Page 23

Eleven
Henley
I lied. To everyone.
Finished packing, I wheel my suitcase across my room and park it in next to the door.
I told Conner I was arriving tomorrow morning.
Lie.
I told my Jeremy I was staying at the Hawthorne.
Lie.
I told my mom and Spencer I was serving my internship at a library in Chicago.
Lie.
I told Ryan I wanted to go home to see our father.
Lie.
Wheeling my suitcase across the room, I park it next to the door before checking my ticket. I have a little over two hours before I need to be at the station to check in.
I’m going home.
Pressing a hand against my stomach, I try to smother the flurry of butterflies that suddenly take flight. Looking down at the phone in my hand, I reread the conversation I just had with Conner. Me, proper and polite. Him, short and succinct. The last text I sent went unanswered. His lack of response said everything I need to know.
He’s meeting me tomorrow because Ryan asked him to. That’s it. He has no interest in seeing me again.
Knowing that should make everything easier. It doesn’t.
I almost text him back. Tell him I changed my mind. That I’m not coming after all. That he’s off the hook.
Instead, I turn off my phone and tuck it into my train case, along with my ticket. Loud music seeps in through the crack under the door. Celine and I share the fourth floor. At fifteen, she reminds me of the mean girls I used to have to deal with back in Boston. She looks like a Jessica and Penny clone. Long, shiny blonde hair. Smooth, tan skin.
I try not to hold it against her.
Glad for the distraction, I turn away from the door and give my room a quick once-over. When my gaze lands on the spiral staircase tucked into the corner, I smile. The library is on the fifth floor, directly above my room. As soon as Spencer realized how much I love books and that I’d never owned any of my own, he hired a work crew to cut a hole in my ceiling and install the staircase.
The man gave me a library, and I’ve loved him ever since.
Climbing the stairs, I think about leaving and lying. I don’t feel bad about lying to my mother. But lying to Spencer is a different story altogether.
“What’s the matter, Sparkplug?”
I stop short on the landing. As if my guilt pulled him out of thin air, I find him sitting in the library’s sitting room, in front of a cold fireplace, a book in his lap, a glass of bourbon on the side table next to him.
“What are you doing here?” I say, crossing the space between us to slide into the chair next to him.
“Waiting for you,” he says, raising his glass to take a sip. “I knew you’d make it up here eventually.”
I used to worry about him drinking. What it would lead to. Wonder how long it would take him to disintegrate under the pressure of being married to my mother. I’d imagine having to drag him down the hallway. Roll him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit.
Eight years later, I realize Spencer is made of stronger stuff than my father. I don’t worry about him drinking anymore. At least not for those reasons.
“You shouldn’t be drinking with your medication,” I remind him, giving him a sour look.