Anders absorbed this, and then, realizing Leonard was right, felt even worse that he had done exactly that with his podcast. Leonard reached over and patted Anders’s hand.
“Chin up. You’re a good kid. You’ll do the right thing.”
Anders’s hackles raised—as if Leonard had scratched his fingernails down a chalkboard. Anders wasn’t a good kid. He wasn’t good to the people on Frick Island and he hadn’t been good to Leonard, certainly—growing up he’d been difficult and temperamental and ungrateful. He’d shouted horrible things at him. Anders cringed remembering the unoriginal juvenile insults he’d lobbed Leonard’s way: that he wasn’t his real dad, that just because his mom loved him didn’t mean he had to, and worse, that he hated him, he hated his stupid laugh and his stupid jokes and his goofy smile. And Leonard took it, in his roll-off-the-back, life-is-ducky, I’d-prefer-not-to-die-but-whatever-happens-happens! kind of way.
“Why do you do that?” he said, irritated.
“Do what?”
Anders thought of the video—of Leonard’s raucous cheering—and he thought of the ridiculous comments he left on every single one of his podcasts. And he thought how he didn’t deserve any of it—especially not for the break-dancing, anyway. “Why do you believe in me, when I’ve given you absolutely no reason to?”
Leonard cocked his head, his eyes dancing with amusement, as if he knew the secret to the universe and Anders was just too thick to see it. “For the same reason the people on Frick Island believed Piper.”
Anders raised his eyebrows. “Because you’re insane?”
Leonard chuckled. “Yes, that’s it. Because I’m insane.” He looked pointedly at Anders. “And because I love you. So very much.”
Anders stared at his stepdad for a beat, until his nose started to tingle and his vision blurred. And then he decided perhaps he was allergic to the chrysanthemums, too.
Chapter 28
Anders’s stomach twisted in a hundred knots as he rode the ferry back to the island. He had spent three days at home, mulling over his choices, until finally he called the producer back at Good Morning America and asked her to give him one more day to decide. He had considered calling Piper, but he didn’t have her phone number, and even if he could find it, he decided this was likely a conversation he should have face-to-face—if she would even see him. He was going to tell her everything—lay it all out on the line and then leave it up to her. If she wanted to do the talk show, if she thought it would help, he would do it. If not, simple as that, he’d say no.
As the boat pulled closer to the dock, Anders saw a huddle of people—mostly watermen—standing around, and as they got even closer, he could see their faces were long, drawn, and he knew in his already twisting gut that something was wrong. When they reached the pilings and Anders stepped off the boat to tie it off, BobDan’s wife, Shirlene, noticed them and peeled off from the group. Wringing her hands, a worry line carved deep into her forehead, she approached the boat and glanced from Anders to BobDan.
“What is it?” BobDan asked, and the gravity of his voice further cemented Anders’s concern.
“I tried to get ahold of you, but you left the radio.”
“Tell me.”
“They found his body.”
“Who?”
“Tom.”
BobDan sucked in a sharp breath.
Shirlene explained how a large industrial fishing boat from Boston hauled it in on their trawling net a few days earlier. Took some time to get to the right authorities and then run the proper identification tests.
“Does Piper know?” Anders interrupted her.
Shirlene nodded. “She was here when the call came through. Took off before I could do anything. Pearl went to check on her, but she wouldn’t open the door.”
Shirlene kept talking, but Anders didn’t stick around to hear any more. He ran. Past the huddled watermen, past the bench. Down the deserted main street, past the general store and the church. And though his heart was pounding in his ears and his lungs were screaming at the cold air being forced into them, he kept running all the way to the bed-and-breakfast. He sprinted down the alley to Piper’s carriage house, took the steps two at a time, and didn’t even bother knocking. He threw open the front door and burst in, nearly tripping on Piper, who lay crumpled like a pile of discarded clothing on the floor, her entire body convulsing with sobs, as if she’d taken one step into the house and then hadn’t had the strength to go any farther.
Anders immediately scooped his arms beneath her and she collapsed against him, limp with grief. He carried her to the couch, where he just held her while she blindly cried into his chest. He wasn’t even sure if she knew it was him—or if she’d be angry when she realized it, considering the last time they saw each other she had told him in no uncertain terms to leave. He only knew that he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, leave her alone like this.
Finally, the fresh waves of crying seemed to slow, with longer lulls in between, and she lifted her head to look at him. His breathing shallowed, bracing himself for her ire. “I know it’s stupid,” she said, her voice small and hoarse. “But I think I was holding out hope this whole time. I thought maybe he could somehow . . .” She hiccuped. “Still be alive.”
Anders smoothed her hair. “That’s not stupid.”
She pressed her cheek back against his chest and began crying anew, albeit calmer this time, and Anders let her, methodically stroking her curls. It was peaceful, sitting here, and Anders imagined he could stay exactly in this position for days, if not weeks, and not find himself wanting for anything.
And then the door burst open once again,
