Finally, fueled by two glasses of wine and a late-night viewing of Bridget Jones on Netflix, I decide to call him the only time I know he’ll be home: after midnight.
He picks up on the third ring, breathless and disoriented. “Simone? What’s wrong?”
A pang of guilt hits, but I squash it away. “Everything’s fine—I just haven’t talked to you all week.”
He lets out a breath. “Shit, you scared me. I fell asleep on the couch. Just a sec.” I hear shuffling; then the laugh track of a late-night show in the background clicks off into silence. “I know, this week has really sucked.”
“It just seems like we could’ve at least seen each other by now. Like, even a quick coffee or something.”
He sighs. “I promise I’m doing my best. Between picking up extra shifts and my classes, I’ve just had no time.”
His voice is patient, yet pointedly so, like he’s a saint for appeasing me—it stings, but I move on. “Do you have to work this weekend?”
Connor sighs. “Another long day tomorrow, but then Saturday won’t be as long. So how about dinner Saturday night?”
“That sounds great.” I hesitate, suddenly feeling shy, vulnerable. “I miss you.”
“God, I miss you, too, babe.” His voice is husky. “A lot. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
I smile. “Okay.”
I’m still smiling when I end the call, confident that, despite the twinge in my gut, everything will soon be back to the way it should be.
PART TEN
BETRAYAL
Monday, December 6, 10:17 a.m.
They say you spend more time with the people you work with than your own family—they might annoy the hell out of you, but when it comes down to it, you’re in the trenches together every day, and there’s a certain solidarity to it. A certain loyalty.
Not anymore.
Because the second voice belongs to Stan.
Stan is the other shooter.
Outside the closet the argument continues, but in here my mind races, the sting of blind betrayal hot and sharp. I trace back through the past several months. How did I miss this? Stan seemed sad sometimes, and things were likely rougher with Louise than he was letting on, but there’s been nothing that would point to him going on a shooting rampage at our office.
Across from me Hayley sucks in a breath, and it pulls me back—I focus on their conversation outside the closet.
“Where’s the body?” Chet barks. “Somebody moved it.”
I meet Hayley’s wide eyes again, and terror floods me.
“I . . . thought you did,” Stan says timidly.
“You fucking idiot—the door was blocked when I got here.”
“I don’t—” Stan begins, but Chet suddenly shushes him.
The room drops back into an eerie silence, and my entire body goes cold with a terrible realization: Nikki’s blood is all over the floor.
It’s surely left a path, pointing them right to the closet.
They know where we are.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
July 24, five months before
I wake Saturday morning feeling more energized than I have in a long time, like I’m moving in the right direction and it’s pointing directly to Connor. The combination of deciding to take action, knowing exactly when I’m going to talk to him, and realizing how much I miss him and he misses me makes me think maybe we’ll be okay after all. Maybe this is a conversation we should’ve had right away. Maybe my fears could’ve been alleviated sooner.
I’m not meeting Connor until this evening, but by late morning my adrenaline is primed. I need to get out of my apartment. Nikki and Claudia are out of town again visiting Claudia’s mother, so I drive downtown and set out on a solo run. It’s early enough not to be too hot, but I won’t push myself today anyway—just a nice leisurely jog to let out some energy. Phillips Avenue runs me straight into downtown Sioux Falls, and I lope breezily past shops and restaurants, dipping out of the way of window-shoppers and dog-walkers.
On my left, a bridal store’s glass front window winks sunlight at me, sparkly white-dressed mannequins staring from the display, their plastic frozen smiles flashing the promise of possibility. My heart beats faster, adrenaline and optimism forming a dangerously confident concoction.
Maybe a happily ever after with Connor is possible.
I was wrong to worry about what his mom said, or that stupid slideshow. Like he said, that was in the past.
However uncertain my future is, maybe I’m meant to spend it with him.
At the next corner the orange DON’T WALK sign is lit up, so I take the opportunity to stop and stretch—I’ve slacked on that today since taskmaster Nikki isn’t here to crack the whip. When I turn to the left, stretching my neck, I blink. Is that Connor’s truck?
I can’t be 100 percent certain—I don’t have his license plate number memorized, for crying out loud—but something sets the hair on the back of my neck prickling. He’s working, I remind myself, but I turn to the right anyway. I’m in front of O’Malley’s, where we had our first date. The sun is just right—no glare on the big front window—so I have the perfect view of the customers seated inside.
The perfect view of the middle of the room, where my boyfriend sits—not working at all, but leaning forward across the table toward a woman.
Even from out here, her long red hair shines, and it’s like a hot flame of fire scorching my insides. I lean a hand against the window to steady myself, and the motion startles the patrons nearest the window. I step back, but it’s too late. Connor looks over.
It’s the widening of his eyes, really. Until then, I could’ve explained it away. But when I see the guilt on his face in full display before me, I can’t pretend I didn’t just catch my boyfriend on a date, with another woman.
I can’t pretend anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The door whooshes open, a bell jangles—a laughing couple walks out onto the sidewalk. The sound sets me in motion.
I run.
