One Night in Boston (10 page)

6:00 p.m.

“Mags!”

The slow Southern voice Maggie would have recognized on the moon. Eden Fife pushed open the door of her apartment before they had a chance to knock. Gorgeous, blonde, and smelling like the expensive perfume Maggie remembered from college, Eden wrapped her friend in a hug.

“Good to see y’all.” She gave another little squeeze. “It’s about time.”

Maggie felt unexpected tears rise up. Damn emotions. Always hit her at the wrong time. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and took a long look at her friend. “God, you look terrific.”

Eden laughed, exposing a slight gap between her two front teeth. She put one hand on a hip and pursed her lips. “Some things never change, right?” Clad in a black camisole and a pair of fleecy pants with the waistband rolled down, she ushered them in.

“This is Neve,” Maggie introduced as she peeled off her raincoat. “My office assistant. The one who keeps me sane.”

“Nice to meet you.” Eden tucked her arm through Neve’s and kissed the air beside the young woman’s cheek. “Thanks for keeping Mags from going off the deep end.”

“I do my best.”

“Here.” Eden led them into the kitchen, draping wet coats over chairs as she went. She poured a glass of Chardonnay and handed it to Maggie. “Thought you might need this.” She fished something out of a basket on the countertop. “And here—” She handed over a small envelope. “Tickets. For tonight.”

Maggie blinked. “Thanks. I think.” But wrapping her hand around the envelope set her nerves on fire. Though she’d spent the last hour preparing for this, steeling herself for the confrontation, now that she was actually here with tickets in hand, she wasn’t sure she could go through with it.

Eden’s gaze leveled on Maggie. “Are you planning on telling me why you’re so desperate to find Dillon?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ll bet.” Eden cupped her palm against Maggie’s cheek. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you do. You’ve lost like ten pounds since the last time I saw you. When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

“Don’t ask,” Neve chimed in.

Maggie felt herself redden. Nothing like being stuck in a room with the two women who knew her best. “Um…” she began, trying to think of an explanation.

But Eden had already turned away. “Your turn.” She offered another glass of wine to Neve.

“No, I—” One hand drifted in the direction of her belly. “I can’t. I’m pregnant.”

Eden raised her eyebrows, and her glance slid to Neve’s middle. “Well, aren’t you the cutest thing? Congratulations.” She pulled open the refrigerator and stuck her head inside. “I think I have some ginger ale in here somewhere.”

“Oh, it’s okay, really.”

But Eden had already filled a third wine glass from the Schweppe’s bottle. “Here you go. Bottoms up.”

As her two friends chatted, Maggie leaned against the counter. She looked around the kitchen, every inch decorated with roosters and red barns. Country style, typical Eden. To her right lay the living area, with a blue-and-white bathroom beyond, and she could just see the bedroom, which looked as though it had space for little more than a queen-size bed and a dresser.
Small but expensive
, Maggie thought, missing her house in Hart’s Falls already.
Still, the view is terrific
. Even in the gray of a steady downpour, Boston’s skyline sparkled through the wide living room windows. Lights pierced the dark as apartment balconies and stadium spotlights cast a glow for miles. It reminded anyone who looked that the city never really slept, just slipped into something more comfortable as evening turned to night.

“So,” she said, looking at her watch. “How soon can we get to the ball?”

Eden started on a second glass of Chardonnay. “Well, no one will be there before seven. Cocktails first, dinner at eight, music ‘til whenever the crowd decides it’s had enough.” She changed the station on the radio and tuned in an eighties band. “It might be light, for a while, you know. Sometimes people don’t show up until the party’s really going.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know when your brother’ll get there, Mags. It might be a while.”

Maggie didn’t want to hear that. She couldn’t wait all night. She didn’t have the time or the patience. “Stepbrother,” she said, almost without thinking.

Bruce Springsteen faded away. Eden cocked her head. Neve traced an invisible line on the counter.

“Why do you do that?” Neve asked.

“Do what?”

“‛Stepbrother. He’s my stepbrother.’ You always correct people when they call Dillon your brother.”

“And you get this look on your face,” Eden added. Her mouth turned collagen-injection large through the wine glass she held up for emphasis.

“So what?” Maggie stiffened. “It’s true. He isn’t my brother. He’s not related to me.”
But you did call him your brother, at first
.
You didn’t stop calling him that until after that night. For a few years, you were so thrilled to have Dillon around that you paraded him to school for showand-tell. Remember?

Maggie’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. Of course she remembered. That was the whole problem. If she could forget, maybe she would still be speaking to him. Maybe they would be sharing cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving or emailing each other dirty jokes on a daily basis.
And the biggest maybe of all is that maybe I wouldn’t be in the trouble I am if I’d just gotten over it a long time ago
.

She looked at the floor. But how did you get over something like that? How did you forget the moment when the one person you trusted the most let someone else tear you apart?

He’s my stepbrother because he walked away when I needed him
, she wanted to tell her friends. But she didn’t think they’d understand.

“I have to get dressed.” Maggie put her empty glass in the sink and stumbled toward the bathroom, hoping the wine wouldn’t turn her stomach before the night even began.

*

“Maggie? Are you feeling any better?”

She pulled the sheets over her head, against the slanted afternoon light that slipped through her curtains. She didn’t answer her mother.

No. I’m not. Even though you let me stay home from school today. Even if you let me stay home the rest of the year.
Maggie stuffed her face into the hot space between pillow and quilt and tried not to breathe.

Another knock. “I’m taking an extra shift at the hospital tonight, but Dillon’s here if you need anything, okay?”

