Keep Them Close(21)

I draw back. “Excuse me? I think you mean you won’t stop me. It’s my decision.”

“You’ll lose everything. You’ll never coach baseball again.”

I shrug. “I doubt that’s true. I won’t coach for a year or two, but someone will give me a second chance sooner or later.”

“Sooner or later?” She throws up her arms, walks in a circle. “Just to protect a woman you love who doesn’t love you back?”

I ignore that remark. “Let me ask you something, not as my sister but as my lawyer: Would I get prison time? For a first offense, if I plead guilty? Honestly.”

She doesn’t want to answer that question, but duty calls; I’m a client asking his lawyer for advice. She puts her hands on the island as if to hold herself up. “There’s a chance they’d offer a plea that spared you prison. Probation. But the judge doesn’t have to accept that recommendation. The judge might want to make an example of you and give you a few years inside. Real prison time, Smiles.”

I slowly nod. “Ask the prosecutors what they’d accept. If it’s probation or even a few months in prison, I’d be willing—”

“No, no, no. Luke, listen to me.” She comes around the island. For a moment I don’t know if she’s going to hug me or wrap her hands around my throat. Instead, she grips me by the shoulders. “Let’s just wait and see. There’s no need to rush into a decision. Two days from now is the preliminary hearing. Let’s investigate, look into this. Who knows what we might learn? Don’t—please don’t take the fall for something you didn’t do. Give it time.”

I wiggle away from her. I’m not in the mood to be handled.

Not to worry, little sister. I’ll give it all the time it requires.

And I have no intention of taking the fall.





16


Allison

In the bathroom that night, I twist my hair back, dampen a cotton pad with remover, and swipe it across my eyes. Black smears collect under my lashes. I watch myself in the mirror as the day erases itself from my face, one layer at a time. My mother’s voice again.

You’re not a little girl anymore, Ally. You have to worry about more than academics.

I mean your figure, sweetie. Your face is from your father’s side. You can’t do much about that. But your body? Your body, you can control. Your hair, you can control. Your clothes, you can control. Your manners, you can control.

I was eleven when she first said it, when she tried to force me off the Scholastic Bowl team and enroll me in an aerobics class, when she created meal plans and workout regimens for me, when she started my Saturday morning weigh-ins, stepping on the scale with dread, not because I cared what number would blink back at me but because she did.

An eleven-year-old girl should not be hitting triple digits on the scale.

And no, it didn’t matter that I was tall for my age. Look no further than my mother, the former homecoming queen of Grace Consolidated High, the college dance major, who was five foot six and never passed ninety-five pounds her entire life.

Her words never really left me, but they returned in spades after I discovered Fin’s infidelity. I hear them every time I catch my reflection too closely. I lean forward now, studying the faint lines around my mouth, the shadows under my eyes, the softness at my jaw.

The same rules don’t apply to girls and boys, Ally. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.

I blink hard, rub moisturizer into my skin, and press my lips together. For a second, I don’t know if I’m seeing myself or only the things she trained me to watch for.

Men don’t like frumpy. And are you sure you want to keep with Scholastic Bowl and debate team? No man wants to marry a woman who’s smarter than him.

From my medicine cabinet, I remove my “paper razor.” When I was a kid, I kept this razor blade in a little envelope I made out of an index card, sealed on three sides with tidy strips of tape. It slid into a pocket of my backpack like it belonged there, just another item. By the time I was ten, bringing it to school felt as routine as packing my homework.

During homeroom, I’d take it out the way other kids took out their pencils. No one noticed; they were busy trading erasers or whispering about some cartoon they watched the night before. I’d set my notebook flat on the desk and run the blade along the frayed edge of a page, shaving it clean. The sound was satisfying, a soft shhk. The mess was gone. Order restored.

When the morning bell rang, I would tuck the blade back in its envelope and slide it into my backpack. Everything inside was exactly how I wanted it. It was my space, my domain. This tiny kingdom of straight edges and clean lines, I ruled without permission.

I fold the razor back into its envelope and return it to the medicine cabinet. Sometimes even as a grown woman, nearing forty, I need a reminder that I am in control. That the only expectations for me that matter are my own.



* * *





I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, the faint illumination from the streetlight outside cutting a pale stripe across the bedroom. Finley shifts beside me, the mattress dipping with his weight. His hand slides across my stomach, tentative at first, then more insistent, fingertips brushing the hem of my nightshirt.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my neck. “It’s been a while.”