One of Us Is Next (23 page)

What the hell is keeping Maeve? “I’m fine,” I say, disentangling myself hastily. “I’m just happy to see you because I wanted…” I pause for a few beats, searching my brain for something that will hold Kiersten’s interest enough to make her forget we’re still standing in the driveway. She narrows her eyes and taps a foot, waiting.

I swallow a sigh and say, “Relationship advice.”

Kiersten’s entire face lights up as she claps her hands together.
“Finally.”

Maeve comes out the front door then, her laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Kiersten’s eyes pop, and she turns to me with a hopeful expression. “Not that relationship,” I mutter as Maeve waves. “Still friends.”

“Too bad,” Kiersten sighs, and holds out her arms for a hug from Maeve. As Maeve strides past me to greet her, she whispers, “Got them.” Whatever she found better be good, because I’m about to give up at least an hour of my life for it.

Phoebe

Thursday, March 26

When I get home my mother is out, at another Golden Rings wedding planner get-together. She’s left a note for me on the kitchen island:
Emma’s still not feeling well. Owen has eaten & there are leftovers in the fridge. Can you make sure he does his homework?

I set the note down with a sigh. I’d told my friends I wasn’t going to say anything to Mom about what just happened at Café Contigo and Callahan Park, and I meant it. But a not-small part of me is tired of feeling like my own parent. It’s not my mom’s fault, I know that. She’s doing the best she can. But I ache when I think of how I used to crawl into her lap when I was little and spill all my problems. It felt so
good,
getting them out.

Those were kid-sized problems, though. Broken toys and bruised knees. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to explain the past six weeks of my life. Or Emma’s. Whatever’s going on with my sister, one thing is clear: she doesn’t have anyone she feels like she can confide in, either.

It sucks we can’t be that for each other.

The apartment is quiet, except the faint video game sounds coming from Owen’s room and the hum of the dishwasher. The one and only thing about our apartment that’s better than our old house is that the dishwasher actually works. We used to have to hand-wash everything before loading it into the dishwasher, which always struck my dad as funny. “It’s the world’s most expensive drying rack,” he’d complain. Every once in a while he’d try to fix it, but all of his usual handiness deserted him when it came to that dishwasher. The last time he’d tried, water ended up pouring out of a pipe in our basement closet.

“We should just get a new dishwasher,” I’d told him as I helped position plastic beach buckets on the closet floor to catch the water. I didn’t think about what things cost, back then. A new dishwasher didn’t mean much more to me than new sneakers.

“Never,” Dad said bracingly. “This dishwasher and I are locked in a battle of wills. One day, I will prevail.”

Now I realize that we couldn’t afford it. After he died we could suddenly afford
everything
—Mom took us to Disneyland, even though we were too old except Owen. She marched us through rides during the day, and cried into her hotel room pillow at night. We had new clothes and phones, and she got a new car so Emma and I could have hers. Everything was perfect and shiny and we didn’t want any of it, not really, so we didn’t mind when it stopped.

I kick the base of our quiet, efficient dishwasher. I hate it.

I’m not hungry, so I open the cabinet beneath the sink and conduct my new ritual: checking Mom’s alcohol supply. Last night, a lone bottle of tequila remained. Today it’s gone. It’s sort of shocking that Mom hasn’t caught on to what’s been happening with Emma, but then again, Emma has all of us well-trained to trust that she’ll always do what she’s supposed to. If I didn’t share a room with her, I wouldn’t know either. And I wouldn’t have this sick, worried feeling in my stomach every time I walk into the apartment. I never know what I’m going to find, or how to make any of it better.

This has to be the end, though, now that Emma’s gone through all of Mom’s alcohol. My introverted, straitlaced sister can’t possibly have connections for getting more. With a sigh, I shut the cabinet door and head for our room to check on her. Chances are, she’s left a mess for me to clean up again.

When I crack our door, the first thing that hits me is the sound—a low, gurgling noise. “Emma?” I ask, pushing through. “You okay?”

She’s lying on her bed, twitching. At first I think she’s breathing in mucus, like she has a terrible cold, but then it hits me—she’s
choking.
Her eyes are closed, her lips blue, and as I watch in horror her entire body starts to convulse. “Emma! Emma,
no!
”

The word sounds like it’s being ripped out of me. I lunge forward to grab her shoulders, almost tripping over the tequila bottle on the floor, and haul her onto her side. She’s still making the gurgling sound, but now it’s mixed in with a wheezing noise. “Emma!” I shriek, hitting her back in a panic. Then her entire body contracts and a stream of vomit pours from her mouth, soaking both my shirt and her sheet.

“Phoebe?” Owen peers around the door. “What’s happening?” His mouth falls open when he sees Emma. “What…what’s wrong with her?”

