by Ann Aguirre
“Well, that’s something I didn’t expect to hear today.” Nathan ambles out of the back bedroom in rumpled pajamas.
While he rummages in the cupboard, I hop down from the counter. Clay gives me a little space, but I sense him watching me as I maneuver to the other side of the kitchen. His brother grabs a box of Krispy Flakes and cuts me a look. I nod slightly.
Yeah, I told him.
But Clay intercepts the look and punches Nathan in the shoulder hard enough that his brother staggers back. “Touch her again and you’ll get a beatdown.”
“I know,” Nathan mutters.
There’s no way I can stay to watch him eat cereal, so I say, “I need to get going. I’m AWOL right now, and if my dad comes home before I get back, it’ll get ugly.”
Clay raises a brow because he knows this is bullshit. “I’ll walk you out, sweets.”
Guilt is creeping in, now that my hormones are cooling down. I can’t meet his gaze as I move through the house toward the front door. Remorse, regret, they become an unsavory cocktail in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe I got so completely lost in someone I’m not even dating, except on a weird, after-death technicality.
But maybe it’s not your fault. He implied that their deal was primarily physical, so maybe it’s just … biochemistry. Morgan’s body + Clay’s body = insane, sexy flashfire. That reeks of highly unscientific rationalization, but it makes me feel a little better.
Until I think, Nathan would be so wrecked if he knew.
Clay lifts my chin with firm fingers before I can slip away. For a long moment he studies my face and then shakes his head. “I thought I had a handle on things, but … you’re totally throwing me lately. You know that, right?”
“What do you mean?” I suspect I know exactly what he’s getting at.
He sighs slightly. “Never mind. Be careful going home.”
“Don’t work too hard.”
Clay walks me to the car and kisses my temple before shutting the door. The warmth of his lips lingers long after I’ve driven away.
I’m operating on automatic, making turns according to a whisper or an impulse. I’m also smelling that weird perfume that flooded Morgan’s bedroom as I was reading the letter she left. Gasping, I open the car window a crack and realize that I’m not headed for the Frost mansion, or my old house. In fact, I’m not even sure where the hell I am when I start paying attention to the road again. Glancing around doesn’t yield much help. I’m out in the country where there are few signs posted and there are miles between houses.
But as I go over a small rise, I recognize the tree from a clipping that Morgan included in her file on Creepy Jack. This is where her mother died. Trembling, I pull over onto the dirt shoulder and walk across. The road has been paved over since then, repainted, so it’s not like there’s a crime scene for me to investigate. But the tree itself bears a scar. Is that normal? I mean, I think I read somewhere that trees don’t heal, but I’ve seen telephone poles knocked down by the impact of a crash. Maybe it depends on the relative size of the tree versus the weight and velocity of the car. Physics isn’t my thing, so I can’t do the calculations in my head.
Nathan could. But I don’t text him.
This is a really lonely spot, so out of the way that I can’t imagine where Mrs. Frost was going when she passed by here. It’s possible a deer darted out in front of her car and she swerved, just like Morgan’s dad said.
More to the point, it’s beyond bizarre that I’ve found this spot without even trying. I circle the tree slowly and try to imagine what it was like on that day ten years ago. Mrs. Frost drove a little red sports car, and it was daytime. Not raining. Like a movie the scene comes to life in my head. She’s speeding along, the radio is on. There are no other cars on the road, so she’s going a little faster than she should. The wind whips through her hair, dark like Morgan’s, and her sunglasses hide part of her face.
She’s not smiling. Something is bothering her. I remember how Morgan’s letter said she’s positive that her mother met with Creepy Jack the day she died. So what did they talk about? The scene feels almost too real as she zooms closer to the spot where she dies. But just before I see what happened, the picture in my head cuts out. Now there’s only black and screaming, the sound of crunching metal and then silence. I open my eyes. The summer morning feels cold as ice, and when I exhale I can see my breath.
