Lizzie Page 7

  “This,” Bridget says. “I mean, you have a fishing net hanging out of your back pocket.” She bites her lip in that not-so-innocent way that makes my stomach flip. “And you’re wearing plaid. Plaid.” She settles into a lawn chair. “I guess I never pictured you as a fisherwoman.”

  “I haven’t been out here recently.” The tip of my rod takes a quick dive and I yank upright. I turn the reel a couple of times, but the line goes slack. “We used to bring home some nice rainbows, though.” At Bridget’s raised eyebrow, I laugh. It’s so easy to laugh when we’re together, away from the B and B and Abigail, away from everyone but each other. “Rainbows are trout.”

  She holds her hands about a foot apart. “Were they this big?”

  Her smile is all mischief.

  “Bigger,” I say.

  She doubles the length and her eyes burn with anticipation.

  My voice is low and breathy. “Even bigger.”

  She holds her arms as wide open as they’ll go. “This big?”

  “Yeah. That’s about right.”

  It’s an absolute lie, and I’m almost positive Bridget knows it. But that’s why I love fishing—it’s acceptable to fib. Even Father Buck says an occasional tall tale is fine, so long as it isn’t hurting anyone. My saliva turns sour. That should be the basic rule for everything, as far as I’m concerned. Like the way Bridget and I feel about each other. Who are we hurting? No one. So then why is our relationship a sin?

  I watch Bridget’s profile, my gut roiling like ocean waves in a storm.

  A seed of sudden fear burrows deep in my belly. What if this relationship somehow hurts Bridget? My shoulders tense. I’d rather hurt myself instead.

  Bridget grabs a soda from the cooler, wipes off the top, and hands it to me. I pull up a lawn chair so we’re parallel, and sit. The bank’s a bit rocky, and the uneven ground gives my chair a bit of a lean. I’m practically propped up against Bridget, aware of the current that runs between us, alive like static electricity.

  Bridget rests her cool hand on my knee. “Tell me a story.”

  It’s so intimate, the way she says it, and my pulse leaps. That’s the thing about nature—the silence, the peace, it can amplify everything else. Especially feelings. My cheeks flush hot.

  Bridget reaches over and folds a wayward strand of hair up into my hat. I tense but don’t pull away. Her fingertips are soft, smooth. Heat buzzes through my veins despite the coolness of her skin. “What kind of a story?”

  “A love story.” Her voice drops to a throaty whisper. “I want to know you, Lizbeth. The good, the bad. Everything. Tell me . . . everything.”

  “Ah, a novella, then,” I say, trying to make light, even as a dark shadow begins to creep over my heart, as though the sun has slipped behind a cloud, casting everything into varying shades of gray. “My mom died when I was young. Cancer.” A sharp pain stabs into my chest. “She loved Fall River. The town, the people, the shops. Even our house.” I swallow hard and blink back a tear. “We could have lived up on the hill—we were supposed to live in a mansion. But Mom didn’t care about money. She just wanted to stay close to her friends.”

  Bridget traces the pattern of a heart on my knee. “Abigail seems an odd choice for your father, then.”

  I blow out an unsteady breath. “That’s an understatement. My father basically married her out of convenience. Love was never part of the equation.” My voice stutters as I realize that my feelings for Bridget are already so deep. Why would anyone marry for anything but love?

  “I guess I’m not one to talk. I’ve made a lot of mistakes looking for my Princess Leia.” Her smile is more a wince. “Sorry. Star Wars.” She shuffles closer and trails her finger farther up my thigh. Goose bumps rise along my arms. “To me, the most important part of a relationship is the connection. Don’t you agree?”

  It’s like there’s a whole fish stuffed down my throat, making it hard to talk. I nod.

  Her fingernails lightly scrape against my skin. “And when I get married, it will be . . .” Her shimmering eyes lift to mine and my breath catches. I’m overcome with an emotion so intense it leaves me light-headed. “For love. No matter who doesn’t agree with my choice. It’s nobody’s business anyway.” She kicks at a rock. “Love is love.”

  My throat feels thick, the gold chain pulling so tight around my neck that the edges of the cross wedge into my flesh. It’s so easy for her to say things like that, make bold proclamations without having to worry about overstepping God’s boundaries or my father’s rules. The concept of Catholic guilt may sound like a cliché, a joke. But it’s real. And in this moment, it leaves me breathless.

