One Small Thing(81)

“Lizzie,” he says.

“Beth,” I remind him frostily.

“Come on. I have something for you.” He grabs my hand and tugs me down the carpeted stairs.

I don’t believe him. Or, at least, I don’t want to believe him, but my feet follow after his. If he does have something of Rachel’s, I don’t want to leave it here. I remember how unhappy she was in the days leading up to her death, how she withdrew from all of us.

That indistinct thought I had before has morphed into a huge concern. Jeff was the reason for her unhappiness. He was the reason she stopped smiling, stopped talking to us. He doesn’t deserve to have any of her things.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before? It’s been a whole month.”

“I just found it. I forgot I had it.”

He leads me down the stairs. His basement is as big as my house. There’s a full bar and a room filled with hundreds of bottles of wine. I see a pool table and a wall of windows leading out to Jeff’s pool, which is covered for the winter.

We bypass a large sitting area and go into a paneled room with two heavy leather sofas facing each other. At one end is a green felt table. On the walls are pictures of those silly dogs playing cards.

“Have a seat.” He crosses over to a cabinet and tugs open the door. “Want a drink?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.

“Where’s the box?”

“Do you want to have a drink?” He shakes the bottle lightly.

“No. I want the box.”

“Just one drink.”

“It’s four in the afternoon. I don’t want a drink.” I check my watch. Only ten minutes have passed. I have fifty to go. I take a seat on the sofa. “I’ll have a soda.”

“Fine. When did you get to be so uptight?” he grouses but grabs a Sprite for me.

He drops it into my lap and settles in too close. I inch away and check my watch again. Time is moving slower than a turtle.

“Got someplace to go? Your felon boyfriend waiting?” He lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips.

“My dad said he’d be back soon, so you should give me what you have.”

“You still don’t have your wheels back?” He clucks his tongue. “Be nice and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Okay. Take me to my felon boyfriend’s house.”

Jeff raises the bottle and, for a flash, I think he’s going to hit me. But he tips it to his mouth again. I must’ve imagined it.

“You’re a bitch, you know that?” he says, swiping his hand across his mouth.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“What is it with you girls lately? You’re a bitch and Scarlett’s a slut. You two used to be so good.” He slurs the last bit.

I wave a hand in front of my face to get rid of his booze breath. “Maybe it’s not us girls who have changed.”

“Nah. It’s you. It’s always you bitches changing. You, your sister, Scarlett. More trouble than you’re worth,” he mutters. “You all need some education.”

I have to spend another—I check my watch again—forty minutes listening to Jeff ramble about how terrible women are? I’d rather pour bleach in my ears. “Thanks for your input, but where’s the box?”

“This whole ‘females first’ shit. That’s what’s wrong with this world. Y’all turned into man haters.”

This asshole. There’s obviously no box of Rachel mementos in this basement, or this house. And even if there was, whatever he has of Rachel’s is not important. Just like the swing isn’t important or the preservation of her space in the mudroom isn’t important. Rachel isn’t in any of these things. She lives in the hearts of the people who loved her.

And Jeff isn’t one of those people.

I don’t know what game Jeff is playing, but I refuse to participate.

“Whatever. I’m leaving.” I’ll walk home.

Before I can get to the door, though, Jeff appears in front of me. The vodka sloshes over the side of his hand.

“Goddammit,” he curses. “Look at what you made me do.”

I shove his arm out of the way. “I didn’t make you do anything.” My mind is already elsewhere. I need to talk to Scarlett. Even if she gets mad at me, we have to talk about Jeff. He’s not treating her right, and all the shit his mom told me upstairs has formed a knot of worry in my belly.

“Rachel always said you were more stubborn than a goat.”

I stop, my hand on the door handle.

“She said that you’d be better at volleyball if you weren’t so quick to jump to conclusions, too,” he continues, and I hear his footsteps moving away from me.

I twist to face him. Rachel did say that about my play—that I was too quick to guess where the ball was going to land. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I told you. I just found it.” Jeff drops a medium-sized cardboard box onto the coffee table between the two sofas. So he does have a box.

I release the door handle and drift over toward him, but I stop halfway. “Why did you get sent to England?” I ask warily.

“Because I beat up the housekeeper’s son,” he replies bluntly. “They made me take this bullshit anger management program. Plus rehab for the pills.”