TMI (24 page)

Megan stared at the computer monitor with blurred eyes, watching status updates scroll by like the credits at the end of a movie.

Or the end of a friendship.

It had been weeks since that end. Even the senior class's graduation didn't kill the buzz about her brush with the law in the main office, like it was a scene from that same movie instead of her life. The pain chewing its way through her heart still plagued her, though it had dulled. Guess she'd just gotten used to it.

She'd had plenty of experience getting used to pain.

She thought about her dad and shook her head with a sad smile. He'd been right all along. The only one she could count on was herself. He'd drummed that into her head over and over since she was born, but had she listened? First, she'd lost him, and that was the first set of teeth to gnash at her heart. Then there was Chase. Oh, she'd tried. She'd tried so hard to stay unaffected—to push him away—to protect herself, yet somehow, he'd sneaked in.
Nibble. Nibble nibble
. But the Bailey stuff—oh, she'd never seen that coming. She'd been so careful. She'd never sought popularity and social status and saw little value in having dozens of acquaintances. She'd allowed herself one friend. One really good friend.

And the loss of that friend was the final set of jaws to chomp through her heartstrings.

Abruptly furious, Meg jumped up and paced her room, sick of this pointless wallowing. She headed to the stack of canvases in the corner, found the portrait she'd done of Bailey with her game face on, thumbs blurring over the controller. She studied it critically, the oils she'd painted on a smoky blue background. Nailing the color of Bailey's honey-blond hair had been almost as hard as getting Chase's eyes right, but she'd done it—titanium white, burnt sienna, and burnt umber with pale blue for the highlights and violet for the lowlights. The hair looked like it could be brushed. It was beautiful. One of her best.

Meg fisted her hand, pulled back her arm, ready to smash through Bailey's face, and then changed her mind. She crossed the room, fished around in her closet for the small toolbox, and found a hammer, tape measure, a couple of D rings, and some wire. She measured and marked, attached the rings to the back of the canvas, and looped a length of wire to each. With a swoop of her arm, she cleared her bed of pillows and climbed on top of it, the hammer under her arm, a hook in her mouth, and the canvas in her hand. She nailed the hook into the wall over her bed to carefully suspend the canvas.

It would look down on her from that spot of prominence, a daily reminder of what can happen—what
did
happen—when she didn't listen to her dad.

She put the tools back in their box and the box back in her closet and then stared at the portrait, steeling herself against the burn. Easier all the time. She forced her eyes away, thought about watching TV, maybe reading a book, but neither held much interest. She could hear the clock ticking in the hall, a nagging reminder of her deadline, and knew she should paint. But even that failed to excite her. She wandered to the huge window and stared down at the Gallaghers' backyard. The lawn had been cut, she noticed. She supposed Dylan had done it now that Chase was gone.

She had to steel herself against that burn too. He'd graduated, and as he'd planned, he had moved to the city with his teammates. He never said good-bye.

Meg tore her gaze from the window and returned to pacing around her room. The monitor caught her eye again, and the burn in her chest flared white-hot for a moment.

Bailey had updated her status. A dozen, a hundred, a hundred dozen times, she'd tried to unfriend Bailey but couldn't click the damn button.

OMG. I found him. I found my dad. His name's Matthew Schor. He's a Marine Sgt! He lives in the next town. Wish me luck, everybody! I'm heading there right now.

The burn in Meg's chest hit the redline and she gasped, trying to rub it away. She'd done it. Bailey found her dad. And in spite of all the pain, Meg smiled. The smile spread to laugh when she realized Bailey abbreviated because she couldn't be bothered to look up “sergeant.” The on-screen activity sped up. People liked Bailey's post and wished her luck, and Meg's fingers itched to join in, but she willed them away from the keyboard. Bailey had made it damn clear she no longer cared what Meg had to say.

