Like Never and Always

by Ann Aguirre

  Always.

  “How’d it go?” He shrugs into his shirt as we walk to the car.

  You’d never know he loves me, looking at him now.

  “I passed. I’ll be able to change my schedule now.”

  “Congrats. I know how important this was to you.” His tone seems ominous, like our relationship is a clock he’s choosing not to wind, so each tick of time brings us closer to that moment when the gears stop forever.

  “Thanks for waiting.” That’s not what I want to say.

  “It was no trouble. Get in.” He opens the door for me and I hop in the passenger side, knowing this is just a ride to my car.

  Lost in thought, he drums the wheel as he drives. I don’t ask what’s on his mind. Though he doesn’t have to work tonight, Clay won’t ask me to stay. I tell myself this is not a big deal, and that I’m not hurt, even when he bags my dirty clothes and gives them to me with a polite smile. The gray plastic crinkles in my hands and I offer a jerky nod of thanks.

  Spinning, I nearly run into Nathan, who’s coming in the back. Great, this is all I need today. He stares at me, mouth agape. Finally he says, “I’m pretty sure those clothes are mine.”

  “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

  “I don’t remember doing that.”

  “You were drunk,” I say, which is both bitchy and probable, given the way Nathan has been acting lately.

  Behind me, Clay stifles a laugh. That only pisses Nathan off more, though. He narrows his eyes and grabs the hem of the shirt. “I want this back. Now.”

  “Don’t be a dick.” I jerk away and try to step around him. “I’ll return everything after I wash it.”

  “Some things don’t rinse clean, rich girl.” Before I can guess what he’s thinking, Nathan turns to his brother with an awful grin. “How are those sloppy seconds working out, bro?”

  That’s when the smell hits me. Despite it being five in the afternoon, Nathan is already hammered. But that doesn’t eradicate the horror of what he’s about to do. I lunge for him, trying to shut his mouth, but with drunken limberness, he dodges away, slamming into the opposite counter. Clay glances between us, a frown pleating his brows.

  “Guess that means you haven’t told him. Weird, you were so worried about that kiss, but it doesn’t bother you at all to bang my brother after hooking up with me.”

  Clay freezes, his face instantly a study in anguish, and then it’s all gone, locked away in some private vault. “You think hurting me will make you feel better? Give it a shot.”

  Suddenly I know exactly what to say because I know what Nathan was to Morgan, however he feels about her. “I wish you weren’t like this,” I snap. “Because you were convenient, Nathan. I wanted to punch my V-card, I was about to go to Europe for the summer, and I didn’t want to be an awkward American virgin anymore.

  “I chose you to be my first because you were there and I wanted to get it over with. If you weren’t trying to use five minutes of bad sex to hurt your brother, I never would’ve brought it up. For the record, I haven’t banged Clay yet because he matters and if he’s willing, he’ll get a hell of a lot more than five minutes.” By the time I finish, I’m shaking because it feels like I’ve married Morgan’s icy wrath with my own temper and the result is a sort of snow-white rage.

  Both Nathan and Clay are staring at me. Then Nathan bolts and I get a furious glare from Clay, who chases after him.

  I wait for a minute, ridiculously disappointed. Still, I watch the door; he doesn’t come back. I’m not sure what I expected, but in my heart, maybe I’m hoping that Clay will realize he loves me more than life itself. Why I still have these romantic fantasies, I have no idea. By now I should understand that life doesn’t work that way. It’s often complicated, sad, and inexplicably painful. Sometimes you see old couples holding hands on a park bench but it’s probably not because they still love each other madly after sixty years. Instead, one of them likely has Alzheimer’s and the other is too tired to go looking for a lost spouse again.

  That’s the world I live in, where Clay chooses Nathan. Again. Of course he minds that I’ve hurt and humiliated his little bro, even if said brother is kind of a douche. Blood is thicker than water, they say, but the actual quote is, “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”

  Loving me should mean something; it should matter to Clay, and it’s breaking my heart that this is a battle I probably can’t win.

