We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(6)

From then on, I eat lunch on my own and don’t hang out with anyone after school. I stop being invited to parties.

I am completely unmoored. No friends, no boyfriend, no family, no mother.

No reason to be anywhere, at all.





Part Two


    Martha’s Vineyard





9


    Matilda, Hidden Beach is on South Road outside West Tisbury on Martha’s Vineyard. After the fourth mailbox past the strawberry, walk to the driveway with my name.

Don’t be afraid of glum. See you soon!



There are four strange things about Kingsley’s second email, which arrives the day after I answer his first.

One: No normal street address.

Two: What strawberry?

Three: What glum?

Four: He’s letting me buy my own plane ticket, even though I’m his child and he’s a famous painter.

“The first three strange things are cool,” says Saar. “But the fourth one is terrible. Maybe your mom is right about this guy.”

“I don’t even know Kingsley,” I say. We’re in the kitchen. Saar is trying to figure out the instructions for an espresso machine he just bought. “It’s weird to expect someone you’ve never met to pay for things,” I add.

Saar hits grind on the machine and it makes a loud buzzing noise. When it stops, he takes a minute to look at the owner’s manual. “I know people who are loaded who never pick up the check for things,” he says, flipping a page. “And those people always turn out to be weasels, somewhere along the line.” He tamps down the ground coffee and sets the machine up to brew. “Let me pay for your flight.”

“I have money saved,” I tell him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. But I can afford it, you pipsqueak,” he says. “You should save your cash. Don’t make it weird.” He hands me a cup of espresso. “Taste this. Any good?”

I swallow down the awkwardness of it all, tell Saar the espresso is delicious, and let him buy the ticket.



* * *



—

I have been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. I’ve had a mocha, a Starbucks pumpkin loaf, four Diet Cokes, and three mini bags of Doritos—but nothing else to eat. My phone is almost without charge, and my portable charger likewise. I’ve been on a flight, then another flight, and finally a plane that seats only eight. It’s so small that my knees touch the back of the pilot’s seat.

Below us stretches the island of Martha’s Vineyard, mostly green. It’s edged in sandy beaches and rocky shores, dotted with lakes and curlicue inlets.

Kingsley Cello is on this island.

Why is he willing, after so many years of absence, to fill the blank space I have labeled Father? Will he look at me with a light in his eyes, like a father looks at his kid?

Maybe we’ll drink mugs of tea late in the evening or walk by the ocean, talking about video games and art. He’ll show me his painting studio and ask to see my game sketchbook. Even if it takes a long time to get to know each other, even if it’s awkward at first, Kingsley could be the person I am missing. The person I thought Luca might be. The person my mother never has been, who wants to understand the inside of my mind. Maybe in knowing him, not just a father but a great artist, I will somehow step into myself. Into my powers. I’ll no longer be lost.

I am sweating in my squashed plane seat. The pilot wears thick headphones, but for the passengers, the noise is constant and loud. We arc over the lush green of the island and my stomach lurches.

By the time the tiny plane lands, I’m bloated and hot. No, I’m cold. I make it to the airport bathroom and kneel on the grungy tile, heaving horrible Dorito-pumpkin vomit.

The floor is grungy white tile. There’s a lost receipt down by my knee.

I’m shaking and I throw up for what seems like forever, not just from travel and bad food but from the churning questions inside me, and the chaos and anger of the whole last year: the jagged separation from Isadora,

the unhealed wound of Luca’s rejection,

the loss of the friends I thought I had,

the isolation,

the jolt of learning about Kingsley.

When the vomiting is finally over, I force myself to breathe slowly.

My face feels coated with oil and sweat. I hold on to the side of the toilet to stop myself from slumping to the floor.

“There’s someone kneeling in there,” comes a voice from outside the stall.

“So, leave them alone to kneel,” says another.

“Are you okay?” comes the first voice, friendly.

“Holland!” The second voice is high and nasal. “People kneeling are people puking. And people puking want to be left the eff alone.”

“Says you, Winnie.”

“Says everyone.”

“Not true. I’d want someone to check on me if I was puking.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you puke.”

“Please do. I want company.”

“All right, but also, ick.”

“I’m okay,” I call out. “I think.”

“Do you want us to get somebody?” asks Holland’s voice. “Like a medic or whatever? Do you need a bottle of water?”