TMI

by Patty Blount

  “I thought I was so special. My dad played with me, brought me to daycare, picked me up, even made me breakfast in bed. I adored him. But he had problems. He used to cry a lot. I didn’t know why. I was too little. He told me all the time I had to have a plan for my future because the only person I could ever count on was myself. I needed to get good grades, go to a good school, get a good job so I could be self-sufficient. I thought he was looking out for me. I thought he was telling me all this plan stuff because he loved me so much and wanted to make sure I would be okay.” Meg wrapped her arms around her middle, suddenly freezing.

  “It was all a lie.”

  She shut her eyes and could almost hear his furious voice all over again. She told Barilla everything, reciting it the way she might read a grocery list.

  “One night, when they thought I was asleep, my parents had a horrible argument. He’d been out late, and when he came home, it was without the car. He’d lost it in a card game. Mom screamed at him that he had to grow up, he had a child now. Dad screamed right back that he’d never wanted a kid in the first place, that it had been her idea to keep me instead of getting an abortion like he wanted.”

  The heart in her chest had cracked that day, and she didn’t even know what an abortion was.

  “The next day, he picked me up. I went running up to him like I always did. He didn’t say anything. He just took me home, carried me all the way upstairs to his room. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out this big black thing.”

  She shut her eyes and covered her ears, but the sound was etched too deeply in her memory not to hear.

  “I never saw a gun before and didn’t know I should have been scared. He took me into the bathroom, sat me on the edge of the tub, and told me he loved me so much, more than he ever imagined he could. That made me happy. But then he admitted he’d never wanted to have kids and was so mad at my mom for keeping me. He said she made her choice and it was time he made his. He put me down, and right before he told me to get out, he made me promise to stick to The Plan. I was scared, so I ran. When I heard the shot, I stopped and went back. There was so much blood.”

  She shivered and ran her hands up and down her arms. “I don’t remember much after that. Mom came home and found us, and we had to leave for a few days. When we got back, the bathroom was clean, but I still know where every drop of blood was.

  “He left us deeply in debt. I didn’t know how bad it was until I started hearing my mother cry every night when she thought I was sleeping. I’d sneak down the stairs and hear her on the phone with bill collectors, begging them for help, but it never worked. She got a job and then another and even a third. I spent all day in school and then in an after-school program and then with various neighbors until bedtime. Some days, I even had breakfast with the neighbors. She told me she loved me all the time, but when I found their wedding video, I knew she was lying too.

  “I watched it every day, as many times as I could. My father was so handsome and Mom was so beautiful. She looked like a Disney princess. Dad was laughing and Mom had shiny hair and sparkles in her eyes. I never saw them like that. I watched them put rings on each other’s fingers and make promises and dance and laugh and kiss. They were so—” A fresh wave of despair crushed her. “Oh, God, they were happy, and I ruined it.”

  She stopped talking when the door opened. A secretary walked over to Mr. Poynter and whispered in his ear. He shut his eyes in relief and then motioned to Detective Barilla. They moved to the window and had a brief whispered conversation. Megan curled her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was funny. Now that she’d started talking, she had to finish the story. She needed to finish the story. As soon as the secretary shut the door, she did.

  “A year later, Chase’s family moved to our block. I think I fell in love with him on the school playground. He has magic eyes. But I couldn’t let him love me. I killed my dad. I’m slowly killing my mom. I don’t want that to happen to Chase. So I paint him. That way, I can still be with him. Bailey’s the only one who knows this—any of this. I was in the middle of a big oil painting the day I sliced my hand open. I just…worked through it.”

  Detective Barilla blew out a slow breath. “Okay, Megan. Okay.” She stood up, closed the laptop. “You can go.”

  Meg blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” the detective echoed.

  Meg felt the old familiar pain claw through her gut, swallowed it down, and rose on shaky knees.

  Oh, sure. That’s it.

  “Meg.” Pauline’s tired eyes were red and filled with tears. Oh, God, she’d heard. She’d heard every word. Meg flung herself into her mother’s arms.

  “Let’s get you home.” Her mother put an arm around her and led her to the exit.

  “Megan.”

  She froze at the sound of Chase’s voice.

  No. No more. She couldn’t bear any more. But she looked up anyway. At least this time, there was no stupid smile. That was some consolation.

  “Mr. Gallagher? Why don’t you come in and tell us where you’ve been all night?” Detective Barilla said.

  Chase ignored her and spoke directly to Meg. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please believe me, Megan.”

  She wanted to. She wanted to so badly that it hurt, but she didn’t…she couldn’t, not completely.

  And he knew it.

  Chapter 44

  Bailey

  The days passed. Bailey had not spoken to Chase or Meg or Ryder or Simon or her game buddies or even her family. She hadn’t gone to school, even though Gran had been dropping her off in front of it every day for the past week. That’s because every day for the past week, she’d been hiding in Starbucks, the movie theater, or the library until the last bell.

