Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  “I think we should have a private conversation with him,” I say to Jack.

  “Done. You find a way to get him in here, and I’ll make sure we have time alone,” Jack says. The past shadows his eyes. I don’t see it lurking there much these days. Unlike me, Jack lives in the light most of the time, but some ghosts always haunt you. “Sterling, is it possible…”

  “No,” I say.

  “How is what you’re doing to her any different than what this Oliver guy did?”

  “I’m not drugging her or lying to her,” I tell him. “She knows I don’t love her. She asked to play this game.”

  “And you’re okay with her losing? Because that’s cold, even for you.”

  I look to my old friend. He has a right to ask questions if he is going to be involved. “Do you want out?”

  “You know that’s not what this is about,” he says.

  “If she changed, she wouldn’t have to worry,” I say to him. “But she wanted to play—just like old times. She still sees everyone around her as a means to an end.”

  “How is destroying her going to make a difference?”

  “You know what they say about a taste of your own medicine?” I ask. “Adair MacLaine is long overdue for a dose.”

  He doesn’t have time to respond before Adair returns. Jack pours her another drink and she accepts it with an easy laugh as she begins plying him with questions about me and the bar and our history. I don’t miss the concerned look he shoots me when she’s not paying attention. Maybe Adair can fool him, but I know who she really is. Jack thinks I’m going to be the one to hurt her. In the end, she’ll do the damage all by herself.

  25

  Sterling

  The Past

  It turns out that one of the perks of being Cyrus Eaton’s roommate is that he’s never here. Apparently, living on campus means spending most of his time in a suite at The Eaton Hotel in Nashville. At least, on the weekends. He checked in by text to let me know the place is mine for the next few days. I guess he found a conscious girl to take home.

  Knowing that no one will bother me or drag me off to a party gives me time to catch up on things before midterms, which are only two weeks away. I don’t know how the hell I’ve been here that long. I still feel out of place. Cyrus is okay, but its not like we’re braiding each other’s hair anytime soon. After being up half the night checking on Adair, the last thing I feel like doing is going to the cafeteria to eat. Instead, I use some of my precious meal plan money and order a pizza from some place off-campus. Digging out my books, I stare at them, willing myself to find the motivation to crack one and get started. I’m just so fucking tired that I need to reset, so I grab a worn-out novel from the shelf. I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of studying at all by the time the pizza arrives. I drop the book back on the pile and go to answer it. But it’s not pizza waiting for me. Adair stands there. She holds out a bag of cookies.

  “This isn’t what I ordered,” I tell her, but I take the cookies anyway.

  “It’s a peace offering,” she says.

  “I think we already agreed on terms.” Not that I’m going to turn down free cookies delivered by a pretty girl.

  “Can I come in?” Her neck cranes slightly as if she’s trying to peek inside my room. She’s probably looking for Cyrus. They’ve known each other since they were kids.

  “I’m alone,” I say. “Cyrus went to The Eaton until Monday.”

  “Good.” Her response surprises me. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  In a 24-hour period, we’ve gone from hating each other to hanging out together? I move out of the doorway, wishing I’d changed into something better than a t-shirt and old sweats earlier. I hadn’t bothered to comb my hair or shave. Meanwhile, Adair looks like a page from a magazine. Her copper hair is coiled in a loose bun, wisps escaping to fall around her heart-shaped face. She’s traded this morning’s towel for a sweater that slips off her shoulder, revealing freckles I find myself wanting to count. She clears her throat, and I realize I’m just standing there. Apparently, she wants an engraved invitation. I sweep my arm toward my room. “Sure. Come in. I’m waiting on a pizza. Are you hungry?”

  Her head moves into a slight shake before she stops and nods. “Actually, I am. I couldn’t eat anything at dinner tonight.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Yes,” she says, “and no.”

  “Well, as long as you’re sure.” I don’t know what to do while she wanders around the small space. I find myself trying to imagine what it looks like to her.

  I know Adair didn’t live on campus before she decided to take the semester off. But she’s been here before for a few minutes. Our room is bigger than most dorms on campus, which I assume has something to do with Cyrus. I’m not complaining. It means we have space to keep our beds separate from each other rather than bunking them. In the middle of the room there’s a leather couch, also courtesy of Cyrus. Someone’s managed to mount the TV on the cinderblock walls using what I can only assume is magic. Again, I don’t question my fortune on that count. There’s a rug on the floor that probably cost more than all of my worldly possessions. It’s about as comfortable as you can make what’s usually the equivalent of a summer camp bunker. Still, I always feel a little like I’m staying in someone else’s home.

  “It’s nice.” She delivers her verdict with conviction.

  “Mostly compliments of Cyrus,” I say with a shrug. Not that she couldn’t have guessed that.

  “Not these.” She trails a finger down the stack of novels on my desk. “These are yours.”

  “How did you know?”

  The joy in her answering laugh twangs an invisible string in my chest. “I’ve never seen Cyrus read a novel in my life.”