She was suffocating under the weight of all this
nothing
. She had to fill the hours with something, anything, that might bleed the pain and grief from her body. With a determined press to her lips, she shut down the computer and pulled sweats from her dresser. She needed to run. She changed clothes, tied on shoes, grabbed her iPod, and stuffed her ancient cell phone in her pocket. Outside, the air was sticky with a storm that threatened and matched her mood.

She ran down her street, away from Bailey's house, her feet slapping pavement in time with the driving beat of the music she'd chosen, a song called “Monster.”

It also matched her mood. Storm Cloud Gray. Soul Suck Black. And when she let her guard down, a little Betrayed Blue oozed out, and none of it was inside the lines.

Sweat soaked her shirt. Her lungs wanted to explode, and the cramp in her leg hobbled her. She slowed to a walk and then gave up when a passing car honked at her. It suddenly hit her that she could die there—just fall down dead—and it would be hours, maybe even a day or two, before she was missed. Her mom would mourn and then go back to her jobs and her classes. For a while, she'd be the trending topic at school, and then she'd just fade away with not even memories left behind.

She rolled her eyes, climbed to her feet, and started walking.

It didn't matter. Nothing did.

Half an hour later, she was back inside her empty house with its ticking clock and suffocating nothingness and the echo of her father's last words. Her mom had been gone since six that morning. It was now close to eleven. She was due at the Gallagher bakery at noon and still had to shower. She flew around her room, pulling underwear and clothes from her dresser, shuffled into the bathroom, and stood under the hot stream of water until her fingers pruned. She made it to the bakery with mere minutes to spare.

“Megan.”

Mr. Gallagher smiled when she stepped behind the counter, tying an apron around her waist.

“How you doin' today?”

She managed a tight-lipped smile and shrug. “Okay, thanks.”

“Good.” He patted her shoulder. “That's…ah, good.” He turned to a tall bakery cart. “Fresh batch of bagels. Can you bin them please?”

Work. Yes, work would be a relief, something to lose herself in for a while. From the box of food service gloves, she grabbed a fresh pair and got started. To the bins in the display case, Meg added the fresh plain, sesame, and poppy seed bagels. An hour later, the bins were nearly empty. She was ringing up a sale for a dozen when Mr. Gallagher came out of the kitchen with his cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, she's right here. Megan? It's Chase.”

Her heart stalled in her chest. She wanted to run, hide, stick her hands in dough—anything but answer that phone. But Mr. Gallagher had other ideas. He took her hand, slapped the phone into it, and muttered a terse, “Stubborn kids,” before he strode away.

Meg moved just inside the kitchen, pulled in a gulp of air, and squeaked out, “Hello.”

“Are you ignoring my messages now?” Frustration sizzled in Chase's voice.

“What? No!”

“I texted you like an hour ago.”

“Oh, I went for a run and then showered and then came here. I haven't looked at my phone all morning.” What would be the point?

“Look at it now.”

“Chase, I'm working—”

“It's Bailey, Megan. Did you see her Facebook post?”

“Yeah, it's…um, great news. She found her dad.” Meg tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Cut the crap, Megan. This is me.” Something squeaked, like a chair he'd just sunken into. “She said he's a marine. Matthew Schor. From the next town. Megan, I sent you a link to a newspaper story I found. Sergeant Michael Schor was killed in action in Iraq.”

Her chewed-up, spit-out heart plummeted down to her feet, and she fell against the closest wall.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Meg whispered. Poor Bailey. This news was going to crush her. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

“Well, what are you gonna do?”

Meg straightened up with a frown. “What can I do?”

She heard his muttered curse. “You can forget about all the crap that just went down and be there for her. This is
Bailey
, Megan. This is gonna devastate her.”

He was right. Of course he was right. But what could she do? She had no car. Hell, she didn't even know where Bailey was heading.

“Megan, my dad's waiting for you. Go.”

“Where? I don't even remember what town.”

“He does. I already told him. She's been posting steadily.”

Meg's mouth tightened into a thin line. “If she's texting while she's driving, I'll kill her.”