  She tugged on the hood of her sweatshirt, tucking her ponytail under it. A ponytail, she thought with an eye-roll. She’d always hassled Meg about her messy ponytails but had to admit it was nice not having hair fall in front of her eyes and really good at keeping people from recognizing her. She kept walking, wondering if her stomach would ever not twist into a ball whenever she thought about Meg. Or Ryder. Or Chase. Or even her mother.

  Probably not.

  She kept walking.

  She walked until she reached the enormous house with the windy driveway with closed gates and a little intercom built into the post. A camera mounted high on a tree swept left and right and back again. Even the stupid tree was designer. She stabbed the call button and stuffed her hands in her pockets while she waited.

  “Who is it?”

  “Bailey Grant. I’m here to talk to Simon.”

  There was a long silence. Bailey glared at the camera every time it panned by.

  “I’m sorry, but Simon’s lawyer doesn’t think—”

  “Yes, my lawyer agrees with Simon’s lawyer, but I came here anyway because I need to talk to him.”

  Another long silence. Finally, Bailey leaned on the call button.

  “Miss Grant, you’ll have to leave. Simon is not permitted—Simon? Simon! Get back here!”

  Off in the distance at the end of the windy driveway, Bailey could see the front door open. A tall figure jogged her way. It took him almost five damn minutes to reach her.

  “What are you doing here, Bailey?” He stopped on his side of the gate.

  “Needed to talk to you.”

  “You could have texted.”

  She shook her head, still under its hood. “You. Not Ryder.”

  Simon winced. That scored him a few points in Bailey’s eyes.

  “So is he the reason you’re here?”

  “No. Yes.” Bailey shut her eyes. “I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m here—to figure it out.”

  Simon lowered his head. “You want me to apologize again? I will if you want me to, but it doesn’t really change anything. I can’t
undo what I did.”

  “No.”

  His eyes snapped to hers, and she had to take an extra breath. It was his eyes that she’d needed to see. Even when he was shooting off his big mouth, trying to be cool, Simon was never able to get his eyes to follow his mouth. They couldn’t lie. Like Abraham Lincoln. She could design a whole character around him in the video game if she still had it. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could recover everything she’d deleted and—

  “Then why?” he demanded.

  She stepped closer, wrapped her hands around the cold iron bars. “Okay, look. I don’t have very good luck when it comes to guys. Meg always said I tried way too hard. The horseback riding, martial arts, NASCAR racing, video games. She says I’m never just me.”

  “Meg’s right.”

  Wow. Judging by the way he clenched his jaw when she mentioned Meg, Bailey figured it must have really hurt him to say that. It actually kind of hurt to hear it. She stared at him and he rolled his eyes.

  “Come on, Bay. It’s obvious, isn’t it? You try on lifestyles like they’re outfits at the mall. Do you really think I believe you actually liked stamp collecting?”

  Bailey’s lips twitched. “You didn’t?”

  “No! Hell, I’m not even sure I like it. I just tried it because my dad wanted me to. At first, I thought it was really cool that you were willing to do things for me. But it got old really fast, Bailey. Your heart was never in it.”

  “I really liked you, Simon.” She ran her thumb over a rust spot on the iron bar and watched bits flake off and float away.

  “I really liked you too, but you were just pretending to like me, just like everybody else in this freakin’ neighborhood since the money came in.” His words were like a whip, and she jumped.

  “Is that what you thought? Is that why you weirded out on me? I thought—”

  “I never cheated,” he shouted. “I never even looked at Caitlyn before that day Meg happened to see us. But you trusted Meg more than me.”

  Damn it, his eyes weren’t lying, and suddenly, she realized that’s why she was there—to look into Lincoln blue eyes and know without a doubt what was the truth and what was insecurity and fantasy and wishful thinking and…and a lost cause.

  “You’re right. I did, and I’m so sorry. Meg and I—we’ve been friends for so long, and it’s just so hard not to believe her, you know?”

  “Oh, trust me, I do.”

  Bailey’s eyes widened. “Is that why you did it? To play us against each other?”

  A muscle in Simon’s jaw twitched, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I wanted you to see what it’s like.”

  Bailey’s filled with tears. She blinked them back. She’d obviously made a mistake coming here. She heard a car approach and watched it disappear around a curve. “You know, it felt real. The only time in my life that it did, but the guy was fake.” She laughed once. “That must be so funny to you.”

  He suddenly shook the iron bars that separated them, and she jumped back. “I’m not laughing,” he shouted. “I tried to end it, end him. I was gonna tell you that day at the mall. I deleted all the accounts, but it was too late. Half the damn school watched you two fight like it’s the Golden Gloves, and I’m—”

  There it was again. A flash—a glimmer that lit his eyes for no more than a second.

  “You’re what?”

  He tightened his lips and shook his head. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “You should go. The Dream Team’s gonna have a fit when they find out I talked to you.”

  “Simon, it’ll be okay. You didn’t murder anybody. Maybe I can help? Talk to them for you?”

  He sneered. “Yeah, like you’d really do that for me.”

  “I would. Simon, I came here because I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” he murmured, shoving his hands in his pocket.

  Bailey curled her hands around the bars. “Simon, did you send me his name?”

  He hesitated a moment and then turned away. “I gotta go.” He ran up the windy driveway without waiting for her to reply.

