by Erin Watt
I clasp my hands behind my back and try not to look guilty, because what’s wrong with wanting to talk to my cousin? “I was thinking of calling Jeanette.”
“No, she’s busy,” Mom replies flatly.
“It’s nine at night,” I protest.
“It’s too late to be on the phone.”
“Mom—”
The doorbell rings before I can mount an argument. Mom mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Thank goodness” before she sets the pot she’d been scrubbing onto the drainer and hurries to the front door.
I eye her purse. Her phone is sticking out the top of it, taunting me. If I borrowed her phone for, say, ten minutes, would she figure it out? I inch along the counter. If she catches me, what’s the worst thing that happens? She can’t take my phone away, I think, feeling a mild hysteria creeping over me.
“Your boyfriend is here to see you,” Mom announces. “He’s an Astor boy,” she whispers as she grabs my arm.
I’m about to ask how she knows, when I see him—Kyle Hudson—standing near the front door looking around my house with curious eyes, as if he’s never once stepped foot inside. He’s wearing skinny jeans that are too tight on his stocky frame and a dark blue letter jacket with a patch over the left breast that matches the patches on my blazers upstairs.
“I, ah, stopped by to see how you were doing,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“I’m fine.” This is the first time he’s checked in on me in a week.
He rubs his foot against the tile.
Mom pinches me in the side. “What Hartley means is that she’s so happy that you stopped by. Hartley is shocked that she has such a caring boyfriend. Have a seat.” She gestures toward the living room sofa. “Can I get you anything?”
Kyle shakes his head. “I thought I’d take Hart-lay over to the French Twist. Some Astor kids are meeting up there.”
I grind my teeth together. I hate how he says my name.
“Of course,” chirps my mother. “Let me get some money.”
Only she doesn’t move right away, waiting for him to stop her. Instead, he raises his eyebrows in anticipation.
“Actually, I’m tired.” I pull out of Mom’s grip. “I’m not up for going out.”
“We aren’t clubbing, Hart-lay. It’s a bakery.”
Yeah, he’s real caring.
“She’ll go. Why don’t you change,” Mom suggests and then hurries off to get the money.
I look down at my dark-washed jeans and navy hoodie with the white stripes on the sleeves. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“Everything,” Kyle answers.
I lift my chin. “I’m not changing.”
“Fine. Your funeral. Don’t cry to me when you get made fun of.”
“Made fun of? Are we in middle school? Why would anyone care what I wear?” I shake my head in annoyance. “Also, I can drive myself,” I add, because I don’t want to get into whatever death trap he’s motoring around.
“You can’t. We don’t have your license,” Mom says, returning with her wallet. “It got lost with your purse,” she reminds me.
That complication hadn’t occurred to me. “But, Mom—”
“Don’t but, Mom me. Here’s twenty dollars.” She shoves a bill in my face. “That should be enough.”
Kyle makes a face.
“Yeah, that’s enough,” I declare and pocket the twenty.
“Great. You two have a nice time tonight.” She practically shoves me out the door.
As soon as it shuts behind me, I turn to Kyle. “I don’t believe we ever dated. You treat me like trash and I have zero warm feelings toward you. If we didn’t break up before, let’s do it now.”
“You’re an amnesiac. What do you know? Let’s go.” He jerks a thumb toward an SUV parked crookedly in our driveway. “Felicity’s waiting.”
“I don’t want to go. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
He stares at me and then at the sky and then at me again. Annoyance is written on his face—in the straight line of his mouth, the deep lines in his forehead, and the dark expression in his eyes.
“I’m trying to do you a favor here. You don’t remember shit, right?”
I nod because there’s no point in denying it.
“Tomorrow you’re going back to school, right?”
I feel like I’m on the bad end of one of my dad’s cross examinations, but I nod again.
“Then do you want some answers tonight or do you want to bumble around like a fool tomorrow and for the rest of your days at Astor?”
