Gone Too Far (16 page)

“Did you take this one?” she asks, covering any disappointment.

“No. But I chose the photo for her locker.”

“The picture with her hand in her hair?” Her smile is tremulous and I can feel that mine matches it.

“Yes, that one.”

“I loved that. It was so
her
.”

I look at my hands, because I still feel this great awkwardness, like I should do something with them, only I'm not sure what. In the end, I put them in my pockets. “I have no idea what I should say right now. I just know that I wish I'd known her better or that I'd reached out to her when she needed somebody. I wish…so many things. Most of all I wish so much this had never happened to you. Or to her.”

She sighs and pulls me in for a brief, tight hug. “You did just fine.”

“I'm sorry?”

She wipes her eyes but looks a bit more composed. “
No
one
has any idea what to say. Half the job is just showing up.”

Mrs. DuBois walks me to the door, forcing me to take a couple of cookies. She's right. They did turn out pretty good.

Inside my car, the sunshine is deceptively warm through my windshield. I close my eyes and soak it in, my mind wandering back to the group photograph. To Jackson and Stella and Tate. To all the things I got wrong.

Today I got something right. Maybe if I'm lucky, I can make it a habit.

Mom calls when I'm halfway home.

“Hi, honey, is that your car in the background?”

“I've got you on speaker, don't worry. Where are you?”

“Philadelphia. They're asking me to stay a few more days. They have an approval they're trying to squeeze through before Christmas. Seven-year-old twins.”

“You're a modern-day hero.” I grin.

“I actually didn't agree to it yet. The storm there is rolling this way, and I'm worried about not getting home until Christmas Eve. I don't want to make any plans without talking to you.”

“Mom, I'm not eight. I can handle less time on Christmas Eve. As long as Santa still comes.”

She laughs, which makes me smile. “
Santa's
in good shape with your Christmas list, no worries, but, sweetheart, would it be too much trouble for you to pick me up a couple of things at the mall?”

The mall? At Christmas?

“You hate the mall,” I say.

“I know, but your grandmother wants perfume. I hate to ask, but—”

“It's totally fine. I need to pick up something for Tacey anyway.”

“You're the best kid in the world, you know.”

We disconnect before I can tell her she's wrong.

• • •

There's a reason I usually do my Christmas shopping early. Being in the mall two days before Christmas is a special kind of misery. For starters, I'm pretty sure every person who's ever said the word
mall
is in here with me. Fortunately, my grandma's perfume was easy to find, so I'm done with that. I just need something for Tacey.

I dodge a couple of twentysomethings, shopping bags stacked up each arm. Then there's a twitchy guy with a bag from a jewelry store and six or seven girls who are probably in junior high. I still haven't found anything for Tacey and I'm getting beyond sick of being here.

So, decision time. She loves makeup, but one glance at the throng that's descended on Sephora, and I ran like the coward I am. Now, I'm sitting in the atrium, wondering how bad a friend it would make me to get her a gift card and call it a day.

A girl with red hair walks in front of me and I bite my lip, pulled back to the morning with Stella's mom. There's holiday music and everyone's jolly and of course, I think of Nick. For the three millionth time in the last few days.

This is stupid. There is nothing going on between us that can't wait until after the holiday. Hell, that can't wait forever, because no amount of apology is going to make us a perfect fit. Us together would be messy and awkward. And I still want him so badly my chest hurts.

A kid runs past, squealing about Santa. I step out of his path and pull out my phone. I've dwelled enough. I'll call. I'll call and apologize, and it will be weird, but I'll feel better when it's over. Then I can get on with my holiday without being sucked into a guilt spiral.

Nick picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

I cringe at the Christmas music blaring in the background. “Hey, it's Piper.”

“Yeah, hey,” he says. I can hear him moving, shuffling around. The music dies down a bit and he speaks again. “Sorry about that. I'm out shopping.”

“You don't happen to be at the mall, do you?”

“Close. I'm at Sports-n-Stuff. Michael wanted new shoulder pads.”

I bite my lip, not sure where I should go from here. I know crap-all about sporting equipment and he's busy. I need to find a point, or I need to hang up the phone.

“You were right,” I say, clenching my fists. This is harder than it was with Mrs. DuBois. “I saw a picture of Tate with Stella, and it was obvious how he felt about her. I guess it would make anyone crazy to see someone they love with someone else. Especially like that.”

I take a breath, but he's still waiting. And I can't hold back. “You were right about me too. I do see what I want to see. I decided that you were all the same. I don't know how to fix that, or how to fix any of this, really. But I wanted you to know I'm trying.”

