She turned toward Thayer. It struck her that he was probably the only person who would have pressed her on that point, forcing her to distinguish between appearance and reality. He gazed back at her seriously, his eyes bright against his tanned skin. She didn’t know how to begin to answer. She hadn’t felt like herself in weeks. Or maybe she had never felt so much like herself? The alcohol softened the edges of all her thoughts, so she wasn’t quite sure what she meant until she said it out loud. Nothing made sense anyway tonight—not her and Thayer, sitting here on this bench in the cool November evening; not her friends; not even Ethan. Especially not Ethan.
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. “Do you ever feel like no one is really what they seem?”
Thayer’s lips twisted ironically. “All the time. Why do you think I didn’t tell people I went to rehab? I knew half of the people I thought were my friends would turn their backs on me.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “I knew I’d end up alone on the porch drinking soda while almost everyone I knew pretended they hadn’t seen me there.”
Emma suddenly felt self-conscious. Here she was, smelling like beer while she sat next to a boy who’d won a hard-fought battle for sobriety. She fidgeted with Sutton’s clutch, opening and closing the clasp.
“I just don’t know who I can count on anymore,” she said softly. “I keep getting hurt by people I think I know.”
Thayer looked out over the wrought-iron porch railing. The Chamberlains’ sprawling front lawn looked like an elephant graveyard in the darkness, cars parked haphazardly across it. Someone had angled their Miata right into one of Mrs. Chamberlain’s prize rosebushes. Emma wondered distantly how Charlotte would talk her way out of that one.
“That sucks,” Thayer said, playing with the pop-top on his Coke can. It broke off in his fingers and he set it on the swing’s armrest. “Maybe you need some new people in your life.”
Emma bit her lip and gave an awkward little laugh. “The problem is some of them are related to me.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yeah, I know that story, too. Wouldn’t it be awesome if you could pick your family?”
“I’ll take Steve Carell for a dad and Tina Fey for a mom,” she joked.
“Bart Simpson for a brother.”
“Wednesday Addams for a sister.”
Thayer smiled. He leaned back into the porch swing, his expression thoughtful. “You know, one of the things I learned in rehab that turned out not to be a total cliché is that you can’t control other people. The best you can do is be honest with the people you love and hope that they’ll care enough about you to listen. But you can’t make someone be something they’re not.”
“That sounds very … adult,” Emma said.
“Well, a lot of addicts act like children,” he said, shrugging. “I’m just saying—you can’t prevent other people from disappointing you. It’s bound to happen at some point. We’re all only human. What you can do is decide how you’re going to respond to it, how you’re going to deal with it.”
Emma nodded slowly. It was good advice—she just wasn’t sure it really worked in her situation. This was a murder investigation, and she had to fight fire with fire. She couldn’t play a defensive game, not anymore. “It’s all just so complicated sometimes,” she said, wishing she could tell Thayer everything.
“Yeah, I know.” He exhaled loudly. “Believe me. Living with my dad, there’s so much I have to let go of. Sometimes I want to hit him, to punish him. I’ve done that, you know—before I went to Seattle, I took a few swings at him.” He shook his head. “But that’s just me thinking I can change him somehow. Make him sorry. I can’t, obviously.”
They sat there in the shadows, rocking back and forth, Poor Tony’s music still shaking the house. Emma was sobering up quickly thanks to the cool air and the rush of adrenaline from thinking Becky was on the porch. But she was still tipsy enough to admire Thayer without feeling self-conscious. She kept sneaking glances at his profile, studying the curve of his cheek, the small scar along his jawline. She wondered if that, too, was a reminder of the accident in Sabino Canyon.
“Thayer,” she whispered. He turned to face her, and the intensity of his eyes made her lose her breath for a moment. She coughed into her hand. “I never said this, but … I’m really proud of you.” It was true: She admired Thayer’s resolve, his strength. Even though she hadn’t known him before, she felt that he wasn’t the boy from the MISSING posters any longer. The boy who’d vanished without a word. He’d come back a new person. More than anyone else here tonight, he knew exactly who he was and what he believed. It was refreshing—especially after all the lies and pretending she’d been piling up.
“Really?” he asked.
“It takes guts to change,” Emma said quietly. “To start telling the truth to everyone, and mostly to yourself. I know it’s been hard for you. But the people who really care about you—we’re here to support you.”
She felt Thayer’s warm hands, calloused from all the yard work he’d been doing, wrap around her fingers. “The people who really care about me, huh?”
Her cheeks burned. “You know, Mads, Char, Laurel. Your dad, even. We all care about you.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said softly, drawing her closer. And then, before she knew it, his lips were on hers.