“Kill her after you save her. And for the record, she hasn't posted since she left.”

Her eyes slipped shut for a moment. “Chase, why are you doing this? You didn't even say good-bye when you left. I figured you never wanted to talk to me again.”

He was quiet for so long she thought the call had dropped. “I'll tell you, Megan. I'll tell you everything you want to know on the way there. My dad's waiting outside for you. Go.”

Oh,
my
God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Bailey was actually going to meet her dad.

After all these years of not knowing, all the weeks of searching, she'd found him. She'd finally found him. It was like Christmas morning. No, it was like seventeen years of Christmas mornings. Even though it had totally upset her mom, signing up for that classmates site was the best thing she'd ever done. It was kind of cool seeing pictures of Nicole at seventeen. But when Ryder—no,
Simon
—had sent her the name he'd found, it wasn't hard to use the same site to find his yearbook. Matthew Schor.

Her father.

She'd even found pictures. His hair was curly like hers. And they had a dimple in exactly the same place. He played football and basketball and was voted “Best Smile.” Maybe she'd win “Best Smile” next year. Maybe he'd want to adopt her and she could move in with him instead of Nicole's creepy soon-to-be-husband.
Oh,
my
God!
Maybe he was married with kids of his own and she'd have brothers or sisters.

Whoa. Head rush.

Matthew Schor.

She liked that name. It sounded so strong and, well, fatherly. She could have been Bailey Schor instead of Bailey Grant. That hot spike of outrage aimed at her mother surged in her core, but she battled it back. She wanted to remember every second of this precious moment with clear eyes. She wrapped her arms around her middle and squeezed out a big smile. At a red light, the driver of the car next to her kept turning to laugh at her, but even that couldn't kill her joy.

What would he be like?
Smart
, she thought. Of course, he'd be smart, like doctor or professor or lawyer smart. Or maybe he was artistic. Not like Meg. The smile froze in place when another little pang hit, and she pushed it away. She would not think of Meg. Not now. Not today.

She was meeting her dad. She tapped out another status update.

Oh my God, wouldn't it be cool if he's a computer programmer?

The light turned green, and she put the phone away. They could build her video game together—it would be a father-daughter project. She thought and dreamed and wished and imagined halfway to the address she'd found online. For the second half of the trip, she obsessed over what to say. She supposed she should have called first, but she didn't want him to hang up. She had to see him for herself. Although just knocking and blurting out, “Hi! I'm your daughter!” was probably not the best idea. She'd seen too many cheesy movies to not know that was the fastest way of getting a door slammed in your face. She revised and rewrote her script. She'd smile, give her name, and say she was looking for Matthew Schor to talk to him about her mother, Nicole Grant, and hadn't they gone out together when they were teens? He'd smile and nod and say “Of course I remember Nicole, the great love of my life. Whatever happened to her?” And she'd say that Nicole had had a baby and that baby was her and she was there to find out if her dad wanted to get to know her. He'd smile and cry and grab her in a big bear hug, spin her around and around, and never want to let go.

It was just a little past noon when she stood in the driveway of a huge house with red shutters and lots of windows, her palms sweaty and her heart pounding, and for a minute—just for a minute—she wished Meg was here to hold her hand. She swallowed hard and swallowed again and forced her feet up the walk to the front door, where she rang the doorbell with a hand that trembled.

Footsteps approached.

She wiped her hands down her pants.

The locks clicked.

Her heart stuttered.

The door opened.

She forgot to breathe.

There he was. Tall. Blond. Dimples. Older. With her heart swelling, Bailey just stared.

“Can I help you?”

She beamed.

The man's eyes popped. “Who are you?”

“I… I'm—are you Matthew Schor?”

The man's face fell, and he shook his head. “No. No, I'm sorry. I'm Josh, his brother. You knew Matt?”

Bailey's smile faded. “Um…no. I think he knows my mom. Nicole?

