Wild Child (31 page)

“And it’s going well?” Simone asked.

“People have plenty to say.”

“Why don’t you interview
me
?” Simone asked. Monica gaped at her mother, her internal plates shifting and grinding to accommodate her astonishment. “Your book is about getting an accurate portrayal of the events from that night. It seems remiss of you not to interview me.”

“You’re actually willing to talk to me about it?”

Simone opened her mouth and shut it again, staring at the steam from her cup. She nodded.

“You’ve never—”

“I know.”

Silence rippled and pulsed between them. Talking to her mother about the night she shot JJ would be like running to the closet and letting out all the monsters. Those events, those memories, that pain—all of it would be let loose on the world, and that could only bring disaster.

But there were other answers she wanted, answers to the questions born in the years after the murders. In those hours alone beside her mother’s bed, under those fluttering curtains, so scared nothing would ever be right again.

“Can I ask you questions about the years after the murder?”

Simone looked up, a wrinkle between her eyes as if she didn’t remember an “after.”

“London,” Monica said. “Greece. France.”

“If you’d like.”

Monica laughed, not holding back on the scorn she had for the woman across from her. “Yes. I’d like.”

“Then fine.” Simone stiffened at Monica’s laughter. “Come over today.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, giving herself a day to put together her thoughts. To assemble a battle plan. But mostly, to keep her mother waiting. To punish her in whatever large and small ways she had available. “Here.”

“I won’t discuss it in public. You can come to the house I’ve rented. Across from those art camps you spoke so highly of on
America Today
. A
teacher
, really?”

Her mother actually sounded … proud. And Monica didn’t know what to do with that, so she ignored it. “All right, what time—”

“You can come for lunch.”

“This is not social. Or friendly. I’m not interested in having lunch with you.”

Simone, already so pale, went a bit lighter; even her lips paled. “Fine, come at four. So I can have a drink and you can judge me.”

Monica wrote it down and gathered her things. “I’ll see you then.”

Without another word she left, rattled that she’d agreed to this, worried about what it might mean to her, unsure of how to handle the interview, and feeling, all in all, pretty upside down in the wake of her mother’s arrival.

But at the door she turned, for no reason she could name, and looked back at her mother, who was looking down into her teacup and smiling.

*   *   *

Wednesday night, Jackson waited up for Gwen to come home. He’d been doing that more often than not. Initially it had been to check if she was drinking, but now it was becoming a habit, and it felt good to see her before going to bed. Obviously, he’d let too much distance grow between them and he didn’t know quite how to shrink it, but he would do what he could to keep it from growing.

So he sat in the front parlor, trying to get comfortable on the really uncomfortable couch there, and texted Monica while he waited.

What are you wearing?
he texted.

What you saw me in not five hours ago
.

He shifted on the couch, remembering what they’d been doing five hours ago. And exactly what she
hadn’t
been wearing.

Correction
, she texted,
what you saw me in before you took it off me
.

I really do love that Tweety Bird
.

It was a Metallica concert tee shirt, dummy, and you just like what’s under any shirt I’m wearing
.

He smiled, his big fingers inaccurate on the keypad, but he was learning. He was learning lots of things, thanks to Monica. Before he could hit send on the dirty text he was sending to his non-girlfriend girlfriend, the front door opened and Gwen walked in.

When she saw him, she sighed. “Again? I told you, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic.”

“And I told you, trust is something you have to earn back.”

She rolled her eyes as she shuffled into the room. “I liked you better when you barely paid attention.”

For some reason, the words blew holes through him. Giant holes where his heart had been. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I always paid attention.”

She laughed outright and if it hadn’t been at his expense, he would have been happy to see her smiling. But
since she was laughing at him, he only got angry. “You know,” he said, “if you didn’t keep secrets, I wouldn’t have to check up on you.”

“
Me?
” she cried. “
I’m
keeping secrets?”

“You were drinking, Gwen.”

“Yeah, and when were you going to tell me about Monica?”

He blinked. “What about her?”

“Please—the whole town knows you guys are like together. I had twenty people ask me today if you guys were getting married.”

“Getting … 
what?
That’s ridiculous.”

“You were on TV, Jackson, practically making out!”

What Vanessa had taped at the float meeting was making its way through the gossip mill. This was the second edge of that particular sword. Using Monica for votes was one thing, but admitting it, in light of their real relationship? Tricky.

“Then there’s nothing going on?” She crossed her arms over her chest as if she were in charge of his inquisition, and he didn’t like it.

“There’s nothing going on that’s any of your business.”

For a moment she looked like she’d been punched in the stomach, and he realized how awful his words sounded. How ostracizing.

“Gwen—”

“No, it’s fine. Totally fine. I get it.” She walked up to him and blew in his face. She smelled like gum and Doritos, a slightly nauseating combination. “Not drinking, see?”

She turned and walked away through the shadows, and she was almost gone before he found his voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with me and Monica,” he said, and she paused by the stairs. “She’s leaving, you know. She’s not … she’s not going to stay.”

“Neither are you,” she said, her eyes unreadable, glittering gems in the half-light.

“No, you’re right.”

“So it’s just a thing?” she asked, somehow giving “thing” all kinds of weight and meaning, but not the right kind of weight and meaning.

“Yeah,” he agreed, though it didn’t quite feel right. “It’s just a thing.”

She shrugged and went up one step. “Hey,” he said, suddenly desperate to stop her. Suddenly desperate to turn back whatever clock he could. “You need a dress for the pageant, don’t you? Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow?”

“No thanks, I’ve already got an idea. Shelby’s helping me with it.”

Anyone but him. That used to be a relief to him, but now it hurt. “Oh, well, you know, if you need shoes or anything …”

“I’ll let you know.” She smiled at him, and for a moment the bubble between them burst and they were as close as they ever had been, and he realized—painfully—that wasn’t all that close.

