As the nostalgia bloomed in my chest and I felt a pang of longing for Burke, I quickly shifted my thoughts, the way Libby had taught me to do.
It’s easy to think of the good times, she’d explained. You have to train yourself to remember the bad times. The reasons why you left.
I thought of all the mornings I’d woken up to Burke passed out on the couch, fully clothed, empty beer cans and remnants of white powder dusting the coffee table while Gus sat cross-legged in front of cartoons. Worst was the time Gus showed me what he’d found in Burke’s truck, uncurling his little fingers to reveal a skinny glass crack pipe, the bowl stained with dark residue. Tears pricked my eyes as I pried it out of Gus’s hand, because that’s when I knew Burke had been lying to me.
And why should I have been surprised? I knew better than anyone else that crack was coming through Langs Valley. And I knew Burke—I knew the dark, cavernous void that existed in his heart, the void he would keep trying, uselessly, to fill. I knew because the same one persisted inside my own aortic chambers—the void that comes from lack of parental love. My advantage was that I understood it could never be filled, that the best way to conquer it was to comprehend it. Burke never believed me when I tried to explain that drugs and alcohol would kill him before they fixed him, and you can’t move through life with someone unable to grasp that.
I didn’t know where the fiery resolve in me had come from, but I was grateful for it. And after meeting Libby, I was even more determined to resist the life into which I’d been born. To resist the easy, chemistry-fueled relationship with the first and only boy I’d ever loved, the person who cared for me more than any other living soul ever had. Because like all of his friends, like his parents and my parents, Burke was an addict. I couldn’t allow another addict to play any part in rearing Gus or, God forbid, children of my own. I’d witnessed firsthand the relentless force with which drugs ripped families apart, but I was lucky to be able to see the world in black and white.
I remembered when my mother first told me she was pregnant with Gus. It was summer—August maybe—and she sat me down out back and told me I was going to be a big sister. I was ecstatic; I’d been begging for a younger brother or sister for years and had grown resigned that it wasn’t likely to happen.
My mom explained that she was going to get herself cleaned up so she could take better care of me and the new baby when he or she came. She said she was turning over a new leaf, and I could tell that she meant it. When my mom lied, her voice wobbled, but that day her voice was clear and strong.
She did get clean. She stopped taking drives with her creepy friend Shelly. She started eating three meals a day, and the fullness came back into her pretty face. One weekend I helped her paint the baby’s room a pale cornflower blue because she was certain it was a boy. My dad was clean then, too, and every night the three of us would cook dinner together and eat it in front of Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. Afterward I’d do the dishes while Mom lay on the couch and Dad rubbed her feet. Mom said she felt lucky to have such a wonderful family.
When Gus was born in February, a new kind of love bloomed inside my heart. I loved holding him and staring at his perfect, tiny features—I couldn’t believe he was my very own brother.
But Mom was different after Gus was born. She stayed in bed most of the day, and she barely smiled. She breastfed him for about six weeks before she started drinking again and switched him to formula. When I reminded her that she’d committed to staying clean, she looked at me with lost blue eyes and smiled absently.
“I know you’ll understand someday, darlin’。 It’s all just a little too much.”
I held a vague awareness of “good parenting,” enough to know that my own parents did not fall into that category. I knew what a stable home looked like from TV shows like Leave It to Beaver, and—though they were few and far between—I knew a couple girls from school whose mothers packed them carefully curated lunches every day and could afford to take them shopping at the mall in Plattsburgh. I was shrewd enough to know that kind of parenting didn’t have to be rare, that Langs Valley was at one end of a wide spectrum. I’d developed a broad enough scope to understand that I hadn’t been born “lucky.”
We pulled into Libby’s driveway, and Gus shrieked with delight when he saw the Big Bird balloon tied to the mailbox. I helped him out of the car and we walked inside, crunching through the fresh snow in our boots. Libby had outdone herself. Balloons were all over the kitchen and living room, along with streamers and Sesame Street–themed party hats. A huge cake from a fancy bakery in Plattsburgh was covered in blue icing to look like Cookie Monster, with five cherry-red candles. The best part was the real-life Elmo sitting with the kids in the living room, and my eyes welled up as I watched Gus run over and wrap his arms around the giant red Muppet. I had never seen Gus look so excited.
“Lib!” I threw my arms around her neck. “This is too much. Where in the world did you find Elmo?”
“It’s Peter!” she whispered. “He found the costume in Plattsburgh. Isn’t it hilarious?”
I watched the kids swarming Elmo from all directions and couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Peter—quiet, mysterious Peter—underneath the red furry suit. Maybe I’d been wrong about him. Maybe he was a better guy than I’d given him credit for.
A few were playmates of Gus’s from the neighborhood, but most were pals of Nate’s from his private preschool in Plattsburgh. I didn’t mind; I liked seeing Gus interact with other boys his age.
“I’ve never seen him so happy, Libby. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do, Heath.” Libby smiled, diamond studs glinting subtly from either ear. “You know how much I love that little guy. And how much I love his big sister.” In jeans and a white button-down shirt she radiated classy, easy beauty, her perfect baby girl propped on one hip, and I was overwhelmed by the feeling that so often struck me in her presence. It had become more of a mission than a feeling; with a heightened sense of urgency each passing day, I wanted to be exactly like Libby Fontaine.
Chapter Thirteen
Skye
APRIL 2019
I wake up to another email from Max LaPointe.
Fiancé is an older man, huh? Hope he knows what he’s getting himself into, Starling.
My stomach seesaws—Max must have seen my Instagram. The one I recently posted of Burke and me, the selfie from the morning we got engaged. But how? Max and I unfollowed each other on social media years ago. Possibly Max hates me almost as much as I hate him. Instinctively I reach across the bed for Burke, before I remember he’s already gone.
Burke leaves for work around eight. Like me, he’s a freelancer who works from home. Unlike me, it’s not for mental-health reasons, but nonetheless, we can’t get anything done when we’re both trying to focus in the apartment, so he’s been going to a WeWork in Chelsea.
I reread Max’s email. I hate the entitled way he’s called me Starling—his old, flirtatious name for me. I put my phone down and make myself a cup of coffee before sitting down at my desk. I’m about halfway through the first round of edits for my author Jan Jenkins’s new book, the next in her hit YA series about same-sex romances in middle school. Jan and I have been working together for almost five years, since before she was published. When she found me, she was disheveled and discouraged—newly divorced with two kids in college and a completed manuscript about a seventh-grade girl named Louise struggling with her sexuality. Unable to land an agent, Jan had decided to self-publish, and with my editorial guidance, her first book in the Loving Louise series made the USA Today bestseller list. After that she got multiple offers from major imprints, but in the interest of loyalty and maximizing profit margins, she opted to stick with self-publishing, and me. Now that Jan is on a book-a-year schedule, she keeps me busy, but I typically have a handful of smaller projects I’m working on at any given time. Still, Jan is unquestionably my biggest success story—having her as my author is what’s propelled and sustained my freelance career. And it’s work that would’ve made my mother, a book-publishing veteran, proud.