I glance over my shoulder to see my mother waving at me from the front door, and then return my gaze to Kyle. The carrot he’s dangling in front of me is too sweet to pass up. I don’t know what’s waiting for me at the bakery, but he’s right. Meeting people tonight in a casual setting is better than going to school tomorrow blind.
“I want answers tonight,” I finally mutter.
“Then let’s go.”
He walks off toward his SUV without waiting for me. I scurry to catch up, grabbing hold of the door handle and hauling myself into the passenger seat.
“We’re still breaking up,” I tell him as I buckle in.
“Whatever.” He jams his finger against the engine’s start button. Country music blares out of the speakers.
I reach over and turn it down. He sends me a look of death, but I keep my hand on the knob. I’m going to win this battle.
“How long did we date?” I ask.
“What?”
“How long did we date?” I repeat. If tonight’s going to be about answers, they might as well start now.
“I dunno.”
Felicity had suggested it was from the moment I got to school. I’m guessing that school started at the end of August and it’s nearing Thanksgiving so the longest we could have dated is three months or so.
“I’m not asking for our anniversary date, just a general timeframe.”
He hunches uncomfortably over the steering wheel. “Weeks, I guess.”
“Weeks?”
“Yeah, weeks.”
He’s either got a bad memory or is bad at math. Maybe both.
“Did we have sex?” The idea makes me sick to my stomach, but I have to know.
“Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s the only reason I agreed to go out with you. You were begging me, you know. Following me around in the halls, sitting by me at lunch. You left your panties in my locker.” He’s animated for the first time. “So I let you slob on my knob.”
“Wonderful,” I say faintly. Could I be more disgusting? Could he? I guess we were a perfect match.
“Any more questions? Do you want to know when and where we got down?”
“No thanks.” The Diet Coke I drank after dinner starts churning in my stomach. Sometimes amnesia can be a good thing, I decide. Too bad these are the memories I’m regaining. I crack the window open and raise my nose up to the breeze.
“You gonna be sick?” Kyle asks in a panicked voice.
“I hope not,” I say noncommittally.
His response is to press the gas to the floor. Honey, I want to get away from your company as fast as you want to get away from mine.
Chapter 9
Easton
The lock on Hartley’s apartment door is so flimsy, I don’t even need to pull out the key that I just obtained from the landlord downstairs. A few jerks of my wrist and the wooden slab swings open.
It’s empty, as he said it would be, but I’m still surprised and more than a little devastated. I wanted it to be full of Hartley—her things, her scent, her. Instead it’s an empty shell. There’s no ten-year-old sofa with tears in the arms. The cupboard doors hang open, revealing their empty shelves. Even the crappy table that I was always afraid was going to collapse when Hartley put so much as a paper plate on it is gone. She’s gone. Or at least that’s how it’s felt for nearly a week now. Her parents whisked her out of the hospital, and I haven’t seen or heard f
rom her since.
It’s been torture. I’ve texted her. I’ve tried calling. I even drove past her house like a stalker hoping to catch a glimpse of her through one of the windows. But no such luck. Hartley’s folks are keeping her out of sight, I guess.
I just hope she’s all right. One of her nurses admitted—after a bit of coaxing—that they might’ve discharged her too early, and worry has been gnawing at my gut ever since hearing that.
Why won’t she call me back, dammit?
The need to feel close to her, at least in some way, is what brought me to her old apartment tonight.
I toss my backpack onto the kitchen counter and take a peek inside the refrigerator, where I find three cans of Diet Coke. I pop one open and bleakly survey the small space. I’d hoped if I brought her here, it’d jog her memories, but her parents have wiped the space clean.
It doesn’t look like anyone lived here. Even the dingy carpet is gone, replaced with cheap terracotta-colored linoleum. Helplessness fills my throat, choking off the airways. The room spins and the bottle in my backpack calls to me.