Chapter 20

Thursday at four p.m., Monica stood on the gravel path outside the white farmhouse her mother had rented armed with her laptop and questions, her belligerence and anger. All the slights and hurts from her childhood she had shored around herself like a barricade.

She’d even brought Reba in her fanciest collar.

Try, Mom
, she thought,
just try and get past this
.

But somehow, with all that stuff, she couldn’t quite make it up the stairs.

Beside her, Reba barked.

The front door opened and Monica’s skin broke out into a heavy sweat. It wasn’t Simone standing there, but a short man. Balding, with glasses. He looked like a turtle. A small turtle.

“Hello Monica,” he said.

Because she was marginally poisoned by her own venom, Monica sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

The man glanced over his shoulder and then back at Monica. “I’m Simone’s husband,” he said.

And that was enough for Monica.

“Tell her the interview is canceled,” she said and turned on her heel, walking away from … 
holy shit
, her stepfather.

She couldn’t go back to her hotel in this mood. It was too much to go to Jackson now, asking too much after the other day with the tears and the sex. And every day since, with the sex and the talking.

But she didn’t want to be alone.

Unable to do anything but keep moving, she walked right across the street to Shelby’s place. Past the house, with the rusting gutters, to the barn in the back.

Where she hoped there might be a drink. And a friend.

Late Thursday afternoon, Shelby stared at the email from Dean on the screen.
I don’t like that you haven’t responded to my emails
.

Quickly, she deleted it, feeling dirty and threatened. But getting rid of the message didn’t make the feeling go away.

You’re overreacting
, she told herself, pushing away from the computer and then standing up from her desk because she suddenly needed more room, more distance between herself and that email. And that stupid, stupid mistake she’d made.

There was every chance that Dean was trying to just be friendly. But those words echoed in her head with Dean’s patronizing tone, the vaguely threatening way he spoke. But maybe that was all colored with the way they’d had sex.

Oh, what is wrong with me?
she wondered. And now she was late for the pageant meeting. It was dress-fitting night, and she’d promised to come help hem and make minor alterations.

She grabbed her sewing kit from her supply closet.

“Shelby?” Shelby, who thought she recognized Monica’s voice but couldn’t quite believe it, nearly sprinted into the other room.

It was Monica. But Monica as she’d never seen her. Gone was the bravado and the attitude, leaving just the hard life she’d lived up until this moment.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Do you need a seat?”

“No, I need a drink. You still have that bottle?”

“I do.” She ran back into her office, grabbed the bottle from the bottom drawer of her desk, and texted Janice that she was going to be a little late for the fittings.

“What’s going on?” Shelby asked, pouring Monica a shot into her Best Teacher in the World mug. She had about seventeen of those mugs.

Monica knocked back the shot and blew out a wild breath. “I’m a mess,” she said, and then shook her head. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come barging in here. I just … I was across the street and I couldn’t …” She sighed heavily and managed a very weak smile. “I just couldn’t talk to my mother. And the stepfather I never even knew about. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Not so sad, considering your mother.”

Monica smiled. “You know, you’re not so bad, Shelby.”

“Neither are you, Monica.”

The silence between them was pregnant, and Monica pursed her lips and blew out her cheeks as if she was struggling to keep something inside.

“I’m falling in love with Jackson,” she blurted.

It wasn’t a surprise, but it was strange that Monica chose to tell
her
.

“I know that’s not anything you probably care about but I wanted to say it, just once. To someone. Someone should know how I feel.”

“Shouldn’t that someone be Jackson?” Shelby asked.

Monica looked so threadbare, Shelby could see right through her. This love she had for Jackson brought her very little joy. Shelby leaned down and poured her another drink.

“He’s very loveable,” Shelby said, which was only half the truth. The good half.

“Yes, he is. He’s very good at being loved. He might not like it, but he’s good at it.”

Shelby nodded, wondering how well Monica knew the man she’d fallen for.

“But who does he love?” Monica asked, and Shelby’s heart cringed. “Who does he let in?”

“Not … many people.” No one. Not even his sister. He managed to gather people close, earn their trust, their affection—sometimes their love. Without ever investing back in them. He was closed off. In some respects, totally untouchable. And from the look on Monica’s face, she knew it.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Monica said. “Maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s just gas.”

Shelby laughed, and Monica blew out a long breath. “Well, you going to join me in a drink?”

“I can’t. I have to go to a pageant meeting. The girls are being fitted for their formal dresses.”

“Oh!” Monica put the cup down, suddenly flustered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“You didn’t … I was just leaving. You want to walk out with me?”

“Of course, sure.”

Shelby turned off the lights and locked up while Monica waited in the waning daylight with Reba by her side. Reba was a ridiculous dog, but she liked how Monica didn’t look alone with a dog by her side.

I need a pet
. But then she quickly imagined herself with four cats, and the jokes that would go around town about the spinster teacher with four cats.

“Have you had a lot more interest in the camps after the
America Today
clip?” Monica asked as they started walking on the gravel shoulder of the road.

“About two hundred percent. The website went down after the clip aired. We broke the Internet.”

Monica’s laugh was distracted. She seemed very focused on the white farmhouse across the street.

“You know,” Shelby said, hoping to pull Monica’s attention back to this side of the road, “most of the interest was in you. If you’re interested in teaching a course …”

“I’m not a teacher,” Monica laughed. “You know that.”

“Well, you fooled the kids. We could work on a curriculum, get it put together?”

“Shelby, I appreciate the thought. But … I’m not sticking around.”

It wasn’t surprising. Monica probably had a life waiting for her with far more exciting things than could be offered here in Bishop. But it was too bad. Against all odds, Shelby liked Monica. The town liked Monica. “When are you leaving?”