  Hopeless.

  Being here, with Bridget’s fingertips dancing across my skin, and my mind twisting with impure thoughts, has given that guilt a buffet from which to feast. I want to scream at her to stop touching me, stop looking at me with her beautiful emerald eyes, to just STOP! But my willpower has given way to blinding need, and I won’t—can’t—walk away.

  Forgive me, Father.

  Bridget leans over to kiss me, but before our lips connect, she loses her balance in the chair. We both topple over, crashing onto the hard ground with a painful crunch. I’m sure my back must be broken, my limbs have gone numb, but then Bridget peers at me through the curtain of her hair and her mouth closes over mine. All pain disappears. She kisses playfully at first, and then with more passion. A sigh gurgles softly from my throat. Bridget nibbles on my bottom lip, and then pushes her tongue inside.

  The tip of my rod takes a nosedive, and I realize it’s still gripped tightly in my fist. My arm jerks. Bridget’s eyes open and go wide. “Shit,” she says with a giggle. “Is that a bite?”

  “Fish on!”

  We scramble to stand and I start to wind in the line. One hand holds the pole steady while the other spins the reel. Bridget’s camera click, click, clicks beside me. I can feel the lens zooming in on my face, and then I watch as she snaps shots of the water, the rod, my hands working in tandem. Her clicks fire so fast they echo like mini fireworks. Click. Pop. Click. Zzzzt.

  I reel faster. My palms go clammy under the weight of the fish—it’s two pounds, at least, probably a trout.

  Bridget bounces on her toes. “Bring it in, babe!”

  The rod goes slack. I should be disappointed, but her sultry voice echoes at the back of my mind. Babe. Babe. BABE. I will never grow tired of that—

  This.

  “Lost him,” I finally say, and finish reeling in the line to pull up the empty hook. “Sucker robbed me of my bait, too. Can you hand me the maggots?”

  “You’re serious?”

  We’re back to teasing again, and I quickly step into that role. “Worried they might bite you through the container?”

  Bridget side-eyes the clear plastic tub. “They have teeth?” She holds it up into the light, and several maggot silhouettes writhe up against the lid. “Jesus.” She squeezes her eyes shut. And dang it if my heart rate doesn’t pick up speed. She’s so cute when she’s scared.

  Never mind. She’s always cute.

  I tilt my head. “What are you doing?”

  “Using the Force to will these fuckers away.” She hands me the container and shudders. Our fingertips touch.

  Trembling, I pop off the lid and root around for a fat maggot. Dirt wedges under my fingernails, black and earthy. I finish threading the bait onto the hook and cast, this time farther out. The sun’s warmth seeps into my skin, which means the fish will swim deeper in search of food. My mother taught me that our first time out.

  “I’m still waiting to hear more about you,” Bridget says.

  “Your stories are more interesting than mine,” I say, licking my lips. “Tell me more about Ireland. Or Scotland.”

  “Not Scotland,” Bridget says. “That place was a total bust.”

  “Except for that close encounter with the Loch Ness Monster.”

  She grins widely. “Yeah, except that.” She picks at the tab on my soda can
, flicking it with her long fingernail. Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve already told you everything about me.”

  “Tell me again.” I clear my throat. “More about the Duomo, maybe.” It’s my favorite picture of Bridget’s, the spiraling cement staircase somehow symbolic of this. Us. An impossible relationship, stretching toward unparalleled heights. Ironic, perhaps, that it too is steeped in Catholicism, a religion that would find our relationship abhorrent.

  “Italy,” she says with a smile.

  I duck my head, embarrassed. “Religious stuff, I know. Blech. It’s just . . . fascinating.”

  “Lot of steps,” she says with a wistful sigh that tugs at my heartstrings.

  A sharp yank on my line pulls my attention. I reel in a few times, and confident I’ve snagged a real fish, I hand Bridget the rod. The color drains from her face.

  “Don’t panic,” I say, sliding in behind her. My arms go around her waist, and I hold the bottom of the rod to keep it in place. Her warmth nestles against mine. “Just keep the line tight and reel in. Nice and steady.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  I nod with way too much enthusiasm. A shot of adrenaline shoots through me and my chest fills with pride. The tip of my rod is almost bent in half and I’m sure this fish will be a monster. A foot long at least. “Keep the tip up!”

