by Erin Watt
“I told you not to talk about her like that.”
His eyes widen in alarm. “S-s-sorry, man,” he stutters, clawing at my grip.
“It’s not happening again, is it?” It’s not really a question.
Pash gets that. He nods furiously. “Never again. Never,” he vows.
I release him and stomp back to the stash of goods on the counter.
“Dude, this was a Prada limited runway edition from the upcoming Paris show,” Pash complains. “I just got it two days ago straight from Milan.”
“I feel real bad for you. Where’s the coke I asked you to pick up? Or Molly?”
He clears his throat. I eye him suspiciously.
“Yeah, the thing is, I’m worried about you, E-man. You’re acting all weird since the accident.”
“Because I don’t want to hear you talk shit about my girlfriend?”
“No. Because you’re ignoring your friends, you nearly ran over a kid in the school zone earlier today, and you look like you’ve already been on a twenty-four-hour bender. I care about you and that’s why I didn’t bring you any hardcore drugs. You want them, get them your own damn self.” Pash jerks his collar into place and stalks toward the door. The flimsy wooden piece nearly falls off the hinges as he slams the door behind him.
The echo of his footsteps is the only sound I hear for a long while. Even the voices in my head—the ones I try to drown out with the pills, the booze, and the fighting—that are always there are silenced. In the quiet, I feel it. The intense loneliness that I try to keep away. The gaping hole in my heart that I’ve tried to fill with girls, girls, and more girls becomes a canyon that has no bottom, no end. I’m no longer on the edge, staring into the abyss. I’m in it. I’m freefalling in this endless darkness.
I grab the first bottle and rip it open, foregoing the glass and the ice and guzzling it down. If I could inject the alcohol into my veins I would.
I take the bottle over to my carryon and sit on the floor. When I close my eyes, I trade the canyon for a different dark. One where the clouds are closer to the sky. The black night is broken up with streaks of red and green and white. Hartley’s hand is in mine. She’s laughing. Her face is close enough to raise my blood pressure—among other things.
It’s been less than two weeks. Her perfume still lingers in the truck. I can still feel her silky black hair sliding over my fingers. Her mint lip gloss tingles on my tongue. I pretend that she’s here and her slight weight is bearing me into the tacky linoleum. That her fingers are unbuttoning and unzipping and that my fingers are tugging and unwrapping her delectable body. I let my hand drift down to my pants, but the sensation of my hand on my own dick only accentuates my loneliness.
Why can’t we go back to that point two weeks ago, when my brother was conscious and Hartley remembered me? I gulp down another big swig and then another until the sharp edges of the day are whittled soft and the blackness becomes a swirl of color.
Chapter 19
Hartley
I decide to go to the library. It’s busy despite the late hour.
“We close in thirty minutes,” a gangly teen says in a snippy tone. I nod and hug my jacket closer around my shoulders.
Actually, it’s not my jacket. It’s Easton Royal’s. He gave it to me the other night after Felicity and Kyle ambushed me at the French Twist. I haven’t returned it. I don’t have a phone, but this is Bayview. Everyone knows the Royals and it would be easy enough to find out where he lives. I could drive there right now and lay the jacket on the front porch.
I run a finger over the zipper and sniff the collar for the hundredth time. The scent is growing fainter with each time I pull it on, but I can’t stop wearing it. I’ll return it. I will. Just not tonight.
I tug the leather close around my chin and type in the name of the medication Dylan was forced to take. The web results say it's to treat bipolar disorder and migraines, and that if she takes too much she can die. I try not to be concerned, because on the Internet every symptom eventually leads to death. Medical websites are the grim reaper decision trees. Did you take a pill? If yes, you’ll die. Did you not take a pill? If yes, you’ll die.
Still, I’m worried, so I dig deeper, trying to absorb as much as I can in the short time I’m here. I can feel the hostile eyes of the library worker lingering on my shoulders.
