Spencer followed Melissa across the lawn, admiring her sister’s soft red cashmere V-neck sweater and black skinny jeans. She’d helped Melissa pick them out from Otter—Melissa had actually listened to Spencer when she told Melissa that she was dressing like a clone of their mother. It was one of the few good things that had come out of this nightmare—Spencer and Melissa were finally getting along for real. No more competitiveness. No more nasty comments. Surviving that fire—escaping their half sister—had put everything in perspective. So far, anyway.
The house smelled comfortingly like tomato sauce and garlic. For the first time in two months, the living room was spotless, the floors looked waxed, and all the oil paintings in the halls hung straight and even. When Spencer peered into the dining room, she saw that the table was set. Perrier sparkled in water glasses. A bottle of wine was airing in a decanter on the rolling bar cart.
“What’s going on?” Spencer murmured uneasily. It was highly doubtful her mom was entertaining.
“Spence?”
Mr. Hastings appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a gray suit from work. Spencer had barely seen him since the night she exposed the affair. Stunningly, Mrs. Hastings appeared behind him, a tired but content smile on her face. “Dinner’s ready,” she chirped, removing an oven mitt from her right hand.
“O-okay,” Spencer stammered. She walked into the dining room, still staring at them. Were they seriously going to pretend that nothing had happened? Could they really brush this under the rug? Did Spencer even want them to?
Mr. Hastings poured Spencer a tiny sip of wine and gave Melissa a regular-size glass. He bustled around with Spencer’s mom, carrying bowls and spoons and a basket of garlic bread to the table. Spencer and Melissa exchanged an uneasy glance. He never helped with dinner preparations, usually sitting at the table like a king while Mrs. Hastings did all the work.
Everyone sat down, Spencer’s parents on either end of the table, Spencer and Melissa on opposite sides. The room was very quiet. Steam rose from the bowl of pasta puttanesca. The smell of garlic and spicy wine tickled Spencer’s nose. The family stared at one another like they were strangers forced to sit together on an airplane. Finally, Mr. Hastings cleared his throat.
“Want to play Star Power?” he said.
Spencer’s mouth dropped open. Melissa’s, too. Mrs. Hastings let out a weary laugh. “He’s kidding, girls.”
Mr. Hastings rested his palms on the table. “This talk is long overdue.” He paused to sip his wine. “I need to tell you that I never meant to hurt you. Any of you. But I did. That’s not going to change, and I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. But I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll be there for all of you. Things are different now, and they’ll never go back to being the way they were, but please know that every day, I feel terrible about what I did. I’ve felt terrible about it since it happened. And I feel terrible that someone we’re related to did something horrible to both of you. I would have never forgiven myself if something had happened.” He let out a small sniffle.
Spencer rocked her fork back and forth on the table, not sure what to say. It always made her nervous and uncomfortable to see her dad get emotional—and this was the first time he’d even hinted at being Ali’s real father. She wanted to tell her dad that it was okay—she forgave him, and it was best forgotten. But she was pretty sure that would be a lie.
“So what’s going to happen?” Melissa asked in a small voice, kneading the cloth napkin next to her plate.
Mrs. Hastings took a tiny sip of sparkling water. “We’re working on things, just trying to understand what happened.”
“Are you getting back together?” Spencer blurted.
“Right now, no,” Mrs. Hastings explained. “Your dad’s renting a townhouse closer to the city. But we’ll see how it goes.”
“We’ll have to take it one day at a time,” Mr. Hastings said, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. “But we want to try to meet for dinner here at least once a week. To talk to you together and hang out. So…here we are.” He reached across the table, grabbed a piece of garlic bread, and bit off a piece with a loud crunch.
And so they went on, not talking about Star Power achievements, not out-bragging one another, not making insidious little insults disguised as compliments. Finally, it occurred to Spencer what was going on. They were being…normal. This was probably what most families did at dinner every day.
Spencer coiled a piece of pasta around her fork and took a big, sloppy bite. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the family she’d always dreamed of. Maybe her parents wouldn’t get back together in the end, and her dad would remain in his rented townhouse or move to a house of his own. But if they could talk about things—if they were really interested in one another—then that was a change for the better.
As Mrs. Hastings brought in pints of Ben & Jerry’s and four spoons, Melissa tapped Spencer’s foot under the table. “Want to stay with me in the townhouse in Philly for the weekend?” she whispered. “Tons more cool clubs and restaurants have opened up.”
“Really?” Spencer asked. Melissa had never invited her to the townhouse before.
“Yep.” Melissa nodded. “There’s a guest room for you. And I’ll even let you reorganize my bookshelf.” She winked. “Maybe you can file the books by color and size instead of in alphabetical order.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Spencer said, giggling.
Two bright pink spots appeared on Melissa’s cheeks, almost like she was happy. The warm feeling in Spencer’s stomach grew and grew. Just a few weeks ago, she’d had two sisters. Now she was down to only one. But maybe Melissa was the only sister she’d ever really needed. Perhaps Melissa even could be the sister Spencer had always wanted…and Spencer could be that sister to Melissa, too. Maybe all they had to do was give each other a chance.
35 EMILY FIELDS PUTS IT ALL TO REST
Instead of driving straight home from the hospital, Emily made the turn down Goshen Road. It was a hilly, picturesque lane that featured a series of dairy farms, a crumbling stone wall from the Revolutionary War, and a mansion so huge and sprawling that it had three separate garages and its own helipad.
Eventually, she came to the wrought-iron gate of St. Basil’s cemetery. Dusk was setting in fast, but the gate was still open, and there were a couple of cars parked in the lot. Emily pulled in next to a Jeep Liberty and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment, taking heaping breaths. Then she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a plastic bag she’d stashed there.
Her Vans sank in the wet, soft grass as she walked past the graves, many of them bearing fresh flowers and American flags. Emily reached the headstone she was looking for in no time, wedged prettily between two pine trees. Alison Lauren DiLaurentis, the grave said. It was surprising that it was still here, being that Ali’s family had left Rosewood forever.
And that it wasn’t actually Ali who was buried here, but Courtney.
Emily traced the A on the headstone with her thumb. She had prided herself on knowing Ali so intimately, better than any of the others. And yet she hadn’t known that the girl she was kissing wasn’t the Ali she’d known all those years before. She’d been too blinded by love. Even today, a big part of her still couldn’t believe it had happened. She couldn’t grasp that the girl who’d come back to them wasn’t the Ali she’d known—and that the Ali she’d known wasn’t the real Ali at all.