Sweet Water(61)

“Look, he’s your son, I get it, but if there’s something not being said here, Sarah, it will come out. This isn’t 1990; forensics have gotten better. Whether it’s in that journal or not, it’s time for the Ellsworths to pay, and I’m so sorry you’re one of them.”

My hand slips from his arm. I get it now. Josh was protecting me by withholding information about Finn from the cops, and he’s bitter about compromising his own values to do so. Then he buckled and told Alisha all he knew, because he couldn’t live with himself.

I’m not mad at him for it.

“Why did you act like you didn’t know, then?” I ask, because I want to hear him say it.

“I wasn’t sure what you were after. If you want to know about Yazmin, ask your son.”

“Thank you,” I say and run out of the store. I feel him watching me through the gold-lettered windows, but he won’t be able to see my tears through the vines.

My father tried to warn me about them. About all of this. And I chose not to listen.





CHAPTER 16

1996—Freshman Year

We’re sitting in Martin’s Saab, top down, staring at the stars. He says the words effortlessly, like they’re already set in stone. “I’m going to be CEO of my own company someday. Here’s how I’m going to do it . . .” I don’t know how he can think so far ahead, but I can’t help but be turned on by his confidence. I’ve never met anyone with that kind of ambition, and I love to hear the passion escape his lips like a private time capsule made just for him and me—fragile and confidential.

“Once I get backers for the software . . .” He prattles on, and I half listen because I don’t understand computer lingo, but I love the way he sounds when he says it.

It’s not like he blurts these things out to the world. Just to me.

Five, ten, fifteen years—how long will it take my steady arrow to fly and fulfill his dreams?

“You’re hitting the world guns blazing, and I’m just trying to pass midterms,” I joke.

“Yeah, well . . . I need to buckle down and focus. What happened at the house . . . I can’t shake it.”

I can tell Martin’s been struggling with Tush’s death, and even though he hasn’t said a word about it directly, it’s managed to pop into every single one of our conversations. Martin might not have been at the house when Tush died, but he was still the one in charge of those boys when Tush drank three times the legal limit for blood alcohol level and never woke up the next day. I would feel guilty too.

“Tush would want you to keep on keeping on.” I squeeze his hand.

He nods. Tush was so hard-core about being a brother. He wouldn’t want the guys wallowing around, all sad. “I feel like I have a second chance now. I want to get it right.” He squeezes my hand back, and I know that when he says “get it right,” he’s thinking I’m part of the equation.

Martin + Sarah = getting it right.

I don’t know how he’s decided I’m the one to make him whole, but I’m not arguing with him over the fact. “You make me better,” he’s said on more than one occasion, and it’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, but sometimes it feels like he’s trying to convince himself too. It’s remarkable that Martin thinks so highly of me, that I bring him up a notch, this polished kid from the Heights.

It makes me wonder why he thinks he needs to be bettered.

“You will. You’ll get it all. But right now I need to study or I won’t get a damn thing right on my midterm tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you. Go.”

I kiss him.

“Go.” He practically pushes me out of his car, and I go this time.

I’m giggling up the walk, and the only thing that doesn’t seem right about Martin is that my father still doesn’t know anything about him. That’s all going to change, because my dad is standing in the doorway of my dorm room, waiting for me. I knew it was only a matter of time before he found out.

“What’s up, Dad?” I ask him. I breeze past him, lie in bed, and crack open my Business Communications book. “I have a ton of studying to do.” Maybe he’ll take the hint and I can cut this conversation short.

“Hi there. Anything you want to tell me?” Dad’s arms are crossed at his chest and tucked under his armpits. I almost laugh because he looks exactly like the caricature on the page of my book.

According to the picture, Dad’s placing a barrier between us, closed off for argument. “Um . . .” I try to think of something clever to say and fail. “Nope.”

“Were you out with Marty Ellsworth last night?” he asks.

I close my textbook and rest my hands on my chin. “Yes.” And today.

“You realize he was the boy mixed up with that horrible accident at the fraternity house, right? The one where the boy died.”

“I do. But he wasn’t even there when it happened, and he feels really bad about it. He hasn’t drunk a single drop of alcohol since.”

“Wow, what a sacrifice he’s made. Not drinking.” Dad’s arms are not only still crossed, they’re squeezing his chest, and his face is red. There’s no sample picture for this gesture in my book, but I know it’s bad.