The Precious One by Marisa de los Santos Page B

Just like everyone.”
    TWO DAYS LATER , I drove the seven hours from my house to my father’s with an iPod full of fortifying songs, a suitcase full of a week’s worth of clothes, and a head full of Ben. Oh, Ben. His laugh; his Yorkies Busby and Jed; the way he and I would study for hours together without speaking; the things he taught me to like (Ovaltine, basketball, chess); the things I taught him to like (sushi, U2, Barbara Kingsolver); the way his eyes were so dark you could only see his pupils in the brightest sunlight; the way he read books, literally, to pieces; the night he called me in tears (the only time I ever heard or saw him cry) and told me that his mother, who had MS but refusedto use a walker, had fallen down the garage steps and broken her hip, how she’d had to lie there for two hours on the cement floor until his stepfather got home.
    It was complete indulgence, a memory binge, a Ben bender. After so many years of studied denial, of trying to downplay, shrug off, forget, I didn’t so much fall off the wagon as plunge off a cliff. I was so lost in Ben, Ben, Ben that I almost forgot that I was headed Wilson-ward. It wasn’t until I saw the exit for what I still thought of as my hometown (even though I’d tried to stop) that I remembered to worry about what waited at the end of my journey, and even then, the worry was only an annoyance, like a mosquito buzzing in the car or a bad smell. I didn’t panic. I didn’t feel like throwing up or turning the car around. Instead, I squared my shoulders, turned up the Decemberists, thought about the first present Ben gave me (a hand-cranked ice cream maker and a bag of rock salt), and exited.
    Wilson’s house was on a road that had once been quiet and countrified, bordered by farms and fields but which was now pretty well trafficked. Still, the house—a long, white stucco number with a red tile roof—was set so far back from the road that it seemed to be in its own little world, bucolic and meadowy, with trees so old they were probably historic landmarks rising majestically from their pools of shadow. Mixed up among the old trees were newer ones, small and delicate. It wasn’t until I was driving down the long, gently curving driveway that I realized that all the young trees were willows.
    I stopped the car, midway up the drive, shut my eyes, and took some deep breaths. With a shaky imaginary hand, I drew a magic circle in the sand, stepped into it, one foot, the other foot, and waited for the peace to soak in.
    You are an adult , I told myself. You have a life that you love. You are happy and secure and rich in friends and family. Your mother is a jewel. Your brother thinks you’re funny. All of your ex-boyfriends still like you, except Peter, but he never liked you much to begin with. You’re a homeowner. You have ghostwritten two international bestsellers. You have longeyelashes and good feet and a famous best friend. Jealousy can’t touch you because you exist on a plane above jealousy. High above. Miles. Miles and miles and miles .
    “Miles and miles and miles,” I whispered as I put the car in drive.
    “Miles and miles and miles,” I whispered as I put the car in park in front of the house.
    “Miles and miles and miles,” I whispered as I rang the doorbell.
    I heard footsteps inside the house and stopped whispering.
    Caro answered the door. Her eyes and hair looked startled, but her smile was unmistakably real.
    “Taisy!” she said. “How wonderful that you’re here!”
    Then, my stepmother and I were hugging, and I’m not sure, but I can’t swear that I wasn’t the one who started it.
    Maybe it will be okay , I thought, Maybe it will even be good .
    “Hello, Eustacia,” said a voice.
    The person was so impossibly tall, lithe, cool-eyed, and collected that it took a moment for me to realize three things, in this order: that she wasn’t a grown woman but a girl; that she was Wilson’s daughter, the precious one, the one deserving of