The Locket (29 page)

I turned away from the two little girls on their bikes. They reminded me too much of what Isaac and Mitch and I had been.

Inside the car, I tossed the locket into my dirty, sticky cup holder, started up the engine, and darted out of the driveway, a part of me knowing where I was going even before I took the right onto Skylar Street and headed out into the country.

Water hadn’t banished the locket. It was time to see what fire could do.

I pulled into the drive-in less than thirty minutes later and steered straight around to the back, finding a parking spot within spitting distance of the Pit. Lovelace’s—the corn dog shack where Isaac had been bound the night of our anniversary—didn’t just have the best shakes and dogs on a stick in the county. They also had an infamous fire pit, a sizable flame my dad had always said was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

During the day, families with little kids roasted the marshmallows that came with the kids’ meals around that pit, warming up after a wholesome afternoon of fun at the nearby historical park. At night, the pit became a sketchier place. People from the surrounding towns clustered around the flames with pockets filled with cash, waiting for someone to come along with a pocket full of something more interesting.

Whether Mr. and Mrs. Lovelace—two old hippies who lived in a trailer not too far from the restaurant—realized their fire pit was
the
place to buy weed or not, I didn’t know. But they certainly didn’t seem to mind people hanging around their fire pit. They didn’t even care if you bought food first.

I hadn’t eaten all day, but the thought of a greasy corn dog wasn’t the slightest bit tempting. It was as if my body had forgotten how to be hungry, how to do anything but focus on the ache deep in my bones, the physical pain caused by losing Mitch that felt like it would never go away.

The locket remained cool to the touch as I plucked it from the cup holder and started toward the fire that burned as high and bright as I remembered. The Lovelaces’ adult son, a man who was “not quite right” but harmless except for his fascination with fire—which his parents had wisely funneled into fueling the Pit rather than torching barns—tended his flame well. I could feel the heat on my face when I was still a few feet away.

I prayed it would be hot enough to melt silver, to destroy the misery I held in my hand.

I stopped at the edge of the Pit, alone except for a mom and her little girl on the other side, both too absorbed in stabbing marshmallows with a wire hanger to pay much attention to me. Even when I tossed the still cool locket into the flames, the mother’s eyes only flicked to mine for a second.

The little girl, an orange redhead like I’d been when I was small, with a trail of untended snot leaking down into her mouth, stared a little longer, but eventually she too looked back to the fire, seemingly curious to see what would happen next.

I stood there and stared, watching the flames lick at the locket until the little girl finished her marshmallows and her mother herded her back into their car, until two more families came and left, until finally, after thirty or forty minutes, the locket began to melt. The change was subtle at first—a barely perceptible smudging that I thought was my eyesight blurring—but soon it became clear that the locket was going soft, the connection of its particles breaking apart in the intense heat. In another ten minutes or so, the process was complete and the locket a puddle of liquid metal that might eventually harden if the Lovelaces’ son allowed his fire to cool.

A part of me hoped he wouldn’t. I didn’t want that poisonous thing to ever be solid again.

Just in case, I grabbed one of the unbent wire hangers meant for marshmallows from the bucket nearby and stabbed at the coals around the melted silver. The liquid slipped away into the ash beneath, streaming apart, never to be whole again.

It was over. Really over. As much as it ever could be.

Suddenly more exhausted than I could remember, I turned away from the flames, just in time to see the flash of lightning strike above Lovelace’s.

It hit so close I could feel the electricity on my skin, raising every little hair, making me gasp and lift my hands as if to block a blow, squeezing my eyes shut a second too late.

As the thunder clapped down, shaking the very ground beneath my feet, the red double of the lightning bolt burned behind my lids. Even when I opened my eyes, the image danced and teased in front of me, blurring my vision, making it difficult to understand what I was seeing until Isaac’s truck had already pulled onto the main road and started back toward town.

Isaac’s truck. His muddy truck . . . pulling away in a squeal of tires . . .