He sighs on the other end of the line, and I close my eyes, wishing I could see his face, that I could see the expression he's wearing. I can hear music in his background, warbling on about Santa coming to town. Here, it's “Jingle Bells.” The songs war against each other, grating my nerves and making Nick's silence more painful by the second.

“Nick?”

“I'm here.”

Did I say the wrong thing? No. I think I said it right. Just at the wrong time.

“I shouldn't have called so close to Christmas,” I say, trying to keep the threat of tears out of my voice.

“Where are you?”

“In the mall atrium. I know it's loud. Look, I'm sorry I bothered y—”

“Can you just stay put for a bit?” he asks. The music's getting loud on his side again, like he's walked back into the heart of the store. “Just wait there. Give me ten minutes, okay?”

“But I—”

He hangs up before I can protest, leaving me completely confused. He wants me to wait here? For him?

I look around, trying to figure the chances of him actually spotting me. There are like fourteen million people crammed into this atrium. They're eating hot pretzels and clustering around the giant maps, checking Christmas lists for last-minute gifts.

Heck with finding me—he'll be lucky to find a parking spot. But then, maybe he just meant he'd call back. Maybe I should just text him. God, maybe I should stop second-guessing everything and go buy something for Tacey. And it better be good, because I skipped the holiday thing and she hasn't texted or called me since.

I check my phone. And then I have this seriously annoying urge to check my face in the mirror in my purse, because apparently I am twelve years old.

I buzz the perimeter of the atrium, thinking of picking up a cinnamon roll until I see that the line is two miles long. I cut back through the middle of the atrium then, determined to stop thinking about the Nick situation and to start thinking that
gift
card
is getting more appealing by the second.

I'm digging out my keys to leave when I feel him come up behind me. I stop dead in my tracks. He doesn't touch me and he doesn't speak, but I know. I just know it's him.

“Piper.”

I turn around.

He's breathing hard, like he's been running. And I'm not prone to swooning—I'm practically the Antichrist of swooning—but he looks
so
damn good. He's flushed and sort of sweaty, and he's staring at me like I'm the only person here.

“I'm going to kiss you again,” he says.

I can't say anything. I don't even remember what language I speak. He steps closer and I swear it is a Christmas miracle that I continue breathing.

“I'm going to kiss you
right
here
, Piper. So, if you have any lingering doubts, or any hesitation—”

I pull him down by the collar, because I'm pretty sure he should already be kissing me. His hands touch my face and every crazy, whirlwind feeling rushing through me just stops.

Shoppers are rushing and music is playing, but I am anchored by his stillness, by the soft, warm slide of his lips over mine.

We kiss like we've done it for years, maybe entire lifetimes. I know how to tilt my head and he knows when to pull me closer. I knot my hands in the back of his hair, and, breathless as I am, I feel like I'm coming back to life.

When we part, we're both panting. “How was Sports-n-Stuff?”

“Not as good as the mall.”

“Shoulder pads are overrated.”

Nick laughs. “Nice try, Woods, but you're still kissing a jock. What will your art friends think?”

“They'll probably urge psychiatric evaluation,” I admit.

I love the grin he cracks, like he's
charmed
by my absolute lack of tact. He really is over the moon because that's definitely not one of my endearing qualities.

“That came out totally wrong,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “And I don't care what anyone thinks. I never even considered it.”

“I believe you. And that's one of the many reasons I'm standing here.”

“Kissing a football player in the middle of the mall.”

“Well, right now I'm not—”

I can't finish the sentence because he kisses me again. And I think, maybe this time, I don't need to have the last word.

• • •

Nick makes it okay to be in the mall at Christmas. We talk and laugh until my sides hurt, and I forget about the crowds and the commercialism. Most of all, I forget all the awful things I'm tangled up in.

It's eight o'clock when the inevitable catches up to me. I eye my phone on the table between us. Because all the kisses in the world don't change the fact that it's Friday night. And I owe my partner a name.

The threat churns in my gut until I push my cinnamon roll away and turn my phone over, pressing the button to bring the screen to life.

“When are you supposed to text him?” Nick asks. He finishes his roll and points at mine with puppy dog eyes.

I push it across the table. “Go for it. I have an hour.”

“You could text my name.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Sure. And what will this takedown be for? Nick Patterson—stealer of kisses and cinnamon rolls?”

His hair falls over one eye, but he shakes it back and winks. “I'm a rebel.”

“Seriously, what is with your boy scout self? Have you ever done
anything
wrong?”

“I don't know. I stood up Hannah Cromley in the ninth grade. I still feel bad about that. I've lied to my mom. Oh, I puked in Tate's gym bag once and never fessed up.”

