.

I’m so sick of secrets and drama and everyone hating me.

She finds my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” I squeeze her hand back. “I want to. I want to tell you everything.”

So I do.





CHAPTER FORTY

Maegan

As usual, I have more secrets in my head than I know what to do with.

Somehow, it’s different this time. Owen’s mother was right—doing the right thing really does mean different things to different people. Nothing is clear-cut, and maybe that’s okay.

Rob says he has no proof about what Mr. Tunstall is doing, but even if he did, he doesn’t want to turn him in. He doesn’t want to destroy his mother. He doesn’t want to destroy Connor.

I’ve been turning it over in my head all night, and I still don’t know.

I do know that Rob shouldn’t be the one paying the price for all of it. But if I tell someone everything he told me, am I throwing Connor under the bus? What would happen to Rob if his mother went to prison? What would happen to his father? Would his life be better than it is now? Or would it be worse?

There’s a soft knock at my door before I’ve turned off my light. It must be Samantha, because my parents’ door was closed when I came in, no light shining from under it.

“Come in,” I call softly.

The door swings open silently. My father.

I sit bolt upright in bed. “Dad.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

I can’t read anything from his voice, but I’d rather face him like this, in an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, than how he was this morning.

He seems to be waiting for some kind of response, instead of barreling in here, which I appreciate. I clear my throat. “Come in.”

He sits on the edge of my bed and smooths his hand over the coverlet. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning. You didn’t steal anything. You still should have said something.” He stares at me, and his voice takes on a firm note. “But I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t want you to be caught up in something else that could damage your future.” He pauses. “You’re old enough to pick your friends, too. Though I hope you’ve learned the truth about Rob Lachlan.”

I’ve learned that Rob is loyal and kind. That his moral compass works better than most.

I don’t know what to say to my father. This doesn’t quite feel like an apology. Then again, maybe it’s not supposed to be. Maybe I don’t need one.

Dad looks at me. “Sometimes when we’re trying to protect the people closest to us, doing the right thing doesn’t always look so clear.”

I swallow and think about how I kept Samantha’s secret. How I’m keeping Rob’s.

I consider how Rachel and Drew acted at the dinner table when Rob was there. They were wrong, for sure, but at the same time, was Rachel trying to protect me from someone she saw as a danger? Did that make her behavior more acceptable?

“I know,” I say softly.

“Well, maybe you know,” Dad says, “but I’m still learning.” He pauses. “Samantha told us how you stood up for her in front of that … that …” His voice tightens. “That horrible man.”

It sounds like he wants to call DavidLitMan something entirely different. “Someone had to,” I say.

“I know. I’m glad it was you. He’s lucky it wasn’t me.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

The words bring a swell of tears to my eyes. “Thanks, Daddy.”

He looks at me with a kind of wonder. “Why the tears?”

I sniff and swipe at my face. “I’ve always thought you were disappointed in me.”

“Never,” he says, and pulls me into his arms. “Never.”





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Rob

Wegmans closed at midnight, but I’ve been sitting in my car for a while. I can’t go home. Not yet.

Eventually, I realize I’m going to burn through a tank of gas trying to stay warm. I don’t have a heavy coat with me, and it’s dropped well below freezing. I can sit here in judgment of my mother and the role she played, but it’s not going to keep me warm.

Or fed, now that I think about it. I drive home.

It’s after two a.m., but she’s still awake. I want to blow past her and storm up to my room, but it’s clear she’s been crying for a while, and I can’t turn off my heart.

I stop in the doorway to the family room. Dad is asleep in his chair. She couldn’t get him upstairs alone, either.

“You came back,” she says.

“I came back.”

“I was worried.”

“Yeah. Well.” I look away. “I have nowhere to go.”