Between the Pages: A Novel (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Finley

Present

“Where did you get this picture?” I ask, my voice shaky. I stand slowly, the shock wearing off. I just wanted a fucking Sharpie. Everything was fucking roses and gold until now. I’ve been
so
happy with Emerson. He’s caring, smart, and has a dirty mouth in bed—the perfect combination. He’s literally the perfect specimen of man. So imagine my surprise when I pull the drawer open to find a picture of me from when I was younger—a picture Chloe kept above her bed growing up.

Emerson blanches. His eyes give him away, and I know in an instant that whatever he’s about to say will ruin us forever.

“Chloe gave it to me.”

I recoil from him, backing up against the wall of the office. Everything is beginning to spin.
Chloe
gave it to him? I can’t even fathom the possibility of that. I’m trying to take it all in when he rushes forward. I hold my hand up to stop him.

“You knew my sister?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“Very well,” he says slowly. I can tell he’s trying to figure out the best way to explain. “I met her when she audited my advanced creative writing course.”

I shake my head. “She was a business major.” I begin to cry. “She studied business.”
This can’t be true.
Chloe? In an advanced writing class? He must be mistaken. Then again, she was always going against the norm. When I think about it—when I
really
think about it, it actually sounds exactly like something she would do. I look up at Emerson. Why does he look
so
guilty? Did Chloe know the girl he had an affair with?

Realization hits me full force. I cup my hand to my mouth.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, pointing a finger at him. My brain feels like it’s on fire. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. “
Chloe
was your student who died.” My voice breaks on the last word.

Emerson looks down, shame written all over his pretty fucking face. “Yes.” I slide down against the wall and begin to cry into my hands. Emerson continues. “I saw you in Washington Square Park the day she jumped. Briefly. Do you remember me?”

My body is shaking—from crying or from shock, I’m not exactly sure. “I don’t remember. That day was such a blur,” I say, my voice numb. I’ve spent so long trying to forget that day. Now I wish I could remember
everything.

We met for breakfast.

I went to an art history class.

I had lunch with Hannah.

I went to another class—Africana studies.

I met up with Chloe for a quick hello.

That was the last time I saw her.

She was meeting up with a man.
Emerson?

And Emerson
saw
me?

I feel tear after tear slide down my cheeks. I’m still processing everything. Nothing makes sense. My head shoots up. There’s only one question I really need answered to move forward—to solidify whether or not I’m leaving him.

“Did you sleep with her?” I ask softly.

Emerson looks away and thumbs his nose. Over the last few months, I’ve gotten to know Emerson very well. He eats his food cold when he can—even supper. He prefers comfort over practicality when dressing. He loves to get the last word in. He likes beer, tolerates wine, and hates tequila. He cries out for his mother in his sleep. And he thumbs his nose when he’s guilty or lying. His eyes find mine, and they’re swimming with tears.

“Yes.”

I stand quickly, trying to hold on to something sturdy. Everything is spinning. He hasn’t written anything without a ghostwriter since then. Only one book without one. Was she . . . Was she . . . I can’t ask him, but I
need
to ask him.
Need
to know.

“Did you love her?”

His eyes find mine, and they’re turbulently sorrowful.

“Yes.”

His affirmation sends me reeling. I can’t breathe. I push past him and into my bedroom. Rage fills me to the brim. Just five minutes ago I was sewing our Halloween costumes. Now I’m about to leave the man who fucked both of the Matthew sisters.

No.

I can’t believe I ever I trusted him.

I haphazardly begin to throw things together on the bed—my laptop, my purse, my chargers. I leave most of my clothes. I only need the necessities. By the printer lies Emerson’s book—or what I’ve written so far. Seventy thousand words of bullshit. I pack everything up, slip on my sandals, and throw the bedroom door open. He’s waiting for me in the living room, so I walk downstairs with my bag and his stupid book.

His eyes are rimmed with red, and his cheeks are wet. It startles me, and for a split second, affection overcomes me. I want to run over and comfort him—I want to make his tears vanish.

