We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(17)

Since the room is empty, I have an urge to search the cabinets, to look in the fridge and the pantry, to fling open every door and drawer and begin uncovering the part of my history that’s always been missing. This is my father’s home. My father.

What does he eat? What mug does he use for morning coffee? Does he own spices from India and Mexico? Collections of peppers and half-full jars of harissa and tahini? Or does he eat simple foods, saving his extravagance for his paintings?

I open the fridge. It’s filled with glass jars of nuts and seeds, carefully labeled in June’s calligraphy. Then there are liquids, also in jars: honey limeade, hibiscus tea, mint tea, milk, and cream. Sauces: parsley mint, pesto, tomato. And salad dressings: sesame, balsamic mustard. There are almost no commercial products besides a bottle of Heinz ketchup.

I can see June everywhere in this fridge, even though I just met her today. But I can’t see Kingsley, or tell what’s his. One vegetable bin is filled with zucchini and corn. The other is filled with small packets, like tiny manila envelopes. They are labeled in block capitals: BROCK. JUNE. MEER. KINGSLEY. TATUM. And MATILDA.

There are four packets with my name on them.

I only arrived this morning. Did June make them today? She said she didn’t know I was coming.

Maybe this means she’s planning to let me stay for a while.

I pick one up. I want to open it, but that means breaking the seal on the envelope. There will be no going back. So instead I take one labeled Kingsley, because there are many of these. A single one probably won’t be missed.

I pry the seal open carefully—but the envelope spills anyway, because it is filled with a fine, herby-looking powder. The powder goes all over the crisper bin, down the front of my black dress, and across the door ledge of the fridge. Damn.

I dust my hands on my clothes and scan the kitchen for the best way to clean up the mess.

“What are you doing?”

I freeze at the voice.

A boy stands in the doorway. He wears jeans, but his feet are bare. His baseball cap keeps his face in shadow. He is silhouetted by the hallway light, his outline slightly menacing.

Tatum. Who said I shouldn’t be here. Who wants to get rid of me.

He steps forward. It’s my taxi driver.

The boy who charged me fifteen extra dollars to take me to the strawberry. The person I didn’t tip. He is gasoline and peppermint and resentment, hulking in the door. His cheekbones look angry.

“What are you doing?” he repeats.

My mother often says that some women (many women) act meek to pacify dangerous-seeming men. And that some women (many women) play innocent to avoid conflict. And that women in our society are taught to make themselves likable. To smile and ingratiate themselves at any cost.

She has many faults, but she didn’t bring me up like that.

“Hi, Tatum,” I say, as if we’ve been introduced. I stand in the light of the open fridge door, unapologetic. “Do you remember me?” I say. “From the airport.”

“I remember.”

“I remember you, too. Rude as hell.”

He shrugs.

“Did you know where I was going this morning?” I ask. “Did Kingsley tell you I was coming and you figured you’d just mess with me and leave me half a mile from this place?”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t. And he didn’t.”

I stare at him for a beat. “Meer didn’t tell you I was coming, either?”

“No.”

“That’s hard to believe. He was waiting for me.”

“Think what you want. He didn’t tell me.”

“Well,” I say, “you’ve got a nice racket going, charging extra when people are confused about directions.”

“That’s not—” He takes a step forward. “Why are you opening our packets?”

“I’m curious. This white powder. Is it cocaine? Adderall?”

“Very funny. This isn’t your fridge, Matilda.”

“So you know my name.”

“Meer told me you were here. After you arrived.”

“Wonderful. Then we’re sure to be the best of friends,” I say sardonically. “And yeah, it’s not my fridge, but I came to meet my father and he turns out to be off-island, so hunting around in his fridge is the next best thing. It’s hardly a crime.”

“Hold up,” Tatum says. He grabs a sponge from the sink and comes toward me. His hands are large and have writing on them in Sharpie. Remember my name, it reads on one hand. And on the other: ’Cause we made history.

That’s a lyric in a song I absolutely love, but seeing it written on Tatum’s mean, unfriendly hands just makes me mad. He shouldn’t like my music. It’s annoying.

For a second I think he’s going to grab my wrist. He looms over me. But Tatum just uses the sponge to wipe the herb powder from the shelves and the ledge of the fridge. He takes the crisper bin out.

Meticulous, he removes each packet from the bin, keeping them sorted by name. He rinses the bin in the sink.

I watch him in silence. Finally, he replaces the bin in the fridge. Everything looks as it did before I opened the packet.

“I could help,” I say belligerently when he is done. “Since I made the mess.”

“You’ve done enough already.”