Heartbroken (5 page)

“I’m sorry,” her brother said. He issued a long breath. “I can’t. I just can’t do it this year.”

“You have to,” she said. “You promised me.”

She could see the boys jogging onto the field. Brendan threw a quick, anxious glance at her and then took his position. She heard the shrill of a whistle, the low sound of a few parents cheering.

“Honey, I know,” her brother said. “But I’ve just realized that I can’t do this anymore.” She could tell by his tone that he was not going to change his mind. He added, “I’m not like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know,” he said. He sounded weary and a little peevish. “You have Dad on your side. I don’t even have that.”

She felt a childish rush of tears, which she blinked back. Anger, disappointment, sadness were the all-too-familiar horsemen preceding any encounter with her family. They’d come early. And she had a feeling they were here to stay. She didn’t say anything.

“Look, Kate,” he said into the silence. “I’m too old for this. I’m not going to travel for a full day to trap myself on an island with people who abuse me. There has to be a time in your life when you just start staying no.”

She started to push out a disdainful breath.
Abuse?
That was a little melodramatic, wasn’t it? But that was her mother, too. Always arguing semantics to avoid the ugly truth.

“What about me and the kids?” she said. She wasn’t above the pity play. “We miss you.”

“We’ll come to your place for Thanksgiving.”

“Teddy, please don’t make me do this alone.” Okay, now she was begging.

“Try to understand,” he said. “You don’t have to do this, either.”

She
did
have to do it. There were a thousand reasons why, all twisted around one another, a big tangle of hope and fear and obligation.

“I have to hang up now,” she said. She sounded cold; she didn’t mean to.

“Kate.”

“Brendan’s game is starting. And I happen to care about the promises I make to my family.”

“Oh, please,” he said. Now he was angry, too. “You sound just like her.”

That was a low blow. It was unnecessary, and a reminder that as much as she loved her brother, there were serious challenges in their relationship. How could there not be? How could the children of Birdie and Joe Burke ever hope to be truly close? Where would they have learned those skills? Certainly not from their parents. Maybe it was better, after all, if he didn’t go.

“Bye, Theo.” She ended the call.

She sat a minute, rested her head on the steering wheel until she heard the referee’s penalty whistle from the field. Then she climbed from the driver’s seat and went around to the trunk to get the big cooler of water and the oranges she’d promised the coach she would bring. Promises were important. Why didn’t anyone seem to remember that anymore?

chapter three

C
helsea wasn’t supposed to talk to her biological father, Sebastian, without her mother present in the room. So when she saw his name and number on her caller ID, she pressed ignore. It had nothing to do with the custody agreement. It was just something Chelsea and her mom had decided on a couple of years ago.

When she was younger, after calls with her father, Chelsea would feel inconsolably sad for reasons she couldn’t articulate. Maybe it was because
he
sounded so sad and so far away. Or because other times he was angry and said awful things about her mom. Often he made grand promises that she knew he had no way of keeping, as much as he might want to, like “Next year we’re going to go to Disney World for a week—just you and me.” Chelsea knew his custody agreement didn’t allow for weeklong trips. Early on, he wasn’t even allowed unsupervised visits. Worse than that, she wouldn’t have wanted to go with him if she had been allowed.

Sometimes after his calls, when she was a little kid, she’d cry and cry in her mother’s lap; it felt like she would never stop crying. When her mother was there, even if Kate couldn’t hear her father’s side of the conversation, Chelsea felt better, as if her life were a solid place, predictable and safe. When she hung up, if her mother was nearby, she didn’t feel like the whole world was built on quicksand, a place where even the adults didn’t know what was true. That was why they’d made the agreement.

But her father was different now; he was remarried, sort of. He
claimed he was
spiritually
married, though apparently, he eschewed legal documentation. He was sober. He wasn’t angry anymore, not in the ranting, raging way he used to be. Recently, he’d found success again as a writer. So he was happier.

