by Frankie Rose
*****
“You’re not going to fucking Africa with that psychopath!”
Morgan’s boots make a creaking noise as we walk through the campus buildings towards home. We went for coffee, and I’d told her about Noah’s meltdown. I just haven’t told her what provoked it. She doesn’t need to know about what happened with Luke. “Journalists die in Sierra Leone, Avery. They go out there trying to be good Samaritans and they get their heads blown off by child soldiers. You don’t want that. No one wants that. Plus, correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like Noah threatened you.”
“Oh yeah. He was furious.”
“But he didn’t hurt you?” Morgan glances at me out of the corner of her eye. This is the fifteenth time she’s asked me that, and it appears she still needs some convincing.
“He didn’t touch me. I told him to leave and he left. End of story.” Yeah, end of story if you don’t count him purposefully knocking over the camera Uncle Brandon bought me at thanksgiving. Noah also punched the wall on his way out as well, but from his hiss of pain and the complete lack of damage to the paintwork, I suspect he did more harm to himself than anything else. I didn’t even switch the camera on to see if it was still working yet; I did the smart thing and left to find Morgan in case he came back.
As we approach our building, Morgan tugs on my jacket sleeve. “I don’t think you should spend any more time with him. He’s…he’s not been entirely honest with you about his situation.”
I stop in my tracks. “What d’you mean?”
“Well…”
When Morgan looks uncomfortable, that’s when I know things are serious. “Tell me what you mean.”
“I only found this out the night I overdosed. Please don’t be mad at me. I was going to tell you myself, but then Noah showed up with you that day at the hospital and he made me promise. He said he was waiting for the right moment to tell you himself. He made me go outside with him so he could talk to me before you came back.”
None of this is making any sense, but I have a really uneasy feeling. “Just spit it out, Morgan. What didn’t he tell me?”
Morgan flinches. “He has a girlfriend.”
Okay… I wasn’t expecting that.
“Actually,” Morgan continues, “it’s a little more serious than that. He has…he has a wife.”
“What? You can’t be serious? He’s, like, twenty-one years old! Who gets married at twenty-one?”
“People who knock up their girlfriend, whose supremely Catholic family won’t allow their grandchildren to be born bastards?” Morgan offers.
“Holy…that’s just…he has a kid?”
Morgan nods. “Three years old. Are you upset?” A troubled look forms on her face. “Please don’t cry. I don’t know how to handle crying.”
A loud burst of laughter rips out of me. I slap my gloved hand over my mouth, my eyes wide. “He has a kid. Ha!”
This clearly isn’t the reaction Morgan was expecting. She eyes me cautiously as we make our way inside, and I laugh from the bottom of the stairs all the way up to my apartment on the third floor. Morgan doesn’t let up.
“You’ve lost it. Girl, most women who discover their pseudo boyfriend is actually a married man with a small child go on the rampage. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am mad. The thing is, I really don’t care. If someone told me Luke was married with a kid, well, that would be a different story. That thought wipes the smile off my face. Morgan makes herself at home, and I do what I always do when I feel stressed: I start to clean. I pick up the Super Eight from where still lays on the floor, assessing it for any visible signs of damage.
“I’m not stupid, y’know. Are you going to tell me what’s happened between you and our friendly local police officer, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Morgan asks.
I freeze, my back to her. Damn, the woman is too smart for her own good. How the hell she thinks she knows anything is beyond me. I try and act cool when I turn around. “Who said anything happened with Luke?”
“You did. Or at least your bright red cheeks are telling me right now.”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about Luke. Why don’t you tell me about your meeting with the Dean instead? I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when you told him you weren’t taking any time off for rehab.”
Now it’s Morgan’s turn to scowl. “You’re supposed to be on my side. And he was pissed, but I managed to convince him it would never happen again.”
“I can’t believe he caved so easily. Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t expel your ass.”
Morgan rolls her eyes and tugs on the over-sized red sweater she’s wearing. Red really isn’t her color. She still looks like death warmed up. “He did mention a two year judiciary suspension but my mom managed to talk him down.”
That’s interesting. Unlike Leslie’s parents and my mom, Morgan’s family didn’t make any grand donations to Columbia. It makes me wonder what kind of swing her parents have, and why Morgan never talks about it. There are a lot of things I apparently don’t know about Morgan.
“Just make sure this is the right thing for you, okay? Your mom was right about that. A college education is going to be useless to you if you’re dead.”
A tight smile pulls at her lips, and I can see what an effort it is for her not to snap at me. She looks tired. More than tired—washed out and exhausted. Delicate purple shadows linger under her eyes, and her cheekbones protrude more than usual.
“Are you eating?” I ask as I fold away the last of my laundry. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the fact that I am supposed to be back in class tomorrow. Morgan shakes her head.
“I can’t. Tate Rhodes has ruined my appetite for life. I finally managed to reach his mother in Bali. She said she hadn’t heard from him. She didn’t even sound that worried. She was more concerned about the media discovering he’s missing. She said, and I quote, “he does this sometimes, sweet girl. He’ll turn up when it suits him and I’ll have to bail him out of trouble, yet again. Just let the police look for him and keep quiet about the whole thing.”
I raise my eyebrows and sit down at my desk, twisting side to side on my computer chair. “And have the police found anything? Any clues or witnesses as to where he’s been the past week?”
Morgan turns a pale shade of green. “His credit card keeps getting used in strip bars. They think he’s just out partying.”
“Has he done that before?”
“Sounds like it,” she says, her voice hushed. “I’m so done worrying over him, Ave. We’re over. I’ve left him four voice messages telling him so. Now he can go out and perve on as many strippers as he wants to guilt free. Not that I imagine he’s been feeling very guilty.”
Poor Morgan. She and Tate weren’t really an item, not really, no matter what she told her mom, but still…he has to know she’s been sick by now and to not have even picked up the phone? What an asshole. “I’m sorry, Morgan. You know what? Fuck that guy. We’re gonna rent a movie tonight and commiserate, and then starting tomorrow we’re going to find you a smoking hot gentleman who’ll take proper care of you. Deal?”
“Okay. Deal.”
“I’ll order some Chinese as well,” I say. Morgan needs to get a proper meal in her, but as soon as I think about dialing for Chinese food, I remember Luke ordering for us in his apartment. The stack of Spiderman comics, the mountains of sheet music, the guitars, the neatly folded blankets in his cupboard. His ocean of books, and his endless supply of Jack. “Scratch that. We’re having Indian instead.”
Twenty Two
Truth Will Out