The Rest of the Story(102)

I looked at the buildings, wondering who I might run into. Then again, it was better than being in the suite. “Sure.”

He stepped up onto the grass and I followed him, crossing over to the first building. The door to Blake and Colin’s place was closed, but Hannah and Rachel’s was ajar, and I could see someone’s feet up on the bed as we passed by. Then my dad turned down the short hall by the laundry and bulletin board where Blake had taken me all those nights ago.

“See, the back rooms were better,” he explained as we popped out on that side and started passing doors. “More shade, so they weren’t as hot.”

“There’s A/C now, though,” I said, pointing at one.

“Ha! These kids don’t know how good they have it,” he said. “We melted all summer, every summer. Let’s see . . . here it is. Fourteen.”

It was the last door of the building, no chair or towels marking it. Just a single-bulb light, bugs circling it, and the strong sound of peepers coming from the nearby woods. This close up, they were deafening.

“Guess a tour is out of the question,” my dad said, peering in the one, dark window. “But man, do you hear those frogs? Those first few nights, I couldn’t sleep it was so loud. By the end of the summer, though, I didn’t even notice them. It’s funny what you can get used to.”

“It is,” I agreed, just as I heard footsteps on the other end of the walkway. By the time I looked, though, a door was just shutting, whoever it was having slipped inside.

“There used to be a wall,” he said, glancing back down the way we’d come. “Everyone signed it, every summer. I wonder—”

“It’s over here,” I told him, walking around the corner.

“You know about the wall?” he asked.

Whoops. “Um, Bailey had to run over here one time for work. I rode along and she showed me.”

He followed me until he was facing the wall himself. “Wow,” he said, looking up at all the names. “Now it really doesn’t feel like nineteen years.”

There was a sudden hiss, followed by a popping sound, from somewhere in the neighborhood to our right. Fireworks. The Fourth wasn’t until the next day, but everyone always started early.

“Did you—” I began to ask, but already he’d stepped up closer to the cinder block, squinting at all the names there. After a moment, he moved his hand over to the right, and down a bit, holding his finger to one small spot.

“Right here.” He pushed his glasses up, squinting through them. “Your mom signed right below, even though she technically wasn’t supposed to.”

I moved closer as well, and he stepped aside, making room, his finger still holding the place. MATT PAYNE, SUMMER 1999, it said in black Sharpie in the same neat, block printing he still used for shopping lists and the notes he left for me. Underneath, smaller and scrawled: just WAVERLY, a chubby heart with an arrow through it right above. Both looked so clear in front of my eyes, but I knew I never would have found them alone.

“It must have been a lot of fun, working here,” I said.

“It was.” He dropped his hand, but kept looking at the spot. Then, suddenly, he said, “Emma, I’m not trying to ruin your life, even if you think I am. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

He turned, facing me. “Do you know how much you scared me the other night? When I was calling and couldn’t find you? It just brought so much back, all those nights with your mom when she disappeared. . . .”

“I didn’t know that! I wasn’t here in nineteen ninety-nine; I don’t know all these stories.”

“But you did know your mom, and are old enough to remember what she put us through when she was using.”

“I had a couple of beers!” I cried, frustrated. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s how it starts!” he shot back. Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Look, Emma. You have to be vigilant. We both do. There’s a history there.”

“I’m not going to do what she did, though.”

“You don’t know that!” he said. “You’re seventeen. We don’t know anything except what’s already happened. The only thing we can do is prevent it from happening again.”

“You make it sound like it’s inevitable,” I replied. “Maybe I’m different.”

“Oh, honey.” He looked so pained, stepping closer to me and taking hold of both my arms. “You are different. So different. But being here, especially on the other side, hanging out with those kids . . . we can’t tempt fate. It’s too dangerous.”

“Roo’s nice, Dad.”

“I’m sure he is.” He dropped his hands. “I just . . . I feel like you’ve been through so much. The divorce, then losing your mom. And you’re great, you’re perfect. I just want to be sure you stay that way.”

“I’m not perfect, though. Nobody is.” That would be true even if I’d never laid a foot in North Lake again. “And anyway, what about you? Were you perfect back then? Did you make all the right choices?”

“Me? God, no.” He sighed. “I was young and stupid. But I didn’t have a parent who was an addict. You do. It’s an added responsibility.”