Erin Watt - One Small Thing - the gripping new page-turner essential for summer reading 2018!

“How was your day, cutie?” I ask him. “Did you chase any squirrels? Find any sticks? Tell me everything.”

A male chuckle sounds from behind me, and I shoot to my feet in surprise. When I turn around, I’m expecting to see him .

Only it’s not him.

It’s Jeff.

7

“Hey there, Lizzie.” Jeff smiles at me, then at the furry head sticking out of the fence. “Cute pup.”

“He is. And it’s Beth,” I correct by rote.

A crooked smile appears. “Right. Beth. I forgot. You’re all grown-up now.” He reaches out and pulls on a lock of my hair, something he did back when I was fourteen and had a giant crush on my sister’s boyfriend.

I try not to blush and fail. “You’ve been gone awhile,” I say to cover my embarrassment. I head back to the rope swing and plop down on the wooden seat.

His crooked smile grows into a full-blown grin. He doesn’t look any different than when he left Darling two years ago. He still has that solid square jaw and dark eyes that crinkle at the sides when he smiles. My sister thought he was the most beautiful boy in the world. I didn’t disagree.

“Two years,” he confirms. “But Darling hasn’t changed at all, has it? The same stores, streets, people.”

“Yup.”

“I like it.” He brushes some nonexistent dust off his jeans. “Everything overseas was foreign and different, but Darling is the same. That’s why we always want to come home, yeah.”

“Yeah? You picked up an accent,” I tease.

He grabs the rope and gently pulls me forward. “Hard not to after two years there, but I’ll lose it in time.”

“Do you miss England? I’d like to go sometime.”

“Would you?” He chuckles. “I don’t think you’d like it. You’re made for small-town America, Lizzie. It fits you. There’s no point in going away from here. It’s got everything you need. People you love and who love you back. Out there, no one really knows or gets you.”

“Dinner!” Mom calls from the back door.

“Great. I’m starved.” Jeff waves a hand toward my mom to let her know we’ve heard her. “Come on.”

“Are you staying?” I drag my toes into the ground to bring the swing to a stop.

“Yeah. I miss your mom’s roast beef. Can’t get that over there in the UK. The meat’s not the same, you know?”

“Aren’t they famous for their cows? I read that on the internet somewhere.”

He throws an arm around my shoulders. “Didn’t they teach you in fifth grade that seventy-five percent of what’s on the internet is trash? You going to trust me, your old friend Jeffrey, or some online rag?”

“You.”

“That’s right.” He squeezes me.

His arm feels strange around my shoulders. It doesn’t belong there. This is Rachel’s boyfriend. It’s her shoulders his arm should be around.

Dinner is less of a mess than I’d imagined it would be. My parents love Jeff and are thrilled he’s back at the table.

“It’s like old times.” Mom sighs.

“Only better because we’re older and Lizzie is prettier and I’ve been lifting.” He flexes and Mom laughs at his playful antics.

Dad grunts some form of approval.

“How are sales at the store?” Jeff asks my dad. “I heard they might be opening up a Home Depot in Lincoln, so some competition might be cropping up, huh?” Lincoln is a town twenty minutes east of us.

“They’ve been saying that for years and it still hasn’t happened. And even if does, I’m not worried. Those big-box people don’t know the difference between an Allen wrench and a Phillips screwdriver, son. As long as they keep employing ignorant boys, the folks here will always come back to me.”

Jeff and my dad talk about the store some more, and then Jeff tells us about his grandparents’ apartment in England, except he calls it a flat and his accent bothers me a little but I can’t explain why. Of course you’re going to pick up certain phrases and mannerisms when you live somewhere else for two years.

It’s not Jeff, I guess. I’m just on edge from everything that happened today. Seeing Chase at school. Finding out that Chase isn’t Chase. He’s Charles. Charlie. The boy who, in my house, is looked upon as a villain. A murderer.

I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.

As I pick at my dinner, moving my mashed potatoes around on my plate, my mind drifts. I try to recall what I know about Charlie. He was a summer kid, as far as I remember. His parents were divorced, and he visited his mom in Darling during the summer and lived with his dad the rest of the year. His dad lives in Springfield or Bloomington or something. Definitely a city, but I can’t remember which one. And I only know this because my parents told me. I’d never met Charlie before Saturday night.

I shove some mashed potatoes in my mouth and chew quickly.

I don’t think Rachel ever met him, either. He was a stranger. A teenage boy who came to stay with his mom one summer, stole a car, took it for a joyride and ran over my sister.

Again, I know those details only because of my parents. I wasn’t allowed to read the newspapers after it happened. There was no trial. No media storm. My parents shielded me from the whole thing. Charlie took a plea deal and was whisked off to juvenile detention. It was all very nice and tidy.

Except it left my family a mess. In pieces.

And, ironically, Chase wasn’t the only one who wound up in prison.

I snort at that thought, and everyone turns toward me.

“Ah. Sorry,” I mutter, staring down at my plate. “I was just thinking about...something funny.”

My father’s tone is tinged with disapproval. “There is nothing funny about what we’re discussing, Elizabeth.”

What are they discussing? I’d completely tuned them out. When I lift my gaze, I find three grim faces staring back at me.

“Anyway,” Jeff says, picking up wherever he’d left off, “I also disagree with the administration’s decision to let him attend Darling High.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. They’re talking about Chase.

Dad nods tersely. “We’re planning on voicing that sentiment when we meet with the school board.”

My gaze swings toward my father. “What? Why are you meeting with them?”

“Because it’s necessary. They need to know that we don’t take kindly to that boy being allowed back into the community. I don’t give a shi—a damn,” he says hastily, “who his mother is married to these days. He should not be allowed to attend the same school as my daughter, as my—” Dad’s voice gets louder “—my surviving child!”

I cringe. Is that how they think of me? As their “surviving child”?

I scrape my chair back. “May I be excused?” I mumble under my breath.

“No,” Dad says. “We have a guest, Lizzie.”

“It’s Beth now.” This time it’s Jeff who does the correcting.

I glance at him with grateful eyes.

“And I should probably take off anyway,” Jeff continues, even though his food is only half-eaten. “I’ve still got a ton of unpacking to do at home.”

“Tell your mother I’ll give her a call tomorrow,” my mom says. “I’d love to catch up with her and your father.”

“They’d love that, too. Maybe we can have a barbecue this weekend, while the weather’s still nice. Like old times,” Jeff says, winking at my mom.

“That sounds lovely. Lizzie, why don’t you walk Jeff to the door? And then you may be excused to your room.”

I don’t thank her for that, but I do thank Jeff when we stand in the front hall. “Thank you for backing me on the name thing. They refuse to call me anything but Lizzie.” I swallow. “And I’m sorry if you felt like I was trying to run you off. I just... I’m not in the mood for family togetherness.”