The Fable of Us (24 page)

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was still half buried in the fridge, riffling through it. “Watch it.”

Another laugh followed me as I wandered down the hall. The first door I came to was the bathroom. Small, practical, and again, the walls were white. It was just as tidy as the rest of the place, not so much as a water spot dotting the mirror or a dirty washcloth stuffed into the corner.

I kept going. The next room I came to was his bedroom. I didn’t wander in or give it more than a cursory look—for a lot of reasons; the main one being I didn’t want him to feel like I was sneaking around what was generally considered the most private room in a person’s house.

There was only one more room left, and it was directly across from Boone’s bedroom. The door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t quite closed either. So I let myself in.

I studied the walls, trying to figure out why they were painted a soothing shade of seafoam when it had not a single piece of furniture to give any indication of its purpose. There was a nice picture window on the opposite wall, and a set of white sheer curtains had been hung, though they seemed just dusty enough to hint at Boone not frequenting this room.

On the wall to my right was a closet. Moving toward it, I slid the door open, expecting to find it empty.

It was not.

My hand went to my mouth as I stared, feeling all of the dammed-up emotions I’d held back for years pushing against my walls, threatening to break through. I couldn’t stop staring at what was inside the closet, not even long enough to blink. My heart felt as if it had stopped beating, and I was fairly certain the burning I felt in my eyes was from my efforts at fending off tears.

I wasn’t sure how many times he’d called my name before Boone rounded into the room. He was in the middle of calling my name again when he broke to a stop, the last syllable of my name cut short.

This time when he said my name, there was no question mark in his tone.

“What is that, Boone?” I asked, though why I did, I wasn’t sure. I knew what it was.

He paused for only a moment. “A crib.”

My eyes stung harder. “Why is it in here? Why is it in this empty room?” My voice sounded like it was mere words away from breaking. Like it was teetering on the edge of a dagger.

He didn’t pause this time. “I bought it for the center when we first opened. Just in case we had any little ones show up and needed a spot for them. I wasn’t sure, and I thought it would be good to have on hand.” He backed up, stepping into the hall before leaning into the doorjamb. “We never used it, so when I had to close up, I packed it up and stuffed it inside the closet. I totally forgot it was in here. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.”

I couldn’t stop staring at the disassembled pieces of the crib. Boone couldn’t seem to give them one fleeting glance. “You left everything else. Why not this too?”

I heard the ice cubes clink in the glass Boone was holding out for me from outside the door. “I don’t know. I guess I thought it would make a nice baby shower gift for someone one day or something. It’s not like it was ever used.” Boone’s tone took on a sharp edge, one that sliced right through me.

How one little thing could be responsible for undoing years of repression. How one inanimate object could make me feel like it had just been hardwired to my heart and then pressed the destruct button. How I’d gone so long without thinking about what had happened, how it had, what had happened as a result . . .

“I’m sorry, Boone,” I said, swiping at the tear that finally gave up hanging on and decided to let go.

“Sorry for what?” he said, shoving off the doorframe. “It’s not a crime to stick your head inside a room and look through a closet. No harm, no foul. Just forget about it.”

The sharpness in his voice that he was trying to veil with a dismissive tone kept cutting through me. “Boone—”

“Just forget about it, Clara,” he snapped. “I mean it.”

I shook my head, not sure I ever could, but if he needed me to pretend for his sake, I could do that. I owed him that after how I’d hurt him, despite how he’d hurt me back. His mistake wasn’t mine to atone for; mine was.

That was why I managed to look away from the object in the closet and close my eyes. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Could you close the closet door please?” he asked, but from the sound of his voice, he was already halfway down the hallway.

I didn’t reply, nor did I do as he’d requested. Instead, I kept the doors open, the crib in view for when and if he ever chose to stick his head in this room again. I wasn’t sure why, but the crib affected Boone as much as it did me, and I didn’t doubt those reasons stemmed from what had happened in our past.

A person couldn’t just stuff something in a closet and close the door and pretend it was forgotten. It wasn’t that simple.

