Page 180 of Between the Lines

The last few words are ironic. Nothing is “up to me” in all of this. I don’t have any control, like so many times before. Just like all those years ago.

What emerged back then was a version of me I didn’t recognize.

But many other people saw it as the real story.

Aiden calls again, just as I roll into Elmhurst. I ignore his call again. Let it ring and ring, each vibration in my cup holder echoing inside my little car. Each feeling like a tiny knife cut.

Elmhurst looks exactly the same. It always does, every time I get back. Nerves make my stomach tight.

My parents’ house, the house I grew up in, is at the far curve of the cul-de-sac. Painted white wood, red brick, green lawn. Mom’s planted daisies in the flower boxes outside the front door.

My tears well up at the sight. I have so many good memories of this house. And then bad ones, too. From when I retreated inside its walls like an injured animal, hidden away to lick my wounds.

After that, I only returned between jobs. To go through the boxes of my things that Dad still keeps in his garage and to pack whatever I’d need ahead of my next adventure.

I’ve been without a home since I left this house.

Never stayed long enough to make a base, never bought my own furniture, never settled into routines. In some ways, I’ve been running from both my pastandthis place. From having to come face-to-face with people who know what happened.

I park my old Honda next to my parents’ shining SUV. Mom rushes through the front door before I’ve even shut off the engine. She’s got her reading glasses on, her hair in a giant claw clip, with a pair of rubber sandals on her feet.

I open the car door. “Hi.”

“Sweetheart.” She pulls me in for a hug, and she smells like the perfume she’s used for over twenty years. I close my eyes and the tears spill down my cheeks.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.

“I know. I know,” she says. “But it’ll be all right. Come on in. There’s food for you.”

I meet up with Esmé the next day. We walk around Elmhurst. I was the one who suggested it, even if it chafes. I think better when I’m moving.

I ask her not to judge me.

“Charlotte,” she says, her familiar smile wide. “I never judge you.”

“I know. But… still. I needed to say it.” Then I take a deep breath and tell her everything, from the very beginning. Every detail that’s mine to share.

“I can’t have it happen again,” I pick at a fray on the hem of my jean jacket. “When I can, once he responds about the memoir and I get the green light to submit it to Vera, I think I’m going to ask her for another ghostwriting gig.”

Esmé’s eyebrows pull together. “But what about the pitch you told me about? For a non-fiction book of your own?”

I look past her to the green space at the center of Elmhurst. I’ve been to many Fourth of July celebrations there. School fairs, little league baseball games, and once when a circus came to town.

I haven’t told Esmé I’ve already written the beginning of the book.

“I know, but I want to go somewhere. Besentsomewhere. Disappear for a while.”

“Like you’ve done for years,” she says softly.

I sigh. “Yes. I suppose.”

“This guy… he wanted you to tell your story?”

“Yes. Forced my hand.” I lean back on the bench and look up at the sky. Blue peeks out through the fluffy expanse of rapidly moving clouds. They never stay long in one place, either.

“He was wrong to do that,” Esmé says. “No one should force you to give a tell-all interview or anything. Not even a guy you’re dating. But I do think… And don’t hate me for saying this, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. “I won’t.”

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