Leap of Faith (18 page)

My letter. I’m a liar. I have to tell him.

He’ll hate me.

The in and out of his breathing deepens, and I watch him to make sure he’s asleep before scooting out of bed. I tiptoe across the room, grab my robe, and peek into the Pack ’n Play. It’s dark, but the moon gives just enough light to see that Addy’s forehead’s creased, and every once in a while her lips move like she’s talking.

Out in the kitchenette, I open the drawer on the far left and take out the notebook with my letter to Chris inside. I flip to a new page and click the pen top.

I was a virgin until tonight. You had no idea, and it kills me. You said you love me, but when you find out the truth, you’ll hate me, and I’ll still love you forever.

I keep writing while tears smudge the ink. Regret flows through me and onto the pages. Not regret over sleeping with Chris. Never regret over that, and never regret over Addy.

Regret for the lies that cling to me.

Regret I can’t shake that just keeps closing in on me.

By the time my hand is cramped and my eyes are burning and begging to close, I’ve written five more truth-filled pages.

I crawl back into bed. Chris’s arm automatically wraps around me, pulling me into his side. I watch him sleep and let tears soak his shoulder.

I can’t lose him.

chapter

eighteen

Gail’s pushing Addy’s stroller. Jonathan is almost a full block ahead of us on his bike, and he still can’t brake without crashing into things or people.

I keep going over Chris and his dad’s whispered conversation from yesterday again and again in my mind, and I have to have answers. “Gail, what do you know about Chris’s mom?”

Gail looks at me. Her eyes are hard, and I think she’s going to bitch me out for asking. But she only says, “It’s not my place to talk about her,” then turns her face forward, watching the sidewalk pass under the stroller’s wheels.

I look down at my fingers, picking my nails.

“Chris won’t tell you about her?”

I bite my thumbnail. “I haven’t asked him. I heard him say something to his dad about her and about dating you.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Ken told me they got into it.”

“What else did he say?” My head snaps in her direction.

She frowns. “Ken’s worried about Chris . . . and you.”

I study the side of Gail’s face, wondering if she’ll answer the question I really want to know. “Who was Kayla? Did Chris have a sister?”

She frowns and tightens her grip on Addy’s stroller. Her fingers turn white. “I think he needs to tell you about his mom and Kayla. I don’t think he’d appreciate someone else, especially me, telling you about them.”

The rest of the walk to the park is filled with the sounds of birds chirping, lawn mowers whirring, and Gail’s stony silence marking the end of our conversation.

• • •

Sunday night, we’re all sitting around the big oak kitchen table—Chris, Mr. Buckridge, Mrs. B, Ivy, and me.

Mrs. B made spaghetti and meatballs again, just like every other Sunday that I’ve been here, and I stuffed myself.

Ivy brought brownies for dessert, and Mr. Buckridge is pouring coffee into mugs. Addy’s drooling all over Chris’s shoulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ivy says, and reaches into her quilted bag to produce a folded newspaper page. “Troy, Viv’s son, the firefighter, remember him?” She waits for Mrs. B to nod, acknowledging who Troy and Viv are. “He’s on the front page of the paper! Here, look.” She unfolds the sheet and smoothes it on the table in front of Mrs. B.

“Viv’s our second cousin,” Ivy says, reaching across the table and patting my hand. “Her family lives up in Ohio.”

I pray my face doesn’t reveal my desperation to leave the conversation and run from the room.

I try to smile.

My lips shake.

“Did you know Leah and Addy are from Ohio?” Chris asks her, pressing Addy over his head, into the air.

“Is that right?” She raises her eyebrows as Mrs. B slides the newspaper page over to Chris.

He lowers Addy and peers over her head at the photo of a fireman in full uniform emerging from a home engulfed in flames.

Chris starts to comment, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the loud buzzing in my brain that’s triggered when my eyes catch a smaller photo in the bottom right-hand corner of the page.

It’s me.

Shit. That’s me.

My hand darts out and grabs the page, yanking it from under his gaze. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I have. And I’ll lose much more than that if he sees the picture of me in the newspaper, staring up at him. “Sorry. Just anxious to look, I guess.” I fold the page in half and hold the paper so only the top part is visible.

He laughs. “I guess.” And goes back to lifting Addy over his head.