A couple of years ago, he’d formally apologized to Chelsea and to her mother for all the pain he’d caused them while he was drinking. It was part of his twelve-step program.
Or part of his publicity tour
, her mother had offered. Because his first successful book in ten years was about how drinking had laid waste to his life and his career:
The Bottom of the Glass
. His marriage to Chelsea’s mother was apparently cataloged in grisly, Technicolor detail. Kate had asked her not to read it until she was older, and Chelsea had agreed. She’d happily kept her promise. Frankly, she didn’t want to know any more about her parents’ train wreck of a marriage than she already did.

Since the apology, whatever his reasons had been for making it, her mother no longer visibly stiffened at the mention of Chelsea’s father. In the last year, Chelsea had been allowed two weekends with Sebastian and Jessica, his second “wife” and also his literary agent (who was
fine
, really—even Kate said so). He’d been asking for another weekend. But Chelsea kept coming up with excuses, and her mother certainly wasn’t forcing the issue.

Chelsea couldn’t say why she didn’t want to go. Her father and Jessica bent over backward to please her, showered her with gifts—an iPhone, clothes, a flat-screen television in her room at their house. They indulged her every whim. But there was something about the way her father looked at her, as though he wanted and expected something that she thought she should feel but didn’t. It was something she knew he hadn’t earned and couldn’t buy. She felt bad about it. She loved him; she did. But it didn’t feel like enough. The truth was that she would never be “home” when she was with her father. And they both knew it.

“You should be milking that action for all it’s worth,” Lulu said. “Make him buy you a car next year.”

They had started talking about Sebastian in Forever 21. Chelsea didn’t think Lulu had seen the call come in. But maybe she had. Or maybe she was just reading Chelsea’s mind, like she always did.

“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “Sweet idea.”

She had no intention of asking her father for a car or anything else. Even the iPhone he’d given her had seemed to cause some pain at home. She thought maybe Sean had been planning to get her one for her birthday. Of course, nothing was ever said. Sean, her stepfather (though she didn’t think of him that way), was the man she called Dad. And he would never dream of making her feel bad about her relationship with her real father or anything related to it.

“Seriously,” said Lulu, as though she sensed that she hadn’t made her point. “He’s, like, loaded now. And he owes you.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

Lulu shrugged. She held up a tiny tie-dyed tank. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s cute,” said Chelsea.

Chelsea wondered what it would be like to look perfect in absolutely anything. And to have no one telling you what you could and couldn’t wear. Lulu looked at the top again and then put it back. Chelsea wouldn’t have been surprised to see Lulu stick the shirt in her bag, even though there were no limits on what she could buy. Lulu had her own credit card, and her parents paid the bill, no questions asked. But she still regularly pocketed small items … a shirt, a lipstick, a stuffed animal from the Hallmark store.
Why?
Chelsea had asked her friend.
Why would you do that?
Lulu had looked at her somewhat blankly, as though she’d never considered the question.
I don’t know
.

“I saw him on the
Today
show,” said Lulu. Now she was looking at Chelsea pointedly over a rack of yoga pants. Rihanna was singing on the speakers.
I love the way you lie
, she crooned.

“Oh,” said Chelsea.

She didn’t like it when her father was on television. The man she
saw on the screen was a bad facsimile of the man she knew, someone put on and false. People would inevitably mention that they’d seen him or that they’d seen his book in the store. They were impressed and communicated it by looking at Chelsea with something like awe and wonder—or sometimes, she thought, pity. Chelsea didn’t like it one bit. Because they didn’t know the whole story of who he was, just the one he had chosen to tell. Only she and her mother knew everything. And having a best-selling book or a national television appearance didn’t make up for the other things, not even close. Not that she was mad or anything. Chelsea decided to change the subject.

“I got a friend request from a really cute guy today. Adam McKee? Do you know him?”

Lulu started walking toward the door. “Maybe,” she said. “What does he look like?”

“Black spiky hair, brown eyes. Lives in Brighton.”

Lulu offered an elaborate shrug, a mask of indifference. “I don’t know,” she said. “Show me?”

Was she being cagey?
Chelsea wondered. It was so hard to tell with Lulu. As close as they were, there were times when Chelsea wasn’t sure what her friend was up to. Lulu sometimes held back, at least for a while—like when she lost her virginity last year. Or when she tried pot for the first time. Chelsea hadn’t done either.

