I shower, and dress—the sky has turned gray and heavy, I notice—and as I wrangle with my hair I think about weak spots. Being a lawyer is a little like being a doctor in reverse: you look for the damage and try to grow it, try to push in, dig a little deeper, open up the festering places, like how I used to scout the woods for soft soil, spaces where I could easily bury my belongings—little things I didn’t want my dad to find, like the cigarette stub Kaycee and I split in fifth grade, the one and only time I tried smoking, or the orange blush and shiny mirrored compact, obviously stolen, she gave me for my birthday.
Carolina Dawes has confirmed we’re right about the water, but she isn’t enough: she’s not credible, and Optimal will no doubt be able to show that Coop comes in contact with a number of things that might have caused skin irritation. And Optimal’s public image is as sturdy and slick as the plastics they make. Still, there must be a weak spot, a break, a place I can crack with a little bit of pressure.
Luckily, there’s only one Brent O’Connell in Barrens, and it seems he’s an early riser.
—
Woody’s is just clearing its breakfast rush when I arrive an hour later. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time before getting out of the car. My dark waves—one good feature I inherited from my mother—have already expanded in the humidity, but I look alert and sharp and, shockingly, not at all hungover. If I’m not beautiful, I’m still nothing like the girl I was when he knew me.
The sky darkens overhead, and I wonder when the clouds will tire of holding back the rain and let go.
Before I get a chance to open the door, it swings open from the inside, and there’s Brent O’Connell, smiling, motioning me inside. I was hoping he might have gotten fat, or lost some of his hair.
He looks just the same as he did in high school—blue eyes, blond hair, a boy-next-door, but all grown up. The only thing that’s changed is his clothing. He has abandoned the ripped jeans and V-neck T-shirts of our high school years for khakis and a collared shirt.
And even though I’m wearing tailored jeans and a decent blazer, I have a brief flash of panic: It’s an act, and he’ll know it. All the seams will come apart.
I remember his skin, warm despite the chill of the lake water that dripped from his hair. I remember voices in the distance, the smell of house paint and wood smoke. How he reached for my hair, how he left me, wordlessly, lifting a finger to his lips. Shhh.
“Abby Williams,” he says. “God. You look fantastic.”
“It’s hindsight,” I say, and Brent laughs. “Looks good on everyone.” I stop myself from saying that Brent looks good too—not because it isn’t true, but because it is. Upon closer inspection, Brent has changed. He’s just as handsome, but in a softer, more accessible way. His muscles have relaxed and he looks just tired enough to be real.
He shakes his head. “If I’d been smarter in high school…” Real, fake, fabricated. Maybe everyone in Barrens has trouble telling the difference. “Come in, before it starts dumping on us.”
I have to squeeze myself past him and for a second I smell his shampoo, and I remember that night in the woods and the water left on my skin from his hair after he kissed me.
I follow him to a booth in the corner and slide into my side, clutching a menu like it’s a life preserver. In high school, Woody’s was huge: when there were no parties, nowhere to go or no one to buy beer or no money to buy it with, everyone would go to Woody’s for the free coffee refills, shouldering up next to old-timers playing cards in their usual booths and groups of giggly girls pitching in for a plate of curly fries. I used to come by myself, after everyone else had cleared out, just to avoid being at home. It smells like the fryer and maple syrup just like it always did.
“So?” Brent leans forward, as if he can’t stand to leave any distance between us. “How is it to be home after all these years? Just like you remember it?”
“Hard to say, since I’ve spent half my life trying not to remember,” I say, and Brent laughs. Of course, he has no way of knowing how hard I’ve tried to put Barrens behind me. And how badly I’ve failed.
The waitress shows up, and I can tell by the way she laughs that Brent is still the big fish in town. I duck my head and pretend to be absorbed by the menu.
“You like omelets? Best in town. Two Western omelets, please,” Brent says. “And two coffees. You don’t mind if I order for you, do you?” His voice is teasing, and friendly, and happy.
I snap my menu closed. “I’ll just have scrambled eggs. No coffee. Tea would be great.” As soon as she leaves, I’m not sure why I did it. Only that I don’t want to make Brent so happy.
Or I do, which I can’t allow, either.
If he senses a rebuttal, he doesn’t act like it. “Strong choice,” he says. “You know, I always liked that about you—how you did your own thing. You never ran with the pack.”
I was too busy running from them, I nearly point out, but I don’t. He’s just being nice. But it’s Brent.
“You must be wondering why I wanted to see you,” I say.
“Come on, Abby. You haven’t been gone that long. You know how this town works. You hadn’t been back five minutes when Misha put out an all-points bulletin.”
The idea stirs an old anxiety, the kind that comes from spending years as a bull’s-eye in a field full of arrows. “You’re still close with Misha, then?”
“We became close, after…” He trails off, fiddling with his coffee cup, spinning it between his hands. “I guess that kind of thing bonds you pretty good. You know Misha’s vice principal at the school now?”
I still can’t wrap my head around it, but I nod. “She told me.”
“She’s doin’ good, too.” Then he clears his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Well, I know you didn’t come back so we could take a stroll through memory lane. I know why you guys are here and I’m happy to help however I can. I figure I owe you that much, right?”
“Owe me?” My pulse picks up. “What do you mean?”
For a second, he falters. When he adjusts his position, the vinyl squeaks faintly again, like the sound of a new shoe. “Teenagers can be real assholes. I know we were. I know I was. And Misha, and Kaycee, and the others. Honestly, I have no idea why.” He puts his hand through his hair and it falls easily back into place. “What I’m trying to say”—he looks hard at me, as though seeing me for the first time—“is that I’m sorry.”
The apology is so plain, so straightforward, I’m left wordless.
He was with Kaycee, but he liked you, Misha had said at the Donut Hole. All that long hair…
“I don’t need you to apologize,” I say, feeling suddenly angry: Misha, my dad, Brent. They’re all twisting my memories, making me doubt things I always counted on as true.
“I know. But I want to apologize.”
He wants me to tell him it’s okay—but I won’t. I refuse. I decide to cut to the chase. “So you’ve been at Optimal since high school graduation?” I hate the idea he might think I’ve come here to work through my past—or, at least, his part in it.