Never Never Page 7

  “Nice spending time with you, too,” I call after her. I imagine that when I walk in, Charlie’s mother will be waiting for her—perhaps to chew her out for taking the car—but when I step into the house, everything is dark except for the light underneath the door to Janette’s and my bedroom. Mother has gone to sleep. Mother doesn’t care. It’s perfect for the situation I’m in. I get to snoop around and try to figure out what happened to me without the questions and rules, but I can’t help thinking about Janette—about how she’s just a little kid who needs her parents. Everything is so screwed up.

  Janette is listening to music when I open the door.

  “Hey,” I say. I suddenly have an idea. “Have you seen my iPod?” Music tells a lot about a person. I don’t have to have a memory to know that.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Maybe it’s with all your other crap in the attic.”

  My other crap?

  The attic?

  I suddenly feel excited.

  Maybe there’s more to me than a bland bedspread and a stack of bad novels. I want to ask her what kind of crap, and why my crap is in the attic instead of in our shared bedroom, but Janette has stuck the buds back in her ears and is working hard to ignore me.

  I decide the best route would be to go up to the attic to check things out for myself. Now, where is the attic?

  The front door to my house opens as I’m putting my car in park, and Ezra walks outside, wringing her hands together nervously. I get out of the car and walk to where she’s standing, wide-eyed.

  “Silas,” she says, her voice quivering. “I thought he knew. I wouldn’t have mentioned Charlie was here, but you didn’t seem to be hiding it, so I thought things had changed and she was allowed over here...”

  I hold up my hand to stop her from more unnecessary apologies. “It’s fine, Ezra. Really.”

  She sighs and runs her hand across the apron she’s still wearing. I don’t understand her nervousness, or why she anticipated I would be angry with her. I shove more reassurance into my smile than is probably necessary, but she looks as if she needs it.

  She nods and follows me inside the house. I pause in the foyer, not quite familiar enough with the house to know where my father would be at the moment. Ezra passes me, muttering a “goodnight,” and heads up the stairs. She must live here.

  “Silas.”

  It sounds like my voice, but more worn. I turn and am suddenly face to face with the man in all the family photos lining the walls. He’s missing the brilliantly fake smile, though.

  He eyes me up and down, as if the mere sight of his son disappoints him.

  He turns and walks through a door leading out of the foyer. His silence and the assurance in his steps demand I follow him, so I do. We walk into his study, and he slowly edges around his desk and takes a seat. He leans forward and folds his arms over the mahogany wood. “Care to explain?”

  I’m tempted to explain. I really am. I want to tell him that I have no idea who he is, no idea why he’s angry, no idea who I am.

  I should probably be nervous or intimidated by him. I’m sure yesterday’s Silas would have been, but it’s hard to feel intimidated by someone I don’t know at all. As far as I’m concerned, he has no power over me, and power is the primary ingredient of intimidation.

  “Care to explain what?” I ask.

  My eyes move to a shelf of books on the wall behind him. They look like classics. Collectibles. I wonder if he’s read any of the books or if they’re just more ingredients for his intimidation.

  “Silas!” His voice is so deep and sharp; it feels like the tip of a knife piercing my ears. I press my hand against the side of my neck and squeeze before looking at him again. He eyes the chair across from him, silently commanding me to sit down.

  I get the feeling yesterday’s Silas would be saying, “Yes, sir,” right about now.

  Today’s Silas smiles and walks slowly to his seat.

  “Why was she inside this house today?”

  He’s referring to Charlie like she’s poison. He’s referring to her the same way her mother referred to me. I look down at the arm of the chair and pick at a piece of worn leather. “She wasn’t feeling well at school. She needed a ride home, and we took a quick detour.”

  This man…my father…leans back in his chair. He brings a hand up to his jaw and rubs it.

  Five seconds pass.

  Ten seconds pass.

  Fifteen.

  He finally leans forward again. “You seeing her again?”

  Is this a trick question? Because it feels like one.

