by Dani Irons
Even after all that time thinking about how to word the question in my mind, I don’t know how to make it come out. If he doesn’t know about it, I don’t want to tell him. He’ll think less of me for sure. I also don’t want to be the one to tell him Old Liv had an abortion if there was a reason she kept it secret from him. So I hedge. “Do you know about my secret?”
He looks confused.
“I mean, did you go with me? Pay for it?”
The lines between his eyebrows deepen.
So maybe Old Liv didn’t tell Wyatt. Or maybe I’m not being clear. “Have you ever been responsible for killing something?”
His mouth opens and cracks into a small smile. “I killed a mouse once,” he says. Not really joking, but maybe to try to lighten the mood. “Not with a trap, with a BB gun. I felt shitty about it for a few days. What’s this all about?” His big, warm hand finds a spot between my shoulder blades and rubs gently.
He doesn’t know. He would have picked up on the clue instead of making a little joke if he knew. I can’t tell him now, no way. He feels shitty for killing a mouse when he was young; he would never understand what I did.
I don’t even know if I’ll ever understand it.
I stand, letting Wyatt’s gentle touches slip from my skin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I thought I was ready to talk about something, but I’m not. I thought you...but you don’t.”
He stands with me, leans toward me. “I don’t what?”
“You don’t know about...me!” I am on the verge of crying and I don’t want him to see that, so I twist away from him and head back into the house. No one is around to stop me, thankfully—I don’t know if I could have resisted Charlotte even now—and I storm through the front door.
Before I close it behind me, Wyatt cries, “Olivia, wait!” But I don’t listen. I close the door, run to my car and take off without looking back.
Did I make this decision on my own?
Do my parents know?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Junior Year at UCLA, January
3-5 Minutes Later
Two blue lines.
Fuck.
I can’t have this baby.
I shouldn’t have a baby.
I’m totally not ready for a baby.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Now
At home, in my room, I use a kitchen knife to cut open the cardboard boxes that I dug out of my car. I’m hungry for more answers.
The first box is winter clothes: sweaters, hoodies, sweatpants and expensive-looking purses. I wonder where I would have gotten the money for those if I didn’t have a job. I dig around a while to make sure there isn’t anything else noteworthy in there and then discard the box to the side. The second box holds pictures. A box of loose 5 x 7s, mostly of me and my friends, possibly from high school. Holidays, sleepovers. Chloe’s in most of them, along with some other girls I don’t recognize. Mia and Ava might be among them, but I couldn’t even guess at which ones they are. Pictures of my family are below those—Natalie playing in her room, Cora on the phone looking stressed, and Dion leaned over a notebook wearing glasses. I guess they were always workaholics.
The doorbell rings somewhere down the hall. A few seconds later, Dion calls me. I place the pictures back into the box and walk out of my room. If it’s Chloe or Wyatt, I’m sure Dion would have let them in, so I don’t know who it could be. I’m not in the mood to see anyone.
The boy from my dreams stands in the doorway. The boy from my nightmares. My body withers, like all the water in it has evaporated. I’m rooted to the spot, both curious and wary at the same time. I feel my jaw drop and I hug myself, feeling insecure. The boy is taller than in my dreams—he has at least a foot on Dion—with a head of uncontrollable blond hair that looks longer than what I’ve dreamed and his green eyes have charisma sauce smeared all over them. He’s talking to Dion, but his eyes flit over to me.
When Dion turns, he sees my expression. “Oh, shit,” he says, as if he’s just realized he’s made a mistake. “Cora?”
“Hey, Liv,” the blond guy says. “Remember me? I’m James.” He tries to take a step inside the house, but Dion stops him with a hand to his chest. The name James reverberates from my brain, down my spine, and lands into my stomach. It quivers there like a fearful and beaten puppy.
“James...?” I say, the word sounding as familiar as an old pair of jeans.
“Cora?” Dion tries again, beginning to look panicked.
I take a couple of steps forward, drawn to this boy somehow. I have questions for him.
“Let him in,” I tell Dion.
He looks unsure, but drops his arm. The guy beams at me.
I don’t smile back. There’s probably a reason this guy hasn’t been around.
Seconds later, Cora appears from the stairs. Instantly her face goes hard and red. “What the hell are you doing here?” she says to James. “You have no reason to be here.” She charges and I think she’s about to bulldoze him, but she only reaches out to close the door.
“Wait,” I say at the same time James says, “I have Liv’s phone.” he sticks his hand through the quickly closing door and waggles it in the air. “I thought I should return it.”
Cora grabs it and closes the door without a second’s hesitation.
I move to go after him, but Cora grabs my arm. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?” I ask, stopping. “And why does he have my phone?”
She sighs and sucks on her teeth. “I don’t know.” She slips the phone into her pocket.
“Can’t I have that?” I ask with confusion.
“It’s ours,” she says with a snarl. “Your father and I pay for it, so it’s ours.” Some of her anger has carried over to lay on me.
“Just give her the damn phone,” Dion jumps in.
“No.” She turns around and walks out of the room.