As I left the room, I left the door half open, the way I’d found it, and made my way down the hall, recomposing myself as best as I could in the span of a dozen footsteps.

When I found Boone, he was in the kitchen, leaning into the edge of the counter and chugging a glass of lemonade like he wasn’t really tasting it. The other glass was resting on the table, already beading with condensation on the sides.

“You’ve got a nice place,” I said, moving for the lemonade and trying to pretend that whatever had happened in that room was behind us. “Thanks for letting me see it.”

He nodded as he tipped the glass higher, drinking up the last drop of lemonade. He practically slammed the glass on the counter when he was done, before powering through the kitchen. “I just have to grab my bag and then we can get out of here. You ready?’

The sharp notes had been leeched from his voice, but he still sounded removed, distant even. His eyes wouldn’t come close to me.

“I’m ready,” I said softly. I lifted the glass of lemonade and took a drink though, like Boone, I didn’t really taste it either.

He disappeared into his bedroom again and was out in less than five seconds, the strap of a duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. He marched down the hall faster this time, heading for the door like he couldn’t get out of these four walls fast enough.

I took another long drink of my lemonade, rushed to the sink, and dumped out the rest before following him. I knew I wasn’t rushing because he was eager to leave the house—it was me.

I found him waiting at the door, holding it open with an expectant look. I moved by him quickly, almost afraid to say anything. It wasn’t until Boone had shut the door, locked it, and turned around to take a deep breath that his body started to relax. His expression followed last.

He was in the middle of taking in his second deep breath, and looked like he wanted to say something to me, when a phone rang.

I didn’t have my purse, so I knew it wasn’t mine, and I hadn’t heard or seen Boone on his phone yet these past few days. I was almost surprised when I saw him pull one out of his back pocket and check it. He sighed before answering.

“I was just about to call you and wish you a Happy Wednesday as well, Han—” He must have been cut off, because Boone stopped talking with his mouth still open. His expression didn’t really change. Whatever the caller on the other end was saying, none of it must have come as a surprise. “Yeah, okay.” Another sigh. “I’ll be right there.”

Boone didn’t say anything else before slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know about okay, but everything’s normal.” Boone rubbed the bridge of his nose a few times before setting his jaw and jogging down the front steps. “Having to pick up my mom from her favorite dive bar has pretty much been a weekly occurrence since I turned twelve and my feet could reach the pedals and I could see over the steering wheel.” Boone dug my dad’s Chrysler keys out of his pocket and tossed them at me. “I’ve got to go get her before Hank calls the cops and, in addition to picking her up, I have to post her bail. Do you think you can make it back to your dad’s car okay?” Boone was flying around the house, throwing his duffel into the bed of the truck before I’d made it all the way down the steps.

“I’ll go with you,” I said, no room for negotiation in my voice.

“You’ve gone on these excursions before. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve pretty much seen them all.” He threw open the driver’s side door and leapt inside the cab. “The only difference is that she’s added another seven years of liver spots to her skin.”

I broke into a run when I heard him fire up the engine. Before I’d come to a complete stop, I’d thrown open the door and tossed myself inside the cab.

He gave me a look that would have shriveled a lesser woman into nothing. “Get out.”

“No.” I buckled the seatbelt around me and sat up straight.

“Now, Clara.”

“Stop bossing me around, you big jerk.” I crossed my arms.

“Stop forcing me to boss you around. Listen, for once.” Boone reached across my lap, trying to shove open my door.

At the last second, I jabbed my elbow into the lock and lowered it. “Drive.”

Boone’s mouth snapped open, but nothing spewed out. I had enough experience with the two of us going at each other in the past that I could imagine what words were on the tip of his tongue, but they didn’t come. Somewhere along his seven-years’ journey, he’d picked up a little self-control.

Something I was still struggling to grasp.

“Why can’t you ever listen to me?
Ever
?” he said at last, peeling out of the driveway.

