by Ann Aguirre
I’d love to go around the counter and use him to forget everything but that wouldn’t be fair to either of us, even if he says Blue would be cool about it. He loves working here, so I can’t be the reason he gets into trouble. I let go of his shirt and he covers my hands with his.
“How was it?”
“About what I expected.”
At that he rounds the counter and pulls me in. When his arms lock around my back, I feel like I’ve become bulletproof. With careful hands he sifts through my hair, soothing strokes that make me want to close my eyes. I never would’ve imagined he could be this sweet or this gentle. The words older girls apply most often to Clay are “dirty” and “wicked.”
I could stay like this for another hour, but movement and voices coming from down the hall prompt me to withdraw. Clay raises a brow, then he notices, too. I’m sitting in one of the red chairs by the time a slender, blue-haired woman comes out, trailed by an older lady wearing what I’d call a church lady ensemble—pink pantsuit, floral blouse, beige purse, and matching shoes. She even has the hairstyle, set in rollers once a week and protected the rest of the time.
Oh my God, this is Mrs. Marlow, the Presbyterian pastor’s wife. I smile, pretending I don’t recognize her as she pays for her tattoo. Once she’s gone, the blue-haired girl smiles at me.
“You must be Clay’s girlfriend. He mentioned you might stop by. I’m Blue.”
“Did the hair or the name come first?” Curiosity overcomes my good manners.
“Hair first. I dyed it when I was fourteen and it suits me, so the nickname stuck.” Her features are delicate and pretty, and I guess she’s between twenty-five and thirty.
“I’ll take it from here, if you want to head out,” Clay says.
“Thanks. I have people waiting at my apartment. Nice meeting you,” she adds.
As she leaves, Blue flips the sign to CLOSED and Clay locks the door behind her. I stand up and try to look like I know what I’m doing. “How can I help?”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Just wait for me, I won’t be long.”
“If I pitch in, you can leave faster. You should clean the equipment for sure, but I can do floors and counter. That doesn’t require high expertise.”
Clay thinks about it way longer than necessary, in my opinion. Finally he says, “Okay, wipe down everything out here. Counter, chairs, move the magazines and clean the tables, too. If you finish that before I’m done in back, you can do the floors.” By his tone, he thinks that hell will freeze before this happens.
Morgan would not have wanted to do this, but she’s gone, and the work settles me down as much as Clay’s warmth. I hum as I clean, wishing I’d helped my mom more when I had the chance. All the little things about the life I lost seem magical now. Since I’m experienced at this, it takes me all of ten minutes to complete my task.
I call, “Where’s the broom and mop? I’m ready for the floor.”
Clay emerges from the back looking skeptical, but once he checks everything he gives me an approving smile. “You’re surprising me all over the place. Let me get the bucket.”
Sweeping is easy. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to move the furniture, so I just sweep under it and dump the dust and scraps of paper into the bin behind the counter. Mopping will be a little more challenging, as I’ve never used an actual janitorial bucket with the wringer attached, but I figure it out pretty fast. I’m finished before Clay is done sterilizing the equipment in back.
But I’m now trapped in the hallway; I can’t walk on the wet floor without messing it up. So without being asked, I clean the bathroom and then mop my way down to the back room, where Clay is finishing up. He glances up in surprise when I pause in the doorway.
“Washroom and corridor are done. Did you do the floor in here yet?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Normally it takes me at least an hour to close.”
“Told you it would be faster if I helped.”
“Explain to me why you know how to do any of this.” But his tone is all sweetness. It’s not like he doubts that I’m Morgan; he just wants to get to know me better.
“I’ve helped my mom before,” I say.
“You must’ve been really young. I can’t believe you still remember.”
“You don’t forget the important stuff.”
“That’s true. I was just a kid when my dad showed me how to change the oil on a car but ten years later, and I can still do it.”
“Exactly.”
He’s quiet as we wrap up in the back, then clean the supplies we used and store them in the janitor’s cupboard. Clay sets the alarm and then we slip out the back so as not to mess anything up. The parking lot is pretty empty, however.