My mind couldn’t process the information for a moment or two. It was only when I looked across the street and saw the familiar field of cows that a seed of suspicion was planted. I looked down—taking in the black shirt and skirt, lifting a strand of long red hair, noting the absence of a certain piece of jewelry—and that seed burst open, swiftly growing into a bean stalk I would have climbed into the sky to face that ogre I’d been so afraid of when I was a little girl.

I would face any ogre, any kid fear or grown-up misery, if only this were real, if only I was back to where I’d started and Mitch was still alive.

I ran, first in my high-heeled sandals and then kicking them off and running barefoot along the side of the road, feet slapping against the sun-warmed pavement. The sunset still painted the sky a hopeful, gentle shade of red, but I knew the storm would hit soon. If I ran all the way, I could be halfway home before that happened and calling Mitch another ten or fifteen minutes after that.

I might hear his voice within the hour. I might see him—alive and whole—before the night was through.

A vicious hope swelled inside of me, making me cry and laugh at the same time, giving me a wild strength, inspiring a speed I hadn’t known I possessed. I had run over a mile and was nearly to the historical park by the time the storm hit. The sky opened up and poured, the way it had the first time around, but I didn’t mind the cutting drops.

They were cool against my face, soothing to my stinging feet, full of wonder and faith. The whole world seemed brighter, sweeter, even the rain a kinder, better version of itself. Life and time were back to what they should be. I knew it. I could feel it with everything in me.

By the time I reached the end of Skylar Street, I was positive that Mitch was alive, even before I made it around the bend and saw the family van pulling into the Birnbaums’ driveway or the long, lean shadow leap from the car and dash through the rain toward the garage.

Chapter Twenty-Three

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 7:10 P.M.

H
e was alive! Mitch was alive!

I screamed his name—once, twice—but he couldn’t hear. I was still too far away. But that was okay. I was nearly there. Soon, I’d be able to throw my arms around him and squeeze, to feel the heat and breath and
life
inside him, to know without a doubt that this nightmare was over!

The thought fueled my flagging muscles, soothed the numbness and pain in my scraped feet. I sprinted the final stretch, flying past the drain where I’d lost my mind the night before and the remaining houses before Mitch’s. By the time I reached his driveway, I was breathing so hard little spots pricked at the edge of my vision, but I didn’t slow down until I reached the garage, until I stepped inside and saw the boy I loved with my own eyes.

There he was. Mitch.
My Mitch.
Slightly damp and wrinkled, wearing an old pair of jeans and his faded red OMG , WTF, BBQ! hoodie. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

I sucked in a deep breath and silently sent out a prayer of thanks. Even if he hated me, even if he told me to go away and never come back, everything was going to be all right. He was alive. The force of my gratitude was dizzying, making me sway on my feet. The emotion was so intense, so overwhelming, that it took a few seconds for me to realize that Mitch hadn’t heard me come inside.

Or that he was singing.

“Hair like a Muppet, but it makes me smile.” The lyrics echoed through the empty garage, haunting and sweet over the rhythm of the rain. Mitch was sitting on a stool with his back to me, strumming his guitar, singing that song I hadn’t heard in this life. Not yet.

But I
knew
who it was about, and what it meant.

Hope curled in my chest, a thread of smoke in a pile of wet firewood. I tiptoed toward him, bare feet quiet on the concrete. I didn’t want him to hear me coming. I wanted to listen, to soak in the sound of his voice. It was so lovely, so perfect. I’d never listened to something so intently, never felt music sneak into my soul and light me up from the inside. I would never take Mitch or his songs or his heart for granted again. Ever. The locket had made sure of that.

My fingers came to my chest, brushing against smooth skin. The scars were gone, erased, as if the past two weeks had never happened.

But they
had
happened. They had pulled me apart, nearly destroyed me. They’d ripped my life to pieces and shown me I had the strength to put them back together again. I wasn’t afraid to fall anymore. I was too grateful for this chance to worry about the danger lurking in the next step up the ladder. Nothing was going to keep me from telling Mitch how much he meant to me, how much I loved him, how much I hoped—

“Sarah, this song’s for you. Sarah, the things you make me do.” His voice was rich and smooth, but the words made me flinch. My stomach lurched. “Sa-sa-sarah, won’t you be my girl?”