Then I hear Morgan’s voice, clear as a bell. I told you. This wasn’t an accident.
But my mouth isn’t moving, and there’s no one else here.
18
On shaky feet, I stumble back to the car. The summer sunlight does little to dispel the icicles growing in my veins. I whisper, “Are you there?”
But this time no reply comes.
I manage to convince myself that I’m going crazy and start the VW. But I can’t forget the scar on the tree and the way I felt standing in the shadow of its branches. In self-defense, I crank up the volume on the last song Morgan played, and it’s oddly cheerful, upbeat even. When I get back to the Frost mansion, I find a note from Mrs. Rhodes informing me that there are plates in the fridge ready to be microwaved and that she’ll see me Monday. She probably doesn’t normally stick around on Saturdays but since I just got out of the hospital, Mr. Frost asked her to put in some overtime this morning. I suspect she figured that if I’m well enough to make her pack breakfast for my boyfriend, she can knock off work. That logic isn’t inaccurate, either.
I head up to Morgan’s room, sit down at her desk, and get out a notepad. Okay, I have several questions that demand answers, so I list them in no particular order.
1) What was Nathan talking about with, “You never told her, right?”
2) Who’s trying to blackmail Morgan and why?!
3) What the hell am I supposed to do about Creepy Jack?
4) Did CJ really kill Morgan’s mother?
Seeing the list in black ink makes everything feel more real. The weekend looms before me with no prospect of relief or entertainment. The walls close in, and I want nothing more than to grab the car keys off the hook in the kitchen and escape to my old life. But I imagine my parents reacting to Morgan pleading for asylum and let out a sigh.
Yet I can’t resist dialing. It’s okay for me to check in, right? Plus I need to ask about Nathan and me visiting on Thursday. On the third ring, my mom answers, sounding tired. Her voice is quiet and flat, a little husky, which makes me think she’s been crying. Tears clog my own throat instantly.
It takes all my self-control to say, “Mrs. Burnham?”
“Morgan!” At least she seems pleased to hear from me.
“Yeah.” But I can’t push out the words; there’s just no way. I know how stupid it is, so I can’t frame the question, How’s everyone doing? The answer is self-evident.
“You holding up okay, honey?” She shouldn’t be asking me that, but it’s indicative of how awesome my mom is. Even though she’s hurting, she still cares about Morgan, who’s been my best friend for so many years that she probably thinks of her as a second daughter.
“Not really,” I whisper.
My mom sniffles. “Me either.”
Oh, God, my chest hurts. Rubbing it doesn’t make the ache go away, and I try to control my breathing so she can’t hear me cry. The tears slip down my cheeks. She must pick it up from the silence, however, because her voice comes back soft and shaky.
“Did you need something?”
“I was just … checking in. Nathan and I were wondering if we could come by on Thursday, but we weren’t sure—”
“Of course,” Mom cuts in. “You two practically lived here, before.”
That word is a shackle around my ankles and a weight dragging me down. I sniff, hoping she doesn’t hear it.
She does. “You’re welcome anytime, Morgan. Both you and Nathan. I’m sure you must’ve been wondering if it would hurt us to see you but it hurts more pretending Liv never existed. If you’re up for it, I’ll make her fav
orite dinner and we can go through the album.”
I’m in hell. There’s no other explanation.
“Okay,” I whisper.
As soon as we disconnect, I tip over onto my side and curl into the fetal position. It pulls my stitches, so the pain lets me hold together for an extra thirty seconds before I dissolve into messy, hiccupping sobs. My head’s aching by the time I cry myself into a damp, twitchy ball. The house is still quiet, nobody to disturb me grieving for myself.
Before I can think better of it, I pick up my phone and message Nathan. We’re on for Thursday at Liv’s house. Meet you after school?
God, it’s weird writing about myself in third person.
He replies faster than I expect. Did you talk to her parents?
