In the stretching silence, a worried crease appears between Ms. Vaughn’s brows. “Can I be frank with you, Miss Valentine?”
I nod.
“I know how difficult it can be to go against the grain, or let down those closest to you. That’s why I think being here, at Brown, would do you so much good. The independence you’ll gain from four years on this campus is an invaluable asset.” Her head tilts in consideration. “But at the end of the day, you’re the one who needs to make that decision. Not for your parents. Not for me. For yourself.”
On my lap, my hands knit together tight enough to strain my knuckles. “And if they decide not to pay my tuition?”
She smiles wryly. “Then you will come to me and we will see what we can pull together in terms of student loans and financial aid — just like any other student who doesn’t have billionaires for parents. With your grades and test scores, you should qualify for plenty of merit scholarships.”
“Oh… I’d never thought of that.”
“Hence, our meeting.” She pushes back in her chair and rises to her feet. “Take a few weeks. Mull it over. Make sure, when you come back here for our next appointment at the end of July, you’ve contemplated what it is you really want from your future.”
Just like that, our discussion is over. With a hand at the small of my back, she ushers me out of her office. Before she closes the door behind me, her eyes meet mine one last time.
“At the risk of sounding like a cheesy inspirational poster… You have the potential to be whoever you want to be, Josephine. No matter what your last name is, or what company your family runs.” She pushes her glasses up her nose with a small smile. “Enjoy your Independence Day weekend.”
“You too,” I echo dully.
After I leave her office, my mind is awhirl with contradictory thoughts. I wander aimlessly for almost an hour, letting my feet choose paths at random. I have no particular destination in mind, nor am I in any great rush to return to Cormorant House.
It’s strange to see the picturesque campus so empty. When I toured this university on a bright fall day nearly two years ago, long before I sent in my early decision application, it was packed with undergrads chatting animatedly as they made their way to classes, sitting on picnic blankets in grassy spots beneath the elm trees. Now, in the interim between semesters, there are only a handful of students walking the brick paths that crisscross the Main Green, eyes focused straight ahead as they shuffle between the imposing brick buildings that surround me on all sides.
I try to picture myself in their ranks — a backpack full of books, my head swimming with new knowledge. Learning from some of the best professors in the world. A year ago, nothing seemed like a more perfect fit for me. But these days, nothing seems to fit. The future I had envisioned for myself sits on my shoulders like a cashmere sweater accidentally put through the dryer cycle on high heat — scratchy on my skin and uncomfortably tight.
Feeling more lost than ever, I climb back into the Porsche and begin the long drive back to Manchester-by-the-Sea.
I drive the speed limit the whole way.
SIX
archer
I stand at the end of the docks with a sputtering hose in my hand, spraying fish guts from the deck of the Ebenezer. It’s my last task before I can head home — or, more likely, to Biddy’s, where I’ll wash down the memories of another monotonous day on the water with a glass or two of whiskey. Tommy is already long gone — off to unload our daily catch at the fish market across town, his old truck sagging beneath the weight of a half-dozen crates of live lobsters.
My stomach growls loudly, audible even over the steady spray of water. It’s only mid-afternoon, but when your workday starts before sunrise, dinnertime comes early. The contents of the cupboards back at my ramshackle apartment are sparse at best. Stale, budget-brand granola bars and some instant coffee packets — not quite the same as the delicious home-cooked meals Ma spoiled me with for the first eighteen years of my life. At this point, I’d sell my good hand for a warm plate of her empanadillas.
I’m just about finished with the hose when the sound of footsteps rattles my focus. I glance down the docks. A lanky figure in a starched blue police uniform is making his way toward me, whistling lightly under his breath. The sight of a cop makes my spine go rigid. My hands tighten on the hose. My shoulders tense. It’s involuntary. Since my arrest last summer, I can’t walk past a fucking meter-maid on the street without remembering the cold press of handcuffs at my wrists; the flat intonement of an officer reading my rights beneath the fluorescent lights of my hospital room.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…
My tension dissipates somewhat when the approaching policeman waves at me.
“Yo! Reyes!”
Fuck.
It’s Chris Tomlinson. The relief I feel that I’m not about to be cuffed and hauled down to the station is quickly overridden by the annoyance of impending smalltalk. But he’s already spotted me. There’s no avoiding him.
Sighing, I walk over the to spigot and shut the valve. The flow of water slows to a trickle as I coil the hose and hang it back on its rack. By the time I’m done, Chris has reached my side.
“What do you want, Tomlinson?”
“What do I want?” He shoves me lightly on the shoulder. “Are you kidding me? I come to say hello for the first time in months and that’s the greeting I get?”
Our eyes meet. His are brimming with good-natured humor, but if I look long enough, I swear I can see the pity lurking just beneath the surface. An ugly sensation snakes through my chest and lodges in my throat.
“Sorry, but I’m pretty busy here—”
“Is that so? ‘Cause you don’t look busy to me. In fact, it looks like you’re just about finished for the day,” he says cheerfully, hooking his thumbs into his belt and rocking back on his heels. “What do you say to a burger and a beer with an old friend?”
I’m silent for a moment, my jaw locked tight. I know I’m being a dick. Chris has been nothing but good to me, both before and after my accident. Most of the guys on my old baseball team hauled ass out of town about five minutes after flipping their graduation cap tassels; he was one of the only ones who stuck around. Which, unfortunately, gave him a first row seat to last summer’s whole miserable saga — from my initial arrest to the dropped charges, from my first surgery to the painful physical therapy afterward. Chris even helped me move into my apartment last fall when my wrist was still too weak to lift the boxes up the stairs.
Despite all that, the thought of sitting down with him for a casual meal is anathema to me. With my face overtaken by a thick beard, my skin slicked with sea salt, and my clothes caked with dried fish scales, I feel unkempt. Uncivilized. Feral as one of the cats that roam the docks after dusk, scrapping for their dinners with razor-sharp claws.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell Chris, already turning away.
He waits until I’ve made it a handful of strides before his voice halts me in my tracks. “I saw Valentine.”
Spine rigid with fresh tension, I pivot slowly around to face him. “What?”