Hold Me Close(52)

“He called every day while you were still in the hospital and left this number for you to call him back. So call him. If that’s what you need. Call.”

Effie would hug him, but something in the way her father stands keeps her from it. “Thanks.”

Effie talks with Heath on the phone for three hours. Much of the time, they say nothing, but the soft sound of his breathing is enough to calm her. When at last they disconnect the call, Effie feels as though she can bear to venture from the safety of her bedroom and go to the kitchen for something to eat.

Does she imagine the warmth on the carpet outside her door, as though one or both of her parents had stood there, listening? Their bedroom door is cracked open, the soft murmur of a late-night talk show familiar as a lullaby. She considers knocking softly on their door, but in the end does not. Her mother will want more than a simple good-night, and the day has been too long already.

In the kitchen, she’s startled to find her father sitting with a glass of amber liquid in front of him. She’s not sure how much he’s already had to drink, but since she can’t recall ever seeing him drink alcohol, even beer, the very fact he has a bottle of Scotch in the house is enough to set her back a step. He smiles when he sees her.

“Hey,” her father says. “Effie.”

“I came to get something to eat.”

“Good. Good.” Her father gestures at the fridge but doesn’t get up. “We have a lot of food left. From the party. It was a stupid idea. I’m sorry.”

Effie can’t tell him she forgives him—she’s not sure it would matter, and she’s not positive she does. She pulls a platter of lunch meat and cheese from the fridge and goes to the drawer where her mother always kept the bread. It’s full of club rolls and sliced bakery loaves, the fancy stuff.

Faced with this reminder of once again how everything is very much the same while she is vastly different, Effie puts her hands on the countertop to keep herself from shaking. She breathes in. Out. Her fingers curl on the slick Formica. When she looks at her father over her shoulder, thinking she will need to make some excuse for her behavior, she finds him staring instead at the glass he is turning around and around in his hands.


Effie makes a sandwich, inspecting each slice of meat, cheese and bread before layering it. No mayo or mustard. Of course she doesn’t expect that the condiments in her mother’s kitchen would be spoiled, but the thought of it, the slippery slimy taste of mayonnaise that seems fine but which has gone horribly bad...she can’t do it. The sandwich is dry and yet is also the best thing she has ever eaten in her life.

“That boy,” her father says quietly, then stops.

“Heath.”

“Yes. He’s not going to have it easy.”

Effie’s not sure what to say to that. She takes another bite. Chews. Savors the food. Swallows.

“If you want to talk about what happened...” Her father pauses. The amber liquid spins slowly when he stops turning the glass, then settles. He doesn’t drink. He looks at her.

It’s an offer to listen, yet he can’t quite force himself to make it. Effie thinks she understands. Her parents don’t really want to know about what happened to her.

“Even the bad things make you into the person you are,” her father says. “Never be ashamed of who you are, Effie. That’s all I really want to say.”

Then they are quiet together until Effie finishes her sandwich and her father gets up to pour the booze down the sink. He pauses to squeeze her shoulder as he passes. Effie waits until he’s gone upstairs before she puts her plate in the dishwasher. She drinks a glass of cold, sweet water, then another because she can. She goes upstairs. The noise of the television is still coming from her parents’ bedroom. Effie pauses with one hand on the wall just outside her bedroom door, her eyes closed, breathing in the quiet of the house. The smells. The soft carpet beneath her toes. The safety.

She’s home.





chapter twenty-four

“Hey,” Effie said into her phone from the comfort of her blankets and pillows. She’d already turned out the lights. “How are you?”

Mitchell sounded pleased. “Effie. Hi. I’m good, good. I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh. Good. Is that good?” She laughed, stretching a little in the cocoon of warmth.

“Very good,” he assured her. “What’s up? How’ve you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

It had been less than a week since the night she’d f*cked him, and he hadn’t called or texted her, either. It was not the first time he’d let a week pass without getting in touch with her, and she’d remembered that, just as she remembered that small green circle next to his name.

“I’ve been busy. Work. Kid. That sort of thing. I’m...sorry I didn’t call you before now?”

Her voice tilted up at the end, a question, not a true apology. The sound of it curled her lip. Jesus, she sounded like every wishy-washy girl she’d ever disdained.

“Ah. Busy. Yeah.” He paused. “About what happened...”

Oh, shit. He wanted to dissect the sex. Effie braced herself.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay with it,” Mitchell said.

“Oh. Yes. I mean, sure, it was fun. It was great,” she added, thinking of his terminology.