  “This is your favorite.” she says, picking up the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby I’d just been reading. She studies it for a moment, her eyes lingering on the call number taped on the spine. She flips it open and reads, “Property of Lincoln High School—is this a library book?”

  “You caught me.” I drop onto the couch. If I’m going to be lectured, I might as will be comfortable “I stole a library book.”

  “You stole more than one,” she murmurs, scanning the rest of the stack before continuing to page through Gatsby. Her eyebrows ratchet up with each page turned as she takes in the notes I’ve penciled into the margins. “And you wrote in it.”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t stolen any Jane Austen,” I say.

  “That’s a mistake,” she murmurs. “Maybe next time?”

  “I don’t steal library books anymore,” I assure her.

  “Just special ones, huh?”

  “Those are my favorite,” I say. “I rechecked them out over and over again. No one ever saw the writing.”

  “You could’ve bought them,” she says off-handedly. There’s a pause punctuated at last by Adair turning a horrified look on me. She’s just realized what she said. “I mean…”

  “It’s cool,” I say her, feeling oddly exposed. “Libraries are free entertainment.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.” She means it, which goes a long way toward keeping me from reacting.

  It’s not like she understands. It’s not like she’s ever had to borrow a book in her life.

  “I didn’t really steal them. I couldn’t return them.” I find myself confessing—and I’m not sure why. I don’t owe her an explanation.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I moved. Different school. I forgot to leave them with the foster family. It happened a lot. Pretty soon it just felt like they were mine. I didn’t have much else to my name.” Why the fuck am I telling her this? Adair doesn’t care about any of it. Why should she? It’s not like shitty things haven’t happened to her. So what if she judges me for taking a book or writing in one?

  Adair doesn’t say anything for a minute, she just stares at the book in her hands.

  “I think it belongs to you now,” sh
e whispers.

  “Yeah, but only because I stole it,” I say trying to sound like I’m teasing. She’d shown up here upset and I’d dumped a bucket of pathetic all over her. It’s no wonder that foster parents were constantly shipping me off to a new life. I’m such a joy to be around.

  She doesn’t comment, instead she picks up a few more books. “You like American authors.” It’s true. There’s Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald in that stack. She puts them back down and shrugs. “To each his own.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not just Austen for you?” I say based on her reaction. “You prefer Brits?”

  “I’m a total Anglophile,” she admits. “I think that’s the reason I took up horseback riding. They’re always dashing off to visit someone on horseback or a hero is arriving on horseback. I think that’s what I imagine England is like still. Just people going off to the country over the weekend to ride horses, drink tea, and read in the library.”

  “Maybe for people like you.” I can’t help but laugh at this visual. “I doubt people in the city ride horses very often.”

  “Hey, I’ve seen police on horse back in New York,” she says. “Horses can be in a city.”

  “That doesn’t mean that most New Yorkers have ridden a horse,” I inform her. “I haven’t.”

  “You’ve never been on a horse?” Cynical, aloof Adair MacLaine is actually shocked at this.

  “I don’t think it’s that strange.” I suspect I’m in the majority on this one.

  “Around here it is,” she explains. “I’m surprised they don’t make everyone get on a horse during orientation. Everyone in Valmont has stables. It’s expected. And horses? Riding them is total freedom. It’s like pausing time. Total magic.”

  Hearing her talk about them is magic. Most of the time I’ve spent with her she’s been on the defensive, careful to keep a tough face for the world to see. But it turns out that she has a softer side. I find myself liking both. “I guess I have to go horseback riding.”

  “I’ll take you.” Our eyes meet like we’re both a little shocked. I’m not entirely certain, but we might have just made a date. Or maybe she knows that I’m going to make a jackass out of myself trying to ride a horse and just wants to see it.

  By the time the pizza actually arrives, we’re deep into a discussion of British versus American literature. She’s wrong. I just need her to see it. When I put the box down, she stares like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

  “Hold on.” I dash down the hall to the bathroom and swipe a stack of paper towels. Passing her one, I lift the lid and grab a slice. She hesitates for a second before she reaches for one, too. It’s strange to see her acting like a normal person. Mostly because she makes it look a little awkward and cute at the same time. The whole moment—from the comforting smell of melted cheese to the piles of books to the smart girl sitting cross-legged on the couch—looks like it should be photographed and stuck in one of those brochures Francie used to bring home for me. This is what college life is supposed to be like—this is what they’re selling.

  And it’s not so bad.

  “How is it, Lucky?”

  She screws up her nose, clearly she still hates the name. “It’s so good. I think it’s better out of the box.”

  “How do you eat pizza?” I ask her.

  “Off the plate,” she says in a puzzled voice as though a plate is a prerequisite for all food.

  “Tell me you don’t use a fork,” I plead.

  “I don’t use a fork,” she says slowly but it’s clear from her expression that she does.

  “So you do have flaws.”

  She flinches before her shoulders square. “There’s no wrong way to eat pizza.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a right way.” I ignore that she’s bristling for a fight and grab a piece. “Let me show you how we do it in New York.”

  “Why do you fold it in half?” she asks, staring at my slice.

