The Way Back to You (23 page)

S
olitary confinement is the one torture method I always thought I’d survive with ease, but only two hours alone at this condo is making me rethink that assumption.

Despite the exhaustion and emptiness that set in after Cloudy left me in the hallway, I somehow managed autopilot. First, I found our room and dropped off Arm. Then I went back to my car and grabbed the rest of our stuff. I called for pizza delivery from a place off the Strip. I set up Arm’s food and water dishes in the kitchen, her litter box in the bathroom, her panda pillow in the living room. I washed my face. I sat on a wrought-iron chair under the dim lighting on our second-floor balcony. I answered a knock, signed a receipt, and brought a hot cardboard box inside. Lastly, I turned on the TV and put it on the Las Vegas visitor’s channel, where some old guy wearing a flashy suit and fake-looking hair enthusiastically talked up the Very Best Shows in Vegas while I ate pizza on the couch.

By myself.

I never wanted to ruin, in an instant, everything good that’s been building between Cloudy and me. If I could have handled
it differently, we’d be hanging out on the Strip together right now. Then we’d have come back and had this whole condo to ourselves.

And the thing is, Cloudy didn’t deserve to have me go off on her the way I did. I know that. But she’d witnessed the entire humiliating encounter with my mother, and she pitied me for it. It was all over her face. Worst of all, she wouldn’t stop pushing me to talk—even when I kept telling her I didn’t want to. So I needed for her to leave. Because now, more than five hours after I ran away from Jackass Gifts, I’m still not sure how I can get through this day without breaking the promise I made to myself on my fourteenth birthday to never cry over Shannon again.

Shannon used to tell me she and Dad were lucky because, according to one of her astrology books, the certain period when their shared birthday falls (Pisces, Week I) matches up with mine (Aquarius, Week II) to make for the best possible parent-child relationship they could have hoped for. After she left when I was ten, I got it in my head that since birthdays had always been a big deal to her, she’d be back again on February fifth for mine.

When I turned eleven, twelve, and thirteen, I hoped and I waited and I used my birthday-candle wishes on her. She always failed to show up.

Finally, on my fourteenth birthday, the day dragged on with no sign of Shannon (just like every other day of my life) so I used my wish on myself: that I’d get to play shortstop for my last season in middle school. (Tryouts were two days later, and it turned out to be my first birthday wish to ever come true.)
That night, after I’d eaten my grasshopper pie from Vivian and taken my gifts to my room, I sobbed in bed at the realization that I’d been born during the one week of the year that should have made me the perfect son for Shannon, but she still didn’t care about me.

That’s when I decided I was done. I’d never get my hopes up that she’d come back. I’d never think of her, talk about her, or cry over her. I’ve slipped up on the thinking and talking, but the last part—I’m not going to let it happen. My face is aching from my efforts and my head might split open at any second, but I will not shed a single tear over that woman. I refuse.

Flashy-Suit/Fake-Hair Guy on the television is now raving about the Very Best Buffets in Vegas. I can’t stand his grin for another second, so I press the power button on the remote. The screen goes black. I close my eyes and the whole room disappears.

Something Cloudy said keeps nagging at me—about how Shannon not recognizing me “is not normal.”

There are logical reasons for it. Like the fact that the changes in me from age ten to seventeen are more extreme than in Shannon from age thirty-two to thirty-nine. There’s also the fact that Shannon had no warning I was in town, while I’d had a heads-up she might be.

Both of those excuses fall apart, though, because 1) she didn’t have to recognize
me
; she only had to notice her own features (combined with a couple of her ex-husband’s) on my face. And 2), even if I
hadn’t
been warned, encountering a random red-haired woman in her late thirties wearing a “Shannon” necklace would have grabbed my attention no matter what. The
reverse clearly wasn’t true. She didn’t read my name on the sheriff’s badge, look at me, and think:
My son’s name is Kyle, and this kid seems like he’s the same age, and wow! He looks like Ryan and me. Is it possible—?