Yep. I hesitate before sending. Yet what else is there to say, really? I can’t tell him to have a good weekend, and I shouldn’t encourage him to text me. We’re already on shaky ground because I can’t stop thinking about how Nathan said the pain only stops when he’s with me. I wish I could say the same, but it only reminds me how screwed up everything is. So I just add what Mom said, and I have another message a minute later.
Christ. Not sure I can handle a stroll down memory lane.
You have to go, I send back. She’s expecting us.
This time it takes almost five minutes for Nathan to say, Fine. Thursday after school. What’re you doing anyway?
I swear I lose my mind temporarily because I answer him just like I would’ve as Liv, with complete honesty. Just finished crying my eyes out. Otherwise, not much. You?
If there was any way to get that text back, I’d vaporize and beam through the atmosphere to suck the words back into my fingertips. But once the imp of impulse takes over, it’s a free-for-all, and I’m locked on my screen waiting to see how Nathan will respond. Morgan never would’ve said anything like this to him, but death is a game changer, I suppose.
I’m no better. Come over, stop me from drinking.
I swallow hard. Just this morning, I was perched on the kitchen counter with Clay kissing me. It’s beyond wrong to hang out with Nathan when his brother’s not around, no matter how much I want to. Under no circumstances can I get between them, but I’m legit worried about Nathan. Maybe that sounds heartless, but Clay is bedrock solid, maybe because he doesn’t realize what he’s lost. I message Clay at work. It might kill me to friend-zone Nathan but I can’t watch him self-destruct. I solicit permission for self-indulgence, swearing to myself that I can keep a lid on feelings that I’m not allowed to have anymore.
Just got an emergency flare of a text from your bro.
What’s wrong with him? comes the immediate reply.
Hands trembling, I forward the text to Clay. If I’m not lying or sneaking around, then it’s marginally less awful. Right? The speed of Clay’s answering text humbles me. As I read, a fist closes around my heart.
Anything you can do, I’d appreciate it. It … means a lot to me that you’re willing to help me keep what family I have left together.
Okay, I send back. As a special favor to you.
You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
No, I’m officially the worst.
I try not to think of this as a date as I put cold compresses on my eyes. Morgan’s pale complexion shows the redness, and the swelling is bad enough that I can hardly see. Once I’m steady enough to drive, I leave a note for Mr. Frost, though there’s no telling what time he’ll be home. As Liv, I always thought Morgan was lucky; she could basically do whatever she wanted, any day of the week.
Now that I’m literally in her shoes, I realize how lonely that is.
19
As I drive past the Claymore house, I spot Nathan sprawled on the porch swing. My hurried steps crunch over the gravel up the alley, and as I come around the corner of the house, he cracks open a beer. Before he can drink it, I reach over his shoulder and dump it out.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. You actually came.”
I shrug. “I’m on a mission to make sure you don’t ruin your life.”
Nathan shifts, dropping his leg so there’s room for me on the swing. The chains creak when I settle. “Your life must really suck if you’re willing to babysit me.”
“Poor little rich girl,” I say with just enough edge to sound like Morgan.
“Let me guess, Clay asked you to check on me.” He makes it sound like I’ve been sent to scout a radioactive bomb site.
I skirt that guess. “You have friends. Why aren’t you with them?”
“Because I don’t feel like partying.” His tone contains a certain irony.
“Whereas drinking alone is fine.”
He slams a palm into the external wall so hard that the clock on the other side topples onto the love seat; through the window I see it bounce. “What part of ‘stay away from me’ didn’t you understand? Seeing you without Liv is like having my insides cut out with a rusty garden trowel.”
“That one of your SAT vocab words? And you asked me to come over, remember?”
“Jesus, were you always this much of a pain in the ass, or did Clay rub off on you?” Nathan lurches off the swing, but I think his lack of balance comes from leaving a moving seat, not being shit-faced.
I follow him into the house before he can shut the door and lock me out. Maybe it’s because of the role I’m forced to play, but right now, he seems so young. Technically, he’s only a month behind me, November to October, and we’re among the oldest in the junior class. Who knows, though? In his shoes I might refuse to get out of bed at all. This morning, I saw him eating cereal, but he probably hasn’t had anything since. I sigh softly.
