The Year We Hid Away (16 page)

He shook his head. “That’s just extra.” We were quiet for a few minutes, as my heart swelled with joy. “Scarlet,” he whispered eventually. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Would you look into getting some birth control pills?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice hoarse. The Katies had already told me what to do. I just had to make the phone call.

He raised himself up on an elbow. “I don’t mind using condoms, but it would be nice to have some backup.”

“Okay,” I touched his face. “We sure don’t need any more drama.”

“So true.” He pulled me in for a kiss. “But the universe must not hate me too much.”

“Why?”

“Well, it dumped a lot of shit on me this year. But it also gave me you.”

“The universe and I are on similar terms,” I said.

At that, his face became serious again. The intensity I’d seen earlier was back. “I hope you know,” Bridger said, his lips brushing my forehead, “you can tell me all your shitty stuff too.”

I held him even more tightly. “I know I can,” I whispered. “But I don’t want to.”

“I can take it, Scarlet. Whatever it is. You know that, right? You might feel better if you got to talk about it.”

The very idea was terrifying. Even thinking about it made my stomach twist. Bridger’s secret — caring for a helpless child — only made him more attractive. No matter how crazy or ill timed, the purity of his motive was clear.

My family secrets were only ugly.

I pushed up and out of his embrace. “We should get up.”

“…
She said, quickly changing the subject
.” Bridger snaked an arm around my bare waist. “Stay here a little longer. I won’t interrogate you. I promise.”

I obeyed, of course. There was nothing in the world so good as snuggling into his embrace. I stared at the side of his face until he turned his head to look at me.

“What?” he asked.

“I love you,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss his jaw.

“Thank you, universe,” he said.

Later, I was trying to finger-comb my hair when someone knocked twice on the fire door.

Bridger glanced in my direction to make sure I was dressed, before calling out, “What’s up, Andy?”

As the door opened, I was busy worrying that Bridger’s neighbor had overheard us having sex. But then I got a good look at the neighbor’s face, and I realized that I had a much bigger problem.

He was just as tall as I remembered, but he had filled out. His face was broader, more mature. And the Harkness Basketball sweatshirt was an improvement over the Star Wars t-shirts he’d always worn to our high school.

Andrew Baschnagel.

I forgot to breathe. For a second, we stared at each other. Then he laughed. “Shannon Ellison. How’s your slap shot these days?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out. Bridger’s head swung in my direction, and my chest was suddenly tight. I took a step backwards, and then two more. When my back hit the door to Bridger’s room, I fumbled for the knob. As I wrenched it open, I heard Andrew’s puzzled voice. “What the hell did I say?”

I fled.

PART TWO

“Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers - stern and wild ones - and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss."

— The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Chapter Twelve:
The Baschnagel Boy

—
Scarlet

I ran down the stairs and out the entryway door. Beaumont College was a beautiful Gothic labyrinth, and I had to run beneath three pretty granite archways to reach the outer gate.

“Scarlet!” I heard Bridger’s voice behind me somewhere. But I couldn’t talk to him. I didn’t want to see the look on his face when he realized who I was, and how much ugliness there was in my life.

I’d tried to be someone else. For almost three months, it had worked.

I hustled up the sidewalk toward the gate to Fresh Court. Ahead of me, the door of a shiny black car opened onto the sidewalk, and I angled to avoid it. But the passenger — a man in a suit — lunged forward and grabbed my hand.

Startled, I whirled to face him. It was Azzan, my father’s bodyguard.

“Shannon, come with me,” he said.

I yanked my hand back and tried to propel myself away. But a second man blocked me, allowing Azzan to get his hands onto my lower back and steer me toward the car. The other guy — a driver I’d seen before — opened the back door.

“No!” I said, confused. I did not want to get into that car.

“Yes,” Azzan said simply. He gave me a gentle shove, but it was enough to send me pitching toward the leather of the back seat. His hand came down on the top of my head, which probably kept me from scraping my scalp against the frame of the car during my graceless entry.

Azzan pushed me further into the car as he slid in beside me. And just as it occurred to me to reach for the opposite door and climb out into the middle of the street, his hands grabbed me. “Drive,” he said to the other man, who had already closed his own door and started the engine.

“What are you doing?” I asked as the streets of Harkness began sliding by. My heart was pounding and I tasted bile in my mouth.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Shannon. We’re your ride back to New Hampshire.”

“But I’m not going!” I wailed. Except it seemed that I was.

My phone began ringing.

“Don’t answer that,” he said immediately.

I checked the display. It was Bridger. “Why not? Afraid I’ll say you just kidnapped me off the street?”

“Don’t be cute.”

“I don’t need to be. My boyfriend just
watched
you stuff me into a car and take off. He’s probably calling the police right now. Maybe he’s the sort of guy who writes down license plate numbers.”

He swiveled quickly, slapping me. The sound of his hand hitting my face was almost as surprising as the sharp sting of pain. “I said don’t play cute.”

I tasted blood in my mouth where my teeth had caught on impact. But the slap actually did me a favor, shaking off my confusion. I felt a steely calm settle over me.

Not that I had a plan. Only a clearer head.

The only person within a fifty-mile radius I could trust was Bridger, even if he was in the process of discovering my ugly secret.

The phone bleated again. “He saw you drive off with me, and he wants to know why.”

“There was nobody with you,” Azzan said.

