I think of his fingers tracing the curve of my hip and feel cleaved down the middle by longing and fear. What if all of this has been a game to him? What if Sullivan has been playing me and I’ve pushed everyone away?
Jonathan and I are practically estranged, and by the look on Ashley’s face at the pancake breakfast, our friendship is over. I haven’t seen the Murphys in weeks, Mom’s keeping secrets from me, and all my other friends have already begun the slow drift into their own futures. Some to college, others into full-time jobs that have changed the landscape of their lives entirely. Me? I’m stuck in Jericho making terrible decisions that have the potential to unravel my world.
I’m frantic with regret and terrified that it’s too late to undo what has been done. I want to drive over to Ashley’s house and try to make her understand, but I know she needs some time to cool off. And I’d love nothing more than to talk to Jonathan—to really talk to him—but he’s been sidelining me all summer. I pace the floor of my bedroom, unsure of what to do next, when I realize that I’ve had enough. I’m done with being lied to.
Mom is downstairs making potato salad and Law’s drinking a pre-party beer on the porch, but I still tiptoe out of my room as if I’m in imminent danger of being caught. The second story of our farmhouse is small but efficient, with four doors opening onto a landing that boasts a single bookshelf with Jonathan’s and my childhood collection. The first room to the left of the stairs is mine, then there’s a tiny closet-sized room that houses Mom’s sewing machine. The bathroom is kitty-corner from where I’m standing, and across the hall is Jonathan’s bedroom.
It’s the last thing I want to do, because I love and respect my brother, but I don’t see another way. I step around the creaky boards of the landing and put my palm on Jonathan’s closed door. His handle is as squeaky as mine, but I know the trick from years of sneaking in to play practical jokes on him. We did it all the time when we were younger: frogs in each other’s shoes or cornflakes in the sheets. Once, Jonathan went so far as to put a live snake in my sock drawer, and when I opened it in the morning, I screamed loud enough to wake the dead. It was just a garter snake, but I cried for an hour. Law put an end to our shenanigans after that and threatened the belt if we ever did it again. We knew better than to cross him, and our prank war ended, but I still know how to open Jonathan’s door so that it barely whispers in my hand.
Jonathan’s room is cooler than mine because his side of the house is shaded by one of the largest maple trees in Jericho. It’s dim in here, and smells faintly of cologne, as if the last thing Jonathan did before he left this morning was spray the bottle. It makes me unaccountably sad, because I associate his scent with laughter and amusing conversations about everything from string theory to local gossip. A stab of conscience makes me pause just over the threshold, but then I catch sight of a photo of the two of us on his desk. We’re little in it, maybe four and five, and we both have dark rings around our mouths from the chocolate ice cream cones we’re clutching. Although I’m his big sister, I’m staring up at him as if he hung the moon.
This is why I’m here. Because our relationship is worth more than every single one of the Tates combined. Worth more than any alleged slight he feels over the Murphys’ exploitation of his time and talents. More than Ashley, even. And I won’t let him shut me out anymore. If what Sullivan said is true and my brother is planning to do something dangerous or illegal tonight, I’m going to figure out what it is. And I’m going to stop it. For his sake, and for mine.
I ease the door shut and latch it, then stand with my hands on my hips and scan the room. Jonathan keeps his things neat and tidy—much more so than I do—which makes any sort of snooping more difficult because he’ll notice if a single thing is out of place. And I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Of course, I don’t think for a second that Jonathan wrote out a play-by-play of whatever it is they plan to do. Nor do I think I’ll find a stash of brand-new cans of spray paint or a journal entry confessing all the angst my brother feels toward the Murphys. But surely there must be something that will help me understand what on earth has gotten into Jonathan in the last couple of months. A receipt, a letter, anything. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a baggie of pot or a bottle of prescription meds.
I’m sorry, I mouth, hoping my apology will linger in the air even if Jonathan never knows what I’ve done.