“Grant? Yeah, he knew her.”

“I'm Bailey. Bailey Grant.”

Josh took a step out the door and halted and then pressed both hands up to his open mouth. “You…you're…holy mother of God. Oh, wow. Christ. Jesus Christ. You'd better come in. Yeah, you should come in.”

Bailey hesitated. If Meg were here, she'd do that frownie thing with her forehead, grab her elbow, and hiss in her ear that she was crazy to go into some stranger's house. But how could she not? She'd already lost so much time and to come this far without more? She stepped inside and waited for Josh to close the door. He led her to a comfy living room with a flat-screen TV hanging on a wall, matching sofas arranged in an L in front of it, and sank heavily into one. She scanned the room, her eyes greedy for any glimpse of the man she hoped to meet. There was a graduation picture on a shelf. A picture of a handsome soldier hanging on the wall.

He stared at her for a long moment. “Oh…um, please sit. I—God, I don't even know where to start.”

“Is Matthew home?”

“No, he's not.” Josh stared at his hands. “You're Nicole's daughter. I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say you're what? A little over seventeen?”

“Yeah.” Bailey smiled, impressed. “My birthday's in February.”

Josh scratched his head and nodded. “And you're here because you think Matt's your dad?”

“He is.” Bailey leaned forward. “It took me ages to find him.”

“Yeah, so does your mom know you're here?”

Bailey's eyes went round, and she shook her head. “No, she doesn't even know I figured it out.”

“Figured—ah. Okay, look. Bailey, is it?” At her nod, Josh leaned forward. “I don't—the thing is—hell, this is hard. I'm just gonna say it. Matt's dead.”

Bailey's ears rang. Dead. The word bounced around in her mind, taking turns with the
Oh, my God
chorus on repeat. Tears burned behind her eyes and her face crumbled. How…how could it hurt this much? How could she possibly feel this much pain over the death of someone she'd never met? She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried not to cry. She should have called first or…or maybe not come at all. All those years of wondering and imagining what her dad was like, all those weeks of figuring out who he was, where he was, and then nothing.
Oh, my God
.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come. I really shouldn't have come.” Bailey jumped up and hurried to the door before she lost it completely. She had her hand on the door knob when Josh stopped her.

“Wait! Don't go. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blurted it out like that. It's just hard—would you…if it won't upset you, maybe you'd like to hear about him?”

The tears fell then. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were back in the living room, cups of hot coffee on the table in front of them beside a fat photo album stuffed cover to cover with pictures and mementos. Josh had asked her about school and her friends. She'd told him all about the video game and he told her that her dad was a big Xbox fan, which really made her cry.

“I knew it,” she wiped her eyes. “I knew I was like him.”

Josh flipped through the pages of the album. “Oh, look at this. Our fort! I think Matt was thirteen and I was fourteen. That's our friend Tim. He's a chiropractor now.” Josh went through the album snapshot by snapshot for her. Through her tears, a picture emerged of the boy Matthew Schor had been and the man he later became—laughing, always laughing. Every picture showed him surrounded by friends, by family. Bailey traced the medals he'd earned in combat and read the letters from the Department of Marines and the White House and the obituary that ran in the local papers. Bailey wondered how she'd missed all this when she was researching the name Simon had sent her.

“He was on his third tour. He died saving a buddy from a live grenade. That's the way he was.” Josh smiled, but his face showed nothing but pain, and Bailey wondered if her face looked the same.

“Did he…um, ever get married? Have other kids?”

Josh shook his head. “Nah, he never could settle on just one girl. But he'd have loved you if he'd known. Why did Nicole keep you a secret?”

Bailey nibbled her lip. “She won't tell me. She wouldn't even tell me my father's name. A few weeks ago, I found my mom's yearbook online. I checked around and finally learned about Matt, so I searched white pages until I found this address.”