Dillon. Yeah, right.
Maggie’s stomach turned and she leaned over and retched into the wastebasket beside her bed. Her nose ran, and she wiped it on the sheets. On the floor beside her lay the t-shirt she’d been wearing last night. The t-shirt that Sam had slipped over her head while he whispered into her ear.

She retched again. The door opened, and her mother’s face appeared in the crack. “Oh, sweetheart. Can I get you anything before I go?”

Maggie forced herself onto one elbow. “Maybe a glass of water?” she croaked.

Her mother glanced at her watch as she brushed something from her green hospital scrubs. “I’m running late. I’ll have Dillon bring it in for you. Try and get some sleep, okay?” A second later she was gone, without a step inside or a closer look, without a hand on Maggie’s forehead or a sweep of her daughter’s bedroom.

She didn’t even notice
, Maggie thought. The whole room pulsed with a mistake, and her mother hadn’t even blinked.

She flipped over in bed. God, even though she’d showered twice today, she could still smell Sam in her hair. She could still feel him on top of her. She’d wanted to scrub him from her as soon as he snuck out, but it was almost three in the morning, and she hadn’t dared. She’d just lain in her bed, staring at the ceiling, until her mom and step-dad left for work and she could cry in the shower undisturbed.

“Mags?” This time it was Dillon knocking at her door.

“Go away.”

He pushed open the door anyway, and though she kept her eyes squeezed shut, she could hear him walking toward her.

It’s your fault
, she wanted to say. She mouthed the words. She counted them on her fingers. She waited for them to ricochet around the room and fall onto her chest, breaking her heart into slivers too small to mend.
It’s your fault.

She didn’t realize she’d said them aloud until she opened her eyes and saw the sweat beads dotting Dillon’s forehead. He set down her glass of water with a shaking hand.

“My fault? What the hell are you talking about?” He moved the back of one hand across his running nose. “How the hell is anything my fault?” She saw a cut over one eye, a bluish tint underneath it, a tear in the collar of his favorite shirt. “Do you know what happened today? Do you know what Sam was saying? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I got myself into?”

She knew. She’d heard about it from two different friends, who’d already called her and whispered in hushed, gossipy tones.

…beat up Sam Knight, in the parking lot after lunch…

…never seen your stepbrother like that…

…principal suspended him for five days…

Mortified, Maggie had made up a story, pretending not to know what might have set Dillon off. But tears of embarrassment slipped down her cheeks.
Everyone knows
, she thought.
Everyone at school will be talking about it for a week.

“What happened last night?” Dillon whispered. “Jesus, when I heard that asshole running his mouth today, I thought he was lying. Making up stories, you know. I just wanted to shut him up. I didn’t believe any of it.”

She didn’t say anything. How could she? Where would she begin?

He took a deep breath, as if he were sliding down a wave and gasping for air. “It’s true, isn’t it? What Sam said — he was here with you, wasn’t he?” Dillon’s voice brimmed with anger and incredulity and, worst of all, disappointment. His hands turned into fists. Maggie saw open sores on the backs of two knuckles and looked away.

“I didn’t ask him to stay,” she managed to say.

He sank onto the bed beside her. Neither one spoke. The air in the room, heavy with tension, settled onto their shoulders. “Mags, did he rape you?” The words came out as a ragged whisper. “Tell me.”

Rape.
Maggie squirmed. It was an awkward word, an awful one, a single syllable that meant violence and tears and coming apart at the seams. She tried to remember the things they’d learned about it back in middle school health class, but she could only recall her friends passing notes and the boys in the back corner making armpit farts.

Had Sam raped her? He hadn’t clapped a hand over her mouth and pinned her down. He hadn’t pulled off her clothes with rough fingers and made her swear not to tell anyone. She hadn’t said no. But she hadn’t said yes either. She hadn’t said anything at all, except frantic little mumblings inside her head. She’d pushed at his chest, trying to make him see that she wasn’t ready. But maybe he’d mistaken that for passion, or something else.

“I don‘t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so? He either did or he didn’t. And if he did, tomorrow I’ll finish what I didn’t today.”

“I didn’t ask him to stay,” she began again, trying to sort it out. “But I didn’t tell him to leave, either.”

Dillon’s voice broke. “I didn’t know he was still here. I swear to God, I didn’t. But why didn’t you—why didn’t you say something? Do something?” He fell silent and picked at a loose thread in her comforter.

“Why didn’t I do something?” she seethed, fresh tears starting. “Why didn’t you? If you weren’t so stoned, you would have heard him come back down the hall. Why did you go to bed? Why did you bring him inside in the first place? Why are you friends with a jerk like that?”

Why?

Why?

Why?

Staring at her sheets, she fired the word at Dillon over and over again, until he turned gray and stormed from the room. On his way out, he slammed her door so hard that the next day, her stepfather had to replace both the hinges. Maggie didn’t care. She hated Dillon. She resented him. Most of all, she blamed him. And at the same time, she loved him and wanted him to say it would all be okay. She wanted to crawl inside his embrace. She wanted him to comfort her. Only it was too late now, because she could barely wrap her own arms around herself without feeling all the ways that Sam had changed her.

Down the hall, she heard Dillon vomit and felt glad.

*

Maggie stared into Eden’s bathroom mirror in dismay. She was out of practice dressing up, playing Cinderella, or caring about the way she looked in a gown. She barely knew what feminine looked like or felt like anymore, she’d dressed in jeans for so long. Casual clothes were safe. They didn’t invite problems, be it a nylon run or a passing comment from a construction worker. But this? She didn’t know what to do with this, a dress that was supposed to cling and sway and—