You'll Be the Death of Me(85)

She waits expectantly for our response. “So you’re working for Ivy’s dad?” I ask. I don’t know why I called him that, instead of James. Might just be where my head’s at lately.

    “I am. It’s a fantastic job with great benefits. The co-pay on my medication will actually be twenty dollars.” She narrows her eyes at Autumn, who’s suddenly very interested in a stray thread on the couch cushion. “Being part of a team is going to be a nice change, and it’s exactly what I need at this point in life. It’s also what you need, because supporting this family is not in your job description. I’m sorry I allowed you to think that it is.”

We’re all silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. I can’t fully wrap my brain around everything she’s saying yet—the idea that Spare Me wasn’t so much the rock our family was built on as a rock around her neck—but there’s a small sense of relief, suddenly, at letting it go. Because maybe then I can let some other things go, too.

“We’re going to be fine. Better than fine,” Ma says firmly. “I’m optimistic about your case, Autumn. It’s early days, but I think your genuine remorse, and the fact that you turned yourself in, will make a difference. In the meantime, I have a chance to build something new, and please believe me when I say that I am happy about that.” She gives me one last, shrewd look. “So I don’t want either of you hanging on to resentment about what happened last spring with Patrick DeWitt’s accident. We’re in no position to cast stones. All right?”

We both mumble assent as Ma gets to her feet. “Good,” she says. “I’m going to rest for a little while, and then I’ll make dinner.” She heads upstairs, and Autumn waits until we hear the sound of Ma’s bedroom door clicking shut to speak.

“Well,” she says. “That’s a lot to process.”

“I’ll say,” I mumble, massaging my temple. I have a small scar there now, from when Charlie hit me with the golf club.

    “I think…I think it’s good, though?” she says cautiously. “Aunt Elena seems happy.”

“Yeah. She does.”

Autumn braids the tassels of the couch pillow. “Managing director of the CEC. Who would’ve thought?”

“First order of business is changing that name,” I say, and Autumn snort-laughs before shooting me a wry look.

“So…maybe you can text a certain somebody back now?” she says. “Instead of pretending like you don’t want to, and walking around with a permafrown and a bad attitude?”

“That’s my normal attitude,” I object. She makes a face, and I add, “Anyway, it’s not about what Ivy did at Spare Me. I stopped being mad when she almost died.” Even now, just saying the words fills me with a sick sense of dread. Coach Kendall was out of control that night, and could’ve easily killed everyone within reach. My last words to Ivy would have been, You’re pathetic, and I don’t want to see or speak to you again for the rest of my life.

“Then why aren’t you guys talking?” Autumn asks.

I sink lower into the couch. “The stuff I said to her in Cal’s car. How do you unsay something like that?”

“You don’t,” Autumn says. “You apologize. It’s up to her whether or not to accept it, but I think she will.” I don’t reply, and she taps a finger against her chin. “Hmm. I wish I could remember a recent example of everything going to hell because somebody in this family was—how did she put it?—proud and stubborn? It’s on the tip of my tongue, almost like it just happened, and yet…”

“Shut up,” I say, tossing a pillow at her to hide my grin.



* * *



—

    Seeing as I have a ride to Garrett’s tonight, I have time to do something else first.

Ivy’s driveway is filled with her family’s cars, so I park in the street. When I approach the house, I can see her perched in the window seat of her room, reading. Her hair is loose around her shoulders—Charlie was right, it looks great like that—and the sight of her makes my chest ache.

The front porch is only a few feet away, but I pause when I’m halfway along the stone path that leads to it, considering my options. Ivy’s parents are clearly home, and I’m not sure I’m up for talking to them right now. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about the CEC news, considering how much time I’ve spent hating that place. Plus, James Shepard is a lot to take lately. I’ve seen him twice since he got back from San Francisco, and both times he flung an arm around my neck and said, “This guy. Where would any of us be without this guy?” And the next thing I know, he’s crying on my shoulder. He means well, I know, but I’d rather avoid that particular scenario before talking to Ivy.

The path I’m standing on is lined with small stones, and I contemplate picking one of them up and tossing it at Ivy’s window to get her attention. That would be beyond cheesy, though, wouldn’t it? Plus, the stones make up such a neat little pattern that a missing one would be noticeable. And what if I threw it too hard and broke her window, and—

“Are you going to stand there all day?” a voice calls.

I look up to see Ivy leaning out her now-open window. “Maybe,” I call back, my pulse picking up at the lilt in her voice. She sounds happy to see me. “Still deciding.”