Mrs. B, Mr. Buckridge, and Ivy are chitchatting, but I can feel Ivy’s eyes on me and can’t flip the paper over to read what’s written under my photo.

My God, does she know? Can she blow this whole thing for me and Addy?

Her wrinkled, dry hand grasps the paper and gives it a tug.

Reluctantly, I let go. “A hero in our family, huh?” Ivy says, and laughs as she stuffs the page back into her bag.

I want to dig it out when she’s not looking and cram it down the garbage disposal. My stomach rolls. The spaghetti and meatballs threaten to shoot back up. My throat burns with acid.

Chris lifts Addy over his head again, making funny sounds for her.

She laughs for the first time.

His head snaps to me. “Did you hear that?”

I’m so proud of her, my heart swells at the sound. “She laughed!”

I want to cry. I want to bawl like a baby because I’m so happy, and so afraid, and because I know all of this has to end.

My perfect family is a hoax.

I’m a fraud, and this is all a mirage.

• • •

After dinner, I’m lying across Chris’s lap on the couch upstairs. I ease my hand up his shirt and rub his chest. The room’s dark. The TV throws light across his face, then dims.

I’m so comfortable with him. If the newspaper article outs me . . . I have to tell him before that happens. I gather my courage, take a deep breath, and say, “Tell me about your tattoo.” It’s not my confession. My brain won’t work with my mouth, but I want all of his secrets. I want to own this part of him before he’s gone from me.

“What about it?” he says, without looking at me.

I lift up his T-shirt and trace the cross with my fingertip. His skin’s warm. “What do the dates mean?”

He takes my hand and pulls it to his lips. “They’re the dates my mom and sister died.”

I sit up on his lap and hold his face in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles. “It’s okay.” He lifts his shirt again and points to his chest. “It’s been two years. I’m over it.”

I shake my head. “There’s no way you’re over it. You never get over losing people you love.”

He cocks his head. “Who have you lost?”

I suck in my lips. Nobody. You can’t lose people you never had to begin with. But there is Hope. “I haven’t lost anyone to death. But I left my sister in Ohio. I miss her.” I lift my hair off the back of my neck so he can see my tattoo again. “Hope. That’s her name.”

I feel his finger running across it. “Too bad your mom didn’t name you Faith.” He chuckles, and my insides drop to the floor.

I should tell him.

Now is the time to tell him.

There’s no way I can tell him.

Addy cries from the other room, sealing the end of our conversation.

“I’ll get her,” he says, lifting his knees to bounce me off of his lap and onto the couch.

He disappears into my bedroom, and I hear him say, “Hello, little love.”

I now know nothing more about his past than I did ten minutes ago, but with those three words to Addy, he’s driven himself even deeper into my heart.

• • •

The next day at work I’m on edge all day, snapping at customers. The newspaper article perches on my shoulder like my conscience, and the stolen car hunkered in the far corner of the parking lot drives me crazy. I can’t wait to get it back in the driveway, hidden in front of Chris’s truck.

“Hey,” Gretchen says, “since lunch rush is over, come back and help me make lasagna.”

This instantly puts me in a good mood. I’ve been thinking that after they let me start cooking, I could make them the buffalo chicken pizza I invented at Giovanni’s—not officially, it was never on the menu or anything—and maybe they’ll let me come up with some weekend specials.

Maybe I can even make it to Italy someday. Or go to cooking school. Maybe, twenty years down the road, maybe I can have my own restaurant. Maybe.

I swipe a wet sponge over the counter by the coffeepot and toss it into a bucket of water before finding Gretchen in the kitchen.

I can’t ignore the fact that I skipped through the kitchen door, and it makes me paranoid.

“What’s wrong?” Gretchen asks, lugging a huge log of provolone cheese out of the cooler.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Someday I’ll stop doubting the good stuff.

Someday the paranoia will be gone for good.

Not today.

• • •

When a cop saunters through the door thirty minutes before the end of my shift, I forget to breathe. Sweat trickles down the side of my face, and I wipe it with the back of my hand. He flips through his notepad as he approaches the counter.

“Can I help you?” I croak.

He scoots onto a stool. “Yes. Do you know who owns the Oldsmobile parked in the back corner of the lot?”