I clench and unclench my jaw. My heart pounds. My mouth is as dry as a desert. A siren song fills my ears. Drinking and pills have always been my go-to problem solver. Mom offs herself, pop a pill. Fight with the fam, swallow a bottle of Jack. Disagreement with the girl, do both and forget everything until morning.
The metal can in my hand crunches as the sides cave in.
All you do is break things.
With deliberation, I set the crushed can in the sink and pull out my phone, flicking to the notes app where I wrote a list of the places we went:
Beach
Pier
Apartment
School
Practice room
My house (media room)
Ironically, for a guy whose primary purpose in life was to bed every available girl up and down the coast, I never once took Hartley to my bedroom. I don’t know if I should give myself a gold star for being patient or kick myself for not inviting her deeper into my life. I wish she’d imprinted all over it so that everywhere we went, she’d see how the two of us fit together.
All you do is break things.
I can’t have that memory be the one she recalls. I need to make her see what we had before Felicity stuck her hands into the mess, before her father’s threats scared her, before my drunk ass screwed things up.
We were friends. Hell, she was the first female friend I ever had other than Ella. We enjoyed each other’s company. I made her laugh. She made me…well, she made me want to be a better person.
I can’t lose her. I won’t.
Hartley’s living at home again. Dealing with her sisters, her mom. Her father, that son of a bitch who… Worry jolts through me. I sit up and send another text.
I’m here for you. No matter what.
I stare at the phone, willing her to text me back. She doesn’t, of course. I remind myself she’s sick and probably heavily medicated. That’s why she’s not responding. Fuck. I hate this. If I dwell on it, it’s only going to make me crazier. Before she was sent to boarding school, her dad had broken her wrist after she found out he was taking bribes for his job. She told me that her wrist was broken as an accident and I have to believe that. Besides, only a sicko would beat his already injured daughter.
I open another app and start making a list of everything I’m going to need. First off, another dark blue sofa. I add two folding chairs and a small wooden table. The chairs were plastic and the table was…light. Some kind of light-colored wood. Maybe pine?
She had nice hand towels. I close my eyes and try to remember the color. Was it gray? Or pink? Or purple? Shit, I don’t recall. I’ll buy all three and keep the ones she likes the best. She also had a pretty quilt. That was white with flowers.
Feeling better now that I have a plan, I allow myself to unpack. The bottle of Ciroc is at the top. I debate pouring it out but opt not to. Hart might need it, so I stick it into the cabinet next to the fridge.
The picture of the two of us at the pier, I lay on the counter. I need a frame or a magnet. Frame, I decide. I’m going to hang it on the wall. In fact, I think I’ll blow it up so all she sees when she comes home is a giant-ass picture of the two of us kissing like the legends we are. I grunt with approval at my own genius and add that to the bottom of my to-do list.
A change of clothes and two bottles of cheap vodka are all that remain in my backpack. I’d planned to sleep here, but as I stare at the bare floor, I wonder if that’s a good idea. I check out the bathroom. The shower still works and the water pressure is decent. The landlord said that the place had been repainted and the flooring is new.
I toss my joggers and hoodie on the floor and bed down, placing my head on my backpack and folding my hands across my chest. Tomorrow I’ll ask Ella where to buy all the shit I need.
There might be nothing here that can help Hartley regain her memories, but I still have mine. And we can create new ones, happier ones—ones with her sister, ones with my brothers.
I cling to the hope that tomorrow’s going to be better. Ella told me that once. That if today’s a shit day, I should be glad because even if tomorrow’s another hellish experience, you know that you can make it.
The Ciroc bottle is still sealed. I wanted to drink but I avoided it. That’s a win for me.
Tomorrow’s going to be better.
Chapter 10
Easton
A text from Pash flashes across my phone at a quarter to ten. I sit up and stretch. The floor is killing my back. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting a bed sent over here.
Pash: Kyle Hudson. U kno him?
Me: Nvr heard of him. School?
