Friended

by Kilby Blades

  I walked us up the stairs to the third level, then up one more flight to the fourth. School was in session so the residence was empty. Our destination was my favorite window seat. It had everything a good window seat should. Soft, cushy pillows, room for two and an amazing view of the lake. I would start with my second story—the one with the happy ending. Roxy waited for me to begin.

  "Once a week, the nuns would take us into town to do our shopping. One Saturday in June I ran into Declan. He was picking up prescriptions for his grandma, who lives, like, ten miles from here. Mind you, we had never been friends at school before. The school had been told I was in France on foreign exchange. I'd even missed the spring semester. Yet, there I was, 30 weeks pregnant, running into Declan while buying stretch mark cream and Preparation H.

  "I panicked—like, started having an actual panic attack. I dropped everything in my hands. Every fear I had about people knowing what had happened to me came crashing down and I just…lost it. I still don't remember the whole episode. Somehow we made it out of the pharmacy and ended up on a sidewalk bench.

  "I came to in his arms. When I realized what happened, I tried to get up and leave, but he only held me tighter. He held me like that 'til I had to go find the other girls and get my ride back to the convent. Before he put me in the van, he kissed my forehead and told me it would be okay."

  "I spent the next week in tears, partially because seeing him like that made it all feel more real, but also because I was so heartbroken by his kindness. My parents had basically abandoned me here, convinced me that the rape was my fault, and hidden the pregnancy even from my brothers. They were forcing me to give my baby up for adoption, and they expected me to come home at the end of the summer and play like I'd been on exchange. Declan's humanity was the best thing that had happened to me in months and it kind of made me fall apart."

  Roxy looked thoughtful as I let the information sink in. I'd seen her wince when I'd referred to the rape.

  "I'm sorry all that happened to you, Annika," she said finally.

  "Me, too. But it brought me to Declan. That next week, he showed up on visitors' day with a big bouquet of daisies. Said I was probably sick of people bringing me roses."

  We shared our first real smile.

  "He came to see me every week after that. Each visit, we sat right here in this spot. He felt the baby kick and rubbed my feet. He listened to my whole story and held me while I cried. He stood up to my parents and made them press charges against Bryce, but not before he kicked his ass. He told my brothers the truth and brought them to come see me." I teared up again at the memory. “I’d never been so happy to see those clowns in my life."

  In her sorry state, Roxy was deep in tissues. She handed me one and we both swiped at our eyes.

  "So here's the lesson, Roxy. There are good guys and bad guys, and I found out the difference the hard way. Jagger is one of the good ones—the kind you hold onto with all you've got. So he did something stupid, but guys are dumb like that. If you ever find yourself in a relationship with a guy who doesn't do stupid things, be afraid...

  "And, don't think for a second I'm blind to Declan's faults just because he came to my rescue. I know all about his cage fighting addiction and all that kinky porn—why do you think he's so into pregnant chicks?"

  Her jaw dropped in shock.

  "Jagger's only human and good people do bad things. I can guarantee that you will regret not forgiving him."

  She took a deep, stuttering breath, looking clearer than she had been when I’d picked her up that morning. "I know, I just…I wish I understood why."

  "You two have only been dating for, like, two weeks Roxy. You can't expect him to lay it all down now. These things that happened with Declan took almost three months. And Jagger has his own share of junk."

  She sniffled and nodded again. "Can I ask you a question? I mean, I know I'm supposed to be listening, but…”

  What happened to your baby? I was sure it was coming.

  "How do you know all this stuff about Jagger?"

  Twenty-Six

  Need You Now

  It's a quarter after one,

  I'm all alone and I need you now.

  Said I wouldn't call but I

  lost all control and I need you now.

  -Lady Antebellum, Need You Now

  Roxy

  Annika had thrown a cryptic "You'll find out when we get back to Rye” as a non-answer to my only question. She’d gone beyond defending Jagger—she'd spoken of him with a certain reverence. Before, I’d assumed their only association was their common link: Declan. If I hadn't just heard how deep things were between she and Declan, I might've been jealous.

  Back in Rye, Annika zipped through the town, passing the turn-off to Zoë's place. Next, we passed the turn-off to mine. Then, the turn-off to school, and, to my relief, the turn-off to Jagger's.

  "Where're we going?" I asked, no longer able to sit in suspense.

  She smiled slyly. "I volunteer at the hospital."

  I didn't like hospitals. I’d once waited in one for five hours, alone, after cabbing it to the emergency room when I’d cut myself with a knife. Especially now, I didn’t want to think about lying to cover for my mother’s absence, or the throbbing pain as I’d waited to get stitches, or being nauseated by the scent of my own blood. I especially didn’t want to think about how she’d groused all the way back to our shitty apartment about how the hospital had called her anyway and said they wouldn’t release me until a parent picked me up.

  “You get to bring people to your volunteer gig?” I asked Annika. “That sounds…untraditional."

  "Oh, today's not my day…"

  Clearly amused by keeping me in suspense, Annika’s lips twitched as she pulled into the hospital lot.

