One Small Thing(15)

“Hey, buddy,” I greet the dog, kneeling down to pet his face.

His tongue instantly comes out to lick my hand. He looks so happy to see me that I want to cry. Animals break my heart sometimes. They love you so unconditionally, so deeply. Even when you’ve mistreated them—and I’ve come across many abused animals at the shelter—they still want nothing more than to please. Fucking heartbreaking.

“How was your day, cutie?” I ask him. “Did you chase any squirrels? Find any sticks? Tell me everything.”

A male chuckle sounds from behind me, and I shoot to my feet in surprise. When I turn around, I’m expecting to see him.

Only it’s not him.

It’s Jeff.





7

“Hey there, Lizzie.” Jeff smiles at me, then at the furry head sticking out of the fence. “Cute pup.”

“He is. And it’s Beth,” I correct by rote.

A crooked smile appears. “Right. Beth. I forgot. You’re all grown-up now.” He reaches out and pulls on a lock of my hair, something he did back when I was fourteen and had a giant crush on my sister’s boyfriend.

I try not to blush and fail. “You’ve been gone awhile,” I say to cover my embarrassment. I head back to the rope swing and plop down on the wooden seat.

His crooked smile grows into a full-blown grin. He doesn’t look any different than when he left Darling two years ago. He still has that solid square jaw and dark eyes that crinkle at the sides when he smiles. My sister thought he was the most beautiful boy in the world. I didn’t disagree.

“Two years,” he confirms. “But Darling hasn’t changed at all, has it? The same stores, streets, people.”

“Yup.”

“I like it.” He brushes some nonexistent dust off his jeans. “Everything overseas was foreign and different, but Darling is the same. That’s why we always want to come home, yeah.”

“Yeah? You picked up an accent,” I tease.

He grabs the rope and gently pulls me forward. “Hard not to after two years there, but I’ll lose it in time.”

“Do you miss England? I’d like to go sometime.”

“Would you?” He chuckles. “I don’t think you’d like it. You’re made for small-town America, Lizzie. It fits you. There’s no point in going away from here. It’s got everything you need. People you love and who love you back. Out there, no one really knows or gets you.”

“Dinner!” Mom calls from the back door.

“Great. I’m starved.” Jeff waves a hand toward my mom to let her know we’ve heard her. “Come on.”

“Are you staying?” I drag my toes into the ground to bring the swing to a stop.

“Yeah. I miss your mom’s roast beef. Can’t get that over there in the UK. The meat’s not the same, you know?”

“Aren’t they famous for their cows? I read that on the internet somewhere.”

He throws an arm around my shoulders. “Didn’t they teach you in fifth grade that seventy-five percent of what’s on the internet is trash? You going to trust me, your old friend Jeffrey, or some online rag?”

“You.”

“That’s right.” He squeezes me.

His arm feels strange around my shoulders. It doesn’t belong there. This is Rachel’s boyfriend. It’s her shoulders his arm should be around.

Dinner is less of a mess than I’d imagined it would be. My parents love Jeff and are thrilled he’s back at the table.

“It’s like old times.” Mom sighs.

“Only better because we’re older and Lizzie is prettier and I’ve been lifting.” He flexes and Mom laughs at his playful antics.

Dad grunts some form of approval.

“How are sales at the store?” Jeff asks my dad. “I heard they might be opening up a Home Depot in Lincoln, so some competition might be cropping up, huh?” Lincoln is a town twenty minutes east of us.

“They’ve been saying that for years and it still hasn’t happened. And even if does, I’m not worried. Those big-box people don’t know the difference between an Allen wrench and a Phillips screwdriver, son. As long as they keep employing ignorant boys, the folks here will always come back to me.”

Jeff and my dad talk about the store some more, and then Jeff tells us about his grandparents’ apartment in England, except he calls it a flat and his accent bothers me a little but I can’t explain why. Of course you’re going to pick up certain phrases and mannerisms when you live somewhere else for two years.

It’s not Jeff, I guess. I’m just on edge from everything that happened today. Seeing Chase at school. Finding out that Chase isn’t Chase. He’s Charles. Charlie. The boy who, in my house, is looked upon as a villain. A murderer.

I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.

As I pick at my dinner, moving my mashed potatoes around on my plate, my mind drifts. I try to recall what I know about Charlie. He was a summer kid, as far as I remember. His parents were divorced, and he visited his mom in Darling during the summer and lived with his dad the rest of the year. His dad lives in Springfield or Bloomington or something. Definitely a city, but I can’t remember which one. And I only know this because my parents told me. I’d never met Charlie before Saturday night.