Emma gags once, then flops motionless on the bed. I prop her up so her head is angled on the pillow and vomit can continue to trickle out of her slack mouth. “Get my phone. It’s on the island. Call 911. Tell them our address and that someone here has alcohol poisoning.
Now,
” I add, when Owen doesn’t move. He darts out of the room as I grab the edge of Emma’s sheet and try to clean out her mouth. The sour stench of vomit finally hits me, and my stomach rolls as I feel wetness seeping through the front of my T-shirt.

“How could you do this?” I whisper.

Emma’s chest is rising and falling, but slowly. Her lips are still tinged blue. I lift her hand and feel for her pulse beneath the clammy skin of her wrist. It hardly seems to move, especially in contrast to how fast mine is racing. “Owen! Don’t hang up! Bring me the phone!” I yell.

Owen returns to the bedroom, clutching my phone to his ear. “This lady says someone’s coming,” he whimpers. “Why is she poisoned?” he adds, his voice quavering as he stares at Emma’s limp figure. Her hair is hanging in her face, too close to her mouth, and I push it back. “Who poisoned her?”

“Nobody,” I grit out. Not literally, anyway. I can’t speak to whoever or whatever has been poisoning her mind these past few weeks, but I’m starting to think it’s not Derek. If Emma managed to avoid falling apart after she found out he and I
slept together,
surely she wouldn’t nearly kill herself over a few unanswered Instagram messages. There has to be something else going on here. I reach my hand out to my brother. “Give me the phone.”

He does, and I hold it to my ear. “Hello, help, I don’t know what to do next,” I say shakily. “I got her on her side and she threw up so she’s not choking anymore, but she’s also not moving. She’s hardly breathing and I can’t, I don’t know—”

“All right, honey. You did good. Now listen so I can help you.” The voice on the other end is no-nonsense but soothing. “An ambulance is on the way. I’m gonna ask you a few questions, and then we’ll know what to do until they get there. We’re in this together, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. Tears start slipping down my cheeks, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I try to focus on the woman’s voice, instead of fixating on the two questions that keep rattling around in my brain.

Mine:
How could you do this?

And Owen’s:
Who poisoned her?

Maeve

Friday, March 27

My sister is crushing me, but in the nicest possible way.

It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve only been home from school for half an hour. Bronwyn, who just took a Lyft from the airport, has her arms wrapped around my shoulders while I press my phone to my ear in my bedroom, trying to make sense of what Phoebe is telling me. “Well, that’s good, right?” I ask.

“I think so.” Phoebe sounds exhausted. When she didn’t show up at school today, I was worried something else might have happened with Intense Guy. Knox and I sent her a bunch of increasingly urgent check-in texts, and she finally answered one during lunch to let us know she was at the hospital with Emma. She’d been there most of last night, she said, until her mom insisted she go home and try to sleep. She went back first thing this morning.

“They’re still giving her fluids, but they stopped the oxygen therapy,” Phoebe says now. “They say there shouldn’t be any long-term effects. But they’re talking about addiction treatment when she leaves the hospital. Like rehab or something. I don’t even know.”

“Did Emma say why she’s been drinking?” I ask.

“No. She hasn’t been awake much, though.” Phoebe sighs through the phone, long and weary. “It’s just one thing after another in this family.”

My throat tightens. Before I heard about Emma, I’d been itching to tell Phoebe everything we’d learned about Intense Guy last night, and press her to think harder about whether she might have come across him before. But I can’t put that on her now. One crisis at a time. “Can I do anything to help?” I ask.

“Thanks, but I can’t think of anything. I should go. I need to make my mom eat something. I just wanted to let you know Emma will survive.” She says it lightly, like it was never in question, but I’ve been anxious ever since her text came through earlier today. All I could think was
Phoebe can’t lose anybody else.

“Text if you need me,” I say, but Phoebe’s already disconnected. I drop my phone so I can hug my sister back. Her familiar apple-green shampoo smell engulfs me, and I relax for the first time in days. “Welcome home,” I say, my words muffled against her shoulder. “Sorry Bayview is a horrible mess again. I missed you.”

When she finally lets go, we settle onto my window seat. Our usual spot, just like she never left. Both our parents are still at work, so the rest of the house is quiet. “I don’t even know where to start with everything that’s been happening around here,” Bronwyn says, folding one leg beneath her. She’s wearing black leggings and a fitted V-neck Yale T-shirt. Points to her for a cute, yet comfortable, airplane outfit. “Emma is all right, though?”

“Yeah. Phoebe says she will be.”

“God.” Bronwyn shakes her head, eyes wide. “This town is falling apart. And you…” She grabs one of my hands and gives it a shake. “I’m mad at you. I’ve been fighting with you in my head all week. How could you not tell me what you were going through?” Her face is an equal mix of affection and reproach. “I thought we told each other everything. But I didn’t have a clue any of this was happening until it was already over.”