  Bridget continues reeling, her knuckles white, muscles tense.

  I squeal when the fish boils on the water’s surface. Its face emerges, reptilian skin slick with slime, eyes large and bulbous. Swipe. It opens its giant maw. Swipe. Swipe. Thick rows of sharp teeth drip red, splattering the muddy bank. Swipe. The giant fish shakes its head, spraying me with blood. It covers my skin, my face, coats my lips. Bridget screams.

  Swipeswipeswipe.

  I blink to reset my irrational panic, relieved to see the small pike skimming the surface, its yellow scales glinting like gold flecks under the sun’s sharp rays.

  “I’ll get it with the net!” I say, and scramble down the side of the bank, glancing back to make sure Bridget is still reeling. Her face is set in determination, and it does something weird to my insides. I’m sure I’ll never forget how beautiful she looks in this moment, my beautiful fisher girl.

  My eyes well up and I glance away.

  The melodic sound of Bridget’s laughter makes me turn again. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just this,” she says. “I guess I never pictured myself as a fisherwoman.”

  There’s a lump in my throat that makes my words kind of choke out. “Welcome to the club.”

  Bridget grins. “Besides hanging out with you, any other perks to tell me about?”

  “None that I can think of.”

  Her smile is radiant. “Perfect. All I need is you.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Knead. Roll. Knead.

  Repeat.

  Chef Emeril says the trick to making great bread is the pressure. How hard you push, knead, press with your palms. Not the amount of flour, or yeast, but the subtle manipulation of the dough.

  Aim for elasticity. Not too sticky. Not too dry.

  Just perfect.

  I add a scoop of flour to the metal mixing bowl and punch my knuckles into the ball of dough. A cloud of white puffs in my face and coats my lips. I lick them clean. A noise outside grabs my attention. I pause, listen. Nothing. Glancing up at the window, I see my reflection peering at me through the murky glass. Distorted. Too tall. Too thin. I use the edge of my palms to draw the blinds closed.

  “Izzy?”

  My spine stiffens. Swipe.

  “Pssst. Izzy . . .”

  I dig my fingers into the soft dough, stomach clenched in disbelief. I’m obviously hearing things, hallucinating or something, because only one person in this entire world calls me Izzy and that’s—

  A rubber band snaps across the middle of my back. On instinct, I pinch off a piece of the bread mix, whip around, and fling it at my sister’s chest. Emma dodges left and the dough hits the wall. It sticks for less than a second, then drops to the floor with a thwack.

  “Perfect consistency,” she says, winking.

  My heart shoots up into my throat as I realize that Emma is here. In the kitchen.

  Home.

  I launch myself into a tackle hug that nearly takes us both down, choking back my tears. “Is this real?” I untangle from her embrace and stare at her cheeks, her eyes, like I’m memorizing every feature on her face. Her hair is longer, blonder, and she’s lost a bit of weight. It seems like forever since she’s been gone. “What are you doing here?” I squeeze her tight, feeling her rib cage against my arms. “They’re starving you at college, aren’t they? You’re here for sustenance. Food. I can do that.”

  I’m good at that.

  Emma laughs. “It’s spring break. I told you I’d visit.”

  My eyes dart to the calendar swinging from a pushpin on the door of the pantry. There are no marks on today’s date, no hearts or exclamation points. Nothing to remind me that my sister would be home. My throat clogs up. How could I have forgotten? “I should have written it down.”

  Why didn’t I write it down?

  I begin to pace. “Ems, I’m terrible. Horrible. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten—”

  Emma grabs my arm. “Izzy, relax.” Her eyes scan my face, and I work hard to disguise the rising panic. I’ve begun to wean myself off the medications—my heart is so full, how can I possibly be depressed?—but my anxiety feels like it’s cresting at the base of my throat. I glance at the bottle of pills, hoping she won’t see them and ask me about them. They shouldn’t even be in the kitchen, in the same place I’ve hidden the pills I don’t take.

  “I never gave you an official date because I wanted to surprise you,” she says.

  My pulse eases off. “Well, mission accomplished.” I grab her cool hand and drag her to the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll get you something to eat—meat loaf? You want meat loaf, right?—and you can tell me everything. I want to know everything.”