I shake my head no and turn toward the kitchen, hoping Gretchen isn’t listening.

“Know anybody by the name Faith Kurtz?” He taps his pen on the counter.

“No. Would you like some coffee? Or water?”

The bus boy pushes a cart through the kitchen door and into the dining room. I avoid his gaze. He returns to the back.

“I’m fine,” the cop answers. He reaches up to the walkie-talkie hooked to his shoulder, presses the button, and leans his mouth toward it.

I catch the words “stolen vehicle” and “impound.”

Shit, shit, shit. How am I going to explain this to Chris? How will I get home?

“Thanks for your help.” The cop gets up and leaves.

“What was that about?” Gretchen is behind me. It feels like someone stuffed a concrete block into my chest cavity. “He’s towing my car.”

“Why?” Gretchen starts rolling silverware.

My mouth goes on autopilot. “Expired plates.”

“That sucks. I forgot once, and they only gave me a ticket.”

“I’ll call Chris for a ride. Mind if I use the phone in the office?” My voice sounds high pitched and shaky.

“Sure. Go ahead. Don’t forget to get your car seat before they tow it.”

Shit. Car seat. “Thanks.”

I sprint out to the parking lot and look around for the cop. He’s parked out front by the road. I quickly open the car door and unhook Addy’s seat. I know it’s snowballing to an end. I can’t allow Chris to keep getting deeper and deeper into my lies. He’s harboring a fugitive. If I stay any longer, I won’t just break his heart, I’ll ruin his entire life.

chapter

nineteen

The Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday. No matter how wasted and bitchy Mom was, the fireworks still exploded in the sky over the lake in the park. She couldn’t ruin it or take it away from me.

Even if Santa didn’t come on Christmas, the explosions on the Fourth shook me from the inside out, making me forget everything but the water lapping against my legs as I sat on the shore. Sometimes I’d lie back and stare into the sky, and sometimes I’d watch the fireworks drown in the water’s reflection.

My favorites are still the gold ones that shoot out in all directions then fall to earth sizzling and crackling.

My house was close enough to the park that I always prayed for one of the fireworks to get a little too close.

To land on the roof.

To spark a fire.

To take my mom away for good.

It never happened.

Of course it didn’t, or I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in, sitting here on Mrs. B’s patio, eating burgers and potato salad, like I’m not being hunted down by the police for kidnapping and stealing a car.

Chris’s arm rests on the back of my lawn chair. His thumb traces circles between my shoulder blades. With every rotation, I hear chanting in my head:

You’re a liar.

You’re a liar.

You’re a liar.

I shift forward, out of his reach. He stands and takes my now-empty paper plate. “Want a brownie? I’m getting one.”

“Only one?”

He cracks a smile. “You know me too well. Okay, probably two . . . or three.”

“Yeah, grab me one, please.”

He goes inside, where platters of food are spread out on the table, leaving me alone with the people who occupy my fake life. Mr. Buckridge sits in a lawn chair against the garage, talking to some old guy. Most of the guests are old. Gretchen stopped by earlier with her little boy but left to take him to see the fireworks. Mrs. B’s garden-club members are here, all blue haired and bespectacled. They’re all drinking decaf coffee and tugging sweaters over their shoulders despite the ninety-degree heat.

That’s what happens, I guess. You go from cutoffs and kegs to cardigans and decaf. I never want to get old.

Mrs. B comes over and sits in Chris’s vacant seat. “That baby’s made her way around to everyone, I think.” She pats my leg. “Edith has her now, took her in to change her diaper.”

Old ladies love babies. This is something I’ve learned in the past couple of months. “She’s probably getting tired. She’ll be fussing soon.” I start to stand, to go inside and find Addy.

“Sit.” Mrs. B presses my shoulder down. “She can stay the night here. You and Chris go enjoy the fireworks. I used to love seeing the fireworks with Chris’s grandpa. It was so romantic.” She gives me a sly smile. “We’d come home and make fireworks of our own.” She winks, and I fight off the urge to hurl. The thought enters my mind that she’s insinuating that Chris and I will be making fireworks tonight. I’m instantly uncomfortable. Does she know or just assume? There’s no way he’d tell his grandma, of all people. I take a deep breath and try to relax.