I’m more than confused. And pissed. I’m not a fucking child! Why call me into the room at all? Was Dion not supposed to? And why couldn’t I have my damn phone? It might have some pictures on it or something that I want.
After a brief moment, Dion walks over to me. “Sorry about that,” he says, taking my shoulder. I want to shrug it off, but he wasn’t the one who treated me like a child. “She’s going through a rough time. It’s late. Maybe we should all go to bed.”
I want to argue that I’m the one having the rough time and that I should be allowed to have my things. Especially if they can potentially clue me in to Old Liv’s life, which a phone most definitely could do. “Is Mom going to bed too?” I am also sick of them treating me like a baby and if Cora lies down too, that would at least insinuate that we are both adults that need some cooling off.
“Ah...” he hesitates. “Probably not. We’ve gotten a lot of calls from that website and she’s trying to schedule people to work.”
I grimace, my anger replaced momentarily with guilt. “I hope there isn’t too much work. You guys can handle it, right?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. We should have said thank you. It was a kind thing to do, to spend all that time working on something so selfless. For us.” He leads me down the hall to my room. “The help couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Why’s that?”
He stops at my door and leans against the wall. “Well, don’t tell your mother I’m telling you, she’ll only worry for you. And don’t tell Natalie.” He looks at her bedroom door, which is a foot from mine and whispers, “The business is collapsing. There was some...fraud. Your mom is upset about it, of course, because it was her father’s business. This might not be what she wants, but it might help us out of the debt.”
“Fraud? That’s horrible,” I whisper. “Do you know who did it?”
; “We...have an idea. And we don’t want to turn them in because it’s someone close to the family. So we’re just taking the hit, trying to fix things on our own. We were riding it out to see if business would pick up and until your website, it hasn’t. If things get much worse, we’ll have to sell the house and move. We might lose all our clients to someone closer. We’d have to start our lives from scratch. But because of you, business has picked up. Let’s hope it lasts and that it’s enough to pay what we owe. Pray for us, will you?”
I nod, but I haven’t done any praying since I woke up from the coma. Did Old Liv pray?
He wraps me up in his arms and pecks me on the cheek. “You know,” he says into my hair. “This might be the first hug we’ve shared since the hospital. I’m sorry I haven’t given you one sooner.”
I squeeze him back. “It’s okay,” I say, even though my adrenaline is still coursing under my skin. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it in check if it were Cora hugging me.
Dion leaves me and I go back into the room, back to the pictures, to keep my mind occupied from dangerous boys and patronizing mothers. I still need answers. Some of the pictures are framed. My high school portraits, mostly. Me, with my hair curled tightly, sitting on a chair. Sitting next to a pond. Holding a volleyball. Was I in volleyball?
The next picture confuses me. The right corner of the photo says Prom 2010-2011. It’s a picture of me and a boy. Blond, tall. James. There’s another one from the year before, also with James.
But I remember Natalie saying Wyatt and I went to both proms together. I turn the frame over and pop out the back. I hope to find a date or explanation on the back of the picture, but there’s nothing. The rest of the pictures in the box are elementary school pictures, baby pictures, even black and whites of people I don’t recognize but who kind of look like older doppelgangers of Cora and Dion. It seems the deeper I dig into the box, the older the photos get. Like my own personal time machine.
If I took these boxes with me to L.A., I’m guessing pictures and my family mean a lot to me. If only I could remember.
I take out the two prom pictures and lean against the wall. I set them in my lap, side-by-side, looking for something that tells me these photographs are not real or a reason why Natalie would lie. Maybe she just didn’t know? But why wouldn’t someone correct her? Surely my parents remember. Lies, lies. Everywhere more lies. But why? And how deep does the lie go? What else are they hiding?
I seem happy in both pictures—flushed face, perky hair, large smile—like someone in love. Studying James is more difficult.
He looks like he could be in love, but there’s something else behind that façade. He looks angry. His jaw is square and large, his shoulders large and round underneath his suit jacket. His stance is stiff, ready to explode or something. Like he’s a dormant volcano.
* * *
I fall asleep like that—looking at the pictures—and wake up with my bad arm and back in agony. The photos fall from my lap as I straighten out. I stand but I’m stiff and achy. The lamp is still on in my room, but I can tell it’s a lot later. Outside, a full moon floats straight overhead and the streets are completely quiet. Part of me wishes Wyatt was somewhere out there—despite him going along with Natalie’s lie about prom, about possibly everything—skateboarding and taking pictures in the dark and in a second I will see him skate by under the streetlight. Thinking about him makes me feel brave.
I pull the curtains back over the window and walk out into the hall. I want my phone back. I want to see what kind of pictures I took if Cora didn’t delete them all.
The house is blackness. Except for the small amount of light rolling out through my bedroom door, it’s cave-like. After opening Natalie’s door to confirm she’s asleep, I continue down the hall to the bathroom. No one’s in there. I tiptoe to the living room. Dark.
I make my way through the empty kitchen and into my parents’ room. I near a soft snoring—female snoring—and instantly my palms go clammy. Something about being in someone else’s bedroom at night is creepy. Especially if they are sleeping. Panic squeezes at my chest. I don’t know if I can do this.