Pash: Astor
Me: No clue.
A picture pops up along with another message:
Pash: He’s sitting w ur girl and Frank at FT
I zoom in on the image. Both students are sitting with their backs to me. While I can’t make out the thick guy with no neck, I’d recognize that waterfall of blue-black hair on the girl next to him anywhere.
I shoot to my feet. What in the hell is Hartley doing with this guy? Across from both of them is the snake, Felicity. Pash has taken to calling her Frankenstein because she’s a scary motherfucker who’s more monster than human. Hell, calling her Frank’s probably an insult to ol’ Frankenstein.
I haul my jacket onto one arm while trying to text Pash at the same time.
Me: Go over there and make sure she’s ok.
Pash: I’m sitting right behind them w Davey. Davey says Kyle and Hartley are a couple?
Me: The hell they are.
What lies is Felicity feeding Hartley? This is bad. Very bad.
I call Pash instead of texting. “Dude, go over there and interrupt,” I order before my friend can bleat out a greeting. “Her doctor said that if we tell her stuff before she remembers on her own it can mess her up.”
“What am I supposed to say?” he cries.
“I dunno. Tell her a story about how great your castle is in Kolkata.” Pash comes from an old and very wealthy Indian family. A couple of years ago, his grandfather decided to build a new compound, and from all the pictures on Pash’s Instagram feed, the joint looks big enough to house Astor Park and every one of its students. He could waste an hour just going through the first floor.
“Davey’s giving me the eye. If I get up, she’s going to kill me.”
“If you don’t get up, I’m going to kill you,” I threaten.
“Yeah, but I’m not having sex with you. Sorry, gotta go.”
The weak-kneed asshole. I throw myself into my truck and step on the gas. It’s a twenty-minute drive from this side of town to the French Twist. It’s too bad Ella doesn’t work there anymore, or I could’ve gotten her to step in. Unlike Pash, she knows the meaning of loyalty.
I make it in twelve minutes, sweating like a pig from the fear that I would be pulled over by a cop and waste even more time. I throw open the door and
scan the small bakery for Hartley, but only see Pash and his new girlfriend chatting over coffee.
He jumps to his feet and waves me over.
“Where are they?” I growl.
“They left like five minutes after I called you.”
“Fuck!” I turn on Davey, who blinks her brown doe eyes up at me. “What did you hear? Word for word. I want every detail. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I didn’t hear much,” Davey admits. “They were talking low. The only thing I heard really clearly was Hartley telling Kyle that they were broken up.”
“I didn’t know she dated anyone but you,” Pash puts in.
“She didn’t,” I say in frustration.
Has everyone’s memory been wiped clean? Did the Men in Black come in here and zap everyone? Hartley dated zero people. She didn’t hang out with the Astor kids. She worked at an all-night diner on the east side of town during her free time, sometimes even skipping class to take a shift. When she wasn’t delivering trays of food and drinks, she was sleeping. Life was serious for Hartley.
I turn back to Davey. “Who was doing the talking?” I demand.
“Mostly Felicity.”
“Who’s this Kyle kid?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t hang with us.”
“Why was Felicity here?”
“I don’t know,” Davey cries, throwing her hands up as if to fend off my barrage of questions.
Pash half rises from his seat. “Come on, man. Ease off. Davey’s being as helpful as possible.”
“I am.” Davey pouts.
Pash scurries over to throw a comforting arm around his girlfriend of ten days. “Are you done?” he asks me in a frosty tone.
I drag a hand down my face. The amount of damage that this kid Kyle and Felicity could’ve done to Hartley makes me sick to my stomach, but yelling at Pash and his delicate girlfriend won’t result in anything but my friend being pissed at me.
“Yeah, I’m done. Call me if you hear anything.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Pash slides back into his chair. “Do you need another bubble tea, baby?” he coos. “Or maybe I should buy you that bracelet from Chanel. That’d make you feel better, right?”