As I read the description of bipolar disorder, a lot of Dylan's actions begin to make sense to me. She probably does need the medication and if she hadn't taken any today then the number of pills she swallowed isn't dangerous. Still, Dad scared the shit out of me. I think the solution here is to make sure Dylan takes her meds. That way Dad doesn’t have to lose his temper and Dylan doesn’t suffer the intense and debilitating mood swings.
The information makes me feel marginally better.
“We’ll be closing in five minutes.” The announcement comes over the loudspeaker.
I tap my fingers restlessly on the keyboard. Do I check the messenger app and see if my cousin, Jeanette, has responded? I wonder—No, I’ve made up my mind not to wonder any longer. Besides, I don’t want to piss off the library worker. I wrap that excuse around me like Easton’s leather coat and scurry out to my car.
When I start the engine, I realize the thought of going home makes my skin crawl. But nothing in Bayview feels familiar to me. Maybe that's partly due to my lack of memory, or maybe it has to do with the fact that I haven't lived here in three years. There’s no place where I put my roots down, no place that has my stamp on it, no place to hide, or vent, or celebrate.
The image of the pier flickers in the back of my head, but it’s not a memory of the past, just a memory of the picture I saw. Of Easton holding me so tenderly—his big frame bent over my body as if he could shield me from the rocks that life pelts at you. I run my tongue across my lips wondering what it felt like to be kissed by Easton Royal, to have his hand wrapped around the back of my neck as he held me steady for the press of his mouth. Was that our first kiss or our last?
A strange, hollow ache develops in my chest and despite the distress that invades the empty spaces in my mind, I welcome it. It’s something.
I start the car, turn off my brain, and just drive. I drive down Shoreview, the frontage road that runs parallel to the shore. There are endless white fences and Magnolia trees interspersed by the occasional gate or long drive. None of them strike any chord with me. I drive on until the streets get narrower and the lawns grow smaller and smaller until there aren't lawns at all—just concrete and dirt and gravel.
On the east side of town, the buildings are short. Some of the windows are boarded up. The cars on the street are old and the fresh ocean scent is replaced by gas, fried oil, and garbage.
I end up in front of a small two-story house with an outside staircase that looks like it's about to fall away from the frame of the home. The place is lit up from top to bottom. The odor from the alley beside the house is strong enough to penetrate the car’s windows. A balding man is sitting on the porch wearing a barn coat and rubber boots, and smoking a cigarette. I don’t know why, but I get out.
"Hey there, girl," the man greets me between puffs. "Thought you weren't coming back."
It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do, I nearly trip over my feet in an effort to reach him.
"I got in an accident," I tell him. “I got in an accident and—” I stop right before admitting that I had lost my memory. What if he's dangerous? Why would I know him? Is he my...? I can't even think of the right noun to put at the end of that sentence.
“Yeah, I know all about that, girl.” He takes another long drag, then blows out a cloud of smoke. “Got your apology cash, ’member?”
I frown. “My apology cash?”
He lifts a brow. “For wrecking my car? Your friend dropped off the fat envelope you asked him to deliver. Don’t know where you got that kind of cash, not gonna ask, either.” He winks. “That Volvo wasn’t worth half what you gave me for it. And i
f you’re here to see him, go on up. He’s home.”
Wrecking his car? An envelope full of cash that I asked my “friend” to drop off? Here to see who? Who’s here? My confusion levels hit an all-time high.
“Um…” I take a breath. “Yes, I'm here to see him,” I lie, and my gaze drifts toward the upstairs apartment. “He lives up there?”
“Stays here once in a while, from what I can tell. When your parents cleaned out the place, I rented it out to him." He drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds out the butt with the heel of his boot. "But if you’re aiming to move back in, you can work it out yourself, since you two know each other. Don't really care who stays up there. I'll consider your rent paid through until February." And with that, he disappears inside his house, leaving me shell-shocked.