“Oh, this was his house. After he was killed, my parents moved in. Speaking of my parents, they'll be back soon. You should probably leave. They're…well, they're pretty mad at your mom. They blame her for Matt's death. If she hadn't broken up with him, he probably wouldn't have enlisted and—”

“He'd still be alive. I get it. I'll go.” Like a fist to her gut, Bailey finally figured out why her mother never spoke about Matthew Schor. Had she loved him? Probably. But love wouldn't have been enough. No, Nicole would have wanted things a seventeen-year-old guy could never have given her. She chose not to settle.

Bailey stood, surprised her legs could hold her up. “Thanks…um, Uncle Josh.”

Josh blinked and then smiled wide. “Uncle Josh. I like that. Jesus, I like that.” He stood up and held out his arms, and she moved into them without hesitation, held on, and held tight.

“Thanks.”

They broke apart, and Josh closed the photo album and put it back in its box with all the other stuff. “Take it,” he held it out to her. “Take it. Bring it back when you're done and I'll tell you more.”

“Deal,” Bailey squeaked out.

She had no idea how she was going to drive home. In her plan, her father was supposed to fall instantly in love with her and start clearing out a spare bedroom. She'd made it halfway down the street when the last of her strength ebbed.
Oh, my God
, she repeated again and again and again. He was dead, and he'd never taught her to ride a two-wheeler or tucked her in bed and read her stories or taught her how to drive or even scolded her about boyfriends and it was her mother's fault. He'd been right here in a town hardly twenty minutes away and she'd never known his name and now he was dead.
Dead
. Like never-coming-back dead.

Ever.

She fell against the car, his photo album pressed to her heart while the sobs shook her whole body. She barely noticed the hand stroke her back or the familiar voice tell her everything would be okay. Suddenly, she was in the car, and Meg was there beside her.

“Meg? How?”

Meg lowered her eyes. “I thought you'd need me. Mr. Gallagher drove me.”

Oh, my God.
Bailey shook her head slowly from side to side. It was like her dad had sent her himself. “You know he's dead?”

“Chase clued me in. Bailey, I'm sorry.”

“Oh, Meg!” She flung herself into Meg's arms. “He was so, so good. He died saving his friend.” Abruptly, Bailey straightened up, the words she'd just spoken tasting sour in her mouth. After everything she'd done, all the ways she'd hurt her, and still, Meg had come for her. “Why did you come?”

“We'll talk about all that later. Right now, I want to hear about your dad.”

Bailey told Meg everything Josh had shared with her. Meg dug tissues from her pocket.

“Bay, I'm so sorry.”

Her deep sigh squeezed Meg's heart.

“Bailey, talk to me. Are you okay?”

Bailey's eyes slipped shut for a moment. “I don't know. I think I'm feeling all the emotions in the world at the same time. I don't know what this means—any of this—and I really need to know, and I can't stop saying,
Oh, my God
in my head.” She wiped her eyes. “I'm so mad at her, Meg. I don't know if I can ever forgive her for this. She knew. All this time, she knew he was one town over and she never told me.”

Meg nodded. “She had her reasons. When you're ready to hear them, you will.”

Bailey sighed and sniffled into a fresh tissue. Her phone buzzed, and she frowned at the caller ID. “Hey, Mom. No, I'm at his house. Yeah, it was hard. Because I needed to know. Okay…yeah, in a few minutes. Bye.” She ended the call and smiled weakly at Meg. “Mr. Gallagher squealed. She knows I know and wants to talk.”

“What do you want?”

Bailey crossed her arms and blew a curl out of her eyes. “To make her hurt the way I do.”

“Bay? Maybe that's why she called. Because she already is.”

Meg was always so practical and logical and smart. “Yeah, maybe she is. She said she couldn't marry him, knowing he'd never be able to stick. She
lied.
She never told him about me. I think I hate her for that.” Bailey's face tightened, and she put all that aside for the moment. “So…what about us? It's so great that you and Mr. Gallagher came after me today. But I know you're still hurt. I can see it.”