  Bailey started walking. But her steps were lighter, and a smile tugged at her lips.

  For the first time in her life, Bailey had a plan.

  Chapter 45

  Meg

  Megan stared at the computer monitor with blurred eyes, watching status updates scroll by like the credits at the end of a movie.

  Or the end of a friendship.

  It had been weeks since that end. Even the senior class’s graduation didn’t kill the buzz about her brush with the law in the main office, like it was a scene from that same movie instead of her life. The pain chewing its way through her heart still plagued her, though it had dulled. Guess she’d just gotten used to it.

  She’d had plenty of experience getting used to pain.

  She thought about her dad and shook her head with a sad smile. He’d been right all along. The only one she could count on was herself. He’d drummed that into her head over and over since she was born, but had she listened? First, she’d lost him, and that was the first set of teeth to gnash at her heart. Then there was Chase. Oh, she’d tried. She’d tried so hard to stay unaffected—to push him away—to protect herself, yet somehow, he’d sneaked in. Nibble. Nibble nibble. But the Bailey stuff—oh, she’d never seen that coming. She’d been so careful. She’d never sought popularity and social status and saw little value in having dozens of acquaintances. She’d allowed herself one friend. One really good friend.

  And the loss of that friend was the final set of jaws to chomp through her heartstrings.

  Abruptly furious, Meg jumped up and paced her room, sick of this pointless wallowing. She headed to the stack of canvases in the corner, found the portrait she’d done of Bailey with her game face on, thumbs blurring over the controller. She studied it critically, the oils she’d painted on a smoky blue background. Nailing the color of Bailey’s honey-blond hair had been almost as hard as getting Chase’s eyes right, but she’d done it—titanium white, burnt sienna, and burnt umber with pale blue for the highlights and violet for the lowlights. The hair looked like it could be brushed. It was beautiful. One of her best.

  Meg fisted her hand, pulled back her arm, ready to smash through Bailey’s face, and then changed her mind. She crossed the room, fished around in her closet for the small toolbox, and found a hammer, tape measure, a couple of D rings, and some wire. She measured and marked, attached the rings to the back of the canvas, and looped a length of wire to each. With a swoop of her arm, she cleared her bed of pillows and climbed on top of it, the hammer under her arm, a hook in her mouth, and the canvas in her hand. She nailed the hook into the wall over her bed to carefully suspend the canvas.

  It would look down on her from that spot of prominence, a daily reminder of what can happen—what did happen—when she didn’t listen to her dad.

  She put the tools back in their box and the box back in her closet and then stared at the portrait, steeling herself against the burn. Easier all the time. She forced her eyes away, thought about watching TV, maybe reading a book, but neither held much interest. She could hear the clock ticking in the hall, a nagging reminder of her deadline, and knew she should paint. But even that failed to excite her. She wandered to the huge window and stared down at the Gallaghers’ backyard. The lawn had been cut, she noticed. She supposed Dylan had done it now that Chase was gone.

  She had to steel herself against that burn too. He’d graduated, and as he’d planned, he had moved to the city with his teammates. He never said good-bye.

  Meg tore her gaze from the window and returned to pacing around her room. The monitor caught her eye again, and the burn in her chest flared white-hot for a moment.

  Bailey had updated her status. A dozen, a hundred, a hundred doze
n times, she’d tried to unfriend Bailey but couldn’t click the damn button.

  OMG. I found him. I found my dad. His name’s Matthew Schor. He’s a Marine Sgt! He lives in the next town. Wish me luck, everybody! I’m heading there right now.

  The burn in Meg’s chest hit the redline and she gasped, trying to rub it away. She’d done it. Bailey found her dad. And in spite of all the pain, Meg smiled. The smile spread to laugh when she realized Bailey abbreviated because she couldn’t be bothered to look up “sergeant.” The on-screen activity sped up. People liked Bailey’s post and wished her luck, and Meg’s fingers itched to join in, but she willed them away from the keyboard. Bailey had made it damn clear she no longer cared what Meg had to say.

  She was suffocating under the weight of all this nothing. She had to fill the hours with something, anything, that might bleed the pain and grief from her body. With a determined press to her lips, she shut down the computer and pulled sweats from her dresser. She needed to run. She changed clothes, tied on shoes, grabbed her iPod, and stuffed her ancient cell phone in her pocket. Outside, the air was sticky with a storm that threatened and matched her mood.

  She ran down her street, away from Bailey’s house, her feet slapping pavement in time with the driving beat of the music she’d chosen, a song called “Monster.”

  It also matched her mood. Storm Cloud Gray. Soul Suck Black. And when she let her guard down, a little Betrayed Blue oozed out, and none of it was inside the lines.

  Sweat soaked her shirt. Her lungs wanted to explode, and the cramp in her leg hobbled her. She slowed to a walk and then gave up when a passing car honked at her. It suddenly hit her that she could die there—just fall down dead—and it would be hours, maybe even a day or two, before she was missed. Her mom would mourn and then go back to her jobs and her classes. For a while, she’d be the trending topic at school, and then she’d just fade away with not even memories left behind.