“Karma got you back on that one,” I say, and we share a sad smile over our adventure with Tate.

“You could call his bluff.”

“Call his bluff?”

Nick saws off another hunk of gooey goodness. “The way I see it, there aren't that many options. Turn in the book and your phone to the school.”

“I can't. I don't even know that everything in that book is legit. I think I've brought down enough people. I don't need to invite more trouble over something Harrison might have misinterpreted.”

“You could take your phone in, though.”

I sigh. “If I don't find out who's doing this, I don't think I'll have a choice.”

He reaches for my hand then, fingers grazing my knuckles. “So, back to calling his bluff. Is it so crazy to just walk away? Ignore him altogether?”

“It scares me.” Because I have a best friend with some serious baggage.

“What's the worst-case scenario?”

“He targets someone I love.” Someone like Manny. Because Manny has done things that are takedown worthy. Broke or not, changing records is wrong. But I can't stand the idea of seeing him tortured like that.

God, that makes me such a hypocrite.

“Then send my name.” He tilts his head, shoulders hunched. “I don't think I can sit here and watch you target someone else. I'm trying to be open-minded—”

“I don't think I can either.”

After Harrison? Just no. I can't even imagine the holiday at his house now. Permafrost glares around the Christmas tree. My throat goes tight at the idea.

“Then my name it is. It'll buy you a week to figure it out, and we'll just have to deal with whatever your jerk partner scrounges up on me.”

He's offering to walk into the fire for me. Why? Because he doesn't have anything to hide. I study him across the table. Green eyes. Good heart. Some of my cinnamon roll stuck to his upper lip. No. No way in hell is he going to pay for my mistake.

I shove my phone to the middle of the table.

“You know, I think I'm going to call his bluff. My targeting days are over.”

December 25 starts all wrong. I wake up at eight to a bleak, pounding rain and the sound of my parents fighting. It isn't the silent, sniper-comment affair it's been for the last year either. This is a
real
fight.

My mother's voice is too loud and high. I can't make out the words, but I can tell she's upset. She's talking more than he is, her voice rising and lowering. My dad is on the defense, his few words firing back like bullets, sharp and hard.

I sit up slowly, careful not to let the bed creak as I pull my knees up to my chest. My eyes move to the window, where the rain is sluicing through a sickly sky. The snow that blanketed the world in white is washed away, leaving everything wet and gray.

It doesn't feel like Christmas.

I take my phone from my bedside table and there's no text from my partner. Whatever he's planning is still a mystery, but I'm less worried than I was. The only person in my circle of friends that feels like a potential takedown target is Manny. And that's if the texter knows about the blackmailing stuff, which seems unlikely since he didn't write the book after all. Either way, Manny's in Kentucky with his family for Christmas, so today I can probably relax.

Fat joke with World War III brewing on the first floor.

I text “Merry Christmas” to Tacey, Manny, Hadley, and Connor. I think about Nick, but I decide to wait. God knows I might need the cheering after dealing with my parents.

A couple of messages flurry back.

From Manny:

Aunt C. made rum balls! Y weren't U at yearbook thing? Shit went down!

And then Hadley:

Merry Christmas! Connor is wearing a ridiculous sweater. I'm sending you pictures.

And she does. Somehow he manages to look cool and classic at Hadley's family breakfast table, despite the giant reindeer stitched across his chest.

Tacey doesn't answer. Weird. I didn't hear from her after the meeting I missed either, which means she's probably
really
not happy with me. Can't fix that now though.

I put my phone in my pocket and stare at my bedroom ceiling. I can't pretend to sleep forever. I will have to go downstairs and open presents and pretend that I didn't hear them. We'll play this up all day, this little act of being the perfect, happy family. And I don't really get it, why we do this. There isn't one person left who actually believes it.

I stomp out of bed and the voices below go silent. Terrific. I throw on my robe and brush my teeth, staring long and hard at myself in the mirror.

“Let the games begin,” I say.

I come downstairs to my parents sitting on either side of the couch. They wish me a merry Christmas and I wish it back, and we all pretend we don't know what's really going on. We eat cinnamon-banana pancakes and drink freshly squeezed orange juice and then we open presents with Irish Christmas music in the background. None of it is bad, but none of it feels right either.

As soon as the last present is opened, my dad disappears to his studio and Mom heads into the kitchen to do the dishes. Back to life as usual, except that I want to cry a little. My phone buzzes with a message. Nick's name appears on the screen and I smile for the first time all day.

Merry Christmas.

I flop down on my bed to reply.

Merry Christmas back.

Did you get everything you want?

