Jen kept her eyes down as Tom ushered them around the side of the building, to the emergency exit door. It was propped open, a man just outside in a suit—Mr. Maroney—sneaking a cigarette. Even he looked beaten down.
Mr. Maroney nodded to Tom and let everyone inside without question. Jen let herself exhale as the door shut behind them. The hall was empty, save for a man dressed like Mr. Maroney. He seemed to be standing guard over the smallest room in the parlor. The door was cracked open; Jen caught a glimpse of the photo on the end table, surrounded by white lilies. Her stomach bottomed out.
“They had his wake here?”
Tom placed a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “His mother deserves to bury him too.”
Jen shrugged herself away from Tom. “He’s a monster.”
The man stationed outside the door to Jack Canning’s viewing was looking over at them now; Mr. Maroney had stepped back inside at the commotion. Even Monica and Petey were looking up at Jen like they’d never seen her before.
Jen covered her mouth, running outside. She gagged over the railing, but nothing came out. Probably for the best. She would have ruined the pansies below her. The pansies hadn’t done anything wrong.
“The trick is to stick your finger down your throat.”
Jen looked up. Carly Amato, eyes red and eyelashes clumping together, was watching her. A cigarette burned between her index and middle finger.
“Don’t talk to me,” Jen said.
“That’s right. Take it out on the skank.” Carly stamped out her cigarette with the heel of her lace-up boot.
Jen felt a surge of anger. She thought of the blood staining Carly’s lips, the manic look in her eyes when Allie had gone after her. The fight had felt like it was weeks ago. But it had only been six days.
“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”
Carly smirked. “Yeah. I told that creep to go over and kill them. You got me.”
Jen had to stop herself from charging at Carly, transferring her rage to her like Allie had. She thought about saying something cruel. You do a line of coke in the bathroom, Carly? Because you sure look like it.
But Jen couldn’t be cruel, no matter how much she wanted to be. The cruelest people were the ones who seemed to coast through life, as if all that nastiness was a shield.
“I wish she’d never met you,” Jen said. “Maybe she’d still be here.”
Carly blinked. Jen thought maybe she saw tears in her eyes before she turned and left her standing there.
* * *
—
When they got home from the wake, Jen said she was going to bed early. She climbed out the window and cut across the backyard, the glow of the TV in the den behind her.
He let her in. “Are you okay?”
Jen bit her lip. Shook her head. “Can we go to your room?”
Ethan slipped a hand in Jen’s and led her down the hall. With his free hand, he opened his bedroom door. Jen looked from him to his bed. She lay down, and Ethan followed, keeping about a foot of space between them. His comforter was cool against her cheek.
Jen took Ethan’s face in her hands. He held her back, winding his fingers through her hair. He didn’t move to kiss her; this time, she kissed him first. He kissed her back until their faces were flushed and they had to break apart to catch their breath.
Jen stared at Ethan’s face. Ran a finger down his lips. He kissed the pad of her finger and she reached behind her, unzipping her dress. Ethan put his lips on her shoulder.
Jen moved her hand lower, lower, until she felt the hot flesh of his belly. When she reached for the zipper on his pants, he laced his fingers through hers. Pulled her hand up his chest.
She sat up. “You don’t want to?”
Ethan’s face was flushed, his lips plump from the kissing. “I really, really want to.” He scooted closer to her. Pulled her so she was tucked in the space between his legs. “I just don’t want to do it when you’re sad.”
Jen’s eyes stung as he moved her hair off her bare shoulder, brushing his lips against her collarbone. “I’m always sad.”
She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until he paused. She turned to face him, her face wet now. “I’m always so goddamn sad.”
Ethan reached and wiped away a tear with his thumb. “When was the last time you were happy?”
She didn’t know. Even when she dug up her happiest memories, it was as if she were viewing them on a film reel. Things that had happened to another girl.
“I don’t know if I ever was happy.” Jen wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t even matter. They’re gone and I was supposed to be with them and every day since I’ve woken up wishing I could die too.”
Ethan’s finger, the one stroking her cheek, went still. “I tried to do it in eighth grade. Die.”
It felt like the air was sucked from her body. “How?”
“I’m not telling you that. It’s not the point. I changed my mind and I’m still here.” Ethan cupped his hands around her face, inches from his own. “You have so many people here who love you.”
That was the problem. Jen knew she was loved and that she’d always been loved. She knew that even if she did the unforgivable and destroyed them, they’d still love her. And that made it so much worse.
“I was supposed to be there,” Jen whispered. “It was supposed to be the three of us.”
Ethan said nothing. He moved his fingers from her cheek to her forehead. He brushed aside a lock of hair that had become wet with her tears, sending a shiver across her skin. Ethan didn’t say You can’t think like that or you can’t beat yourself up like everyone else did. For that, Jen was grateful.
When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper in her ear. “You’re still here. That’s all that matters now.”
Jen shut her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek, over her lips, pooling in the crook of her collarbone.
Ethan wiped it away. “Say it. I’m still here.”
Jen obeyed, her voice straining against the invisible grip on her throat. “I’m still here.”
She repeated the words in her head. But the longer they played on their loop, the less the words felt like an affirmation.
I’m still here.
It was starting to feel like a curse.
Mango scratches at my door around midnight. I shoo him back to my mother and Tom’s room. He gives me a look that makes me feel like the most evil person who has ever lived.
I wait another half hour to make sure he doesn’t come back before tiptoeing out of my room. Tom’s snores carry out into the hall; I take the stairs, pausing on every step to listen for the sounds of the snores behind me.
Tom’s computer is password protected. I try my mother’s name, Petey’s name, even mine with every permutation of our birthdays. None work, even when I substitute our names with NYGiants.
I open the top drawer of his desk, searching for a stray Post-it with passwords scribbled on it. I move my hand down to the third drawer, but it doesn’t budge when I tug the handle.
Dread pools in my stomach. I left this drawer unlocked—Tom must have found it that way and known someone had been inside. I think of him searching through the contents. Realizing Jen’s phone was gone. Figuring out there’s only one person in this house with a reason to steal it.
I stand so forcefully the desk chair rolls backward. I need to get the hell out of here. When I turn and face the office doorway, I yelp.
Tom’s arms are folded across his chest. He looks at me as if there are a million things he wants to say, but he settles on one word: “Sit.”
Tom points to the love seat by the window. I comply while he flips the light on and sits at his desk. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. Shuts his eyes and spins small semicircles in his desk chair.
I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to defend myself or not.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask.
After a beat, he says, “I am trying to decide if there’s a way to ream you out that doesn’t involve your mother.”
“Didn’t you tell me that Mom doesn’t need to know everything that goes on around here?”
Tom’s eyes fly open. “You think this is funny? I keep my gun in the safe in here.”