  51

  Mrs. Rhodes is practically climbing the walls when I get in. “Are you all right? I played along when your teacher rang but your father…” She babbles so fast that I lose track.

  “Wait, slow down. Did he call Emma?”

  “I didn’t know her last name and he blew a gasket. Honestly, Morgan, I’ve never seen him like that. He stormed around the house, smashed a brandy tumbler, and threatened to fire me if I don’t keep better track of you. He must’ve called you forty times.”

  Wincing, I turn on my phone, which I’d switched off before my burglary run last night. Sure enough, there are forty-three missed calls and twenty texts. The messages start out normal, but by the end, they’re kind of … out there. I guess he was crazy worried.

  “Did he actually report me missing?” I ask, skimming the seventeenth message.

  The housekeeper shakes her head. “He did call the sheriff and ask him to have his deputies keep an eye out for your car, which I told him was ridiculous.”

  Jesus. Now I’m imagining how badly shit could’ve gone wrong last night if they’d spotted my car in Clay’s driveway. My father doesn’t exactly approve of this relationship, more like he tolerates it, but he’d be happier if I was dating one of the preps instead. Finding me in Clay’s bed wouldn’t have improved the situation.

  “Would you make some food that packs well? I’m going to shower, change, and take my dad dinner at the office. I’ve been wanting to poke around there anyway. Maybe if I go apologize he won’t send me to a Siberian convent school.”

  “It’s in Austria,” Mrs. Rhodes says.

  I freeze. “What?”

  “There’s a pamphlet in his office for an Austrian boarding school. I’m probably not supposed to tell you, but at this point, you pay me almost as much as he does.”

  For an infinite, appalling moment, I think, He wants to get rid of me. Is it the new girlfriend? Maybe she doesn’t want to be a stepmother.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I mutter.

  “No problem. I suspect my hours would be cut if you weren’t around.” Though her motives may be self-serving, her loyalty cheers me up somewhat. “You go get ready, I’ll fix the food and pack it up for you.”

  “I appreciate it. Fingers crossed that it’ll cool his wrath.”

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I lay out some power clothes, then rush to the bathroom. Somehow I manage to pull myself together in half an hour, including hair and makeup, though I cheated and used one of those French twist guides that I only need to wrap my hair around and pin. I look good in black and this suit lends me an air of somber elegance. In fact, I could pass for my early twenties dressed like this.

  And I often did.

  That’s not my thought, more of an echo, but I know it’s true, just like what I said to Nathan. The walls between Morgan and me are coming down in an avalanche of thought-stones. As time goes on, maybe I won’t even be able to tell us apart anymore. I wonder if I’ll forget that I was ever Liv. That prospect scares me a little, but not enough to keep me from moving forward.

  Mrs. Rhodes meets me at the door and I take the basket with a murmur of thanks. “Wish me luck. If this doesn’t work, I’ll need your help packing.”

  Though I’m joking, after my failure at the garage and the scene in the Claymore kitchen, I ask myself if going to Austria is such a terrible idea. Maybe I need a fresh start. It will be better for me not to be in the country when someone recognizes me as the girl in the photos currently making Creepy Jack’s life hell. His silence comes
as a welcome relief, but I suspect it’s a result of increased household surveillance. I mean, his wife’s probably inspecting his phone daily, if she hasn’t left already. From what I’ve seen of that circle, her reaction will depend on whether she married the politician or the man.

  I can’t decide if I should text my father or surprise him, but as I get in the car, I decide on the latter. Apologies always carry more weight in person. There’s no risk I’ll miss him because, to my knowledge, he hasn’t left the office before eight in months. Before, I feared there was some problem in the company he couldn’t tell me about, but now I’m thinking he must be with his girlfriend. That’s better than a cash-flow problem, right?

  Somehow that pep talk doesn’t help much.