I remind myself to breathe, and start processing everything he just revealed. I lived in this place. I had access to money because I paid rent here—probably on a monthly basis. Given that it's the end of November, I'd paid through December. My parents not only knew about this apartment, but also came and took all my belongings from it. Where is my stuff? Everything in my bedroom is new except for a few pieces of clothing. Did they throw it away? Are they hiding it? What would be the point in that?
All the promises I made to myself about forging beyond the past are forgotten with these small glimpses of my past. I charge up the stairs, nurturing the idea that there’s a living, breathing individual upstairs who knows me. No one from Astor would live here. They drive cars that cost more than this whole house. The person is someone who knows me outside of Astor, outside of my family, and therefore someone who can be real with me.
At the top landing, I throw myself at the door, pounding on it fiercely until I hear footsteps. Clasping my hands together, I hold my breath as the door is whipped open.
“What the hell are you doing here?"
“Easton?” I gasp.
If I was forced at gunpoint to list all the people who could possibly be living in this apartment, Easton Royal would’ve been the last on the list. In his bare feet, jeans, and a tank top so thin that I can make out every ridge in his defined abdomen, he still looks too expensive for this shabby environment.
"Nice jacket," he drawls, reaching out to flick the tab collar.
Self-consciously, I tug on the jacket's hem. I’d forgotten I was wearing it. I clutch the hem tightly. "Um, I meant to give it back to you but I didn't know how to get in touch."
"A phone call would've worked. A text, even." He leans his long frame against the doorway, effectively blocking out the view.
“That man downstairs…” I trail off. “He’s the landlord?”
“Jose?” Easton nods. “Yeah, he owns this place. Good man.”
“He said something about me wrecking his car.” I rub my temples. “And then paying for it, and my friend dropping off the money, and…” My head is beginning to hurt again.
Easton’s blue eyes take on a serious glint. “You borrowed his car the night of the accident.”
“Oh.” A horrible jolt of guilt brings the sting of tears. “And then I crashed it?” I moan. “That’s awful. He must hate me.”
That gets me a shrug and a faint smile. “Nah. I took care of it. Paid him more than the insurance ever would’ve. Trust me, he’s thrilled.”
I gape at him. “You took care of it? Why?”
He gives another shrug, not answering the question. “Want to come in?”
“Yes.” I don’t wait for him to move aside. I don’t wait for another invitation. I charge forward and then come to a sudden halt in the middle of the empty room. I guess it's not entirely empty. There's a black bag in the center of the room crunched together in the middle. I also spot a crumpled Astor Park blazer, a pair of tennis shoes, and two towels. A bottle of vodka, a baggy of some dried green stuff, and a case of beer sit on the counter.
My eyes widen at the weed and booze. Is this some kind of Astor Park crack house where I provided alcohol, drugs, and…me? Is that how I paid for this place? The urge to vomit all over the floor seizes me. Did I earn money by selling my body to Astor Park boys? Is that why my parents got rid of everything? Why they’re so cryptic? Maybe it’s why I got sent away in the first place.
The insults Kyle hurled at me about being easy ring in my ears. I wanted to write that off as him being an asshole who made up things to make me feel bad, but as I turn in a slow circle, seeing nothing in the room but a few personal items that I assume belong to Easton, I can’t help but wonder.
“Is this…Did we…What is this place?”
Easton closes the door quietly and crosses over to the counter. He uncaps the bottle of vodka, pours two glasses and then holds one out to me. “Your old apartment. What did you think it was?”
I take the drink and roll it between my sweaty palms. Do I tell him that I fear I’m a teenage prostitute and he’s one of my marks or will the fact that that’s where my head went to reveal some deviancy I’d rather keep hidden? I mean, I could just go with the response that I’m surprised because I’m not living with my parents and in a part of Bayview that I don’t think any respectable girl frequents. Those are as truthful as the worry about turning tricks.
I open my mouth to go with the parental thing but end up blurting out, “Did we have sex here?”