“Please don’t go,” he begs, dropping to his knees. The gesture breaks me, and I begin to shake with sobs. I almost consider his request, but then I imagine him with Chloe. I feel like I’m going to be sick. And then I think of the picture Emerson kept hidden from me for five months—and the secret he kept to himself. All the things I told him about Chloe—he knew. And when he
met
me at the diner? Was it all some kind of ruse?

Jesus fucking Christ.

He knew I was her sister. He must’ve. He’s known all along. That’s what all of the cryptic statements were about.

Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.

All will be revealed. Don’t run too far when it is. Okay?

Emerson was trying to tell me all along. Too bad he didn’t have the courage to tell me before I found out on my own.

I throw the pages of his book at him, and they scatter all around us. “Fuck you, Emerson.”

I reach for the door handle, but he jumps up and steps in front of me. “I can’t let you leave without explaining.”

I shake my head, tears flying. “It’s all pretty clear to me,” I say slowly, burning him with my disgusted stare. “Was it always a goal of yours to fuck both of us? Do you have a sister fetish?”

He starts to cry; a choking, desolate sound. Again, the forsaken sound coming from him is almost enough to break me.

Almost.

“Finley, please,” he chokes.

I swipe my wet cheeks with my fingers and cross my arms. “You have ten seconds to explain.”

Emerson sighs, relieved. “I met her in August 2008. It was instant—our attraction. Yes, we slept together. Yes, I loved her, and I’d like to believe that she loved me too. But she was troubled. She . . . had issues.”

I guffaw. “No shit.”

“That day I saw you with her at NYU . . . we made love, and she left to go home.” I wince at his honest declaration. “She called me from the roof.”

I gasp. “You were there?”

Rumor has it he was somehow involved in her death.
Hannah’s words.

He nods solemnly. “I tried to stop her, Finley.”

I bite my lower lip as another tear escapes, crawling down my cheek. “You know . . . I didn’t even know she was a writer,” I utter, my lips quivering.

He laughs, a small, sad laugh. “She wrote a story about you for her final. The day she killed herself. Do you want to hear what it was about?”

I’m sobbing now, and I shake my head. “I don’t think I could handle it.” I look down. Betrayal hits me hard, and I start to cry harder. Emerson takes a step toward me, but I flinch. The trust is gone. “At the bar . . . were you watching me? And at the diner?” I have so many questions.

He nods slowly. “Her last words were
take care of her.
I felt responsible for you.”

Responsible. For. Me.
Not love.
Responsible.

A sob escapes my lips. I clamp a hand over my mouth and open the door. “How long have you been watching me?” I ask through clenched teeth. God, this hurts. This all hurts so much.

“The whole time,” he says simply. He moves forward, reaching out for my hand. I pull away.

“So, all of this was just you fulfilling my sister’s wishes?” I cry. “This is so fucking twisted and sick. And now we . . .” I trail off as the tears slide down my cheeks. He takes a step closer to me, but I narrow my eyes and hold my hand out. “Don’t you dare touch me. Ever again.”

“Please . . .” he begs, inching closer. “I didn’t expect to fall in love with you, Finley.”

His words shock me, and a stabbing pain erupts in my chest. “What?” We haven’t said the L-word yet. And
now
is the time he chooses to bombard me with it?

“You heard me. I. Love. You.” He comes closer. I back away. “And I know you love me too.”

“I do,” I say quietly. For the first time since this whole fucking thing exploded between us, I feel clarity.

He loves me, but he loved her first.

He. Loved. Her. First.

I pull out my wallet, reaching in for the quote from
Underground Love
that I’d taped up on my wall in my apartment in the city. “I do love you, Emerson,” I say sadly. “But I don’t think it’s healthy to love someone who writes this about someone else. Especially when it’s your dead sister.” I fling the small scrap of paper at him and just as I walk out the front door, I see him crumble to the floor.

You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Finley

Three Months Later

“Hello, welcome to Diptyque,” I say sweetly.

“No, try it this way,” Samantha retorts, sighing heavily. “
Hello
,” she says breezily. “Welcome to Diptyque.”

I can literally tell
zero
difference between her version and mine, but she’s the boss so I nod and mimic her. “
Hello
, welcome to Diptyque.” I grin saccharinely.

“Good. Now can you please arrange the candles in the showroom? They look a bit messy to me.” She walks away.