Back in the direction I came from, as fast as my legs will carry me, chased by the vision of them together—him leaning toward her, smiling that wide smile. The lies I told myself about the possibility of spending forever with him circle in my mind, taunting me for actually believing it could work out. All his excuses also swirl through my brain—meeting with a distributor, Ella’s dance recital, working late.
Was any of it true, or was he with her the whole time?
I run until my lungs heave, until I’m slowed by my own sobs.
“Simone!” Connor’s voice cries out behind me. “Stop!”
I don’t—not until he catches me, running beside me, pleading. “Please, Simone. Stop. I need to talk to you.”
I finally stop when he places his hand on my arm—and when the stitch in my side is unbearable. I turn and meet his eyes at last, my entire being radiating the pain of his betrayal, and he ducks his gaze. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh God.” I double over, hand to my mouth. Those words. Those words. That clichéd statement from every goddamned romantic comedy in the history of film.
“Please, Simone,” he pleads. “She texted this morning—I had no idea she was going to be in town.”
“I thought you had to work today.” I don’t look up, don’t know how I get the words out.
“I did, but not as long as I thought, so I was going to just sleep this afternoon.” He swallows. “But then Diana texted, and I mean, it’s been years.”
I look up at last. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. “Because . . . shit, I don’t know. Okay? I guess I remembered how you felt after the slideshow.” I wince as he continues. “It’s just . . . I haven’t seen her since before Cam died, and she said she wanted to buy me a drink and catch up.”
I bristle, my eyes flashing as they bore into his. “So you’re drinking again.”
“Christ, yes. I am, okay?” He rubs his face.
“I’ve been so stressed—it’s like I just can’t handle one more thing right now, you know?”
Like he can’t handle one more burden. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, he’s staring at me imploringly. “Is the drinking that big of a deal?”
I set my jaw. “I don’t care about that. I care that you lied to me.”
He flinches. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up.” Then he takes a step toward me, eyes eager. “But hey, maybe you can come meet her? She’s not a bad person. You’d like her. She just got back from a year in AmeriCorps, and now she’s starting a medical residency at a neurology department in Boston.”
I suck in a breath. “Neurology?”
His nod is cautious, like a puppy that senses danger but is willing to please at all costs. “Yeah. Maybe . . . maybe you two could talk. Maybe she has some advice, you know?”
The searing pain of humiliation bubbles over into a pulsing stew of red-hot anger. “I don’t need you to fix me.” The words spit like fire from my lips, and I flick my head back toward the bar. “And I certainly don’t need her to.”
He holds up his hands in defense, eyes wide. “Whoa, what? That’s not what I meant at all.” He takes a step toward me, but I lean away, as if a barrier has shot up between us, formed by the blinding truth.
I was right about everything.
At best, I’m a diversion who makes him feel good about taking care of someone—it’s what he does, as his mom said. At worst, I’m his way of proving himself to a fiancée he never got over.
My shoulders sag now as anger gives way to pain. “Look, Connor, I really wanted to talk to you about something.”
He takes a step back at the change in my voice. “About what?”
“About the fact that maybe we rushed into all this.” His eyes widen again, but I don’t stop. “Maybe it’s time to take a break.”
His voice is barely a whisper. “Simone . . . I don’t want that.”
“I think our timing was just off. I never really had a chance to find my normal again after my diagnosis.” I swallow the lump in my throat, praying my voice doesn’t crack. “And maybe you never really had a chance to get back to normal after losing Cam.”
“But you are my normal.” His pained eyes bore into mine until I look away.
“Look, maybe you never had a chance to get over losing her, either.” I gesture back toward the bar, where she sits, waiting for him. I can’t say her name. She probably is a good person—a great one, even—but right now saying her name would break my heart more than it’s already broken. “Maybe you need someone like her.”
His frown deepens. “What does that mean?”
“It means you need someone who’s not a burden.”
He reels back like I’ve slapped him. “What? Simone, no—where is this coming from?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s coming from the fact that I don’t know what my future holds, so it’ll be easier if this happens now. For both of us.”
Connor stares at me in pain and confusion, tears in his eyes, too. “But I love you.”
His words are desperate, defeated, and I can’t bear it. “I have to go,” I mumble before sprinting off toward my car. It’s still five blocks away, but I push myself forward as fast as my knee will let me—it’s throbbing now, as if it wants in on all this pain consuming the rest of me. I will my sobs to wait until I’m safely behind the wheel and driving away from downtown, away from him.
I don’t look back.
PART ELEVEN
DARKNESS
Monday, December 6, 10:20 a.m.
There’s no going back now. They know we’re here, and they’re coming for us.
There is nothing I can do to stop this.
Darkness washes over me like a blanket, warm and smothering, and suddenly I’m so indescribably tired. My body folds over Nikki like it’s sinking. Like I’m sinking.
Outside the closet, Chet’s and Stan’s footsteps rush toward us, but my body refuses to fight. So I close my eyes, and I wait. “I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure if I say the words out loud.