  “They cut it bigger in New York. Serve it on a paper plate. No fork,” I explain to her. “You have to do it this way. Plus, it helps you keep everything from falling off.”

  “Okay.” She follows my lead, her eyes narrowing warily. As soon as she takes a bite, a smile dances over her lips. “It’s like a pizza sandwich.”

  I can’t help laughing at her delight. “I guess so.”

  “I have to confess something.” Now she sounds a bit embarrassed.

  “Don’t be shy,” I encourage her. “It can’t be worse than eating pizza with a fork.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” she warns me. She sets down her pizza, her face growing deadly serious. “I’ve never read The Great Gatsby.”

  “And you’re an English major?” I nearly choke. I force myself to swallow the barely chewed bite in my mouth. “I take it all back. That’s worse.”

  “There are a lot of British authors. I haven’t gotten through them all.”

  This is not an acceptable excuse. “How can you be sure they’re better if you’ve never read the greatest American novel before?”

  “Settle down, Ford. I’ll get to it.”

  But I’m already on my feet, grabbing my copy.

  “You’ll get to it,” I grumble as I drop it in her lap. “You have to do better than that.”

  “I’m not sure I can accept stolen goods,” she teases.

  “Just read it,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Because it’s the Great American novel,” I tell her.

  She purses her lips before shaking her head with frustration. It’s not the answer she’s looking for. “No, that’s not what I mean. Why do you love it?”

  “I’m not sure I can explain it to someone who’s never read it,” I say. There’s no way Adair can understand Gatsby like I do, but she should read it anyway.

  “Try,” she says dryly.

  I breathe so deeply it hurts a little while I consider my response. “I guess I just always got him. Gatsby, I mean. He never quite fits in anywhere. No matter how hard he tries.”

  “I get that,” she says softly.

  I look at her—really look. Does she get it? This girl, who has everything, doesn’t fit either? It doesn’t seem possible. But I’ve seen the wall she’s built around her. The one she hides behind while raining insults and barbs down on anyone who tries to breach it. I saw that wall, but I didn’t ask myself why she felt the need to build it.

  “Thanks for letting me hang out here,” she says, finally breaking the heavy silence lingering in the air.

  I force myself to look away from her. “Any time.”

  I’m surprised to discover I mean it. Adair isn’t cold. That’s a veneer she wears like armor. I’m not sure what’s underneath yet, but I want to know about the girl with the green eyes. She’s not easy. She’s work but that makes me like her more. There’s sunshine underneath her thunderstorm. When the light peeks out from the storm clouds in her eyes, it’s all worth it.

  For a moment, I consider closing the gap between us. I’ve held Adair in my arms but that’s not what I want right now. I want to taste her. I want to run my tongue over those freckles on her shoulder and then explore her until I’ve kissed every last one on her body. I want to see if she breaks like a sunrise or shatters like lightning strike.

  She bites her lip, turning her face from mine. Can she see it in my eyes?

  “They put the tombstone up at my mom’s grave,” she whispers.

  Her words settle like light rain, and just like that there’s no sun or storm on the horizon. She didn’t come here to hook up. She came here to be understood.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

  “My dad wants the whole family to go so that reporters can see us being sad together,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I know, right?” She sinks into the couch, drawing her knees to her chest. “We had a big fight about it.”

  “No wonder you didn’t want to be at home.” I say.

  “I can’t avoid it for
ever.”

  “Maybe you should go on your own first,” I suggest. I have some experience with this. I’d been so young when I saw my mother’s name carved into stone—young enough that I’d had to ask my foster mom to take me. Old enough to feel the heavy finality of those words in marble.

  “I’m not sure I can,” she confesses in a small voice.

  “I’ll go with you,” I offer.

  She peeks at me, half her face hidden behind her knees. “You will?”

  “If you want,” I say quickly. Maybe I shouldn’t invite myself to such a private moment.

  “I don’t want to go alone, and I don’t want it to be a spectacle,” she says.

  “We can go tomorrow.” It’s too dark now, but I know the longer she waits the more reasons she’ll come up with to avoid it. There’s no way I’m letting her go with her dad for the first time. Not if he’s just going to stomp all over her broken heart. I don’t know him, but I already get the sense I don’t like him. Maybe that’s just how he works—like those assholes who take pictures of their entire lives to post online. Or maybe everything is a publicity stunt to him. It feels too personal to ask her.

  “I don’t know how to fix this.” She blinks and tears spill down her cheeks. “I don’t know how to fix me. I just feel broken.”

  I reach over, cradling her face in my left hand, my thumb moving to brush off the tears. “The truth is that when something breaks, you don’t put yourself back together the same way. You make something new with what’s left.”

  “When do the nightmares stop?” she asks. The question is so small and hopeless that I don’t want to tell her the truth—that they’re never going to go away. That you just get used to them. That someday it might be all she has left of her mom as time steals away the sound of her laughter or the way she smiled or how she smelled. That someday she might look forward to those nightmares.

  “It gets better,” I promise her.

  “Can I stay here just a little longer?”