“Leave him alone.” Blythe cries, rushing to Carter’s side.
Jackson turns back to me. His hands are on my shoulders again, his eyes full of concern. “Tell me what happened.”
Blythe turns a fiery look at her brother. “Livvie was kissing Carter is what happened.” She spits, glaring at me with an expression that’s close to hatred. "She was practically naked, and her hands were all over him.”
The words seem to freeze the air, or maybe its Jackson’s eyes, as they suddenly turn to ice. His hands tighten on my shoulders, and then they’re gone, suddenly, as if the touch of my skin has stung him.
“I’m sorry.” I hear Carter say to Blythe. “I was up on the corridor looking for you, and she came up and said her zipper was stuck, and then she was all over me.”
By now Jackson’s eyes are positively glacial, and the way he’s looking at me, as if he doesn’t know me, as if we haven't spent the last few months getting to know each other in the most intimate possible ways, as if I’m the liar, the slut Carter and Blythe are accusing me of being.
A part of me is still convinced that he would wait, allow me to tell him the truth. That part dies when he turns and roughly shoves Carter out of the way, before walking out of the room. He’s followed by Blythe, who’s pulling on Carter's hand, while he follows her, his head bowed in an expression of perfect contrition.
I spend the night in my room, not even bothering to say goodbye to my friends. At first all I can do is throw up, retching until my stomach feels like a raw aching mess. I keep seeing the look on Jackson’s face, anger, and even disgust. I can’t believe that he and Blythe both choose to believe Carter without even asking me what happened.
‘Carter Felton is one of them,’ a voice in my head whispers, ‘you’re only a charity case, why would they even care anything about you?’
I don’t want to believe that my thoughts are right, but if Blythe were my friend, wouldn’t she have asked me what happened? If Jackson loved me, wouldn’t he have waited for me to defend myself before judging me?
‘He was only using you.’ The hateful inner voice continues, and it goes on like that all night. By morning, my eyes are red from crying, and I’m heartsick from waiting for Jackson to come to my room and ask for my side of the story.
When I venture downstairs, the house is silent. Luckily, I don’t see anyone on the way downstairs. I don’t think I can face Blythe, or even Jackson. I just want to tell Aunt Constance everything, because I know she’ll at least listen to me.
I hear her voice through the door to the study before I enter. She’s talking on the phone, and when she notices me, she frowns and holds up a hand to tell me to wait for her to finish her conversation. I stand there nervous and waiting, the knot in my stomach growing until I feel as if I might start to throw up again.
Finally, when she’s done, she turns to me. “What were you thinking?” she starts. She looks stern, and her voice sounds impatient and almost annoyed. "You ruined the party for the both of them. Blythe’s left town and God knows where Jackson is. I haven’t seen or heard from him since last night.”
With each word that comes out of her mouth, my misery increases, somehow I’d thought that even if everyone else believed Carter over me, she wouldn’t. She was my last hope that somewhere in this house, there was someone who would give me a chance. I close my eyes against the tears and desperation threatening to come to the surface. Suddenly I want my mom and my dad. They would have listened to me. They would have believed me, and they would have made sure Carter paid for what he tried to do to me.
Aunt Constance mistakes my silence for remorse. She sighs sympathetically. “Olivia, I understand that at your age making out with a cute guy can seem like it’s the most important thing in the world, but there are other things that matter, like loyalty to people who have been kind to you.”
I swallow the painful lump in my throat. I can’t even look at her. I’ve spent so long admiring her and wanting to emulate her, and I can’t reconcile those feelings to the sense of anger and betrayal I feel towards her right now.
I want to throw a tantrum, to scream, to demand that she asks me what really happened, but I decide that it’s no use. She has judged me, concluded about me, even before hearing me out. She’s picked Blythe and Carter over me, as she always will.
“You’ll have to apologize to Blythe,” she pronounces, dismissing me. “Heaven knows she’s crazy enough about that boy to never want to see your face again.”
With that, she turns away and goes back to whatever she was working on. My eyes are smarting as I leave the study and walk out of the house. Outside, the sky is so blue and the day so beautiful that it makes no sense how miserable I feel. The tables on the lawn are gone. The whole place is as spotless as if the party never happened. I wish it had never happened. I wish I could erase yesterday from my memory, and everyone else’s too.
I walk down the drive, past the gates, and out onto the road, and I keep on walking for what seems like hours until I get to the cemetery.
It’s a peaceful place. The silence only disturbed by the rustling of leaves on the trees along the perimeter, which shield the graves from the street. There’s no gate, so I just walk in through the paved drive, passing old graves and new ones, simple headstones and elaborate ones until I get to the spot where my parents are buried.
I remove the carcasses of the flowers I left the last time I was there. In my misery, I’d forgotten to bring new ones, so there’s nothing to replace them.
Leaning against the headstone, a thick
, black, slab of granite, I trace my fingers over the engravings of my parents’ names, the dates of their births and deaths, as well as the words, ‘Loving Parents.’ Near the bottom of the headstone, the phrase “To live in the hearts of those you love is not to die,” is engraved in script. I requested those words to be added, but now I know they mean nothing. When you die, you’re gone, and you leave the ones you love behind, and no matter how long they keep you in their hearts you never come back to help them when they need you the most.
I start to cry, depressed with the unfairness of everything. For the first time in a long time, I find myself wishing we’d never moved to Foster. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so miserable. Maybe my parents would still be alive, maybe I'd never have met Jackson, and he’d never have broken my heart.
As if I’m not miserable enough, it’s starts to rain. It’s only a small drizzle, but it’s enough to make me feel as if the whole universe has conspired against me. I leave the grave and start the walk back to Halcyon, imagining how the whole of Foster must have heard by now that I tried to steal Blythe Lockewood’s boyfriend, even Chace and May would have heard some version. Would they judge me too, believe what everyone is saying without giving me the benefit of the doubt? The thought makes me even sadder. I wish I didn’t have to face anyone ever again. I wish I could float away in the air or something, and let go of my misery as I go.
By the time I get back to the house, Jackson’s car is parked in the drive. It wasn’t there when I left, and my heart tightens with apprehension at the thought of facing him. Instead of going into the house, I turn towards the gardens, picking my way through the flowers and shrubs to the lily pond and the gazebo that overlooks it. Somewhere in my mind is the thought of remaining there until I can sneak into the house without the risk of running into Jackson and facing his condemnation again.
The lilies are blooming in the pond, and they look beautiful as they float on the surface of the water. I stare at them for a while before I go towards the gazebo. It’s a small structure with a tiled roof, round, with chest high walls topped with well-tended flower boxes. I used to come here to be alone when I first started living with the Lockewoods, and right now, I need the solace I always found here.
I climb the two steps into the small space, and freeze when I see Jackson lying inside, his long frame taking up at least four of the seats that line the walls. He’s facing towards the ceiling, his eyes closed, and as I stand there frozen, unsure whether to walk in or go back, he turns towards me.