AMANDA
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10
Carter insists on taking me to Verde for dinner, a four-course consolation prize for yesterday’s mental and emotional anguish. Except for a few people still throwing me sympathetic glances in the hall, school was basically back to normal today. Ben following me around like a wannabe knight. Adele and Graham bickering like an old married couple. Bronson practicing parkour in the sixth-floor stairwell and Trina treating the occasion like a photo shoot. I let myself relax into the normalcy of it all. And most importantly, into the radio silence from Private. By the time I’m seated with Carter at a window table with the comforting view of twee Logansville in front of us, I can almost pretend that none of this creepy stuff ever happened. That there isn’t a stalker, Rosalie or otherwise. Almost.
The only thing that isn’t normal tonight is Carter. He’s been all fidgety and extra attentive from the moment I climbed into his car. He even insisted on driving across the street to pick me up in my own driveway. After the waitress takes our order, he worries the corner of his napkin as if he could tear through the cloth.
“What’s up with you tonight?” I finally ask.
“Huh?”
“You’re all distracted and nervy. I thought I was supposed to be the head case.”
“Sorry,” Carter breathes into the tablecloth.
The waitress returns with our Perrier and two tiny rectangular plates.
“An amuse-bouche from the chef,” she says. “Seared diver scallops on a bed of micro arugula and spring onions. Please enjoy.”
Carter waits until I have a mouthful of scallop and micro greens to speak. “I’ve stopped seeing her. I wanted you to know.”
I barely keep it together, washing the food down with a gulp of sparkling water. He’s never mentioned Rosalie, not once, clearly thought I was in the dark. Her heart-to-heart must have come as a real shock.
I take a deep breath. “When?”
“Last night. She ended things.”
“So that’s what this dinner is really about?” Heat flashes across the back of my neck. “The tasting menu at Verde, Carter? Sorry I cheated, but it’s over now?” I immediately regret my words. Yes, he should be sorry. I don’t deserve any of this. But lashing out makes me sound like a baby. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, softly. “I’m glad you told me.”
Somehow that concession makes me feel even worse. I’m hysterical or weak. Pushy or a pushover. I look to him for reassurance I haven’t ruined everything.
“Things are going to be different now, okay?” he says, and I can breathe again. “Trust me when I say I feel terrible. I want tonight to be special. This is a new us.”
“A new beginning.” This is all I’ve wanted since the day Trina showed me those pictures. Carter ending things with Rosalie. Carter making a real commitment to us again. But now that I’m getting exactly what I want, why do I still feel so shaken?
“A new beginning,” Carter repeats. “It was just a slip. You know you’re my everything. You and me, always and forever.”
The waitress returns with our first course, four white tubes of bone holding richly roasted marrow served with toasted country bread, shallots, and a small dish of sea salt.
With a tiny fork, I remove the marrow from one of the bones and spread it across a slab of toast, and suddenly, I know why I’m still shaken. Carter didn’t end things with Rosalie. She ended things with him. Because I told her to. All roads lead back to Carter and me, but what I wanted—all I’ve ever really wanted—was for Carter to decide on his own that he doesn’t need other girls. That I’m enough, all he’ll ever need. Is that too much to ask? My mother’s voice rings loud in my ears. You can’t hold on too tight, Amanda. A tight leash snaps.
“I’ll be right back.” I stand and lean across the table to give Carter a quick kiss. His wavy hair tickles my forehead. “I just need to run to the restroom. The marrow’s really rich.”
Carter smiles and raises a piece of toast. “Don’t take too long, babe.”
I have to wait for the restroom, so I lean against the forest-green wallpaper and stare out the front window, try to take deep breaths. Across the street, a broad-shouldered man in a dusty black jacket, black snow cap, and tan work boots walks into Papa John’s. A couple of years ago, there was a petition to remove chain restaurants from the small grid of tree-lined streets and Victorian buildings that make up Logansville’s downtown. The community board lost the fight, but they did manage to pass a mandate requiring all business establishments within the downtown radius to put up facades in Logansville’s mauve, gold, and navy. So now we have the classiest Starbucks, Papa John’s, and Panera in West Virginia.