My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see two bodies in the bed, both facing away from me. I try to relax; I can hear my own breathing and worry that it will wake them up.
Cora’s jeans sit in a heap in front of me. Maybe the phone is still in them. I crouch, my hands shaking, and check the pockets. No luck. Looking around the room, I begin to feel hopeless. A dresser with four large drawers is pushed against one wall, a vanity with a dozen more drawers stands against another, and a large, black trunk sits at the foot of the bed. I don’t know if I can go through everything without a) feeling like a complete skeez and b) getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
This may be the only time I have to look for the phone before she gets rid of the thing—if she hasn’t already—so I force myself over to the dresser on wobbly legs. The top drawer is full of Dion’s socks and underwear. I use only my fingertips to move things around and find nothing. The second drawer is full of his pants and I lift each one and check the bottom of the drawer. Nothing again.
Cora’s drawers have the same result.
I move on to the vanity, but everything in the drawers is glass or plastic and clink together when I open them or move things around. It’s nearly impossible to see the contents in this darkness, so I’m searching by feel. After I go through the third drawer—that is full of face creams and such in glass jars—Cora rolls over in bed.
My stomach jumps into my throat and I freeze. Closing the drawer as quietly as I can, I scoot toward the trunk, hiding myself in case she decides to sit up. Her snoring pauses. I try not to breathe, but my heart is racing and needs the extra oxygen.
What if she gets up to use the bathroom and sees me? What will my excuse be?
The mattress moves—bounces up and down the tiniest amount, like it might when you stand up from it. All my muscles tense and my mind whirrs.
Then, a breath of a word, “Olivia?”
I’m caught.
Hesitantly, and slowly, I stand.
My eyes drift over to the bed. Cora and Dion are still in it, sleeping, butts touching. My shoulders relax a little.
My eyes flit over to the doorway, and I expect to see Natalie. But no one is there. What the hell? My name falls from Cora’s lips again, “Olivia, no.” She’s still sleeping, dreaming of me—maybe a bad dream—and here I am ransacking her stuff. Doesn’t exactly make me feel very good.
But I have to find the phone. It could open so many doors. James’ number is probably on there. I could call him.
I return to the last drawer that I’d been digging through, my hands shaking even more than when I started. When I’m about to give up on it and move on, something tiny slides beneath my fingers. I pick it up. A key. Instantly I think of the trunk and slide over, slipping the key into the brass keyhole. It unlocks with a loud clank and Cora stirs in bed again.
After counting slowly to twenty and focusing on calmer breathing, I lift the heavy lid. My heart drops. It’s even darker in the trunk, like some black hole stuffed full of clutter. No way will I find my phone if it’s here. I drag my fingers across the stop. Something long and metal rolls around and nearly falls out. I catch it and it tries to slip out of my shaky grasp.
I’m able to steady it. It’s a flashlight. I try the button, expecting it not to work. But it does and shines a long beam up to the ceiling. I turn it off with a click again. Count to twenty. Point it back into the trunk and turn it on again. Another flashlight lies on top, along with some C batteries and a slew of candles. Hopefully this is more than an in-case-of-an-emergency trunk. It might be—why else would there be a heavy lock on it?
Underneath those, a smaller box sits, unlocked, and some big books that could be photo albums. Cora or Dion must have loved to take pictu
res and maybe someday I can ask to see them. Some loose papers are stuck on the side. I don’t have any interest in them at first, but when I see that they’re credit card statements, I pull them out.
There are a few papers in Cora’s name and a few in Dion’s. At first I think there is nothing special about them, but after studying them for a few seconds more, I notice that all the charges were made in L.A. Every single one of them. I’m not sure why, but my stomach twists thinking about it. Was this part of the fraud Dion was talking about? The debt altogether is at least fifty thousand dollars, with minimum payments in the hundreds.
I replace the papers and open the smaller box. It’s full of hundred dollar bills, maybe a couple of thousand dollars’ worth. Not enough to save the business. The inside of the top lid says, Property of Christakos Creatives. Maybe it’s petty cash, then.
I close the lid and reach my hand down deeper, my hands closing around something palm-sized. When I shine a flashlight on it, my heart leaps into my throat. My phone. I grab it, fumbling, and without hesitation, I hold down the power button. Count to five seconds. Then I release it.
Nothing happens. I’m so pissed and disappointed that I want to throw the flashlight across the room. I don’t. Instead, I click it off and put it back into the trunk. Maybe I can buy a charger or something. Well, if I had any money. Thousands sit in front of me and I’ll admit I’m tempted but not that tempted. After replacing the flashlight, I close and lock the trunk, sneak out of the room with the phone gripped tightly in my sweaty hand and go to bed. Swimming in more anger and confusion that I ever thought was possible.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Junior Year at UCLA, March
Spring Break in Santa Barbara
I stood outside of the family planning center in tears. It was the first time I regretted the decision I’d made and I was sure if a counselor had been standing in front of me, trying to comfort me, he would say that it’s normal to feel that way right after the thing I just did. The thought didn’t comfort me, though, and the tears kept coming.