Shannon works in a gift shop where she’s constantly surrounded by dozens of items with my dad’s and my names on them. When she’s ringing up purchases or restocking the racks, does she come across “Ryan” and “Kyle” and just
never
think about us?

And what is she doing in Arizona? Has she been in Oatman all these years? Or did she find out we’d moved to Oregon and decide she could go back? Either way, it isn’t all right with me. I can handle the thought of her in Morocco or Zimbabwe or some other faraway place, but not in the state where my dad moved to be with her, the state where she left us both behind. If she couldn’t stand to be in Arizona with me, if she couldn’t even visit me there, she shouldn’t get to live there at all.

My breathing is becoming quick again and my eyes are stinging. I kind of want to call my dad, but I’m not capable of telling him about Shannon right now.

What I need to do is get out of here. I need to do something to get her off my mind.

I push myself up from the couch. One of the French doors leading to the balcony is open about five inches. I peek to make sure Arm didn’t sneak out there, and am relieved that she didn’t . . . until it dawns on me that I haven’t seen her since I was sitting down with my pizza.

My first thought:
She’s exploring the condo.

I search every inch of every room. She’s nowhere to be found. A new thought takes hold:
Arm fell or jumped from that balcony.

There’s no other explanation.

With my heart battering my chest, I step outside one more time, staring down the twelve-plus-foot drop. I see nothing below. I hear nothing.

I run from the unit and down the stairs. I throw open a gate. The sky is black, but there’s a soft glow from the swimming pools, as well as from lights hidden in the landscaping. I hurry over and poke through the shrubbery beneath our balcony.

She isn’t here.

With my phone’s flashlight switched on, I go through every cluster of plants near where she would have come down.

I dash to each of the pools, peering into them in case she slipped somehow.

I jog to the first parking lot, then the second, checking every car.

I sprint down the halls of all five floors at both buildings.

I trample the property’s perimeter, call out her name, and question every person I encounter. And I do all of this without stopping, until I’m sweating and on the verge of delirium.

The minutes have turned to hours. Panting, I make my way back near the pools and check beneath the balcony once again—just in case I missed her the last five times I was here.

That’s when my flashlight winks out.

Stumbling to a lounge chair, I collapse onto it.

My battery is dead. I don’t know where my cat is. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t know if she’s okay. I don’t know
anything—except
I
am not okay.

I’ve been trying so hard to keep from crying for the past two hours. The past four hours. The past nine hours. The past six months. The past three years, seven years, twelve years. Because Shannon left. Because Ashlyn left. Because Cloudy left. Because Arm left.

I don’t want these tears to fall from my eyes. I don’t want my shoulders to shake uncontrollably. I don’t want to curl up on this uncomfortable chair and hold my stomach and sob and sob and sob.

It’s happening, though, and I can’t stop it.

Because I am completely alone.

I
stare at Kyle’s name on my phone’s screen. It’s the second time that he’s tried me, and the second time I’ve ignored him.

If I felt like talking, I’d still be at the suite instead of roaming the Paris Las Vegas at ten a.m. But Kyle wants me to go to Sonia’s wedding. We were texting only minutes ago—him asking if I needed a ride to the Bellagio; me saying that I was very much
not
going.

I don’t know why he’s suddenly okay with us being on speaking terms. Whatever his reason is, I’m not feeling the same. I’m finished getting into Kyle Ocie’s business.

After stomping off last night, I took the time-share’s free shuttle to the Wynn, then hopped another to the Venetian, then jogged across the street to see a fake volcano erupt at the Mirage. I window-shopped at high-end stores I could never afford, ate Tater Tots topped with melted brie, and watched nightclub bouncers turn people away at their doors. I did whatever I could to distract myself, so I wouldn’t obsess over Kyle and Shannon and Sonia. And I did it until my eyes drowsed shut and my feet
went numb. Sometime in the middle of that, I’d decided to skip the wedding—I didn’t want to go, and I absolutely did not want to be there with someone who didn’t want me with him. By the time I slunk back into the suite, Kyle was holed up in his room. I set my alarm for early enough this morning so I could leave without running into him.