“He was about ten paces behind.” My voice was icy calm. With the phone on my palm I held it out to him. “If you don’t want me to answer, I won’t. But you might be hearing from the cops.”

He sighed. “Tell him you’re fine, and you’re on your way home for the weekend.”

I hit
ANSWER
. “Hello?”

“Scarlet,” he gasped. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Well,” I cleared my throat. “My father’s bodyguard decided to drive me home for Thanksgiving.”

“What? That’s sure as hell not what that looked like. I got the license plate number. Are you really okay?”

My heart contracted. “I think so.”

“That’s not good enough. When are you coming back?”

“Azzan,” I said. “He wants to know when I’m coming back.”

“Sunday, just like every other kid in America.”

“Every other kid in America plans her own trips home.”

“Shut up, Shannon. Get off the phone now. You’re going to lose him in the tunnel anyway.”

“I got all that,” Bridger said into my ear. “Scarlet, we have to talk.”

“I’m sorry.” As I said it, the car rolled into the West Rock Tunnel.

“No — I want you to know…” Bridger said. And then the call was cut off.

I was staring at my phone when Azzan grabbed it out of my hand. “Give that back,” I complained.

I heard my phone chime twice. “Aw, what a guy.” He held up my phone so I can see the text.

BRIDGER:
I love you no matter what.

“I’m going to hang onto this for the weekend,” Azzan said, pocketing my phone. “You can have it back after you do the meeting with the lawyers, and eat turkey with your family.”

I spent the next hour and a half breathing through my nose, trying not to cry.

The media presence outside our house was down to a skeleton crew, because jury selection was still a month away. I counted only two TV vans.

Azzan’s driver pulled the car into the driveway, but he stopped well shy of the garage.

“Get out here, Shannon,” Azzan said. He wanted the bored TV people to see that I’d come home for the holiday.

I think I surprised him by not arguing. Instead I jumped from my seat and ran into the garage. I didn’t stop to wonder whether anyone snapped a photo or not. I’d been photographed countless times already, as the press rushed to cover every angle of the story about the famous hockey player and philanthropist who was secretly Satan.

My mother opened the mud room door as I approached it. “Come in, sweetie.”

I pulled up short in front of her. “Was this your idea?”

“You haven’t answered my calls in a month, honey. How were we supposed to discuss it?”

“He slapped me,” I said, pointing over my shoulder toward Azzan. “And he threatened me.”

Her lips pulled tight. “You look all right to me, so why don’t you come inside.”

I heard Azzan’s footsteps behind me, so I walked past her and into the dining room. The top of my father’s head was visible in his chair by the TV. Turning away from him, I ran up the stairs to my room.

My mother — her wheels were always turning — didn’t even try to coerce me into sitting down to family meals. The first night, she brought me a bowl of chili in my room. “You should say hello to your father,” she said.

But I’d had two hours alone in my little suburban cage, stewing in my misery. And I didn’t have it in me to be civil. “Let’s not pretend this is an ordinary visit,” I said. “When am I sitting down with the lawyers?” I’d realized that agreeing to meet the lawyers was my only move. And since I knew nothing, it would get them off my back.

“Friday,” she said, setting the tray down on my desk. “The day after Thanksgiving.”

“I want to go back to Harkness afterwards.”

She shook her head. “Azzan will take you back on Sunday. This could have all been easier, Shannon, if you’d driven yourself home for the holiday. If you’d spoken to your family.”

I said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

Somehow I passed twenty-four hours there by myself. I used the time to catch up on my sleep. But the waking hours were awful. It was hard not to obsess over Bridger. He’d had an entire day now to catch up on the newspaper articles about my family.

I didn’t even have Jordan to take my mind off things.

After a long shower on Wednesday night, my mother knocked twice on my door and then pushed it open. “I got a phone call for you about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Really? Was it Anni?” I doubted that my only remaining friend from High School would make the trip from California just for a long weekend.

She shook her head. “It was the Baschnagel boy. He wanted to tell you that he was going to the hockey game tonight. He asked if you were going.”

“Andrew Baschnagel,” I repeated stupidly.

“He’s at Harkness too?”

“Right. He’s a junior.”

“I’m glad you’re making friends, Shannon. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the game. They’re playing Quinnipiac.”

I laughed. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t go? Do you think they’ll even let me in the building?”

“Don’t be catty,” she sighed. “In a few months, when this is all over, your father will have his team back. Go to the game and hold your head up high. Or not. It’s your choice.” She turned away.

“Mom?”

“Yes?” she paused.

“I need my phone back.”

“Sunday,” she said. Then she went downstairs.

I was their prisoner. And they weren’t even trying to hide it.

Brushing out my wet hair, I didn’t know what to think. Andy Baschnagel’s phone call was a surprise. Yesterday, I’d literally run from the room when he’d said hello to me.

Only ten days ago (although it felt like millennia) Bridger had told me that his fire door neighbor had invited him for Thanksgiving. My heart wanted to jump to all sorts of romantic conclusions. And even though optimism was probably a bad idea, I found myself staring into my closet at seven o’clock, taking an inventory of the clothes I’d left behind.

On the top shelf I found what I was looking for — a baseball cap with my high school’s mascot on it. I also put on a baggy hooded sweatshirt, shoved my wallet in my jeans and went downstairs.

My father, the source of all my life’s misery, was pouring himself a scotch. “Hi,” I said. My voice sounded scratchy and underused.