“Because if I listened to you back then, we never would have gotten anywhere. Because if anyone listened to what you asked them to do, no one would ever get close to you.” I uncrossed my arms and relaxed, despite Boone barreling down the dirt road at close to fifty miles per hour. He’d always been a crazy driver. I’d gotten used to it.
“That’s
why.”

“You’re the very reminder of why I don’t let people get close to me, so be careful how you’re lecturing me, got it?” Boone glanced at me. “Now is not the moment to be preaching to me about opening myself up to people because I’ve been burned, by you, and I’m not going to let anyone do that to me again.”

“Me included?”

“You
especially
.”

I stared out the window at the trees blurring by, and I stayed quiet when the last thing I wanted to do was stay still and silent. Maybe Boone wasn’t the only one who’d picked up some self-restraint. The longer I stared out the window, concentrating on calming down, the more I found it actually worked.

Boone hadn’t said where we were going, but I didn’t need two guesses to figure it out. Dolly Cavanaugh had been frequenting the same bar since the night Boone and Wren’s daddy left them when Boone was four and Wren was still a baby. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I’d camped out inside Boone’s quiet cab while parked outside The Bar—yeah, the owner really was that creative—waiting for him to escort or carry his mother out. How they exited depended on the night and how many painful memories Dolly hadn’t been able to keep repressed.

I mostly remembered Boone carrying her over one shoulder, his head held high but his eyes cast downward. He didn’t want anyone to see his shame, but to anyone who looked closely enough, it was unmistakable in those blue eyes of his.

“Why are you being so quiet over there?” Boone asked a minute later, his voice back to normal.

I continued to stare out the window. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“You might not have anything to say, but God knows you’ve got something to argue.” There was enough doubt creeping into Boone’s voice that I could tell he was as surprised as I was that I’d chosen the more peaceful resolution to our spat.

“I don’t.” I lifted my shoulders. “You’re right.”

His head twisted in my direction. “I’m right about what?”

“You did open up to me, and I did hurt you. You have no reason to want to do that with me or anyone else again.” The trees were becoming less of a blur, which meant we were slowing down. Which meant we were getting closer. I didn’t want to be battling Boone right before we threw Dolly into the mix. Back when we were kids, I knew I could rely on him to intervene if she decided to take a swing at me or wrap her hands around my throat and drain the life from me like I knew she’d been fantasizing about ever since an Abbott started dating her son.

This time, after everything . . . I couldn’t be quite so sure Boone would be in the same kind of rush to intervene.

“Are you being serious right now? Or ironic?” he asked, the truck making a sharp turn into the bar’s rudimentary parking lot. “Maybe a punchline on the horizon, or am I just failing to pick up on your sarcasm?”

“Yes, no, no, and no,” I replied. “I get where you’re coming from, and I respect it.” I made myself look away from the window and focus on him.

After he parked the truck out front of the bar, he stared inside, but didn’t seem in a hurry to go in.

“But you did the same to me, Boone. I trusted you. I opened up to you. When there was no one else in the world I felt like I could talk to, there was you. And then everything fell apart, and you wrecked me too.” I kept looking at him, waiting for him to turn his attention my way. “So please stop pretending you were the only casualty in the game of you and me. Because I bled just like you did. I died a little that day too.”

Boone’s fingers clenched the steering wheel, twisting up and down on it. “I guess we weren’t as alone as we thought.”

I followed his gaze toward the bar. I’d be stalling too if I had to go into that packed place and drag my mom out kicking and screaming. “I guess not.”

Giving a nod, Boone sucked in a deep breath then threw the door open. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I’d heard that phrase so many times from him, it had become branded into my memory. “I’ll go with you. To help.”

Boone gave me a look as he crawled out. “Thanks for the offer, but your presence while trying to haul my mom out of her favorite bar isn’t going to help.”

“How do you know? I haven’t seen Dolly in years, and from the sounds of it, she’s probably five drinks past facial recognition.”

Boone cracked his neck, holding his arms against the top of the truck and bracing himself. “My mom wasn’t exactly fond of you when we were together.”