I hadn’t counted on him trying to track me down hours after I left.

And he’s texted me again:
I think we need to talk. I can meet you outside the chapel.

I tap out a reply and send it:
We’ll talk later. I meant what I said about not going, but have fun.

I’m not sure I do mean it—the talking to him later part. Maybe the having fun part, too.

That over with, I wander slowly down Le Boulevard, the Paris’s indoor shopping area designed like a quaint French town. Even the ceiling is painted a bright blue to make it seem like we’re all walking under a real sky. I’m peeking into a store called Les Eléments when my phone goes off.

Again.

The vibration zings through my bones. Kyle can blow up at me, but now that he’s ready to be buddies, I should be—what? Available? Grateful? Not after what he said to me. I know that he was hurting, but so was I. Why are his feelings more important than mine?

My eyes graze the screen, and it isn’t Kyle’s name that’s popped up.

“Zoë,” I say into the receiver.

“Cloudy!” She’s hyper, like she had a bowl of caramel for breakfast. “Are you at the Bellagio yet?”

Shit. I was so relieved the call wasn’t from Kyle, I forgot Zoë’s been waiting for this day all week.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m here.” The lie is the first thing that comes out of my mouth, but telling her that I won’t be seeing Sonia feels bigger than disappointing Zoë on the information front. Admitting I won’t be following through on the wedding would be admitting total failure. Kyle and Jade already believe I’m screwing up. I can’t let Zoë think the same.

“Awesome!” she says. “I was worried you’d be late.”

“There’s still forty-five minutes to go.” That’s the truth. Despite how hard I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to stop myself from checking the time.

“So where are you?”

“What?” I plug my other ear with a finger, straining to hear her.
Les acoustics
in
le corridor
make it difficult. “Why?”

“I’m looking at a map of the Bellagio online. If you tell me where you are right now, it’ll really give me a visual.”

“Seriously?” I rub my neck, weaving between groups of shoppers, rushing to get nowhere. “I’m not really sure, Zo. This place is pretty big.”

“No kidding,” she says. “You can land a plane in the pool area.”

“I know. It’s wacky.” I break away from the crowd, next to a small fountain set into one of the buildings, and wipe sweaty fingers on my jeans. “I should probably figure out where I’m going before I actually am late.”

“The South Chapel.”

“Right, thanks,” I tell her, a breathy laugh. The location was in Sonia’s email, and I’m not surprised Zoë would have it burned in her memory. “Anyway, I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Wait, hold on, isn’t Kyle—”

I click off, then sandwich my phone between my palms, as if squeezing it will prevent another call from coming through. I wait five seconds, and another ten . . .

Nothing.

I’ll have to make up some satisfying details for Zoë, but at least she’s convinced at the moment. My shoulders are loose, but I feel like there’s an avocado pit in my throat.

Old-fashioned signposts direct me to an information kiosk in the middle of the pathway. There’s a middle-aged woman sitting behind it, flirting with a guy in a black fedora. Instead of interrupting, I study the brochures that are hanging around her booth. I grab one for Mandalay Bay and Planet Hollywood, and I read up on this place called the Downtown Container Park. While I’m reaching for a flyer for the Neon Boneyard—where classic Las Vegas signs go to die—I spot a pamphlet from the Mob Museum. All that crime and punishment under one roof sounds satisfying at the moment, so I pluck it from its plastic holder.

I stroll away from the booth, flipping through the first few pages. There’s a quote scrawled up top that halts my steps.

“I never lie to any man because I don’t fear anyone. The only time you lie is when you are afraid.”

John Gotti said that. According to this, he was the head
of this insanely powerful New York crime family back in the 1980s. And he was convicted of a shit-ton of awful things, but his bold words make my blood pump furiously.