As I’m wondering, he says, “I bummed a ride here, hoping you’d stop by.”
“I’m glad I did. Come on, I’m parked this way.” I take his hand and he laces our fingers together, a little intimacy that shouldn’t feel so profound. But I’m moved that he put his fate in my hands like this.
“You don’t mind driving me home?”
“I just mopped floors for you,” I point out.
Clay grins. “That’s true. I’m starting to think you’re really into me.”
“Shut up and get in the car.” But I’m smiling as I say it.
31
Clay no longer looks strange sitting beside me. Inch by inch, I’m letting go of my old life.
Morgan’s life isn’t a good fit either, so I’m in this weird ’tween place, not hers, not mine, either. These thoughts preoccupy me when I pull up outside the Claymore house. The lights are off in the front but when I pull around back, I see that Nathan’s in the kitchen.
“He better be sober,” Clay mutters.
“I’ll let you check on him.” I didn’t intend to stick around, but Clay pauses with his hand on the door.
He turns to me with a searching look. “It’s not that late even for a school night. You really have to take off right now?”
“Maybe not,” I say.
“I’ll get drinks and meet you on the porch.”
I can read between the lines. Going to the kitchen is an excuse to make sure Nathan’s okay. Then he can join me on the swing. Since that was my spot with Nathan, my misgivings increase. Yet I don’t have the heart to refuse. Clay is gentler than I expected, despite a lifetime of being kicked around.
Ears straining for an argument, I perch on the porch swing; a creak and sway coaxes me to sit back. In five minutes he’s back with two glasses of water. Since I didn’t hear any raised voices, I figure Nathan isn’t drinking. That’s a step in the right direction.
To my surprise Clay takes my hands and holds them toward the light. “Are you looking for something?” I wonder aloud.
“Blisters. You aren’t used to hard labor.”
He’s right; I wince when he runs his fingers over the tender, puffy skin. That didn’t even occur to me. But he smiles as he massages my hands, smoothing his thumbs back and forth. By the time he wraps his arm around me, I’m too relaxed to react.
“This is nice.”
“Better since I replaced the chains.”
Come to think of it, that’s right; the swing isn’t squeaking as much as it did, and no rusty flecks are raining down on us. I remember threatening Nathan when I got orange smears all over one of my favorite T-shirts. But as Morgan I wouldn’t know the difference.
I’m about to compliment his handiwork, however, when Clay shifts, drawing me across his leg, and suddenly he’s all around me, arms about my shoulders, my back to his chest. The melting warmth contrasted to the pleasant chill of the evening air feels incredible. At first I’m not sure how to act, but it’s inevitable that my elbows nestle into the pockets of his hips and so my hands end up on his thighs.
“This okay?” he asks.
“For me, yeah. What about you?” The question comes out more layered than I intended.
And from his pause, Clay’s registering it too. “It’s … good. Surprising, but good
.” To punctuate the statement, he brushes back my hair and kisses the soft spot behind my ear. “So much that I might be disinclined to let you go home later.”
“My dad would call the state police,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s true.
Rather, I suspect Mrs. Rhodes would conspire to keep the absence from him, permitting me to spend the night wherever I want. The terrible pictures of Morgan and Creepy Jack certainly seem to imply as much. And that fast, I’m back in the morass of worry.
“Point taken. Let me know when you need to go.”
The fact is, I don’t really want to. And that worries me. I mean, I was with Nathan for nine months and sex never seemed right; the timing was always off, we were rushed or sneaking. Yet I’m already contemplating a night in Clay’s bed. That seems way more Morgan than me, and it scares me, like little tendrils of her are weaving through my soul and I really am dying. I tremble hard enough for him to feel it, and his arms tighten around me.
“I’m okay,” I say, because his next question will be Are you cold?