“It turned out to be nothing,” I say, but she only tugs harder on my hand.

“Spending weeks thinking you’re deathly ill again isn’t
nothing.
And what if you’d lost valuable treatment time? You can’t
do
that, Maeve. It’s not fair to anyone.”

“You’re right. I was…” I hesitate, looking at our intertwined hands as I try to come up with the right words. “The thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever really believed I’d make it out of high school. So I tried not to get too attached to people, or let them get too attached to me. It’s just easier for everyone that way. But I could never do that with you. You wouldn’t let me. You’ve always been
right here,
getting in my face and making me feel things.” Bronwyn makes a tearful, strangled sound and squeezes my hand harder. “I guess, while you were gone, I forgot how that’s actually better.”

Bronwyn is crying for real now, and I am, too. We cling to each other for a few minutes and let the tears flow, and it feels like washing away months of regret for all the things I should have said and done differently.
You can’t change the past,
Luis said the night he made me ajiaco in the Café Contigo kitchen.
All you can do is try harder next time.

And I will. I’m not repaying love with fake indifference anymore. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want my life, and the people in it, so badly that I’m willing to break all our hearts if the worst does happen.

Bronwyn finally pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Swear you’ll never do anything like that again.”

I trace my finger twice across my chest. “Cross my heart, hope not to die.” It’s our childhood promise, modified by Bronwyn during my first hospital stint ten years ago, when she was eight and I was seven.

She laughs shakily and glances at her Apple watch. “Damn it, almost four. We didn’t even get to the good stuff about Luis, but I need to go to Addy’s. We’re handling prep for the rehearsal dinner tonight so Mrs. Lawton can be with Emma.”

“Are you staying for the dinner?” I ask.

“No, that’s just for the wedding party. I’ll leave once Addy and I get everything squared away, then come back for the afterparty.”

“Do you guys want help?” I ask, even as my eyes stray to my laptop. I’d been trying to open the files I pulled from Knox’s mother’s computer before Bronwyn got here, with no luck. Mrs. Myers is a lot more careful about protecting her files than her network access. But I think I’m getting close.

“No, two of us will be plenty. It’s probably overkill, honestly, but I can’t let Addy do this alone.” Bronwyn grimaces. “She means well, but she’s not the most organized person around.”

“Can you believe Ashton and Eli are getting married
tomorrow
?” I say. “I feel like they just got engaged.”

“Same,” Bronwyn says. “Life comes at you fast.”

“Do you need a ride to Addy’s?” I ask.

Bronwyn’s mouth curves in a small smile. “I have one.”

I follow her gaze down to our driveway just as a motorcycle pulls in, and I can’t help the pleased laugh that escapes me. “Well, well, well. This feels like déjà vu.” We’d been sitting in this exact spot the first time Nate ever came to our house. I pluck at Bronwyn’s sleeve as she full-on beams out the window, watching Nate take off his helmet. “What’s going on?”

“I called him after you told me what happened at Cooper’s baseball game. Hearing how he’d been there for you. Everything he and I had been arguing about seemed so pointless after that. We’ve been talking every night since. And watching movies.” Her gray eyes are bright as she stands up, smoothing down the front of her shirt. “It’s almost like he’s right there with me, even with the distance. I haven’t felt that way since I left.”

“Hmm, interesting.” I tap a finger against my chin, trying to look thoughtful while fighting off a grin. “So basically, if I’m understanding you correctly, my fake leukemia brought the two of you together? You’re welcome.”

A brief frown interrupts Bronwyn’s glow. “That’s not the correct conclusion to draw from this.”

I nudge her sneaker with mine. “Look who’s been keeping secrets
now,
Bronwyn. And here I thought we were supposed to tell one another everything.” My voice is teasing, though, because I couldn’t possibly be less mad at her.

Color rises higher in her cheeks, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. Mostly, I think, because she can’t tear hers away from the window. Nate’s still on his motorcycle, waiting patiently. He doesn’t bother coming to the door; I’m sure he knows exactly where we are. “It’s only been a few days,” she says. “I guess I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“You know he’s crazy about you, right?” I ask. “More than ever? I was practically dying in front of him and all he could think about was
you.
”

Bronwyn rolls her eyes. “You were not dying.”

“Well,
Nate
didn’t know that, did he?”

“I really love him,” she says quietly.

“News flash:
we know.
You haven’t been fooling anyone.” I give her hip a gentle shove. “Enjoy the ride. I’m assuming you and Nate have plans once dinner prep is over, so I’ll see you guys at the afterparty.”

She leaves, and I stay at my window seat until I see her emerge onto the driveway. Nate gets off his motorcycle just in time to catch Bronwyn as she goes flying toward him. Her arms wrap around his neck as he spins her around, and I turn away with a smile so they can have their reunion kiss in private. “Endgame,” I say to the empty room.