I wonder what he would say if he knew I keep a photo of him underneath my pillow, a page I ripped from the St. John’s yearbook. He’s grown up even more since that portrait was taken, taller by the day.
He tips his head, studying me.
“So you do have a voice.”
I narrow my eyes, but my annoyance only amuses him.
“Why are you here?” he asks, gentler now.
“It’s not because of you if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His dimples pop. He thinks I’m lying.
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?”
I regularly sneak around everywhere. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.
Death will do that to a person.
“What are you scared of?” I ask myself sometimes.
I don’t know how to answer. It feels silly to admit that I’m scared to close my eyes, that the night my mom passed away, I was woken up from a deep sleep, my grandmother’s maid standing at my door, her hand covering her mouth.
I can still hear her racking sobs.
“Lainey, you poor thing. You poor soul. I can’t bear it.”
When I went to sleep, my mom was alive. When I woke up, she was gone.
Logically, I know sleep will not steal the living from me. I’ve slept many nights and woken up to find my grandmother still alive and well. I know I’m not cursed like that. Only, at night, when it’s dark and quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts, I can sometimes convince myself otherwise.
The first time I left my dorm for a midnight stroll, it was on a night when insomnia had a firm grip on me. I was tossing and turning and knew I was annoying Blythe. Her groans of agitation told me I had better lie still and soon. Instead, I got up, slid on a pair of flip-flops, and left my dorm. The faculty here are lenient when it comes to curfews. This is a posh boarding school with enough privileged students (AKA Daddy and Mommy are wrapped around their little fingers) that the faculty has learned they have to pick and choose their battles. Nothing illegal, but beyond that, use your judgment, and quite frankly, even the illegal things get overlooked most of the time. The amount of drug use at St. John’s could rival Studio 54 in its heyday. Still, most of the time, the faculty is more than happy to ignore the stench of weed or a little bit of white powder if those tuition checks keep rolling in and those hefty endowments keep clearing.
Walking out of the building, I had no goal in mind. I just knew I wanted to be outside, so I used the moonlight to guide me. First, I went to the rose garden, gently feeling my way around the bushes, smelling my favorite varieties, the ones I come back to time and time again. Then, I proceeded to the woods surrounding the manicured lawn, and finally down to the pine-rimmed lake where the rowing team practices.
That’s where I found Emmett.
He was sitting on the dock that leads out into the dark water, feet dangling down, lit by the full moon.
His presence startled me the same way it did tonight in the library. He wasn’t supposed to be there; it felt like he was invading my dreams. A person should be able to wander alone at midnight without fear of stumbling upon someone, but there he was, awake like me.
While I was still absorbing the shock of seeing him, he stood, dove off the end of the dock, and started to swim. I waited for him to pause and catch his breath, to bob aimlessly or simply float on his back, cast in moonlight. Instead, he kept going. His strokes were precise and practiced, one after another after another. The rhythm was perfect. He was obviously a competent swimmer, but the lake was big, and I had no idea what he was planning.
Worried, I took deep breaths as if trying to gift him my air as he shrank down to nothing, disappearing in the distance. I could barely see the other side of the lake; surely he wasn’t planning to cross it. It seemed like a nearly impossible feat, like those psychos who swim the English Channel. Sure, it can be done, but at what cost?
I looked behind me, searching for help though I knew I would find none. It just seemed like I needed some kind of plan for what I’d do if he didn’t reappear soon. He was out there all by himself, or at least he assumed he was. I could hear my grandmother’s admonishing voice in my head. How incredibly foolish of him.
My brain conceived of all possible outcomes. If he went out there to drown, I would be the last person to see him alive, thus I’d be the first person on their suspect list. I’d be hauled off to the police station for questioning.
The stress was starting to eat away at me. I could really imagine myself getting taken away in handcuffs, not to mention the very real horrifying fate if I’d just witnessed a person dive to their death.
Just when I was sure it was time to alert someone, consequences be damned, he heaved himself back up onto the dock and splayed out, gulping in huge breaths, his wide chest rising and falling. I imagined how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, a kick drum against his ribs.
He looked spent.
I didn’t realize it then. Only after weeks of watching his midnight swims have I come to understand that moment is precisely why he does it. The feeling he gets at the end of his swim, that utter exhaustion is his goal. He lies there on the wooden dock, his face toward the sky, and he seems for once at peace, calmed by exertion. It’s the same thing I strive for during my late-night walks. I like to think we’re the same that way. Twin souls. The midnight wanderers.
Chapter Five
Emmett
“Do you regularly sneak around in the library?” I ask her, standing one aisle over, giving her enough space that I hope it will keep her from running again.
She doesn’t answer.
In fact, she doesn’t even look remotely compelled to answer my question.
I’ve never met anyone like her. Her ability to stare someone down without uttering a single word is so intriguing to me. Half these kids at St. John’s never shut up. There’s always something to brag about, some trip they just took or some celebrity they’re supposedly friends with. Who cares. None of it’s real. Not like this.
“Do you not like that question?” I ask her, gentling my tone as I lean in. “What about another? Who gave you those eyes?”
Her dark eyebrows furrow as if she has to really think to come up with the answer.
“They’re a shade of green I’ve never seen before,” I add, hoping to get her to lower her guard.
She looks shyly down to the floor and then back up with conviction in her gaze.
“My dad.”
Her voice is so delicate and light.
“Do they make me look scary?” she asks, sounding so sad at the prospect.
I have a sudden urge to reach out and brush the side of her cheek with the back of my finger like my mother used to do when I was little. I wish I could reassure her that every cruelty she’s ever had to endure will only make her stronger in the end, but that’s a lie. Some people get the short end of the stick, and Lainey Davenport is one of those people.
My back is starting to ache from crouching down to her eye level, so I prop my elbow up on the shelf before I reply, “No offense. I’m not sure if you were hoping to lean into the whole mysterious persona, but you just look like a little kid. Nothing scary about you, eyes and all.”
Her delicate chin rises in defiance. “I’m not a kid.”