  I drive the fifteen miles to Frost Tech, which is on the other side of Renton. We built some distance away because my dad wanted a short commute to decompress, or so he said. My mother also really loved the view; the house made her feel like a princess in a castle, though maybe toward the end, it’s more like she was imprisoned in the tower. Still can’t see Creepy Jack as a viable alternative. But loneliness makes people do weird, inexplicable things. Maybe it wasn’t about Jack as much as about trying to recapture an earlier period in her life, when she was young, happy, and free.

  The Frost Tech campus is impressive as hell. At the gate, the guard recognizes me and waves me through. Security guards zoom around on Segways, scouring the premises for trespassers. I navigate around them and park in the VIP spot reserved for me, though I’m almost never here. This probably pisses off the actual employees. I swing out of the Bug, dinner basket in hand, and click my way to the front desk. The receptionist must be new because she doesn’t scramble to her feet when she spots me. In fact, she gives me a shitty look.

  “Can I help you?” She’s just about to pack up her stuff and leave.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Wait, you have to sign in!” she yells.

  I ignore her and use the code to call the executive elevator. Morgan knew this, not me, but my fingers press the numbers like it’s second nature. This building only has ten floors, but the complex itself has eight buildings, housing various departments. My dad occupies the penthouse all by himself and this gives me a nonstop lift. There’s no hallway; the elevator doors open directly into his office.

  And that’s kind of horrifying because he’s got a woman on his desk. They’re not quite going at it, but from the grabbing and moaning, if I had come ten minutes later, this would be a full-on case of coitus interruptus. The smart thing would be to get the hell out before they notice me, but it’s just so awful and awkward that I start laughing.

  My father shoots upright and tries frantically to finger comb his hair. He shields the woman with his body so she can fix whatever damage he did to her clothes, but neither one of them looks particularly reputable, even when they move away from the sex desk. I can’t face either of them; somehow I choke off the inappropriate giggles, as I’m not twelve, but my eyes are watering to the point that I can’t see.

  “Hi, Dad. Going over this week’s sales figures?”

  “You should have called.” From his tone, he’s both embarrassed and enraged.

  “Sorry, I wanted to surprise you.” I look everywhere but at him, hefting the basket in my hands. “Mission accomplished, I guess?”

  “You think I’m remotely amused?” He’s speaking through clenched teeth, and that tone doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard before, it’s almost … scary.

  “I’m sorry. That’s why I came. To apologize. I heard you were worried last night because I didn’t give Mrs. Rhodes enough information about my school friend. So … I wanted to make it up to you. I didn’t know you would be busy.” I lower my head, studying my designer shoes.

  For some reason I want to cry. It’s like there’s nobody in the world who’s happy to see me. Tears spring up, but I choke them down. I’m not a little kid; I refuse to cry in front of my dad’s girlfriend. What kind of first impression am I making?

  “It’s not a big deal,” the woman says then. “I wanted to meet Morgan, and actually, it is kind of funny. I’m sure we’ll laugh about this later.”

  Raising my head, I offer a tentative smile, but my face freezes. She’s my mother replicated in miniature. While my mom was tall and lithe, this woman is petite, all cornflower-blue eyes, dark curls, and so, so young. I look again. Okay, on second inspection, their features don’t look that much alike, and yet they’re definitely of a type: skin, hair, eyes, and smile.

  Suddenly … this isn’t funny at all.

  52

  The next day, my father is still in the house so I eat breakfast with him before heading to school. In the main office, I enjoy the hell out of making the secretary change my schedule. Now I have classes I can be excited about, and maybe if I push, I can still get into a school with a decent science department. After all the weird shit that’s happened, I kind of want to study neurology now instead of bioengineering.

  All things considered, my mood is bright as I step into the hall. The silence hits me first, and then I notice how everyone is parting like the Red Sea. Men in uniform make their way toward me, each step measured like they’re moving to the unheard strains of a funeral march. My phone pings, but as I check it, I already know.

  I know.

  The message from Oscar is succinct. They found out it’s you.