Sarah. He was singing about
Sarah
.

A choking sound filled the air, cutting off the music. I didn’t realize it had come from me until Mitch spun around, nearly dropping his guitar. “Hey!” He ran a nervous hand through his hair and jumped to his feet. “You scared me. I thought you were out with . . . Are you okay?” His gaze tracked down my body and back up again, the concern in his eyes growing. “Why are you all wet? Where are your shoes?” He set his guitar in its stand and took a tentative step forward. “Katie?”

My tongue moved in my mouth, but I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stand and stare as the pain of realizing he didn’t love me seeped into my skin, chilling me in a way even the rain hadn’t been able to manage. He loved
Sarah
. It was Sarah’s name he’d whisper while they were kissing, Sarah’s skin he’d run his guitar-calloused fingertips over when they were together. I’d had my chance and I’d lost it.

But . . . that was . . . okay.

My eyes squeezed shut. No, it wasn’t
okay
. It was far, far from okay. It hurt like hell. But not the way losing Mitch had hurt, not even a shadow of that kind of pain. He was alive, and he was going to be happy and in love. I was just going to have to love him enough to put my feelings aside and be happy for him.

“Katie, I’m going to go call your—”

“No, wait,” I said, stopping him before he could turn toward the door leading into the house. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. And to let you know that . . . Isaac and me . . . we’re over.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.” He really did look sad to hear the news. The regret on his face twisted the knife in my chest another quarter turn. “Was it because of—”

I nodded. “Someone told him.
I
should have told him, but I didn’t, but I should have,” I babbled, failing to hold back the stream of stupid. “Anyway. It’s okay. Breaking up was the right thing to do. It’s for the best.”

“No, it isn’t. It never should have happened. I never should have . . .” His eyes fell to the oil-stained concrete beneath our feet, his hair flopping into his face. “You were really upset that night, and you’d been drinking. I knew that and I still . . . did what I did. I shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t
that
drunk,” I whispered. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Yeah . . . well.” He looked up, eyes so beautiful they broke things inside me and healed them at the same time. A wave of pure, unselfish love rushed through my chest, leaving me breathless.

He was alive. All that light and intelligence and silliness that was Mitch still sparked inside him. His father wouldn’t have to grieve, all the people who loved him could go on loving him, and the world would be a better place because this boy was going to live a long, full life. In the end, it was all that mattered.

“Still, I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay.” And it would be. Eventually. “I just wanted you to know. You should probably talk to Isaac. Not today, but . . . soon.”

“I will.”

“So . . . can we be best friends again?” I sucked in a breath, so close to tears I sounded like I’d inhaled a helium balloon.

Mitch smiled, that soft smile that meant he still loved me the way he’d always loved me, as a friend, as chosen family. Maybe someday I’d come to love him like that again too. Maybe . . .

“We never stopped being best friends. Don’t be crazy, Minnesota.”

“Okay. Good.” I tried for a smile and failed. “I’ll work on the crazy.” I pushed the tears pressing against the backs of my eyes away and kept them there, even when I realized I still owed my friend a final, painful thumbs-up. “And you should probably know that Sarah saw us . . . out by the pool that night.”

“Sarah Needles?” he asked, brows drawing together.

“She told her little brother and he told Isaac. I don’t know if that’ll make a difference when she hears the song, but . . . I thought you should know.”

“When she hears what song?”

“The song you were singing. The song you wrote for her.” The words stabbed me on their way out.

“That song’s not for Sarah.” Mitch shook his head. “I mean, it
is
for her, but it’s not for
me
. Not
from
me.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. “It’s not?”

“It’s for Michael.” Mitch stepped closer, a half smile quirking his full lips. “He wants to sing it to her at our next gig. We’re playing Jukebox Java on Thursday and she said she’d come.”