We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(50)

“Don’t say ‘sex it up.’?”

“Except maybe if you’re married or something. Then you can sex it up. Also, Agnes played footsie with me in the hot tub.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m delightful,” he says. “Wait, do you think I’m a butt?”

“Not usually. But maybe last night.”

“Do you think Jia likes me?” asks Meer. “She’s so pretty. But I don’t think I made a good impression.”

“You told her you like boys,” I say. “So I don’t think it matters.”

“I think I only looked at her because of the rum,” says Meer. “Or because I never meet anyone. It was confusing.”

My eyeballs feel like they’re made of liquid fire, but I stagger toward the eggs and take the lid off the butter dish. “Let me have some banana goop,” I say to Tatum.

He pours me a glass. I drink the whole thing down. It tastes like sweet moss.

While Tatum pours out the rest of the goop for himself, Meer, and Brock, I crack eight eggs. I add heavy cream and salt, then scramble them in butter.

I slice the bread June baked and toast it in the broiler.

When the food is ready, Tatum has gotten both Meer and Brock to drink their goop and persuaded them to relocate to the dining room.

As I put a plate of toast and eggs in front of him, Tatum looks up at me. “Thank you,” he says. “I mean it. I know you feel terrible, too.”

He reaches out and touches my hand. A flame runs through me. The gesture feels like an apology and a spark, the start of something I don’t understand.

I am not sure if I forgive him.

“We should see them again,” says Meer. “When my head is attached to my body. I love Holland.”

“I don’t think so,” says Tatum.

“You’re so antisocial,” I snap, my irritation from last night coming back full force. It’s not even logical, because when Tatum actually was social, talking to Winnie and Amma and Agnes, I didn’t like it at all.

“I’m not,” he says.

“You are.”

“I don’t care about seeing them,” says Brock.

“Let’s totally see them,” says Meer. “Maybe June will let us have them over outdoors? Like when Gabe came to dinner. Or we can meet up on the beach.”

“Let’s absolutely not,” says Tatum.

“I’m going back to bed,” I say. “I got up on the wrong side of it.”

“Matilda, don’t,” says Meer.

But I say, “Bye, all you people,” and head upstairs.





Part Six


    Bone Tower





45


When I wake next, someone has slid an envelope under my door. It’s just plain white paper covered with tiny writing, a dense print that reaches the edges of the paper in places.

It reads:

I don’t want to be antisocial.

Or a secretive person.

I don’t want to hide from the world on a hidden beach.

I don’t want to hide from people I used to be friends with. Or from new people.

I don’t want to be cold (my father was cold).

I don’t want to miss out on knowing you because I lost my parents or because I hate my job

or because I am ashamed of things I’ve done.

You are right. I need to get away (I want to get away) and I also need to stay (I want to stay).

Before you got here, I couldn’t articulate that. So something is changing.

God, Matilda, I’m going to wish I didn’t write this, and I’m going to wish I didn’t stick it under your door, but even though I know I’m going to wish all that, I am still doing it.

Maybe you want to go see Wooden Cage?

With me.

Tatum.

Inside the envelope are two tickets. For Wooden Cage.

My band. That I love. “We all stayed out too late We fell apart and made mistakes They said we didn’t matter / So we mattered to each other.”

My head swirls.

Tatum bought me these tickets. He bought us tickets.

Even though he said he didn’t want to kiss me.



* * *



—

Downstairs, the late-afternoon house is silent.

I look outside. Tatum’s goggles are on a hook outside the mudroom, so he’s not in the water. He could be at work.

Get a grip on yourself, Matilda. You’re going to college in ten days. You’re in a fragile state. You’ve been jealous and angry, and this boy is a terrible choice, a tortured loner who knows nothing about video games and is likely to drown any day. He’s clearly stuck in a life he doesn’t want, still grieving his parents. He’s basically stagnant and festering.

Also, he might regret writing the note.

He actually said he knew he’d regret it.

But I want to throw myself into his arms. I do. I want him. I just want him and that’s all there is to it, and now I know that he wants me, too.

I’m heading toward Tatum’s room when I hear barking outside. And then—an unearthly scream. And quacking.

It’s coming from the pool house. I take off running.