  "I thought we'd drop in on a colleague. Tuesdays and Thursdays are Jagger."

  Tuesdays and Thursdays. Volunteering at the hospital. Jagger’s elusive disappearances were explained. Still…

  "Jagger's a candy striper?" I almost shouted.

  He'd made me insecure over being an afterschool volunteer? Annika looked like she was trying not to laugh.

  "While I might pay to see him in a pink and white outfit, hospitals stopped having candy stripers, like, twenty years ago."

  I wasn't laughing—I was still too busy being peeved. Her smile faded.

  "Seriously, Roxy. You need to see what he does here."

  I lagged behind Annika as we approached the entrance, wringing my hands all the while.

  "I don't know if I can see him yet, Annika. What am I going to say?"

  "Lucky bitch that you are, you won't have to say anything."

  I followed her down a long hallway, up a staircase and down a hall. When she punched a security code into a keypad next to a serious-looking door, I looked around to figure out where we were.

  “N-I-C-U?" I said aloud. I had no idea what that meant.

  “NICU.” She sounded out the acronym as if it were a single word. "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. It's where the babies who are too sick to go home stay to get better."

  She walked through the door.

  "Jagger should be just through here."

  The idea of seeing him—if even from afar—terrified me. It didn’t help my nerves that I still couldn’t fathom what it was she wanted me to see. But his profile was unmistakable from the instant I caught site of him through the window. The mere sight of him clenched my heart. He stood with his back to me as his body rocked slowly, his tall figure a stark contrast to the collection of enclosed little beds that looked more like futuristic pods. He turned his body slowly, his lips moving as if he were talking, and it was then that I saw the bundle in his arms.

  Holy fuck. My boyfriend is holding a baby.

  I gulped as I looked over at Annika. "Please tell me that's not his."

  She rolled her eyes. "He's a cuddler, Roxy. So am I. Remember? We're volunteers. Babies need human contact in order to develop properly."

  But
Jagger was magnetic, and before Annika even finished her sentence my gaze pulled back to him. Even the wrecked version of Jagger was beautiful. Despite dark circles under his eyes and anguish written on his face, his gaze upon the infant was loving. When Jagger reached out the back of a finger to tenderly rub the infant’s cheek, the corners of my mouth trembled.

  "Jagger…cuddles babies?"

  I bit my lip to keep from sobbing, but I knew it would be of no use.

  "Every Tuesday and Thursday. And he loves these kids, Roxy. The one he's with today—Nick—is going home on Friday. Jag's gotten really attached to him. But that's what we're here for, to get them nice and strong. Strong enough so they can go home."

  Annika's voice caught at the last part, and it all snapped into focus. Why she would volunteer her time working with babies. Why Jagger would. My heart either broke a little or opened then, I didn’t quite know which.

  "Annika?" I asked cautiously. Her eyes were shining. "What happened to your baby?"

  It took her a long minute to answer.

  "She was born on August 15 of last year. I gave her up for adoption. Declan was with me when they took her. She was the most beautiful little girl I've ever seen and I named her Daisy."

  By then we were both crying and in an unprecedented move, I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her waist. She wrapped back and it felt strangely comfortable.

  Thirty minutes later, I was at home, shut back in my room. But I still couldn’t face the music until I braved the final frontier.

  Instagram.

  I knew he'd tried to get through to me there. I had so much to tell him, but I still didn't know what I would say. My heart raced as I logged on for the first time since I’d turned off alerts four days before. A single look at my start page had me completely overwhelmed. Thirty-two private messages, all of them from him. Most of them seemed to be lyrics from songs. We had to talk. I knew we had to, but there were so many letters, and messages, and play lists and being kidnapped by Zoë, then Annika…it was all a bit too much. Some part of me screamed that we had to go back—to start again and do things right—to do more than apologize to one-another and pick up where we left off. Something about this mess made me want to unravel every wrong.

  It has to be this way.

  Through my tears, I clicked to compose a new message and typed his name into the recipient bar. Now it was my turn to send him the lyrics to a song.

  I hope you know, I hope you know

  That this has nothing to do with you.

  It's personal. Myself and I,

  we got some straightening out to do…

  -Fergie

  I know we need to talk, but right now there are too many words. I'm sorry I can't handle it all right now. Soon, I promise.

  After hitting send, there was only one more thing to do, and I cried impossibly harder when I navigated to my friend list, scrolled to his name, and hit "remove".

  Twenty-Seven

  Creep

  I wish I was special.

  You're so very special.

  But I’m a creep.

  I’m a weirdo.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  I don’t belong here.

  -Radiohead, Creep

  Jagger

  Nick stared up at me in wide-eyed wonder, his eyes registering a bit of alarm. In recent days, their hue had melted from deep blue-green to clear coffee brown. He’d mostly slept through my visits in earlier weeks, just after he’d been born. These past two weeks, he’d been more alert each time I came around.