“If the Claymore villa isn’t up to your standards, go home,” he snaps.
That does it. I push past him, through their two bedrooms, and into the kitchen. Rummaging through the kitchen turns up a couple of half-empty fifths of whatever, whiskey probably. I dump that down the sink while Nathan grabs at the bottles from behind. One advantage of being Morgan is that he can’t reach over my shoulders as easily. The fridge has milk, eggs, butter, various condiments, lunchmeat, some lettuce, tomatoes, half a loaf of bread, and beers. But there are only two left, not enough for him to get drunk. I leave those.
“Want a sandwich?”
Nathan levels a long look on me, and I can’t read it. For the first time I realize I don’t know him as well as I thought. The question echoes in the back of my mind: You never told her, right? Dammit, what secret do Nathan and Morgan share? The idea that my best friend and my boyfriend have been conspiring behind my back is enough to kill me a second time.
“Fine,” he says at last.
Silently I build him a sandwich, adding lettuce and tomato, omitting the mayo for a thin layer of mustard and precisely six pickles on the bottom slice of bread. It’s not until after I’ve put it all together that I realize Morgan wouldn’t know his tastes so well. I should’ve checked first. Nathan stares at me so hard it feels like the top of my head might burst into flames.
I try to play it off. “Does it look okay?”
“It’s perfect.” His eyes are bottle green in the afternoon sunlight, sort of murky and opaque, too.
There’s only one way to explain this. “I don’t think you realize how much Liv talked about you. I know all kinds of things.” That comes out sort of taunting when I didn’t mean it that way, but his expression lightens.
“That doesn’t explain why you remember, rich girl.”
“Lately everything she told me seems more important,” I murmur. “Even when it’s about you.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Mostly not,” I say, because Morgan would.
Yet the snark makes Nathan smile. He picks up the sandwich from the plate and takes a huge bite, studying me across the battered kitchen table. The sunlight is good to him, finding coppery lights in his dark hair and gilding his skin. He’s finally shaved, too, and I remember all too clearly how it fe
els to skim my palms down his cheeks.
But I can’t show Nathan how much I want him or how much he means to me. I get him a glass of water quietly and sit down across the table. He eats fast without offering me anything. There’s nothing in the house I can have anyway. Ignoring me, he washes his plate and then comes back. I recognize this expression, though I didn’t see it too often as Liv.
Regret.
“Sorry. I used you as a verbal punching bag again.”
Morgan probably wouldn’t forgive him easily, but I’m not her, and this is all I can offer. “Don’t worry about it. If it helps to vent, I’m stronger than I look.”
“I know,” he says.
Before I’ve even made a conscious decision, I’m tiptoeing toward their secret. “Let me ask you something…”
“What?”
I can’t meet his gaze or he might realize I’m shooting in the dark here. Which would make no sense at all. “Did you ever consider telling Liv?”
“About us?” Those words feel like they’re launched on a barbed line that sinks into my chest and yanks my heart out in a bloody gush.
“Yeah.” I can barely breathe.
Morgan and …
I can’t even pair his name with hers in my mind. Nathan was mine. He was always, always mine. Right? Tears burn the back of my throat but Morgan wouldn’t cry over this. This is idle curiosity, nothing more, so I examine my cuticles.
Nathan has no idea what he’s doing to me, so he doesn’t hesitate even for a second. “She never had a clue. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?” He touches my hand, forcing me to look up. “It’s not like we were a couple. It was just sex.”
This … this is worse than I thought. My whole body locks, and I can barely move my mouth to respond. “True.”
“Do you ever think about me when you’re with Clay?” By his smirk, I know he’s joking, but the knife twists slowly in my stomach.
“Heh, no.” I have to know. When did this happen? I fake a yawn. “That was what, a thousand years ago?”