The restroom door finally opens, and I slip inside. I’m sure Rosalie didn’t trash my locker, at least not personally. But she could have been working with someone at South. There’s something way too easy about her apologetic email and lightning-fast move to dump Carter, exactly like I asked. I turn on my phone and pull up Private’s last message. Then, I start typing.
You say you’re not Rosalie. Prove it. Your move, Creep.
When I get back to the table, Carter’s watching the big man in the black jacket walk out of Papa John’s with two pizza boxes and a two-liter bottle of Coke. The facade may be fancy now, but it’s still the same subpar pizza. I just do not understand why anyone would go there when you could get a wood-fired pie from Taviani’s right down the street. The man swings open the door to his truck, and I catch a glimpse of his face. It’s Ben and David’s dad.
“It’s sad,” I say, diverting the topic of discussion from Rosalie to something new. If this is really a new chapter for us, I’m ready to start writing it. “The way that family lives.”
“Mmm.” Carter acknowledges my observation without agreeing or disagreeing, and I immediately wish I could take the words back, swallow them deep inside my chest with all the other echoes of my mother’s words I’d love to un-say. Maybe if the Kellys ordered a little more Papa John’s and a little less Taviani’s, we wouldn’t be in such deep debt. The next course, steaming bowls of house-made bucatini all’Amatriciana, arrives, and I hope Carter will forget I said anything about the Gallaghers. He raises a forkful of pasta to his mouth and blows gently. “I feel bad for Ben,” he says after a minute. “But not Mr. Gallagher. He only has himself to blame.”
I pause, pasta halfway to my lips, and swallow. My mouth feels suddenly dry. It’s a well-known fact that Ben’s dad and Carter’s dad don’t get along, but I’ve never known the details. Some business stuff gone wrong. Mr. Gallagher used to work for Shaw Realty as a fancy kind of contractor, I think. Now he works hard-hat gigs, houses and condos, that sort of thing.
“What happened exactly?”
“With Crooked Carl Gallagher?” I’ve never seen so much animosity flash across Carter’s typically altruistic face. “He screwed Shaw out of a bunch of projects back in the early two thousands. It was before we had the infrastructure we have now. My dad says Carl was siphoning clients to Firth and Sons, right before they signed an agreement with Shaw. Shaw would do all the legwork, and then Firth and Sons would get the gig. They were giving Carl some colossal ‘referral fee’ for stealing our clients for them. When my dad found out, he went ballistic, sued the shit out of Firth. Crooked Carl destroyed his own business cred; the Gallagher name is dirt in realty now. He hasn’t pulled a major client since.”
“Oh.” I force a tiny bite of pasta past my lips. “Remind me why we let Ben hang around?”
Carter frowns. “Ben’s not his dad. You shouldn’t blame him for how his parents screwed up.”
I open my mouth to protest, to say I didn’t even know Carl Gallagher’s history until this second, how could I blame Ben for what his dad did, when it hits me that that’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s what I’ve always done with Ben. No, I didn’t know the details. But strip away the gangly legs, the dweeby grin, the lacking social graces, and Ben is exactly who I’d be if my parents didn’t keep up their iron-clad facade. I imagine our piles of debt laid bare like the Gallaghers’ business scandal. Bankruptcy, social disgrace. It must have been easier for David somehow; he figured out how to keep his chin up, shake it off. But who’s to say I’ll be so resilient? If I lose Carter. If my family’s shell cracks. I’m a complete bitch to Ben because I’m terrified that if we fall apart, I’ll be him.
“You’re right,” I say, and Carter stares at me, surprised. “I never knew all that about his dad. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, well.” Carter mops at the side of his bowl with a piece of crust. “It all worked out in the end, I guess. Firth and Sons went out of business and Shaw Realty is the top firm in the state. You don’t mess with the Shaws.”
