He must’ve been standing right there, because before I even had a chance to say anything, I heard his deep voice.
“Allie,” he said. “How is it going up there?”
I felt frozen, like a deer trapped in the headlights, while at the same time a wave of nausea roiled through me. I gripped the phone so tight my knuckles turned white.
“Things are fine,” I managed to say, trying to keep my voice sounding as normal as possible. Since that night almost 10 years ago, I had had as little to do with him as possible, yet I did not want him to know how traumatized I still felt by it. I had a feeling he would sense it as a weakness, and that would incentivize him, like some sort of predator going in for the kill.
“Did your mother mention that we’d like to come up there for a visit? I know she’s already been up there once, but I wouldn’t mind seeing the place for myself. Maybe this summer.”
“I’m pretty busy,” I said. “In fact, I’ve got to run—will you tell Mom I’ll talk to her later? Thanks, bye!”
I ended the call before he could say anything and put the phone back down on the counter, my palms clammy, my heart racing, and not in a good way.
Thanks a lot, I thought. Thanks for ruining this nice morning that I’d been having. I hated that Bill had the ability to do that, even though I’d moved away, even though almost 10 years had passed since that night he’d tried to come into my bedroom.
I wasn’t going to think about it.
I pushed the thought from my mind and instead went to the hall closet and got
the vacuum out. The floors in the cottage were wood, but there were several large braided rugs—one in the living room, one in the small dining room, and another long, thin one in the hallway. I vacuumed the rugs, hearing the little granules of sand as they pinged up the hose. When I was finished, I felt better, and after I put the vacuum away, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was no longer that skinny 15-year-old that Bill had tried to climb in bed with one night when my mother had been out to dinner with a couple of her girlfriends. Between my sophomore and senior years of high school, I grew almost half a foot, my height finally plateauing at a surprising 5-foot-9 (my mother was short and sprite-like, a mere 5-foot-2, though she was very fond of shoes with four-inch heels or higher). Supposedly, my father had been tall, so I guess that’s where it came from, though I didn’t remember him. He had taken off when I was 18 months old; my mother had just turned 20.
I was brushing my teeth when I heard a knock at the side door.
“Just a sec!” I yelled, my words a little garbled. I spit the toothpaste out in the sink, rinsed my mouth out, and then went to see who was at the door.
It was Declan.
“Hi there, Declan,” I said. Some people might have been annoyed to see a student show up on their doorstep on a Saturday, but I wasn’t.
“Hi, Miss Allie,” he said. “I was just out riding my bike, and I thought I’d come say hi. Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I said, holding the door open with one hand and taking a step back so he could come in. “Does your dad know that you’re over here?”
Declan nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He wanted me to come over here, I think. I heard him and my uncle Ben talking the other night. I was in bed, but I woke up when my uncle got there because he’s really loud, even when he’s says he’s not. Well, he’s not really my uncle, but I still call him that. They were making a bet. What’s a bet, anyway?”
“Um... a bet is kind of like a dare that you give to someone. Like if I were to say, Declan, I bet you one chocolate chip cookie that you can’t do a somersault.”
He looked miffed. “I can do a somersault.”
I smiled. “I know you can. Maybe that was a bad example. But let’s just say that I didn’t know that you could do a somersault, and I made that bet with you. And then you showed me how you could do one—” He took two big steps and then hurled himself onto the ground, rolling over not once, but twice. “—If you did that, then I would owe you whatever I bet you, which in this case, would be a chocolate chip cookie.”
His eyes lit up. “I get it!” he said. “Do I really get a cookie?”
I looked at the stove clock. It was 11:30, close enough to lunch that having a cookie wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. “Sure.”
I went over to the bag and opened it, pulling out the last of the cookies.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know,” he continued through a mouthful of cookie, “my dad is going to win this bet.”
“That’s nice you believe in him. Sometimes that’s all someone needs—is for someone to believe in them.”
Declan smiled, a smear of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. “It’s just really easy,” he said, laughing. “It’s easier than doing a somersault. I heard Uncle Ben say he bet my dad couldn’t sleep with you. Isn’t that funny? Because sleeping with someone’s so easy—you just climb right up into bed next to them! Do you still take naps? I do sometimes.”
“Wait a second,” I said, certain that I must have misunderstood, “you heard your father saying what?”
“He was making a bet. Or no—Uncle Ben was making a bet, and it was about you! Isn’t that funny?”