Lock and Key(54)
Author: Sarah Dessen

Now the door behind me opened, and Jamie came in, Roscoe tagging along at his feet. I looked up at him, but he brushed past, not making eye contact, to put his mug in the sink. “So,” Cora said slowly, “I think maybe we all should—”

“I’ve got to go into the office,” he said, grabbing his phone and keys off the counter. “I told John I’d meet him to go over those changes to the campaign.”

“Jamie,” she said, looking over at me.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, then kissed the top of her head and left the room, Roscoe following. A moment later, I heard the front door shut behind him.

I swallowed, looking outside again. From anyone else, this would be hardly an insult, if even noticeable. But even I knew Jamie well enough to understand it as the serious snub it was.

Cora came over, sliding into the chair opposite mine. “Hey,” she said, keeping her eyes on me until I finally turned to face her. “It’s okay. You guys will work this out. He’s just hurt right now.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said as a lump rose in my throat. I was suddenly embarrassed, although whether by the fact I was crying, or crying in front of Cora was hard to say.

“I know.” She reached over, sliding her hand onto mine. “But you have to understand, this is all new to him. In his family, everyone talks about everything. People don’t take off; they don’t come home drunk. He’s not like us.”

Like us. Funny how up until recently—like maybe even the night before—I hadn’t been convinced there was an us here at all. So maybe things could change. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “I really am.”

She nodded, then sat back, dropping her hand. “I appreciate that. But the fact is, we did trust you, and you betrayed that trust. So there have to be some consequences.”

Here it comes, I thought. I sat back, picking up my water bottle, and braced myself.

“First,” she began, “no going out on weeknights. Weekends, only for work, for the foreseeable future. We strongly considered making you give up your job, but we’ve decided to let you keep it through the holidays, with the provision that we revisit the issue in January. If we find out that you skipped school again, the job goes. No discussion.”

“All right,” I said. It wasn’t like I was in any position to argue.

Cora swallowed, then looked at me for a long moment. “I know a lot happened yesterday. It was emotional for both of us. But you doing drugs or drinking . . . that’s unnacceptable. It’s a violation of the agreement we arranged so you could come here, and if the courts ever found out, you’d have to go back to Poplar House. It cannot happen again.”

I had a flash of the one night I’d stayed there: the scratchy pajamas, the narrow bed, the house director reading over the sheriff’s report while I sat in front of her, silent. I swallowed, then said, “It’s not going to.”

“This is serious, Ruby,” she said. “I mean, when I saw you come in like that last night, I just . . .”

“I know,” I said.

“. . . it’s too familiar,” she finished. Then she looked at me, hard. “For both of us. You’re better than that. You know it.”

“It was stupid of me,” I said. “I just . . . When you told me that about Mom, I just kind of freaked.”

She looked down at the salt shaker between us, sliding it sideways, then back again. “Look, the bottom line is, she lied to both of us. Which shouldn’t really be all that surprising. That said, though, I wish I could have made it easier for you, Ruby. I really do. There’s a lot I’d do different, given the chance.”

I didn’t want to ask. Luckily, I didn’t have to.

“I’ve thought about it so much since I left, how I could have tried harder to keep in touch,” she said, smoothing back a few curls with her hand. “Maybe I could have found a way to take you with me, rent an apartment or something. ”

“Cora. You were only eighteen.”

“I know. But I also knew Mom was unstable, even then. And things only got worse,” she said. “I shouldn’t have trusted her to let you get in touch with me, either. There were steps I could have taken, things I could have done. I mean, now, at work, I deal every day with these kids from messed-up families, and I’m so much better equipped to handle it. To handle taking care of you, too. But if I’d only known then—”

“Stop,” I said. “It’s over. Done. It doesn’t matter now.”

She bit her lip. “I want to believe that,” she said. “I really do.”

I looked at my sister, remembering how I’d always followed her around so much as a kid, clinging to her more and more as my mom pulled away. What a weird feeling to find myself back here, dependent on her again. Just as I thought this, something occurred to me. “Cora?”

“Yeah? ”

“Do you remember that day you left for school?”

She nodded.

“Before you left, you went back in and spoke to Mom. What did you say to her?”

She exhaled, sitting back in her chair. “Wow,” she said. “I haven’t thought about that in years.”

I wasn’t sure why I’d asked her this, or if it was even important. “She never mentioned it,” I said. “I just always wondered.”

Cora was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if she was even going to answer me at all. But then she said, “I told her that if I found out she ever hit you, I would call the police. And that I was coming back for you as soon as I could, to get you out of there.” She reached up, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I believed that, Ruby. I really did. I wanted to take care of you.”

“It’s all right,” I told her.

“It’s not,” she continued, over me. “But now, here, I have the chance to make up for it. Late, yes, but I do. I know you don’t want to be here, and that it’s far from ideal, but . . . I want to help you. But you have to let me. Okay?”

This sounded so passive, so easy, although I knew it wasn’t. As I thought this, though, I had a flash of Peyton again, standing at the bottom of that stairway. Why are you surprised? she’d said, and for all the wrongness of the situation, I knew she was right. You get what you give, but also what you’re willing to take. The night before, I’d offered up my hand. Now, if I held on, there was no telling what it was possible to receive in return.