“Store’s closed, Samantha, it’s after five. I don’t know where he is now. I locked up. But I have my car and his cell number. I’ll get you to him. Not stay or anything. This has to be between you two. But I’ll getcha there.” He crooks his elbow out, offering his arm, like some courtly nineteenth-century gentleman. Mr. Darcy. In somewhat unusual circumstances.

I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around his elbow.

“And, for the record,” Tim adds, “I’m so fucking sorry, Samantha. I’m fucking, fucking sorry about all this.”

Chapter Forty-seven

From that first day, I’ve walked right into the Garretts’ without knocking. But now when Tim puts his hand on the screen door handle, I shake my head. There’s no doorbell, so I tap loudly on the metal of the doorframe, rattling it. I can hear George’s husky voice talking on and on in another room, so I know someone’s home.

Alice comes to the door. The smile drops off her face immediately.

“What do you want?” she says through the screen.

“Where’s Jase?”

She looks over her shoulder, then comes out onto the steps, slamming the screen door behind her. She’s wearing a white bikini top and a pair of faded cutoffs. Beside me, I feel Tim’s focus disappearing faster than helium from a burst balloon.

“Why?” Folding her arms, Alice settles herself firmly against the door.

“I have something I have to—say to him.” My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat. Tim moves a little closer, either in support or to peer down Alice’s bikini.

“I’m pretty sure it’s all been said,” she says flatly. “Why don’t you go back where you came from?”

The part of me used to doing what I’m told, toeing the line, my mother’s daughter, runs down the driveway in tears. But the rest of me, the real me, doesn’t budge. I can’t go back where I came from. That Samantha’s gone.

“I need to see him, Alice. Is he here?”

She shakes her head. Since Mr. Garrett’s accident, she hasn’t kept up with her constant hair transformations, and now it’s wavy brown with blond highlights growing out badly. “I don’t see any reason to let you know where he is. Leave him be.”

“It’s important, Alice,” Tim cuts in, evidently regaining focus.

After fixing him with a withering stare, she turns back to me. “Look, we don’t have time or space for your dramas, Samantha. I’d started to think you were different, not just another private school princess, but looks like that’s exactly what you are. My brother doesn’t need that.”

“What your brother doesn’t need is you fighting his battles.” I wish I were taller and could intimidate her by looming imposingly, but Alice and I are the same height. All the better for her to shoot her death-ray glare straight into my eyes.

“Yeah, well, he’s my brother, so his battles are my battles,” Alice says.

“Whoa, you two.” Tim moves into our midst, towering over both of us. “I can’t believe I’m actually breaking up a fight between two hot babes, but this is fucked up. Jase needs to hear what Samantha has to say, Alice. Put away your bullwhip.”

Alice ignores him. “Look, I know you want to do that whole make-yourself-feel-better routine, la-la-la, you never meant to hurt him and you’d like to stay friends and all that garbage. But let’s just skip all that. Go. You’re done here.”

“Sailor Supergirl!” says a happy voice, and there’s George, pushing his nose into the mesh of the screen. “I had an Eskimo pie for breakfast today. Do you know that it’s not really made by Eskimos? Or”—his voice drops—“out of Eskimos. Did you know that Eskimos make their ice cream out of seal fat? That’s kinda yuck.”

I bend down, away from Alice. “George—is Jase home?”

“He’s in his room. Want me to take you there? Or go get him?” His face is so alight and alive seeing me, no reproach for my disappearing act. George of the forgiving heart. I wonder what the Garretts—Jase—told him—told anyone—about me. As I watch, though, his expression clouds over. “You don’t think they make the ice cream out of baby seals, do you? Those little white fluffy ones?”

Alice pushes herself more firmly against the door. “George, Samantha was just leaving. Don’t bother Jase.”

“They would never make ice cream out of baby seals,” I tell George. “They only make ice cream out of…” I have no idea how to finish this sentence.

“Terminally ill seals,” Tim intervenes. “Suicidal seals.”

George looks understandably confused.

“Seals who want to be ice cream,” Alice tells him briskly. “They volunteer. There’s a lottery. It’s an honor.”

He nods, digesting this. We’re all watching his face to see if this explanation flew. Then I hear a voice behind him say, “Sam?”

His hair’s sticking out in all directions, shower-damp. The smudges beneath his eyes are deeper and his jaw sharper.

“Hey, dude,” Tim says. “Just bringing your girl by, admiring your bodyguard, all that. But,” he says, backing down the steps, “goin’ now. Catch you later. Feel free to call anytime to set up that mud-wrestling match, Alice.”

Alice reluctantly moves aside as Jase pushes open the screen door, then shrugs, heading back into the house.

Jase steps out, face expressionless.

“So,” he says. “Why’re you here?”

George returns to the screen. “Do you think it has flavors? The ice cream? Like chocolate chip seal or seal with strawberry swirl?”

“Buddy,” Jase tells him. “We’ll check it out later, okay?”

George backs off.

“Do you have the Bug? Or the motorcycle?” I ask.

“I can get the Bug,” he says. “Joel’s got the cycle at work.” He turns back to the door and shouts, “Al, I’m taking the car.”

I can’t quite hear Alice’s response, but I’m betting all the words have four letters.

“So, where are we going?” he asks, once we get into the car.

I wish I knew.

“McGuire Park,” I suggest.

Jase flinches. “Not full of happy memories right now, Sam.”

“I know,” I say, putting my hand on his knee. “But I want to be private. We can walk out to the lighthouse or something if you want. I just need to be alone with you.” Jase looks at my hand. I remove it.

“Let’s do McGuire then. The Secret Hideaway is a safe bet.” His voice is level, emotionless. He reverses the car, hitting the gas harder than he usually does, turning down Main Street.

It’s silent between us, the kind of awkward silence that never used to happen. The well-trained (Mom’s daughter) part of me wants to fill it with babble: So, lovely weather lately, I’m fine, thank you, and you? Great! How about them Sox?

But I don’t. I just stare at my hands on my lap, stealing glances at his impassive profile from time to time.

He reaches out automatically to help me as we jump from stone to stone to the tilted rock in the river. The clasp of that warm strong hand is so familiar, so safe, that when he lets go as we reach the rock, my own feels incomplete.

“So…” he says, sitting down, wrapping his arms around his legs, and looking, not at me, but out at the water.

There may be proper words for this situation. A tactful way to lead up. A convincing explanation. But I don’t know them. All that comes out is the unvarnished, awful truth.

“It was my mother who hit your father. She was driving the car.”

Jase’s head snaps around, eyes wide. I watch the color leach from his face under his tan. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I was there. Asleep in the backseat. I didn’t see it. I wasn’t sure what had happened. For days. I didn’t realize.” I meet his eyes, waiting to see astonishment turn to scorn, scorn to contempt, telling myself I’ll survive. But he just keeps staring at me. I wonder if he’s gone into shock and I should repeat it. I remember him giving me a Hershey’s bar after that ride with Tim because Alice said chocolate was good for shock. I wish I had some. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he just looks as though I’ve punched him in the gut and he can’t breathe.