“He’s your friend on Facebook,” Chelsea said.

“Honey,” Lulu said, world-weary. They’d left Forever 21 and were strolling toward the food court. “I have five hundred friends. I can’t keep track of them
all
.”

Chelsea took the phone out of her bag, pulled up the request, and held the device out to Lulu.

“He
is
cute,” said Lulu, grabbing it from her. “He looks familiar.”

“So you accept friend requests from people you don’t know? You’re not supposed to do that,” Chelsea said.

Lulu launched a dramatic eye roll. She thought Chelsea was too
nervous, too square. It was a long-running argument. “Isn’t that the whole point of Facebook?” she said. “To make
friends
?”

“Hello,” said Chelsea. “You’ve never heard of Internet predators? You know: Hey, I’m a sixteen-year-old hottie. Meet me at Starbucks! Then: Oops, my bad! I’m a thirty-year-old serial killer, let me give you a ride in the trunk of my car!”

“God, Chelsea,” said Lulu. She pushed out a little laugh, put a hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. “Chill out.”

Lulu pressed the accept button and gave Chelsea a sly smile.

“Lulu!”

“You have a new friend!” said Lulu. “Ask him to meet us.”

“No way.”

Lulu took off with the phone. Before Chelsea could reach her, she saw her thumbs going.

“What are you
doing
?” Chelsea said once she’d caught up to Lulu in a plush seating area in the aisle between Coach and Tiffany.

Lulu sank onto a leather couch, put her feet up, then handed the phone back. “I told him to meet us at the food court, near Panda Express.”

“You’re kidding!” Chelsea was horrified—and thrilled. After all, wasn’t she just lecturing her mother on the low incidence of stranger crime? “That’s insane. How could you?”

“So call your mom,” said Lulu. It was a dare. “Have her come get you.
I’ll
wait for him.”

Lulu and Chelsea had been friends since kindergarten. Chelsea was the smart one; Lulu was the pretty one. Chelsea was the careful one; Lulu was the wild one. Chelsea was conscientious and hardworking; Lulu skated by. These were their roles, and they both knew them well, especially when they were together. Usually, their friendship was an easy balancing act. Lulu tempted Chelsea to be a little bad; Chelsea pulled Lulu back from the edge. But lately, Lulu was going places that Chelsea didn’t always feel comfortable following.

Chelsea
did
think about calling her mother. She had that feeling, which Kate always encouraged her to honor.
If you feel nervous, if something doesn’t feel good or right, your instincts are telling you something. Make sure you listen
.

Chelsea snatched the phone back from Lulu, who gave her a wide smile. But the truth was, Chelsea didn’t want to go. She
did
want to see Adam McKee in the flesh. And she didn’t want him to see Lulu first.

“I’m hungry,” said Chelsea. She stuffed the phone in her bag and looked at her friend.

Lulu stood up and wrapped her arms around Chelsea. She smelled of strawberries and cigarettes. “You love me,” said Lulu.

“I do,” said Chelsea. She gave Lulu a quick squeeze and released her.

They walked toward the food court. Chelsea told herself that she
had
posted about their mall visit, anyway. As soon as Lulu had accepted Adam’s request, he’d have been able to see that was where she was going. Besides, what were the chances that he wasn’t who he said he was? And if he was, what were the chances that he’d actually come? Brighton wasn’t far, but it wasn’t close, either.

“Don’t worry, Chaz.” That was Lulu’s annoying nickname for Chelsea. “First serial killer we see? We’re so out of there.”

“Very funny,” said Chelsea. She made this kind of mock-snorting laugh that they’d done since they were kids. “Really. You’re a riot.”

Lulu took Chelsea’s hand and held it tight. Lulu had always been physical with Chelsea, very affectionate. Chelsea loved that about her friend. Lulu had a way of making her feel like the most important person in the world. There was a group of boys hanging out by the surf shop. Chelsea noticed that they all turned to look at Lulu. Lulu passed them by without a second glance.