  If I say yes, it’ll obviously piss him off. If I say no, it feels like I’ll be letting him win. I don’t know why, but I really don’t want this man to win. He seems like he’s accustomed to winning.

  “What if I am?”

  His hand is no longer rubbing his jaw because it’s now moving across the desk, fisting into the collar of my shirt. He yanks me toward him just as my hands grip the edges of the desk for resistance. We’re eye to eye now, and I expect he’s about to hit me. I wonder if this type of interaction with him is common?

  Instead of hitting me like I know he wants to, he pushes his fist against my chest and releases me. I fall back into my seat, but only for a second. I push out of my chair and take a few steps back.

  I probably should have hit the asshole, but I don’t hate him enough to do that yet. I also don’t like him enough to be affected by his reaction. It does confuse me, though.

  He picks up a paperweight and hurls it across the room, luckily not in my direction. It smashes against a wooden shelf and knocks the contents to the floor. A few books. A picture frame. A rock.

  I stand still and watch him pace back and forth, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. I don’t understand why he could possibly be this upset over the fact that Charlie was here today. Especially since Ezra said we grew up together.

  His palms are now flat against the desk. He’s breathing heavily, nostrils flaring like a raging bull. I expect him to start kicking up dust with his foot any second now. “We had an understanding, Silas. Me and you. I wasn’t going to push you to testify if you swore to me you wouldn’t see that man’s daughter again.” One of his hands flail toward a locked cabinet while his other hand runs through what’s left of his thinning hair. “I know you don’t think she took those files from this office, but I know she did! And the only reason I haven’t pursued it further is because you swore to me we wouldn’t have to deal with that family again. And here you are…” He shudders. Literally shudders. “Here you are bringing her to this house like the last twelve months never even happened!” More frustrated hand flailing, twisted facial expressions. “That girl’s father almost ruined this family, Silas! Does that not mean a damn thing to you?”

  Not really, I want to say.

  I make a mental note to never get this angry. It’s not an attractive look on a Nash.

  I search for some sort of emotion that conveys remorse, so that he can see it on my face. It’s hard though, when the only thing I’m experiencing is curiosity.

  The door to the office opens and we both move our attention to whomever is entering.

  “Landon, this doesn’t concern you,” my father says, his voice soft. I briefly face my father again, just to make sure the words actually fell from his mouth and not someone else’s. It almost sounds like the voice of a caring father, rather than the monster I just witnessed.

  Landon—nice to finally know my little brother’s name—looks at me. “Coach is on the phone for you, Silas.”

  I glance back at my father, who now has his back turned to me. I assume that means our conversation is over. I walk toward the door and gladly exit the room, followed closely by Landon.

  “Where’s the phone?” I ask him when I reach the stairs. Valid question, though. How am I supposed to know if he called on a cell phone or a landline?

  Landon laughs and moves past me. “There’s no phone call. I was just getting you out o
f there.”

  He continues up the stairs and I watch as he reaches the top and then turns left, disappearing down the hall. He’s a good brother, I think. I make my way to what I assume is his room, and I knock lightly on the door. It’s slightly ajar, so I push it open. “Landon?” I open the door all the way and he’s seated at a desk. He looks over his shoulder briefly and then returns his attention to his computer. “Thanks,” I say, stepping into the room. Do brothers thank each other? Probably not. I should have said something along the lines of, “Took you long enough, asshole.”

  Landon turns in his chair and tilts his head. A combination of confusion and admiration plays out in his smile. “I’m not sure what your deal is. You aren’t showing up for practice, and that’s never happened. You act like you don’t give a shit that Charlie has been screwing Brian Finley. And then you have the balls to bring her here? After all the shit Dad and Brett went through?” He shakes his head. “I’m surprised you escaped his office without a bloodbath.”

  He spins back around and leaves me to process everything. I turn and rush toward my bedroom.

  Brett Wynwood, Brett Wynwood, Brett Wynwood.