Easton nearly chokes on a mouthful of vodka. “Is that what you remember?” He coughs.
I know I’m bright red, but now that I’ve started down this road, I might as well finish. I can always throw myself off the edge when I reach the end. “No, but there’s nothing here except this stuff”—I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the bag and clothes—“and that stuff.” I point my index finger toward the weed and liquor.
“You’re pretty good at calculus, Hart, but your simple math skills are questionable. You can’t add up a weekend bag and a miniscule amount of weed and get sex shack.” He finishes his glass and refills it.
“Then what does it add up to?” And how many glasses of vodka is he going to drink? I shift uncomfortably and my foot knocks into something. I look down to see an empty vodka bottle near my toe.
Easton strides over and picks it up, acting as if this is completely normal. But as he bends over to toss the bottle in the trash, I see the tops of his ears turn red.
“When you lived here, you slept on a sofa. I figured I’d sleep there too when I rented the place. I didn’t realize it was empty.” He straightens and tilts his head, studying me for a long moment. He comes to some conclusion—one he doesn’t share immediately—and walks over to pluck the still full glass out of my hand. He pours mine and his down the drain, picks up his wallet, and throws his blazer over his shoulder. “Come on. If we’re not going to drink, let’s get something to eat. You’re going to need something in your stomach.”
Those are somewhat ominous words, but as Easton places his warm hand under my elbow, I realize that out of everyone, I trust him the most.
Chapter 20
Easton
I drank too much. That was my first thought when I opened the door to see Hartley standing on the rickety landing wearing my St. Laurent jacket that I gave her the night she had that god-awful meeting with Kyle whatshisface and Felicity Worthington.
When she walked into the empty apartment with not one of her personal belongings there to jog her memory and all the hope drained into her shoes, I felt that I hadn’t drank enough.
I want to wrap her up in my coat and take her some place where memories have no meaning—a place where only the present is important. Where the lost and confused look that haunts her eyes is chased away with wonder and joy. The problem is I don’t know where that would be.
I wanted to take her skiing on the Swiss Alps or swimming in the Mediterranean, but instead, I’m walking her to the corner store where they sell beer, bags of ice, and stale potato chips. Who knows, maybe something here will jog her memory.
“What are you hungry for?” I ask.
She stops in front of t
he hotdog roaster. “I’m not sure. It’s weird because I don’t even know if I like hotdogs,” she says, peering into the contraption that rolls the hotdogs over a few heated coils. She tilts her head toward me. “Do you know if I like hotdogs?”
“You ate corndogs and funnel cake at the pier and didn’t seem unhappy.”
She rubs her lips together as she stores this tiny little tidbit into her empty memory slots. I wonder what it’s like, knowing nothing of the past. If you asked me two weeks ago, I’d have said that memory loss is a blessing. You wouldn’t have the feelings of grief or hurt or even jealousy. You’d wake up and life would be this glorious blank slate. After seeing Hart’s anguish, I know that’s not the case. Since regaining consciousness after her fall, she hasn’t had a moment’s peace.
You can see it in the way she’s always looking around, her eyes darting from person to person and object to object, searching for the thing that will jolt her memory and break through the barriers that prevent her from seeing into the past.
Unless what her doctor suggested was true and there are memories she will never retain—that they were literally knocked out of her.
I feel guilty getting mad over seeing her and Bran together at the ice cream shop. Hartley doesn’t know that she’s supposed to be by my side. That thought sends a spear of pain through me, which answers the dilemma from earlier. I haven’t drank enough, because if I had, the alcohol’s lead blanket would’ve prevented that shard from piercing the skin.
“Do you want a hotdog?”
“Sure,” I answer even though I don’t. I’d prefer the forty ounces of beer staring at me from behind the glass.
“Anything on it?”
“Mustard.”
She carefully applies a thin zigzag of the condiment, wraps the hotdog carefully as if she’s done this a million times before, and hands it to me. “This seems familiar. Did I work at this place?”