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I swallowed my anger. I was too tired to hold on to a fight.
But Priscilla is wrong, a voice in my head said. You can be different. And Juliette always knew that about you.
“Well, since you’re here, we could use you,” she said.
“I can come out on weekends,” I said. “Play with the band.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking about. We need your help building them houses.”
“Oh, come on now, Priscilla, we both know that’s not me.”
“Why? ’Cause it’s honest work?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Because I don’t know the first thing about building anything.” And frankly, the idea was ridiculous. My hands were baby soft, not a callous on them. And I liked it that way.
I cocked my head, turning those words over in my head. Words that could have come right out of my father’s mouth.
You don’t want to be like him, I thought. Now is your chance. Prove you’re more than a Notorious O’Neill. Prove you’re better.
“We don’t know much, either,” Priscilla said, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Remy’s about useless with a hammer. Swear, he’s gonna put himself in the hospital before something actually gets to standin’.”
“So?” I asked. “Who’s really doing the build?”
“People in town. Derek at the hardware store has a crew. You could go and talk to him.”
Priscilla stood and her palm, soft and frail, the skin like silk and paper, landed against my cheek. “You need to find a woman who sees the real you,” she said. “Sees past that Notorious O’Neill stuff.”
Maybe it was the girls I chose or maybe it was just me—but no one ever saw past what I showed them.
Except Juliette.
“Hey, now.” She stepped back, affronted. “You like being alone, Ty?”
I thought about saying yes, that I was happy this way. But that nightmare with Theresa, the way I let my father hang around like bad fish, the way I felt when I saw Juliette—like seeing the world in color after years of black-and-white—I couldn’t actually get the lie out of my mouth.
And suddenly, I felt more alone than I could bear.
“Oh, honey,” she sighed, my silence answer enough for both of us. “You deserve better. You’re not your father.”
“You know, one minute she’s not for me and the next minute I’m too good for her. Which is it, Priscilla?” I asked. “Am I a good man or am I a Notorious O’Neill?”
Priscilla lit up another smoke. “That,” she said with a cagey smile, “is a very good question.”
It took a moment, but then I shook my head—she’d gotten me again. But I was too far gone to psychoanalyze myself right now.
“I need to go,” I said, the specter of what my father—no doubt bored and feeling neglected—might be up to haunting me.
But then Remy walked in from the kitchen with three plates piled high with eggs and bacon.
“Sit yourselves down,” Remy said, sliding the heavy plates on the table. “I got pecan bread coming out of the oven.”
“On second thought,” I said, my stomach growling. “I can stick around for a little while.”
11
JULIETTE
Monday, five in the afternoon, and I was ice-cold. Unmovable. I was a glacier of cold purpose, and Tyler O’Neill—the kiss, the night out at Remy’s, the truth about those houses and the money he’d given back to the town—were nothing to me.
I glanced in my side view mirror and could just see Tyler’s head, his blond hair glinting white in the sunlight. He and Miguel were working on something, their heads bent together for the past ten minutes.
I put on my mirrored aviator glasses and stepped out of my sedan into the humidity of the September afternoon.
Ready to face down Tyler O’Neill.
“Miguel,” I said as I approached, the sharpness in my voice surprising even me. Both Miguel and Tyler jumped as if I’d fired my weapon at them.
Not a great start, but I didn’t apologize, not even when Miguel blew out a shaky breath and tried to laugh. “Wow, Chief,” he said. “You about killed me.”
“You ready to go?” I asked. I hated the sound of my voice, all the hard and brittle edges.
Not as cool as I wanted to be. At all.
“Sure,” Miguel said, shooting Tyler a puzzled glance. “Let me get my stuff.”
As soon as he left, my skin shrank a size and I was painfully aware that I was alone with Tyler. And that he was staring at me. “I need a favor,” I said, watching him through my sunglasses, grateful for the barrier. “I have an appointment with Nora Sullivan from the Office of Community Services—”
“I remember Nora,” he said, and shuddered.
“It’s Wednesday morning. Can you keep an eye on Miguel and his sister?”
“Isn’t it a school day?” he asked.
I nodded. “I need to know where he is, and he’ll skip if he knows I’m meeting with Nora that day.”