  I repeat his name in my head so I’ll know exactly what to search when I get to my computer. Surely I have a computer.

  When I reach my room, the first thing I do is walk to my dresser. I pick up the pen Charlie handed me earlier today and read the imprint again.

  WYNWOOD-NASH FINANCIAL GROUP.

  I search the room until I finally find a laptop stuffed in the drawer of my bedside table. I power it on and enter the password.

  I remember the password? Add that to the list of shit that makes no sense.

  I type Wynwood-Nash Financial Group into the search engine. I click on the first result and am taken to a page that reads, “Nash Finance,” with the Wynwood noticeably absent. I scroll quickly through the page and discover nothing that helps. Just a bunch of useless company contact information.

  I back out of the page and scroll through the rest of the results, reading each of the leading headlines and the articles that follow:

  Finance gurus, Clark Nash and Brett Wynwood, co-founders of Wynwood-Nash Financial Group, have been charged with four counts of conspiracy, fraud and illegal trading.

  Partners for over twenty years, the two business moguls are now placing the blame on each other, both claiming to have no knowledge of the illegal practices uncovered during a recent investigation.

  I read another.

  Clark Nash cleared of charges. Company co-chair, Brett Wynwood, sentenced to fifteen years for fraud and embezzlement.

  I make it to the second page of search results when the battery light begins to flash on the laptop. I open the drawer, but there’s no charger. I look everywhere. Under the bed, in the closet, in my dresser drawers.

  The laptop dies during my search. I begin to use my phone to research, but it’s about to die, too, and the only phone charger I can find plugs into a laptop. I keep looking because I need to know exactly what happened to make these two families hate each other so much.

  I lift the mattress, thinking maybe the charger could be stuck behind the bed somehow. I don’t find the charger, but I do find what looks like a notebook. I slide it out from under the mattress and then take a seat on top of the bed. Right when I open it up to the first page, my phone vibrates with an incoming text.

  Charlie: How are things with your father?

  I want to learn more before deciding what I want to share with her. I ignore the text and open the notebook to find stacks of papers stuffed into a folder. Across the top, the papers all read “Wynwood-Nash Financial Group,” but I don’t understand any of them. I also don’t understand why these were hidden beneath my mattress.

  Clark Nash’s words from downstairs repeat in my head—I know you don’t think she took those files from this office, Silas, but I know she did.

  Looks like he was wrong, but why would I have taken them? What would I have needed with them?

  Who was I trying to protect?

  My phone buzzes again with another text.

  Charlie: There’s this really neat feature on your phone called, “read receipts.” If you’re going to ignore texts, you should probably turn that off. ;)

  At least she put a winky face.

  Me: Not ignoring you. Just tired. We have a lot to figure out tomorrow.

  Charlie: Yeah

  That’s all she says. I’m not sure if I should respond to her effortless reply, but I don’t want her to be irritated if I don’t respond.

  Me: Goodnight, Charlie baby. ;)

  As soon as I hit send, I want to retract it. I don’t know what I was going for with that reply. Not sarcasm, but definitely not flirtation, either.

  I decide to regret it tomorrow. Right now I just need sleep so I can make sure I’m awake enough in the morning to deal with all of this.

  I shove the notebook back under the mattress and see a wall charger, so I plug it into my phone. I’m too exhausted to keep searching tonight, so I kick off my shoes. It isn’t until I lie down that I notice Ezra changed my sheets.

  As soon as I turn the lamp off and close my eyes, my phone vibrates.

  Charlie: Goodnight, Silas.

  Her lack of endearment doesn’t go unnoticed, but for some inexplicable reason, the text still makes me smile. Typical Charlie.

  I think.

  It is not a good night.

  The trapdoor to the attic is in the closet I share with my sister. After I text Silas goodnight, I climb the three shelves—which are bursting with fabric—and push upward with my fingertips until it shifts left. I glance back over my shoulder and see that Janette hasn’t looked up from her phone. This must be normal—me climbing into the attic, leaving her behind. I want to ask if she’ll come with me, but it was exhausting just to get her to come to dinner. Another time, I think. I’ll figure out how to fix things between us.