  Part of me wonders how they put it together or if Creepy Jack confessed. Either way it doesn’t matter. I don’t move, just wait, until the policemen surround me as if I’m a flight risk. But when the oldest one speaks, it’s in a gentle voice. “We need you to come with us, Miss Frost. We have some questions.”

  In my heart I know nothing about this will be gentle, so his approach feels like a lie. It would be better if they slapped me up front and gave me the scarlet letter now. Only it wouldn’t be an A; in our world, it would be an S for slut. Good girls don’t mess around like that, good girls don’t get hurt.

  “I wonder what she did,” someone whispers.

  Soon it’ll probably be “She deserved it” or “She was asking for it.” They’ll dissect my behavior and the clothes I wear, like anything can be classified that way. The world is more complicated than that. Most of all, I hate that some of them will think Morgan is a victim. She would despise that, even if it’s true.

  Quietly I follow them out to the waiting car. They put me in back, but they’re careful to explain, “You’re not in any trouble. Don’t be frightened.”

  I’m not. I’m numb instead. Since I asked Oscar to turn in the pictures, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now I finally get to see how bad this gets. A phrase pops into my head: For the guilty to be punished, the innocent must be hurt.

  The officers talk quietly in the front seat, as if they know I must be handled with kid gloves or my father will sue them down to skin and bones. That’s probably true, but I think he will care more about the shame-stains this affair leaves behind than any real damage to me. Sometimes I think he sees me as property, like a car or a lamp. It reminds me of a movie I saw, where the women were literally owned, but they rebelled and wrote WE ARE NOT THINGS on the wall.

  I’m writing it over and over in my mind as they take me to the station. The silver-haired one says, “We tried to get in touch with your father but his secretary said he’s in an important meeting and took a message. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll come soon.”

  Story of my life.

  We shake hands like this is a social occasion. The older one is Officer Danby. His partner is Officer Gutierrez. Neither one can meet my gaze without twitching away. They see me as a pathetic, damaged girl, and the weight of their discomfort makes everything worse. I’m pretty sure their victim-sensitivity trainer didn’t mean for them to treat me like a broken vase.

  After seating me in an interview room, they offer tea and stale pastries. I decline. They’re clearly stalling. Because they don’t know what to do w
ith a quiet girl who understands that her father is not coming. The cops haven’t figured this out yet because that’s what parents do; they drop everything and run. They run with arms open for hugs and they whisper, “It’ll be okay.” At least that’s what Liv’s parents would’ve done. There would’ve been yelling, too, and some angry words and tears and more hugging, anything but silence.

  Silence is death.

  My chest hurts. I won’t cry. I won’t. I told Oscar I understood how bad it could get and this is only the beginning. If this is public knowledge now, school will be a nightmare. I breathe out, in, out again, studying the specks on the table. Randall Frost’s behavior is puzzling.

  But it’s not like he’s my father.

  Not really.

  Maybe he’s honestly in a meeting.

  An hour ticks away and finally Officer Danby says, “What would you like to do, Miss Frost? We can wait for your father. We can go pick him up. We can—”

  “Can we just get this over with?” I’m aware that since I’m only seventeen and a half, I’m probably supposed to have a guardian with me for this interview, but the idea of going over the details with Randall Frost in the room makes me want to throw up.

  “All right, we’ll do what we can to expedite.” The older cop hurries out.

  I check my phone. There are four local gossip sites already running the headline “Frost Tech Heiress Unveiled…” or some variant IDing me as Creepy Jack’s lover. My heart pounds so loud and hard it feels like it’s coming from my throat. As I’m about to shut my cell off, it pings.

  Clay: You okay?

  I guess he’s heard.

  But before I can reply, a woman in a wrinkled suit comes in with the older cop. She has social worker written all over her. She must be my parental stand-in to make sure I’m not abused by the system. The recorder comes out, along with pens and pencils. And the questions, they are endless. Invasive. Sometimes insulting, even if they don’t mean to be.