A hand squeezes my arm gently, and I open my eyes in surprise. Hayley says nothing, just gives a determined nod—I wish I could capture the moment our eyes meet, wish I could bottle it up, save it. But before I can even process what’s happening, she has a hand on the doorknob, the other still clutching the scissors.
Oh God, no.
But she’s out the door, pushing it shut behind her, screaming with a fury I’ve never heard before. For one heartbreaking moment, she is every woman who has ever stood up to an abusive man—and God dammit I wish I had given her a chance, looked past the exterior to see the woman inside, brave and true.
But it’s too late now.
I hear her catch them off guard, hear the yelling and cursing when she stabs one of the bastards. But within moments a gun blasts, a deafening boom that sucks all the air, all the life, out of this room.
And I know that Hayley is gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
August 20, four months before
The rest of the summer passes, cruel and unbearable, and then it is almost gone, leaving only the ghost of its presence, fleeting moments of sunshine that seep into shadow.
But I continue to run.
My training becomes my solace, my healing. There’s something about the rush of air through my lungs, the strain of my muscles, my body testing its limits. It’s the rhythm of it, the pattern. The swing of my arms, the scrape of my feet hitting the pavement. Left-right-left-right.
My mind clears and I hit the zone, that stride, about a half mile or so in—the runner’s high I always assumed was a myth—and suddenly I’m not straining so hard; suddenly I could go for miles. I could fly if I wanted to.
It’s what I do every evening when it’s finally cool, guided by the waning sunshine as summer finally breaks into autumn. I shut off my phone, stop counting the calls and texts from Connor I’ve been ignoring.
And I run.
Because if I don’t, the pain of missing him—the way his strong hand enveloped mine, the way his eyes focused so intently on me when I spoke, the way he’d scratch his stubbly chin when he was excited to tell a joke, the way his laugh, so deep and booming, filled up a room, filled up the empty places in my soul—might catch me.
But the combination of late nights and early mornings, the fatigue of it all, does catch up with me. I’m staring at my computer at work one late-summer day when Nikki is down the hall cleaning out the photo studio, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves outside, soft ballads crooning from my speakers, and my vision starts to blur.
Two sharp raps on my open doorway—I jolt up, blink, disoriented.
“Were you seriously just sleeping at your desk?” Raj’s nose is crinkled, as if he can’t decide whether to be amused or concerned.
I shake my head, smooth my hair. “God, I can’t believe I did that. Sorry.”
He chuckles and slides into the chair in front of my desk, flopping his shiny black hair away from his forehead. “Nikki said you’ve been in beast mode training for this race. Badass.”
I snort. “Yeah. It’s pretty badass to be caught napping in your office.”
He shrugs. “Well, at least you weren’t snoring or drooling or anything.”
“True,” I concede. “So, what can I do for you?”
He flashes a crooked smile, cocks his head, and I blink, wait. Then he shakes his head and pulls out a file. “Uh, I’m just here because we, the grammatically challenged, could use a little help with the copy on this next postcard.”
“Well.” I make a show of cracking my knuckles. “You’ve come to the right place.”
He sets it down and points to a paragraph on the back. We both lean over to get a better view. “See, I’m pretty sure Chet didn’t mean for it to say, ‘Students can get they’re degree in four years.’”
We giggle together at Chet’s expense. “Sure, I’d be happy to take a look.”
�
��Great.” Raj clears his throat. “So, uh, Simone, can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?” I grab my red Sharpie, already hunting for other typos, but I look up when movement in the doorway catches my eye. “Connor.”
He’s standing there holding a bouquet of flowers and looking from me to Raj, and I can’t read his expression. “Guess I’m interrupting something,” he says quietly.
Raj leans back with an awkward smile. “Uh, hey, man.” He turns to me. “I can come back later?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “Just wait for a minute, okay?”
Raj freezes in place and I push myself up, head spinning, torn. Connor’s here—he showed up at my office door with flowers, for Christ’s sake; that has to count for something—and yet I’m so flustered I don’t know how to feel. I step toward him, my voice low as I usher him out into the hallway. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.” He glances back toward my office. “But is that . . . are you . . . seeing someone else now?”
I cross my arms. “Raj is my coworker. We’re just friends.”
He nods. “And it’s the same with me and Diana.”
I wince when he says her name, and it all comes flooding back—the image of them together.
“Why won’t you believe me?” Connor takes a step toward me, and I look down. “Please, Simone, can we just go somewhere and talk about this?”
I look up at last, and his eyes are so pleading—I am so desperate to trust this is real, that his love won’t fade no matter what the future holds—that I fear I can’t hold it back any longer. Because I’m afraid. I am absolutely terrified you’re a fixer who is going to leave me one day when you realize I am a burden and you should be with someone like Diana, not someone like me.
Down the hall, a door clicks open. Tense voices float out, and Stan and Chet follow them, red faced and gesturing. “We don’t know for sure, yet, right? We shouldn’t do anything until we know what these meetings—” Stan stops when he sees us, then looks from Connor’s frown to my sorrowful eyes. “Uh, Simone, is there a problem?”
The Speed of Light Page 20