  I don’t know why, but as I hoist myself through the hole and into an even smaller space, I picture Silas’s face; the tan, smooth skin. His full lips. How many times had I tasted his mouth and yet I can’t remember a single kiss.

  The air is warm and stuffy. I crawl on my knees to a pile of pillows and press my back to them, straightening my legs out in front of me. There’s a flashlight standing atop a pile of books. I click it on, examining their spines; stories I know, but don’t remember reading. How odd to be made of flesh, balanced on bone, and filled with a soul you’ve never met.

  I pick up her books one by one and read the first page of each. I want to know who she is—who I am. When I’ve exhausted the pile, I find a larger book at the bottom, bound in creased red leather. My immediate thought is that I’ve found a journal. My hands shake as I fold open the pages.

  Not a journal. A scrapbook. Letters from Silas.

  I know this because he signs each one with a sharp S that almost looks like a lightening bolt. And I know I like his handwriting, direct and distinct. Paper-clipped to the top of each note is a photo—presumably one that Silas has taken. I read one note after another, pouring over words. Love letters. Silas is in love.

  It’s beautiful.

  He likes to imagine a life with me. In one letter, written on the back of a brown paper sack, he details the way we will spend Christmas when we have our own place: spiked apple cider by the Christmas tree, raw cookie dough that we eat before we get the chance to bake it. He tells me he wants to make love to me with only candles lighting the room so that he can see my body glow in the candle light. The photo paper clipped to the note is of a tiny Christmas tree that looks like it’s in his bedroom. We must have set it up together.

  I find another written on the back of a receipt in which he details what it feels like to be inside of me. My face grows warm as I read the note over and over, reveling in his lust. The photo paper clipped to this one is of my bare shoulder. His photos pack a punch—just like his words. They take my breath, and I’m not sure if the part of me I can’t reme
mber is in love with him. I feel only curiosity toward the dark-haired boy who looks at me so earnestly.

  I set the note aside, feeling like I’m snooping on someone else’s life, and close the book. This belonged to Charlie. I’m not her. I fall asleep surrounded by Silas’s words, the sprinkling of letters and sentences swirling around in my head until…

  A girl drops to her knees in front of me. “Listen to me,” she whispers. “We don’t have much time…”

  But I don’t listen to her. I push her away and then she’s gone. I am standing outside. There is a fire burning from an old metal trash can. I rub my hands together to get warm. From somewhere behind me I can hear a saxophone playing, but the sound morphs into a scream. That’s when I run. I run through the fire that was in the trash can, but now it is everywhere, licking the buildings along the street.. I run, choking on smoke until I see one pink-faced storefront that is free of flame and smoke, though everything around it burns. It is a shop of curiosities. I open the door without thought because it is the only place safe from the flames. Silas is there waiting for me. He leads me past bones and books and bottles and takes me to a back room. A woman sits on a throne made of broken mirror, staring down at me with a thin smile on her lips. The pieces of mirror reflect slices of light across the walls where they jiggle and dance. I turn to look at Silas, to ask him where we are, but he’s gone. “Hurry!”

  I wake with a start.

  Janette is leaning through the slat of space in the closet roof, shaking my foot. “You have to get up,” she says. “You don’t have any more skip days left.”

  I am still in the dank attic space. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and follow her down the three shelves to our room. I’m touched she knows I’m out of skip days, and that she cared enough to wake me up. I’m shaking when I reach the bathroom and turn on the shower. I haven’t shaken the dream. I can still see my reflection in the broken shards of her throne.

  The fire swims in and out of my vision, waiting behind my eyelids every time I blink. If I concentrate, I can smell the ash above the body wash I’m using, above the sickeningly sweet shampoo I pour into my hand. I close my eyes and try to remember Silas’s words…You are warm and wet, and your body grips me like it doesn’t want me to leave.