I smile. The fact that Carter can be friends with Ben despite their family’s history says a lot. Carter’s a good guy. Really good. It doesn’t matter, in the end, who left whom. Rosalie’s out of the picture, and Carter and I are finally back in a good place. I resolve to try to be nicer to Ben.
My good mood carries all the way through our final courses, rosemary-crusted lamb chops and chocolate soufflé. We chat about the photography exhibit Trina’s planning for senior showcase—a series of old-fashioned portraits of our friends in twenty-first-century settings—and focus on the positive. Carter and Rosalie are over. We are back on track.
I kiss Carter good night in his driveway. It’s only a little after nine; he looks disappointed when I say I have reading for French, but it’s true. One night a week, I drive into the city to take college-level French literature at Chatham University, and the spring semester just started this week. I’ve been learning French since I was basically a baby; I skipped right to AP in ninth grade, so I’ve been taking college-level for years, and I’ll major in French at WVU. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do with the degree, but I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out while Carter focuses on growing into his shoes at the firm. As I walk up the drive toward my house, my heart is still swollen with happiness over tonight’s turn of events. For the first time in a long time, I don’t have to worry about tomorrow.
When I let myself inside, I can hear the TV blaring from Dad’s office. I slip off my shoes and hang my coat in the hall closet while some sports announcer lays the tragedy on thick in a story about a promising young athlete’s career cut short in a drinking and driving accident.
“Amanda?” I’ve barely seen my dad in days. I pad quickly across the living room floor—my toes curling against the fibers of the ornate area rug that’s more striking and somber than it is plush and warm—and stop in to give him a quick hug and tell him about my date. Dad’s office is just a touch more lived-in than the rest of the house. I like it in here; it smells like his cologne and the old books that line the shelves. His desk is sturdy, formidable, but there are papers spread across the top, and the couch is cozy brown leather that’s just starting to crack. Linda’s been angling to replace it for months, but Dad’s held firm. He listens to me chatter about Carter and Verde and nods happily. After a few minutes, though, I can tell he’s anxious to get back to his email.
I say good night and slip quietly into the kitchen, expecting to find my mother, but the room is dark. She must have taken her third drink up to their bedroom. I hurry up the stairs and tiptoe over to their door. There’s no crack of light spilling into the hall, only darkness. Maybe she had something for the museum tonight, something I’ve forgotten. When I press my ear to the door, I don’t hear breathing.
When I’m in my room, I close the door and click on my phone. I’ve been in such a good mood since dinner, I almost forgot about the text I sent Private in the bathroom line. Now I have five new messages waiting.
You want proof, Princess? Looks like your boyfriend isn’t the only person Culver Ridge’s biggest tease has been kissing. Would Rosalie send you these?
The next three messages are photos of two girls outside, in a wooded area. The shots are a little blurry, like they were taken from a distance on maximum zoom. I don’t know the Latina girl, but I recognize Rosalie’s angled haircut immediately. In the first two pictures, they’re sitting on the ground, backs pressed against a tree, talking. The Latina girl has something in her hand, maybe a cigarette. I scroll down to the third photo and my jaw drops.
The last photo is the clearest. Rosalie and the other girl are kissing. Obviously, unmistakably kissing. I tap the photo to enlarge it. This is not some friendly peck. Mouths open, bodies pressed together tight.
Holy freaking shit.
While Carter’s been cheating on me, Rosalie’s been cheating on him—with a girl.
I tap the photo again, restoring it to normal size, and scroll down to the last text.
Do you believe me now?
My fingers hover over the reply box. Private is definitely not Rosalie. So who the hell is harassing me? A cold shiver runs down my spine. This creep could actually be dangerous.
I believe you.
The response comes right away.
Good. Now send these along to peter.bell@SVHS.org
Let Daddy put Rosalie out of action for good.