For one second, I think of telling him all the things my parents so desperately want me to believe—about my wonderful Christmas and my perfect family. But then I remember the feel of his chin on my head, his throat against my cheek. I can't ruin that trust again. I won't.

I wouldn't list it among my best holidays this year.

Would a drive-by guest help?

My heart does obnoxious fluttery things. I ignore it and text him back.

How soon can you be here?

Thirty minutes. I have to be quick though.

I slip upstairs to trade in the penguin pants for a pair of jeans and a blue sweater. Since I normally spend the entire holiday in pajamas, this sudden makeup-wearing, hair-fluffed version of me isn't lost on my mom when I head into the kitchen.

“Nick's stopping by,” I explain.

Mom's dishrag pauses on a plate. She tries to hide her smile, but I can hear it in her voice. “That sounds lovely.”

“What sounds lovely?” Dad asks as he walks in.

“My friend Nick—he's going to stop by for just a minute.”

Dad tugs the hem of my shirt. “That explains the sweater.”

I heave a sigh. “Dad, please don't make a big deal. Please.”

It feels like forever before he nods, but then everything is fine. They clean up wrapping paper, and he warns me that he's not getting out of his flannel pants, incoming boy or no.

When the doorbell rings, Dad acts like he's going to get up, but Mom clears her throat in a way that warns of imminent death, so he sits back down, sulking.

I force myself to take a couple of deep breaths before I walk over and open the door. He's standing on the porch with a plastic tub full of cookies and a sad-looking spruce branch held high above our heads.

I grin. “That's not mistletoe.”

He smiles back, pink-cheeked and looking like a Christmas card in his black wool coat and red sweater. “It's the closest thing I could find.”

“Well, it works for me.” I pull him in before he can say more. His coat is scratchy and the cookies are getting crushed between us, but it's still magic. Warm and sweet, and God, he shouldn't be able to make me forget everything else this fast. But he does.

Until he pulls away, much, much too soon.

“No more texts?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

“Good. Maybe that'll be the end of it.”

My mother calls from inside, “Piper, stop keeping poor Nick in the cold!”

We grin, still clinging to each other. Then he holds up the cookies. “I'm sorry, I really can't stay. My mom only let me out of the house on delivery duty.”

I take the cookies and invite him in. I feel annoyingly warm and soft when he holds my hand and wishes my parents a merry Christmas. He apologizes for being so brief and Mom tells him she knows how busy holidays can be. Dad just looks at our joined hands with an amused smile—probably trying to reconcile this hulking giant with the thin, emo boys I normally date.

And then we're back outside, and he's hugging me good-bye, his lips at my jaw. I feel him slide something into my pocket. A box.

“But I didn't get you anything,” I say.

“Yeah you did,” he says, and then he kisses me again, letting it linger just long enough to make my head spin.

“I have to go,” he says, striding down my walkway.

I pull out the small box he left in my pocket as he makes his way back to his Jeep. There's a keychain inside the box—a silver figure with a funny jester's hat and a stick by his mouth. Kind of cool but not really making much sense until I turn it over to see the detail better. It's not a stick; it's a flute. Because he isn't a jester. He's a
piper
.

I float back inside on a bliss-fueled cloud, feeling lighter than air and warmer than a May afternoon. For a crap Christmas, it might be one of my favorites.

Mom sees me playing with the keychain after dinner. She leans in, pressing her shoulder into mine. “It's beautiful.”

“It's just a keychain.” My grin makes it obvious it's a lot more than that.

“I really like him, you know.”

A denial waits on my lips. An argument about my possible West Coast future. About how this is the wrong time for me to like anyone. But I push all of that down with a deep breath.

“I really like him too.”

I curl myself into bed somewhere near midnight, leaving my alarm off. Tacey still hasn't texted. It's bugging me. I just got over the weirdness with Manny. I don't want things to be wrong between Tacey and me now too. For a second I think of texting again, to apologize for missing the meeting. Maybe to see if I can swing by tomorrow morning with her present. But it's late. And it's Christmas.

If we're going to fight, we can wait until tomorrow.

I fall asleep with my fingers around my piper keychain. I wake to my mother's hand stroking my hair and more winter rain pattering my window. I blink open my eyes, but the sky beyond my window is still charcoal gray. It's too early to wake me on Christmas break.

Something's wrong.

I roll over to see my mom looking down at me. The clock beside her reads 6:56.

“Baby,” she starts, but her voice catches before she can say more.

She's pale. And she never calls me baby. I sit up, the rain suddenly chilling me to the bone, drenching me in an icy fear I can't even name.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice still gravelly from sleep.

“It's Tacey.”