13. Beth

My hand moves to the door handle almost in slow motion, my frame of reference shaky, like an old horror film being shot in first person. If it were a movie, surely the ghost of Emma Harper would be on the other side of the door, or someone who knows the terrible secret my father ran off with and my mother took to her grave.

"Who is it?" Nicole whispers from the other room.

I shush her and focus on the door, my hand hovering less than an inch away from the knob, cupped, ready to grab, twist, and swing it open. I can see the outline of a person through the four square opaque windows. Our visitor is tall, at least six foot two, with broad shoulders, shifting side to side, seemingly nervous. If they can see me, I'm sure I appear the same way to them... nervous. I don't think when I switch on the porch light and swing open the door. Shutting off the brain is sometimes the only way to get past fear.

Moths and tiny insects swarm to the golden light that hangs from the ceiling above his head. My stomach drops then flutters up toward my lungs. My heart races faster than I used to be able to run. And my skin perspires despite the cool night air seeping through the thousands of cut-out aluminum squares on the screen that separates me from him. It's been years, more than years, and he hasn't changed. But I think when you fall in love with a person and never fall out of love, they always look the same as how you first saw them. There's that sharp jawline I always joked could cut through diamond, and those blue eyes that I imagined the ocean looked like up close. He delivers a faint smile, and I think I return one back. But I'm not sure how my face looks to him.

"Hey, Beth," he says.

"Hi, Lucas." My words come out breathy. I clear my throat and shift my stance, unsure of what to say or how to act.

He extends his hand and in it is a loaf of homemade banana bread packaged in Saran wrap.

"I..." he stammers. We were once closer than two humans could possibly be, and now we're practically strangers, but there's a familiarity that strings us together, making this encounter all the more complicated. "I heard about your mom. I'm so sorry." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he drops his chin.

The mention of Mom first makes my heart ache and then is a punch to the gut as I'm shot back to reality, remembering what I just saw on the TV screen. My breathing changes. It's fast and short and uneven, like my mom's final breaths. My eyes fill with tears. I try to breathe through it, blink it away, but I don't think I'll be able to this time. I want to tell him what I just found out about his sister. I want to show him the tape, but I know it'll be like picking a scab, uncovering something that was already in the process of healing. And the video doesn't provide anything substantial. It doesn't tell us where her body is. It just reveals that my father had something to do with her death—whether it was an accident or not—and that my parents knew what happened to Emma Harper. Rather than reporting it, they covered it up. I need to know more before I can tell Lucas, if I ever can.

Finally, I nod several times and retrieve the loaf of bread from him.

"It's my mom's recipe." He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. It's like he doesn't know what to do with them. "I made it, so if it doesn't taste good, that's on me," Lucas adds, rocking back on his heels. He cracks a half smile but it quickly fades, and I assume that's because of me. I'm sure I have the look of a person being interrogated for a crime they did commit.

"Thanks," is all I manage to say.

When I realize I'm squeezing the soft bread, I loosen my grip, causing it to fall to the ground. I quickly bend down to pick it up. The loaf is dented and crushed where I clutched it too tightly. That's how he and I are—a misshapen thing that was once made with love and molded to perfection. Even the most perfect things crumble under pressure.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"Probably for the best. I may have accidentally used salt when the recipe called for sugar," he jokes, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

A laugh escapes me, and it feels foreign and wrong. I don't deserve the relief.

"How's your mom doing?" I ask.

He blows out his cheeks and glances to the right briefly. "Some days are better than others. That's why I'm back... to take care of her. Hearing of Laura's passing really broke her today." He shuffles his feet.

I didn't realize he was back in town. Last I heard, he was married and living in Wausau, a city a few hours north of the Grove. I'm not surprised he and Susan heard about my mom's passing. News travels fast around here and bad news travels even faster. Everyone knew she wasn't doing well and that her days were numbered. Some nosey neighbor must have seen the funeral home come collect her body.

"How are ya holding up?" he adds when I don't say anything.

"I'm okay." I'm not, but that's just what you say.

He delivers a sympathetic look because he knows I'm not okay. He won't pry any further. Even though we haven't spoken in a very long time, at the core we still know each other. But my core isn't the same. It's rotten now—thanks to the sins of my parents. As I look at him, all I can see is his little sister lying dead down by the creek. I avert my gaze, first at my feet and then back at him, no, above his head. I can't look him in the eyes. He'll see right through me.

"Well, I just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing, so I'll leave you to it," Lucas says, rocking back on his heels again.

He starts to turn, and it's then that I feel this strong pull, like we're two magnets drawn to one another. They say you should live life with no regrets, but I've lived a lifetime of them and my biggest one is standing right in front of me.

"Do you want to go for a walk with me tomorrow morning?" I ask before I can even think about what that'll entail.

Lucas stops and looks back at me. He and I used to go for morning runs, but after I blew my knee out, it was never the same. So many parts of ourselves stay raw like that, never fully healing.

The corner of his lip lifts. "Yeah. How about I stop over at seven?"

I nod but don't smile. I can't force my lips up. "That sounds good to me."

"It's a date then." His cheeks flush. "I mean a walk," he says with a nod. "Good night, Beth." He jogs down the porch steps, tossing another glance at me.

I watch him walk down the sidewalk and up our long driveway, waiting to close the door until he's more than halfway up it.

I exhale, hoping the guilt will expire too. But it doesn't. It's still there, sitting in the pit of my stomach like a tumor, festering and growing. I can barely live with myself, and I've only known for an hour. How did Mom live more than twenty years with that terrible secret?