Friends Like These(57)

But it’s okay. It’s all fine. And now, I know his full name: Evan Paretsky. His family is from Hudson. All I need is to go there and talk to his mom, tell her that her son didn’t steal anything, that he didn’t do anything wrong— except for agreeing to come home with me.

I can’t tell my friends that I’m going to Hudson. They’ll completely freak. But I know what I’m doing. It’s what needs to be done.





DERRICK


SATURDAY, 7:56 A.M.

The sun was up, the light on our side of the house a filtered gray. I’d been awake for a few minutes, lying there, replaying my conversation with Maeve from the night before. I wanted to think that it had gone well. That Finch hadn’t done too much damage, telling her about my past. But I didn’t feel at all sure.

“Is everything okay?” I’d asked Maeve as we headed back toward the house once the fire was out. I’d gestured to her phone in her hand. She’d been checking it constantly. Better to focus on that than on what Finch had just told everyone about me beating up that kid.

“I just haven’t heard back from Bates,” she said. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I’m getting a little worried.”

That’s because he’s a jerk. You’d be much better off with me. I’d never make you worry.

“You know, the signal up here is weird,” I offered instead. “Mine keeps going in and out.”

Maeve’s face softened as she turned to look at me. “That’s true.” She motioned back to where the boards had been burning. “This situation— maybe we should just go back to the city tonight.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I glanced back at Jonathan as we made our way up the front steps. He was still staring at his smoke-damaged house. No firefighters, of course. No police. Jonathan had already admitted to Maeve and me privately that we couldn’t call anyone because his dad didn’t even know that he’d bought the house, that he’d done it over his dad’s specific objections. “But if we go back without Keith in rehab, he’ll still lose the gallery.”

“Then maybe he loses the gallery,” Maeve said, putting a hand on my forearm for emphasis or for some different reason— one could only hope. Regardless, it set the whole side of my body aflame. “All we’ve been doing is enabling him.”

“No, you’re right.” And she was, there was no doubt about that.

“I think it’s because we all feel so guilty about what happened to Alice. And, well, the roof. It’s like we’ll do anything now to be sure that nothing else bad happens.”

“That’s true,” I said, turning to look into her iridescent eyes.

I thought for a minute that we might exchange some kind of extra knowing look then. The roof, the tragedy. What had happened that night could be a bond we shared, just the two of us. And I wanted a bond with Maeve more than anything. But maybe some things were just so dark they could only drive you apart.

“And what if in trying so hard to keep Keith from losing the gallery, we make something even worse happen?” Maeve went on. “If that fire had spread— if one of us had gotten hurt or died— it wouldn’t matter what became of the gallery.”

Maeve was right about that, too. And while I selfishly didn’t want our weekend to end, I couldn’t ignore the obvious fact that we were in danger.

“I agree,” I’d said once we were inside. “We should talk to Jonathan in the morning about leaving first thing.”

Maeve smiled and looked so relieved. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad I have one sane person on my side.”

I took a breath and decided to roll the dice. “I’m glad you still think I’m sane, after what Finch had to say.”

Maeve had shrugged. “We all have a past, Derrick. You’re our friend. Nothing is going to change that.”

A noise from the foot of the bed startled me back to the present.

“You do know she’s right next door, right?” Finch was sitting on the floor next to my unzipped duffel bag.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I was just sticking these contracts from Keith in your bag for safekeeping,” he said, holding up a manila envelope. “But I got distracted when I found these.”

He was thumbing through the pictures I’d brought with me. Yes, pictures of Maeve— mostly from college, but some from later— birthday parties in Brooklyn, my book launch, my wedding. Maeve alone, Maeve in groups, Maeve laughing, Maeve posing, Maeve looking away. Together, they were the story of her. My story of her. The one I’d been holding on to, hoping we might build a new story together.

“I mean, this is kind of sick, man. She’s right there for you to look at.”

I felt myself flush— some mix of shame and fury. “Put the pictures back, Finch,” I said, as composed as I could.

Finch made a show of flipping through the pictures some more. “I mean, dude, really. You’ve got a problem. I think you need to tell her.”

I got out of bed and moved closer. I couldn’t stand him touching those pictures.

“If you don’t tell her, I almost feel like maybe I have to. This fixation of yours is like a violation. Not that I get the fascination with a girl who’s fucking some trust-fund dickhead like a high-priced whore.”