My eyes flick to the showroom. The candles look evenly spaced and formally placed. I roll my eyes. I spend the next hour “re-arranging” the candles, but really I’m just picking them up and setting them back down. Samantha walks in and claps her hands.

“Oh, wonderful. They look so much better.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something extremely snarky.

I leave a couple hours later, pulling my jacket tight as the cold wind howls around me. It’s late January, and like every other New Yorker, I am
so
over the cold right now. I call Hannah as I walk home. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hey,” she chirps. I can hear music and people in the background. “How are you?”

I grimace. “I’m okay. How’s San Francisco?”

“Oh my God, you have to come visit,” she squeals. “It’s eighty degrees out. In January.”

I look at everyone around me in hats, scarves, and gloves. “Maybe soon.”

She’s quiet on the other end. “I still think you should’ve kept the money.”

My breathing halts. She knows I don’t like to talk about Emerson. “I didn’t want his money,” I say briskly.

After I left, I returned all of his money, minus about a thousand dollars I’d spent on various things over the course of the five months I was there. I’m slowly repaying him, but my checks go uncashed.

I ended up back at Diptyque the week after I left Emerson, much to Samantha’s smug vexation. Randy is my temporary roommate until Hannah comes back from her theatrical tour in February. She’s doing exceedingly well on the West Coast, and even better without Geoff. In fact, she’s been on a couple dates with some hot actor.

“Have you . . .?” I know what she’s going to ask.

“No.” I walk quicker to stay warm. “You know I don’t really want to talk about it, Han.”

We catch up for a few more minutes as I walk. Once I get inside, we hang up with a promise to talk tomorrow. I take my coat off and walk to my room, slipping into a pair of sweats and a wool sweater.

The truth is, I think about Emerson every single day. Every
second
of every day.

When I’m at work.

When I’m trying to fall asleep.

When I walk to work.

When I walk home. It’s distracting.

He never called or tried to reach out to me, and I think that’s the hardest part—knowing it was so easy for him to let me go. I never intended to take him back, but at least I would feel justified if he tried to fight me on it.

Maybe I’m not the sister he wanted to fight for.

I pick my phone up and draft a text to him.

I just want you to know, it’s taken everything in me not to call you. I wish I could see you. I hope you know that every time I don’t call, I almost do.

The cursor blinks ominously at the end of the sentence. I debate sending it. I almost
want
to send it. The silence and un-cashed checks are concerning. Maybe I should see if he’s all right.

I sigh and lie down on my bed, holding my phone against my chest. My eyes wander to the picture of Chloe. My heart hurts for her. I should’ve been there. I should’ve noticed the signs.

I now remember that day clearly. Now that I’ve had time to process everything, I think I even remember seeing Emerson. At first I didn’t—when he told me about it, I thought he was lying. But since then, the faded memory has resurfaced. I remember the light in the park, and the way Chloe’s hair shone in the brisk sun. I could tell he meant a lot to Chloe—that’s all I remember. And I’ve tried clawing that memory out every day since, to no avail.

Just to remember
him.

Just to remember how he was with
her.

The whole day was pretty standard. Class, lunch, class, and then back to my apartment—the very same one I’m in now. Hannah and I found it a month after high school graduation. My parents weren’t around that week, and I stayed holed up in my room studying for finals.

Chloe still lived with my parents. They’d somehow had some sort of spell over her. She never could defy them the way she should’ve—the way I did. I’d fallen asleep with my Africana studies book on my chest. It wasn’t until a couple hours later when the police came knocking on my door that I found out.

I remember the way the book thudded to the ground as I rushed to answer the door.

I remember the way Hannah came running out of her room, and how she caught me as I collapsed.

I never knew about Emerson’s involvement with her suicide. My parents and the university covered it up nicely. I assume he was telling the truth—that he tried to stop her.

But it doesn’t change anything.

He still lied. Or better yet, he withheld the truth.

He loved her.

I turn over and grab my copy of Underground Love. I’ve reread it twice since I left. I’m a sicko. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. The dedication says,
For C.
I should’ve caught the clues. The book is all Chloe.

Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite.

I clutch it to my chest as I fall asleep.
Again.