My chest aches, and my skin is searing hot. It’s like being exposed, like someone poked through my dresser drawers and found the things I’d folded away in secret.

All the lies I’ve told. Today. Yesterday. Last week. Last year.

But that doesn’t mean I
fear
anyone.

I’m not afraid of anything.

Any lie has been to protect other people, or help them—not myself.

Does that make me a liar? Lying to make someone else’s life easier?

I glare at the paper in my hands. I’m not a liar. I’m not afraid.

And with my pulse still surging in my ears, it’s time for me to prove it.

THE BELLAGIO’S MAIN lobby glows warm and hospitable, thanks to dozens of lamps and recessed lighting. I walked here from the Paris, six minutes up Las Vegas Boulevard, and maybe it’s my mood, but the glamour of Vegas after dark seems dulled during the daytime. Everything that glittered last night is so ordinary in the sun. Bizarrely, the Bellagio’s extravagance soothes me momentarily, as if it’s restored the balance.

I stalk past the low counters that line the left side of the room, following the vines that are painted in a crisscross pattern on the floor tiles. There’s a group of guests there, probably
waiting to check out, but I only notice each of them long enough so I can brush by without crashing into someone. The rest of the room is a full spectrum of blended colors as my ankle boots
tap-clack
against marble.

I’m not thinking of what I’ll do when I see Sonia or Kyle, but it’s going to be fine. I’ll sit in the back row, watch two strangers get married, make small talk with a boy who now hates me, and leave before lunchtime.

When I zip to the lobby’s other side, I concentrate on a large butter-yellow sign without breaking my stride. It hangs from an archway, arrows pointing out directions to possibly everything in this zip code—even something called a Spa Tower—but not the chapels. It doesn’t matter. If I keep moving, I’ll find the South Chapel eventually. So I continue forward, passing thick pillars into a sunny courtyard, and that’s where I skid to a stop. The whole area is filled with all kinds of flowers and plants, orange mums and red snapdragons, citrus trees and bright pink bromeliads. Above the room, the high domed skylight completes the greenhouse illusion, and I drink in the familiar aroma, let it fill me up.

“Cloudy?”

A chill trickles down my spine.

But I’m imagining it. It’s completely and utterly, wholly and entirely impossible that my sister is calling out to me in a Las Vegas hotel. Not when she’s in Oregon, locked securely in our house, and responsibly watering the plants.

“Cloudy!” The person who is not Zoë is still talking. “Over here!”

Behind me, I hear the thumping of feet. “A week away and she’s already forgotten us.”

That second voice—the one with the grin in it—makes me spin so fast my hair whacks against my cheek. The two of them, Zoë and Matty, standing only steps away from me in between the large flowery displays, can’t be real. Am I hallucinating from all the pollen?

“Surprise,” Matty—definitely Matty—sings. He’s wearing a light gray suit that’s tailored perfectly to his body, and the straps of a backpack are slung over his shoulders. He gives me the once-over. “Is that what you’re wearing to the wedding?”

His smirk flattens when he sees my expression.

I absorb the sight of Zoë in a chiffon dress, the one she bought for our grandparents’ anniversary party. She’s holding an old-fashioned, boxy piece of luggage by its handle. Mom brought it home from a yard sale as decoration, but Zoë’s been eyeing it for its intended use ever since. If blood wasn’t pooling in my brain, I’d laugh.

“Remember when we talked on the phone fifteen minutes ago?” I say to her, keeping my voice low. “Did I black out during the part when you told me we’re in the same city?”

Zoë throws Matty a stunned look. Perhaps she was expecting a group hug instead of a crazed girl ready to breathe fire. “We wanted to surprise you,” Zoë tells me.

I glance between her and Matty. “We?”

“Technically, it was my uncle’s idea,” Matty says. “He even persuaded my parents—the guy is shockingly charming for a dentist. And when I checked in on Zoë yesterday, I told her
about it, and she jumped on board. Long story short: we got here a couple hours ago.”