  Today, he was as awake as I’d ever seen him, and was giving me the infant version of a look I was sure I deserved. It said “Dude. What the hell happened to you?" So I told him. I told him everything that had happened since Thursday—he knew the whole backstory because I’d talked about Roxy before. By the time I waxed reminiscent about the day Roxy and I had stood on the seaside bluffs, I was certain Nick and I both looked ready to cry.

  "She made herself so vulnerable that day. She laid it all on the line. She showed me why she was so insecure. And what did I do? I started kissing her to change the subject. That was the same day she asked me why I friended her. Why couldn't I have just been honest?"

  Unsurprisingly, a six-week-old had no advice, but it was a good sign that he’d made an effort to stay awake. The kid could barely keep his eyes open any time I talked, so by the fact that he was still listening, I knew he cared. At some point, something made me look up and look through the window behind me. It was hard with the shaded glass. Apart from the vague outlines of the nurses at their station, I doubted there was anyone there.

  At home later, another weird feeling came over me as I pulled up Instagram. Weirdness escalated to sheer terror the second I saw a message from her. For four days I’d waited for anything, but something wasn’t right. Her name was right there, but there was only a blank picture next to where it said "Roxy Vega".

  What the hell?

  I clicked on her name, but it didn't take me to her profile. For some reason, it wouldn't link. I could only see the message. I read It once. Twice. The third time it finally clicked.

  I tried to reason with myself, to allow myself to trust the words she'd written. "I know we need to talk" seemed promising. So did "soon". But I noticed where she'd left off. And I didn’t like the lyrics—not at all.

  I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t bear the idea that Roxy was making decisions, couldn’t stand the notion that so much remained unsaid. Too few of the words I’d written to her these past few days had been mine. They kept me awake—the words that hadn’t been said, the words I’d saved for the reckoning I’d hoped would come. But I was losing hope. Because tomorrow would make five days and teenage years were like dog years, so not talking to someone for five days felt like not talking to them for a month.

  The longer I lay in bed, the more the words bubbled forth. And then I was sitting upright and a minute after that, I was at my desk. And half an hour later, I was scribbling a note to my parents and getting ready to walk into the garage. Five minutes after that, I was speeding down deserted roads in the middle of the night with the letter I’d just written on the passenger seat of my dad’s car.

  My Dearest Roxy,

  I know I’m overstepping my bounds by writing this letter. In case this ends badly, there are things I need you to know. I know this may cost me whatever small chance I may still have with you, the only thing I'm sure of is that you deserve the truth. So here it is: my story. I guess you'll tell me how it ends…

  Once upon a time, there was a lonely little boy who found he didn't like being around people. They looked at him strangely—with pity or envy or infatuation or some other unwelcome emotion in their eyes. He liked his parents (though for a time they didn't seem to like him), but he never had many friends. He didn't even have neighbors, given the sheer isolation of his big house in the woods.

  As the boy grew, he found something to replace the loneliness that seemed like it had been with him forever—he found it could be conquered with music. When he played piano or listened to his parents' old records, he felt better. Not because the music took away his loneliness, but because it understood.

  The boy grew. And his friend, Music, became the most important one in his life. He eventually made friends, but never strayed from the only one that owned his heart. Something else happened as the boy grew older: it became more difficult for him to hide. Eyes turned in his direction were filled with pity, envy, and infatuation and he found he needed a new way to fight them off.

  So he surrendered. He showed them everything they wanted to see, told them everything they expected. It was easier than showing them who he really was. Besides, Music was his, and he wanted it to himself.

  Then she came.

  He wished desperately to know her but had no idea how to reach out. So he admired her from afar. His friends knew how he felt about her (it was obvious to them) and one of them forced his hand. And the boy found that, with the opportunity
to know her dangling before him, he no longer had the strength to stay away. So he did get to know her, and she was like him in ten different ways and better than him in twenty more. When he was with her, everything in the whole world felt right. She even made Music sound better.

  The boy was so busy falling in love with the girl that he forgot an important thing: building his walls for so long to keep people away had made him forget how to let them in. And, even with this girl, for whom he'd laid bare the dearest pieces of his soul, there were many other pieces he'd forgotten how not to hide.

  And, so he left those walls intact, hiding away once again, desperate not to overwhelm her with his secrets. But now that he saw what his walls might cost him, he clawed furiously to tear down the stones.

  I miss you, Roxy. Please come back to me. I swear, I'm trying.

  Jagger

  My hands had shaken as I’d sealed the letter and written the words on the envelope meant for Roxy. They shook because I meant them. I had to stop hounding her if what she really wanted was to move on.

  To Roxy

  (The last letter I will write you, I promise.

  If you ever felt anything for me, please read.)

  I stepped out of my car and walked carefully to the door, not wanting to wake Mr. Vega. The man had knives and I was prowling around in the middle of the night.

  My hand still shook as I lifted the heavy brass cover of the mail slot. Blood thrummed loudly in my ears as I kissed the envelope and slipped it through. My heart broke at the thought that this might be the last time I ever stood on Roxy's porch. Looking up at her darkened window, I silently prayed.

  Twenty-Eight

  Something's Always Wrong