Page 78 of Trust Again

The ringtone was familiar, from that call in the vacation house. It was a ring you couldn’t ignore and that promised nothing good.

“Yes?” He was still breathing hard. Spencer pressed his lips together and his eyes began to dart. “For how long?”

I reached out for his free hand but before I could touch him he pulled it away. My heart stopped for a second.

“Okay. No, no problem. I’m on my way.” He hung up, stone-faced. For a few moments it was dead quiet in the car. Spencer grasped the steering wheel with one hand and let his head drop back against the headrest. He forced himself to breathe calmly and deeply.

“Go inside,” he suddenly said. He straightened up again, shoved the cell phone back into his pocket and started the car.

“But…”

“Go inside, Dawn.”

He wasn’t looking at me, just at the road ahead. His face was stiff and blank.

“Spence…”

“Please just go, Dawn!” He turned abruptly toward me with an angry expression.

“I won’t let you go alone,” I insisted, and buckled my seatbelt for emphasis.

We stared at each other stubbornly for a few very long seconds.

Finally, Spencer squinted slightly. “All right.” He pushed the gas pedal so hard that the tires squealed.

Reflexively, I braced myself against the dashboard. Spencer sped through the streets of Woodshill like a madman, and I fervently wished I’d reacted faster and taken the damn car keys from him.

He didn’t speak. For the whole ride.

Spencer did the trip in one and a half hours; it usually took two. I didn’t relax until we reached the driveway of his parents’ house.

On the way to the door he didn’t even look at me. I understood that it wasn’t about me, but about what was going on inside the house. Still, it hurt.

I followed him through the foyer, past the abstract statue, the expensive furniture, and up the stairs. This time there was no screeching; the house was surprisingly quiet. It was early evening and the hallway was brightly lit. Again, Spencer’s steps were quick and confident; it was hard to keep up with him. Reaching Olivia’s room, he disappeared inside without looking at me once. It was like I didn’t even exist.

As if frozen, I stood in the hallway. A murmuring came through the door. By now I recognized the voice of Spencer’s mother, and his father’s as well. And the quiet, slow voice must be Olivia’s.

I leaned against the wall next to the door to her room and let myself slide to the floor. It didn’t take long for Spencer’s parents to leave the room. Mr. Cosgrove looked down at me, his face distorted with pain.

“Hello, Dawn,” Mrs. Cosgrove said. I looked from her husband’s face to hers. “Do you want to come downstairs with us?”

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay here,” I said softly.

Somehow I felt, I don’t know—safer—with only a wall between Spencer and me. I wanted to be near him. As near as he would let me.

“Of course. Just tell us if you need something,” Mrs. Cosgrove said. Then she took her husband’s hand and led him down the hall to the stairs.

Time passed. I heard Spencer’s voice and Olivia’s soft sobbing. I pulled up my knees. At some point, Mrs. Cosgrove came back upstairs with a cup of hot cocoa. I smiled gratefully, but had the feeling she needed it much more than I did.

“Thanks for coming with him,” she said and patted my shoulder. “He probably won’t admit it, but I think it’ll do him good to have someone to talk to about this.”

With these words, she left me alone again. I stared at the whipped cream and shook my head.

If she only knew.

Spencer did talk to me, but not about his family. We talked about everything except Olivia. In the last few weeks I’d forbidden myself from pestering him. It was an unspoken agreement.

I drank the chocolate and let myself be warmed. My legs were getting stiff and my bottom was sore from sitting so long on the floor, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that Spencer didn’t have to go home alone.

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