Two women slip between us to ogle a tall arrangement of feng shui coins mounted on bamboo stalks and cinched together like a bouquet.

“How?” I ask him. “You don’t have your car back yet.”

He clears his throat. “We rode the bus.”

When I glance at Zoë, she stops fidgeting with the small silver digital camera in her hands and gives me a perky nod. “It was so fun, Cloudy. We drove through this big chunk of eastern Oregon, and then through Nevada, and maybe even some of Area Fifty-One. The driver wouldn’t tell us, though.”

Matty props his hands on his hips, so at ease wherever he is. “Zoë questioned him about it until, like, two in the morning, too. Persistence must be a family quality.”

“You took my little sister on an overnight bus ride to another state? I could have you arrested!”

He shrinks away from me. “She wanted to come!”

“I did,” Zoë tsks. “God, you’re acting like he kidnapped me.”

Moaning, I rub my temples. “You are so lucky I can’t tell Mom and Dad about this.”

Her glance swings over to Matty, and he raises his eyebrows at her, some kind of signal.

“There’s something else I should tell you,” Zoë says.

A ripple zigzags through my stomach. “What?”

She chews her lip, inhaling deeply. “I told Ashlyn’s mom about the trip. She knows you and Kyle have been seeing the recipients.”

I rock back as if the news is a physical force.
“What?”

“The dishwasher started leaking all over the kitchen floor.” Zoë’s voice wobbles when she’s panicked, and it’s doing it now. “I was scared it would ruin the wood, and I didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Montiel was the only adult I could think to call.”

My mind is on overload. Thoughts are racing through it like a news ticker, and I can’t keep up, so I cover my face with my hands to force it still. But it’s already a fight for me to breathe. “So?”

“So when she came over, she asked me where you were.”

Heat slashes through me, and I let my arms fall. “You couldn’t come up with some excuse?”

“I couldn’t lie to her, Cloudy.” She shakes her head. “Not about this.”

Matty is nodding at her side. They’re teammates and I’m playing defense. “When did this happen?”

She watches the toes of her ballet flats on the shiny floor. “Sunday.”

“And after texting me a thousand times this week, you’re only telling me this
now
?”

“I was afraid you’d come straight back if you knew. And Mrs. Montiel’s not mad at you or anything.”

“How could she not be mad at me?”

“She wishes you’d been honest about it. She said it could’ve gotten her into a lot of trouble—not to mention you, too. But she was also kind of proud that you’re doing this. She didn’t think you seemed all that interested in the recipients last week. She didn’t think you’d go
see
them.”

My chest tightens. “Is she going to say anything to Mom and Dad?”

“Maybe. But she’d probably rather have us tell them.” Zoë pats me softly on the arm. “She does expect you to give her all the details once we’re back.”

I just want to be back now.

No. I just want it to be last week, when the biggest thing on my to-do list was putting together that stupid gift basket. Way before Mrs. Montiel ever told me about the recipients and those emails.

And she’s known about us since Sunday, when we were driving out of Sacramento and down to LA. She’s had five days to believe the worst of me. To imagine all the ways I’ve invaded her privacy and taken advantage of her kindness. I may have had a noble excuse for doing it, but it doesn’t change the fact that I went behind her back to get what I wanted.

I guess I’m doing that a lot.

“And now,” Zoë chirps, “I can also give her details! Of the wedding, anyway.”

Suddenly, the floral scent is too much. It makes my head soupy and my stomach queasy, so I focus on one thing: Zoë. Here. The suffocation presses at me from all sides.

“You have to stop.”

Zoë’s skin is a little pale. “Stop what?”

“You can’t be here,” I shoot back. “You have to leave.”

“Cloudy?” Matty says it like he’s not sure I really am Cloudy.

“And don’t text me anymore,” I tell her. I don’t know where that came from, some dark pit inside of me, but it feels sharp
enough, so it feels right.