They Wish They Were Us(85)

I peer into the cloudy glass window in the doorframe when suddenly, someone taps me from behind.

“Jill?”

I spin around to find Rachel standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her hair braided and pulled to the side. She’s dressed up in platform sandals and a chambray dress, like she’s just been at the farmers’ market, or brunch with Frida. “You’re here.”

“Uh, of course,” she says. “I live here. Why are you here?”

“I saw something,” I say. My voice warbles in an unfamiliar tone. “At Adam’s.”

Rachel’s eyes widen and she shifts her canvas tote from one shoulder to another. “Let’s go upstairs.”

It’s even more muggy in the stairwell and I start to pant. We take the steps two at a time, and I’m almost out of breath by the time we reach her apartment. Rachel throws open the door and gestures for me to sit on the couch, then slides in beside me. “Okay, what’s up?”

I shake my head. I don’t know where to begin.

“The earrings,” I say. “The ones Kara was talking about. Shaila’s diamonds. I saw them in Adam’s drawer today. He has them.”

Rachel’s face goes white.

I watch her eyes as she puts the pieces together. They squint and search and finally she squeezes them shut. “Fuck.”

“She wasn’t with Beaumont . . .” I say. My face contorts as I fight out the next words: “It was Adam.”

“But Graham,” she says.

“I know,” I whisper.

“And . . . me.”

“I know,” I say again.

“I always suspected he was cheating when we were dating,” she says. Her breaths are labored, sharp. “Honestly? I thought it was you.” She laughs. “He always adored you.”

My face feels hot and my stomach flips.

“I reached out to him last summer, you know. About all of this.” She motions around with her hands. “I thought he might have a soft spot for me after all these years and that he’d want to help me find justice for Graham.” Rachel lets out a sad, soft laugh. “He didn’t even respond to my text.”

I remember what Adam said when he told me Rachel contacted him, too. She’s nuts.

“Even though I thought he cheated, staying with him was easier than breaking up senior year. Being alone. Trying to figure out whatever this was.”

She motions to a framed photo on the coffee table. In it, her arms are around a Latina girl with long dark hair and a big red smile. That must be Frida. Rachel’s eyes are bright, and together, they seem so alive, so happy.

“It was so much better to be the hot couple,” Rachel says. “The couple everyone wanted to be. He made it easy, too. We had fun together. We loved each other. In a weird kiddie way, but still . . . in a way. At least I thought we did.” Rachel leans back against the couch and lets out a low whistle. “You know what this means, right?”

I do.

“He could have killed . . .” I hold up my hand to cut her off. I can’t hear the words right now.

I wish I could ask Shaila why she did it and if she knew how much this would hurt. I want her to know she had the power to break me, even from the grave. I want her back so we can get over it and hold each other close and say fuck him! I want to hear her deep, full laugh and see her written apology scrawled out in her round script. I’m sorry, J. I want to scream.

I want to mourn what I thought I knew about the people I love. Loved. How do I recover? How do I get over this?

I can’t.

Not yet, anyway.

Because it feels like my heart has been smashed open and every truth I ever knew is spilling onto the floor. Rachel starts talking so fast I can barely keep up. She creates a plan, a road map out of this mess. A way to find out the truth. Pretty soon there are papers and pens and details and directions. She makes some calls and opens a bottle of cold brew. Her exhilaration vibrates through the tiny apartment. I swear I can see it in the faded paint slapped on the walls, blowing up little air pockets until they’re about to burst.

Through all of this, I clutch a throw pillow and sit still, alternating between listening and zoning out.

Until finally Rachel stops talking. The room is silent for the first time in hours and I wonder how late it is and what my life will be like in a week’s time.

I heave myself off the couch and shuffle over to the window. The view faces the East River and across the way, little flashes of light shine back at us from Brooklyn. I know there’s no hope of seeing stars here, not with all the streetlamps and the neon billboards and blinking lights aboard the ferries. But like I always do, I look up. Sticking my head all the way out Rachel’s window and turning toward the sky, I try to make out just a single star.

The night stretches on forever and the air is clear and warm. I wait a beat and then another, just hoping for one.

Finally, a cloud sails along an imaginary track to reveal a swath of galaxy visible just for a second. My heart slows to a steady, determined thump.



* * *



—

When I finally get home, Jared’s the only one awake, seated at the kitchen island, housing the last of Mom’s eggplant parm straight from the glass dish. “Where’ve you been?” he slurs.

“Maybe I should ask you that.” I pull out a stool next to him and grab a fork. I’m so exhausted and drained that the piece of silverware feels heavy like lead.