  I’m rambling and I know I should stop, but my mind is like a Tilt-A-Whirl in sixth gear, spinning out of control.

  Emma licks her lips. “Honey, there’s something I need to talk to you about first. . . .”

  I freeze, hand on the counter for stability. Pinpricks of unease ripple across the back of my neck. I tilt my head up and take a deep breath. A black spider scampers across the ceiling—rat-a-tat-tat—and disappears behind the light fixture veiled with its web.

  Emma clears her throat. “I didn’t come alone.”

  My tongue runs along the bottom of my lip, my mind playing back her words at slow speed, searching for comprehension. I turn and stare at her face. “What do you mean?”

  There’s a shuffle in the hallway and my sister averts her gaze. Her smile brightens. A blush creeps along her cheeks. I follow her glistening eyes and BAM! There he is.

  Jesse.

  At least I think it’s Jesse, the way he stands all tall and rugged, with his sweater sleeves rolled up at the elbows to reveal a geometric tattoo that wraps up along his muscular forearm. Shaggy blond hair sweeps across his forehead and covers one hazel eye.

  “Izzy, this is . . .” She pauses. “This is Jesse, my boyfriend.” She practically glows.

  Jesse saunters toward me—his walk cocky or just confident, I’m not sure—and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Izzy.”

  I stare at his calloused fingers and chipped nails a beat too long before choking out a response. “Lizbeth,” I say. “Or Lizzie.” Anything but Izzy; that’s Emma’s special name. A swell of fresh panic rises up into my chest, filling like a helium balloon. My sister knows I’m no good with new people, with socialization, not without warning. This boy is a stranger. An unknown. My heartbeat thumps in my eardrums.

  “Would you like some . . . meat loaf?”

  There’s an awkward silence as Jesse tilts his head. I get it, it’s an odd question to ask. My sister jumps in, resurrecting her role as savior with ease. It seem
s forever since she’s rescued me. “Izzy is an incredible cook.”

  Chef.

  A soft vibration buzzes in my ears, and I busy myself to stop the rising paranoia that feeds off my unease like a flesh-eating zombie. I can feel the madness pushing against my veins and I shove it back, hiding it deep inside, where I hope one day, even I won’t be able to find it.

  That day isn’t now.

  Not in the presence of this stranger, without Bridget here to calm and soothe me. I’m nervous around new people, afraid I might say the wrong thing, reveal family secrets, struggle to answer questions with responses that won’t have me committed.

  Even though it’s clear that Jessie is more than my sister’s boyfriend—he is a symbol, another indication of my sister’s freedom from the life she left behind. A status I can’t achieve, may never achieve, if I can’t get it together. Father will keep me here forever unless I can convince him I’m able, stable—sane. Or until Abigail succeeds in sending me away, to a facility far, far, far from home, from Fall River, from Bridget.

  My palms go clammy.

  Bringing Jesse here—to this house—is Emma flaunting her independence, and for a second, my jealousy flares. I curl my hands into fists at my sides.

  Jesse sits next to Emma and kisses the top of her forehead with a smack that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Envy continues to simmer under my skin. How dare they be affectionate in public, without His eyes ever watching in disapproval. I grab plates, cutlery, napkins, allowing the cupboards to slam, the dishes to rattle, the noises to build and grow until I block out the white noise of their conversation, their sweet kisses and hushed whispers.

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I swipe, swipe, swipe, them away with the back of my hand. I can’t even look at Jesse, or the way he’s staring at my sister with utter adoration. My God, if anyone deserves such happiness it’s Emma, but I’m overcome with a jealousy that peck, peck, pecks away at my skin like it’s carrion.

  “Is this a new recipe?”

  Emma’s voice snaps me back to the present and I turn, slowly. Carefully. Her smile is a beam of light into the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I breathe it in. Remind myself that this is still Emma. She hasn’t changed. “I’ve added a couple of new ingredients,” I say, deftly avoiding the incident with my journal as I set the meat loaf on the table. Emma would ask too many questions, stare at me with those wide, knowing eyes, wonder aloud if I’ve remembered to take my pills. I glance away, but the scent of burnt paper drifts under my nose, strong enough I almost believe it’s real.