Page 121 of Swear on My Life

My dad says, “Come on out.”

The three of them join us. It feels good to share some laughs and tell some stories, catching up and hearing about the basic things in their day like tests or a co-worker Loch finds distracting.

“One of the reasons I came back is that I need to tell you guys something,” I say, not hesitant at all this time. “I’m not sure there’s ever a good time to have this conversation, but it’s time the truth came out.”

Loch asks, “The truth about what?”

“Lucas’s death and what happened to me the day he died.”

My family is silent, eerily still. If I had a doubt, now would be the perfect time for one to sneak in. I don’t, though. I can’t live with this burden any longer. To truly live means to be honest with the people I care about, even at the expense of my cousin’s life being tainted by his own actions.

I spend the next half-hour telling them every detail, from the drugs to the burglaries to our fight about a pact we made years earlier. It’s not a pretty story and shines a light on the ugly life he was living. But it needed to be told. My soul would finally be freed from his for the first time since the day he died in my arms.

The shock and sadness were there, in their faces and their questions, but the tears that I’m here, that I’m back, that I was honest with them overshadows the rest. Once I reach the end, we stand and do a group hug, just like we did when I was little. And it’s then that I realize I never lost them. My family loves me as much as I’ve always loved them. I just struggled to see it, to feel it to this extent, with my thoughts obscuring what was here all along.

Lying in bed after everyone has retired for the evening, I stare up at the ceiling with a smile on my face. As good as it feels to finally not be shouldering the pain of my secrets, I won’t be whole until I fix my mistakes.

There’s only one other person I need to make amends. And I have a feeling I’m two years too late, but that won’t stop me from trying.

41

Lark

I stopand look back over my shoulder.

As much as I like New Haven, I still feel the ghost of Harbor following me sometimes. We walked this way after we had signed the lease just to see how far the library was from the apartment. He insisted we live close since we’d be spending a lot of late nights there.

He knew.

He made that walk with me, planning the whole thing.

He was making sureI’dbe safe.

I start walking again, but I can’t shake the feeling. Why tonight? Why, after all these years, would he feel closer than he’s ever been?

When I reach the doors, I turn around under the light and search the dark, the faces, the other students as they bustle around me. The beginning of the new year is always the busiest here. I prefer summer when so much of the Yale population has gone home. There are no waiting lists to check out books, and I can always find a table to sprawl my stuff out on.

By how many people are here tonight, I’ll be lucky if I find a seat at all. Lucky . . . Luck was never one of my strengths. Medicine is, thank goodness. I score a seat near an outlet in the historical library, thinking maybe I am lucky. At least for the night.

It’s a silent space, which I like best not only in the library but in life. I’m here to study, to learn, and to graduate, hopefully at or near the top of my class. Kids from Beacon proper, like me, rarely get the opportunity to leave. It’s a great place to visit, but I have no intention of ever living there again.

I bury my head in my notes from class, books I borrowed from the restricted area, and the internet trying to piece this puzzle together. I have no idea why this isn’t found all in one place. It’s archaic that I must be physically in this building to find the information I need. Grumbling about it will get me nowhere, so I put my head down and keep going.

The next time I take a breath, I look up. I didn’t notice the library had cleared out, leaving me with only a few others stuck like I am. I check the time. One hour until I need to move my stuff to the 24/7 room or go home before the library closes.

I twist to stretch my back, but a pain in my lumbar vertebrae has me pushing off the table to stand. I leave my area and wander the library. There’s a fireplace at one end, but it’s too early in the season to have a fire roaring. Looking up, I decide to look once more for a book I couldn’t find earlier. Shelves full to the brim with colorful books covering everything a girl could dream of reading. Especially if she’s into medicine like I am.

Taking the stairs, I climb to the second floor of the reading room and walk the narrow aisle along the volumes until I reach the far end. Bending down, I turn my head sideways and run my gaze along the lower shelves and then higher, row by row, as my frustration grows. It has to be here. They showed it in the library at the desk earlier when I checked. I was sure it would be returned once the crowds left for the night.

Bending down in front of the next column of books, I hold the edge of the shelf for balance and start scanning.

“You look lost.”

My body freezes other than my grip, which tightens its hold on the solid wood shelf. The voice shatters me, but I keep the broken pieces inside. I won’t show weakness. I won’t show I care. I won’t—I look up to see Harbor watching over me.

The words have two meanings, but I’m not sure which one he’s doing. I know because he’s been watching over me since the day he left.

Paying my rent, not a day late, for two years.

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