Clay kisses the top of my head. We sit for a while in silence while he kicks us into motion idly. The sway is soothing, as is his heat against my back. Such a restful moment, I could never have imagined it between him and me. But the peace is shattered when Nathan steps onto the front porch. I tense and try to jerk away before I even think about it. Clay doesn’t let go so easily, however, so I’m pinned against his chest. Guilt seeps into the tranquility to the point that I can’t even look at Nathan.
God, I’m a mess.
“Are you staying over?” he asks.
“Like that’s your business.” Clay isn’t having whatever this is.
I can’t get a read on Nathan because the kitchen light is behind him. It crowns his head in light but shadows his features. He taps one foot then sighs.
“Yeah, it is. Because our rooms are connected by a thin wall.”
Yeah, that guarantees I’m not staying. Ironically, it’s also why I never let Nathan talk me into it either. I peel Clay’s hands away from me and stand up.
“It’s fine, I need to take off anyway.”
With a dark look for his brother, he follows me. I hear the front door slam as Nathan stalks back inside. I honestly can’t figure out what’s going on here. Nathan’s almost acting like he’s jealous, but that makes no sense, unless he’s pissed off that Clay isn’t alone. But that’s small, too bitter for me to want to believe it. The romantic in me wants to imagine that he does sense it’s me and it bothers him seeing me with Clay, but considering he’s hooked up with Morgan, it could be that too.
For a moment, I feel her. It’s like she’s here and she’s mad at me for such petty thoughts. I smell the perfume again, not Morgan’s but familiar. Pain spikes through my left temple, making me stumble over the gravel. Clay catches me before I hit the ground, hands steadying on my shoulders. Once I’m stable, he lets go, tipping my chin up as if for a kiss. But instead of lowering his head, he studies my features for a long, intense moment.
“What?”
“I have the weirdest feeling about you,” he says.
I still. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind. It’s crazy. Be careful going home.” But this time he doesn’t call me Morgan or even “sweets,” and he’s still standing in the alley as I pull away.
Questions about Nathan and Clay are way more palatable than figuring out what to do about Creepy Jack or Morgan’s mom, so I linger mentally over their words and expressions. This carries me through town, and I’m turning onto the country road that leads to the Frost estate when a pair of halogen beams on high flash up over the rise. I flick my headlights but the other car doesn’t respond. Shit, I can’t see. The road is only a blur before me; this feels like the night of the accident all over again. Somehow I stay within the lines until the other vehicle passes.
Only now there’s a car angled across the road. It looks like the one Morgan’s mom died in. I slam on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision. The VW skids right up to the passenger door, and I climb out. The driver must be sick or injured, so even if I feel shaky enough to throw up, I have to see what’s wrong.
Two steps toward the car, I blink, and it’s gone. What the hell? I did not imagine that. Did I? Now I’m the one blocking the road with more headlights bearing down. Quickly I scramble back into the Beetle and slam it into gear.
Dammit, Morgan. I’m doing the best I can here. That vision or hallucination, whatever, was a reminder from her to me—stay on task. Had to be, because the only alternative is that I really am losing my mind.
It takes all my composure to get to the gates that lead into the Frost estate, but there’s no sanctuary for me here either. I find another car parked just outside, and while I wish this one was imaginary, it doesn’t vanish, no matter how many times I close my eyes. I sense him watching from behind tinted glass, and my fingers tighten on the wheel.
The driver’s-side door opens. Creepy Jack steps out.
32
At first, terror freezes my knuckles on the steering wheel.
The Creepy Jack steps toward the VW with an avid smile that sends awful chills, prickling my arms into goose bumps. I don’t want to roll down the window; I don’t want to acknowledge that a person this bent even exists. You dated Morgan’s mother, you sick bastard. I lock the doors. When he taps the glass, I power down the window. Cold streams through me like my veins are filled with dry ice.
But I shake it off. Where the resolve comes from, I have no idea. In this moment I’m only sure that I can’t go on pretending to be Morgan. I made a promise to help her but I won’t continue with whatever the hell this is. In my dream, even she seemed to feel this was a huge mistake. And I’m done being afraid. This is my life now. Time to start living it.
“I need to get home,” I say.
Maybe he can take a hint.
