The Variables

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lucy couldn’t sleep. Grant’s letter, still in her bag and marooned in Cass’s apartment, remained unread, and with each growing hour of insomnia, her anger threatened to boil over. It wasn’t just the letter, because leaving her bag there was her own fault, but it was the whole murky relationship she witnessed in that brightly lit hallway that was getting under her skin. Ethan’s brooding combined with Cass’s secrecy about befriending her brother unsettled her and she felt herself growing anxious.

If Grant were here, she wouldn’t feel so alone. Without him, Cass was her only friend and ally.

If Cass had ever really been her ally.

That thought ate her up inside the most.

As best friends go, Salem had been a lot of work. Dramatic and self-absorbed, sometimes Salem went entire conversations without stopping to listen to Lucy’s side. But Salem was honest and real. She never tried to be someone she wasn’t, and she didn’t keep secrets.

When Lucy had stormed back into her new home on Kymberlin after she watched Ethan slip into Cass’s apartment, she found her parents cuddled on the couch looking out over the ocean. Her mother was in a fuzzy tan bathrobe, and she was sipping a hot drink. Her father sat behind her, and he rubbed his hands across her back in a way that made Lucy feel like she shouldn’t have interrupted. They were whispering, smiling, tangled up together. Lucy never knew if she should be happy that her parents still loved each other or disgusted that they weren’t shy about public displays of affection. Watching them nuzzle each other made her feel a mixture of both.

Bowing her head, she walked briskly through the room, right past them.

“You’re back,” Maxine said as Lucy crossed through her line of sight. “Your dad made a mean hot chocolate tonight. The little kids are down. Want to join us?” It was an invitation to crawl back into a different time, when evenings were spent over worn out board games, with warm drinks and salty snacks; when her mother offered them up extended bedtimes like a trophy.

None of that held any power for her anymore.

She declined and climbed the stairs into the loft and crawled into her new bed—a tan quilt, with teal pillows—and tried to sleep, fully clothed. Rest eluded her in waves. She’d doze for ten minutes, then startle awake, and then stare at the ceiling, wishing for reprieve. All night she listened for the door and for Ethan’s telltale footsteps, but one thing for was certain: Ethan never returned.

Cass opened the door wide. She wore a soft pink tank top and with matching cotton pants and she held a cup of coffee. Her curtains were drawn tight, but still they were no match for the rising eastern sun which shone directly through her window wall. The whole place was light and yellow, hazy like a lemon-filtered dream.

“Good morning, darling,” Cass said when she saw her, and she leaned in to kiss Lucy’s cheek, but Lucy ducked away from the kiss and walked straight over to the chair that held her bag. It was right where she left it, untouched. She slung it up on her shoulder and walked back toward the door, head bent down to the floor. But Cass stood in her way, blocking her exit. “I was going to bring it to you.” Cass nodded toward the bag. “But I figured you would come back if you needed it.”

Lucy mumbled something incoherent—a mix of “it’s not a big deal” and “whatever”—and tried not to look up. If she looked up then Cass would see her threadbare nerves, her bloodshot eyes, and all the questions she had about Cass and Ethan.

“Sit down,” Cass instructed and she pointed a finger to her couch. Lucy turned. There was evidence someone had slept there—several crumpled blankets, an extra pillow. Lucy’s eyes lingered on the remnants of her brother’s presence for a beat too long, and when she turned back to Cass it was clear that Lucy had tipped her hand. Cass raised her eyebrows knowingly.

“I’d prefer to go,” Lucy whispered. “Grant wrote me a letter last night and I didn’t get a chance to read it. Because my bag was here.”

“Read it now,” Cass said. “I’ll pour you a coffee. Then we can go exploring—”

“No,” Lucy replied. “I want to be alone.” Her emphasis was clear. She made a move to leave.

“It’s not what you think.” Cass stretched her long body against the doorway, preventing an escape. “You could ask me about it, if you want. Instead of making all sorts of presumptions that aren’t true,” she said. And then Cass raised her eyebrows, waiting. She added, “Do you have something you want to ask me?”

Acknowledging that Lucy was misguided and pushing all the hostility out in the open caused the air in the room to shift. Now everything felt fragile and tenuous. Lucy let her bag drop off her shoulder and she held it with both hands in front of her.

“You’ve been seeing my brother,” Lucy said. “Behind my back.”

Cass nodded and motioned to the couch, then leaned over and blew on the rising steam of her coffee, displacing it in a cloud. Lucy turned and glanced at the sofa with its discarded reminders that Cass had shared a moment last night with Ethan—and then she looked back at her friend. Cass’s eyes were wide and expectant, but still inviting, and Lucy knew that if she sat down and spoke with Cass to unravel all the details of why and how, she would be forced to abandon her indignation.

She wasn’t willing to do that yet.

Grant’s letter was still unread. And she replayed Ethan and Cass’s conversation in her head—focusing on their intimacy, their chemistry, their playfulness.

“Sit,” Cass said, and motioned again.

Lucy bit her lip, and her hand went to the place where Salem’s necklace usually sat. When she found her neck empty, she placed her hand flat against the upper part of her chest and kept it there, still.

“I have a letter to read,” Lucy replied, and she pushed her way past Cass and out into hallway. The smell of coffee followed her as she went.

“I don’t hold a torch for Ethan,” Cass said, peering out her door. Somehow it seemed unconvincing.

Lucy looked back. She was ten feet down the hall now, standing in front of someone else’s door. The name was in Chinese and she couldn’t read it. “Who says things like that, Cass? You don’t hold a torch? Just stop with your silly ways of saying things, and your flighty kindness like everyone’s your best friend. Why can’t you just be honest with me? Spit it out. Just admit it. Ethan was new and mysterious and fun—”

“Ethan,” Cass raised her voice, “was dismissive and terse and rude.”

“And yet you wanted to spend time with him instead of me?”

“You’re jealous?”

Lucy’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched tightly.

Cass bowed her head, and when she looked up, she was smirking, but not kindly. “I love you Lucy King,” she said. “But please stop sounding like such a teenage drama queen.” Then she took a step back inside her apartment and slammed the door; the echo of it carried down the hallway and hit Lucy like a slap.

Cass’s words haunted her. Drama queen. Those were words used for Salem or the other flighty girls who reigned supreme back at Pacific Lake High School—the girls fueled by gossip and the need for attention. She was the one who dealt with the drama queens, who stayed in the background of the messes they created and hoped to rise above it all. She could be called so many things, so many barbs would have stuck, and yet Cass chose that one. The one that didn’t.