“Come with me for a little while first,” he says with a smile that’s supposed to be charming.
I’ve seen this look on his campaign posters; it makes my stomach churn. “Let me be crystal clear. We’re done. And if you make it awkward, I’ll tell my father.”
He reacts like I’ve knifed him. The color drains from his face, leaving him haggard. His age is more apparent now, too, lines and hollows in sharp definition. For a few seconds his mouth moves but no sound comes out. Finally he whispers, “Don’t do this, Lucy.”
Bile surges up into my throat, so I can taste the acrid vomit. I choke it down. “My name is Morgan. And you are seriously disturbed.”
My fingers are trembling when I hit the power button, closing the gap between us. He doesn’t move away from the car, though, so I panic a little, afraid of what comes next. Somehow I manage to tap the opener so the gates swing open with excruciating slowness. Each second that ticks with me staring fixedly ahead, I’m waiting for his fist to pound through the glass. When that doesn’t happen, I step on the gas and the Beetle lurches forward, depositing me on the grounds of the Frost estate.
Creepy Jack was standing close enough that I might have run over his toes in getting away, and I so don’t care. Another touch and the gates close behind me. I settle down enough, somehow, to drive the rest of the way to the house. After I park in the garage, it takes another five minutes before I feel like my knees will hold my weight. Eventually I stumble out of the car and make it to the house, dark and cavernous. There is no food warming for me in the kitchen, which I’d mind if I hadn’t eaten at home. No light in Mr. Frost’s study either, so he must still be at the office.
That, or he has a secret girlfriend.
I can’t believe that didn’t occur to me before. Morgan would probably have thrown a shit fit if her dad brought another woman home. But it doesn’t make sense for a man to live like a hermit for more than ten years. He must have someone, right? While he can claim that he’s insanely busy due to some work stuff, I don’t believe that he has to work every single night until past ten. And he goes in on weekends, too.
&n
bsp; Unless he’s seeing someone at Frost Tech?
Curiosity leads me to knock on the housekeeper’s door. When she answers, she looks tired and not very pleased to see me. “What’s up, Morgan?”
“How long has Dad been seeing her?”
The guilty flicker of her eyes tells me I’m right. But she tries to bluff. “Excuse me?”
“The girlfriend. How long?” Morgan’s icy tone comes out naturally, I’ve heard it so often, and it has the desired result.
“Almost a year.”
“She works at the company?”
Mrs. Rhodes nods, looking chastened. I’m sure she’s worried about the fallout. But I’m not Morgan beneath the skin, so I don’t have the same visceral reaction, and I have enough problems of my own. Deep down I’m afraid of what comes next; Creepy Jack doesn’t seem the type to accept rejection politely. And that scares the shit out of me.
But there’s no reason to trouble the housekeeper further. So I simply nod and retreat to my bedroom, turning this latest information over in my head. After the usual skin and oral hygiene ritual, I get in bed, but I can’t relax. The white room of doom is quieter than ever. It seems like hours, though a glance at the bedside clock tells me I’ve only been rolling around for forty-five minutes. With a sigh I give up and grab my phone. Normally I’d find something to read, but for some reason I’m texting Clay.
You asleep?
A minute later, I have a ping back. Not yet.
I should’ve stayed at your place, I send. Even the prospect of Nathan listening to us doesn’t bother me as much as it did. Plus, sleeping over doesn’t automatically mean sex. I wish I was in Clay’s bed, and I hate myself because Nathan is already fading. The longer I’m Morgan, the less I feel like Liv. I mean, I’m not Morgan, but I am, now. Which means Liv is gone. Each time I form that thought it hurts less.
Are you trying to keep me up all night? he sends back.
Before thinking better of it, I answer, Maybe, and put the phone down. Sleep comes quick after that, and the new determination sticks with me, even the next morning. I put on Morgan’s simplest clothes and only do light makeup. I no longer care about maintaining the perfect masquerade. While I can’t know if my second life is a bug or a feature, I have to make this life work for me. However long I have, I’m done faking it.