The Jamesons, a middle-aged couple, came in. After giving Marisa a quiet hello as they were apt to, they took their usual booth near the front window. Mr. Jameson had been her high school math teacher in her final year, and while he was a good twenty-five years her senior, she had had the biggest crush on those baby blues and that salt-and-pepper hair. She smiled to herself, trying to picture Jared in thirty years. He’d probably be just as sexy.
She’d been thinking about Jared a lot. More than she should have been. She’d asked herself how she felt about him—about them—and had not been able to answer.
Come on, girl—this isn’t about how you feel. It’s about trust.
Did she trust him? She wanted to … she did. His leaving had cut so deep she had wanted to kill herself. Okay, not really, but she had wanted so much for the pain to stop. She didn’t think she could deal with that kind of anguish again. It had been like a fever, one that kept rising and rising, a killer wave from the deepest depth of her heart.
She had loved him. God, yes. Loved him like she had never loved anyone. It had made her crazy. The best kind of crazy.
Did she still love him?
She wanted to say no. Wanted to tell herself that giving it away was a dangerous thing.
But she did. She loved him as if he’d never left.
She should end it. Those words kept creeping up on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. Screaming.
Sooner or later, he would find his way back to New York. Anywhere but here. And her heart would be so broken that nothing could put it back together. Nothing.
Could she trust him? Maybe that was the question. Maybe it was about him, and not about her. It seemed a fine line to walk, the difference little—yet how big it seemed.
Yes—she did trust Jared Collado. But could she trust Jared Cole?
She let Julie serve the Jamesons. The next ten minutes she spent bussing tables, collecting twenty-two-fifty in tips. She refreshed the drinks for the hunks at the end of the bar for another four, and then grabbed a menu and headed over to a booth near the back of the tavern.
“Hi! Welcome to Shelby’s,” she said brightly, slapping on the charm. “I’m Mar—”
It was Sonia Wheaton. She was clearly upset. She looked like hell.
“Sonia?”
“Marisa.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here.”
Sonia glanced around the place, and then her head dropped. Just enough to notice.
Marisa offered her a menu, but she didn’t take it.
“Just something from the bar,” Sonia said. Her words were a little slurred.
Marisa slid the menu under her arm. “Sure. What would you like?”
“A Long Island.”
When Marisa returned with the tall glass, Sonia looked dazed. Her eyes were teary.
“What is it?” Marisa said.
“The Greenwoods.”
“I know, it’s horrible.”
Sonia sniffled. She dried her eyes with a napkin. “We were friends.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Sonia shook her head. “I’m sorry about the way I acted at the funeral. Tell Jared I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Like hell it was.
“How is he, by the way? How’s he handling things?”
“Sorry?”
“Jared—after the Kyle Duncan thing.”
What a snake, Marisa thought. And here I thought she was actually grieving over the Greenwoods.
“It was pretty upsetting,” she said.
“I bet.” Sonia’s tone was a tad sharp.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sonia took a drink. “What did he tell you about it?”
“That’s between me and Jared.”
“So he lied to you.”
“You listen, girl,” Marisa snapped. “I can see you’re upset about the Greenwoods. You want to drink away the pain? Knock yourself out. But don’t you dare turn Jared into a story. Especially when there is no story.”
Sonia snickered. “There’s always a story.”
Marisa narrowed her eyes. “Is there anything else I can get you, Sonia?”
Sonia sat back in her seat. She looked Marisa up and down. “You’d think you would have learned something in the last seven years. But I guess love is blind.”
“I think you’d better leave. Quietly. Before I get the manager. Or kick your ass.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you, Marisa?”
Marisa turned to go.
Sonia snatched her by the arm. “Wait. There’s something I want to show you.”
~ 43
Jared stirred from a deep sleep on Wednesday morning. He was still in his clothes. And still on the sofa.
He sat up slowly. Aside from a slight stiffness in his neck, he was thankful that the aches and pains from yesterday were gone. At least for now.
“Jesus.” His Rolex read nine-forty. He’d been out for over eighteen hours.
What the hell is going on with me?
He got up and checked the large oval mirror in the foyer. His eyes were still bloodshot. The veins around them were definitely darker. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear they were longer and thicker.
After a shave and a shower, he fixed himself breakfast. He was famished, and upon devouring a western omelette and several strips of bacon, he had two full bowls of cereal. And now he found himself spreading peanut butter over two slices of Texas toast.
Keep this up and you’ll need a bigger house. On the upside, maybe it’s not cancer. Maybe it’s just stress. Did people with cancer have this kind of appetite?
He didn’t know. And didn’t want to.
It was true, what Marisa had said. He was still afraid of doctors. At best, they’d poke you and prod you and tell you that everything was pretty much okay. At worst, they’d tell you that the end was nigh—that the C-word was the last word.
But then there was Middle Earth. That gray zone, that lost continent of No Man’s Land, where they tell you that you’re lucky to be alive, that a lot of people don’t survive a lightning strike—that in this case, a coma had been a good thing. That the scars on his hands and his worsening memory were the least of his worries. He could have—maybe should have—been pushing up daisies.
No … no doctor. He’d had enough quacks telling him how lucky he was.
But if this gets worse—what then?
He’d cross that bridge when he had to. Right now, he had work to do. Upstairs in his study, he checked the messages on his smartphone. No missed calls from Marisa. That wasn’t odd in itself, but he had called her practically every night just to hear her voice. He’d missed last night’s call, and he knew she would have been disappointed. He’d promised to call her to make plans for the weekend.
He dialed her cellphone. Texted her. Emailed.
No answer.
An hour passed.
No answer.
He called the library and asked to speak with Marisa. Merritt DeWitt gave him her usual ice-cold attitude and told him to hold. When she returned she said Marisa was busy, and she hung up before he could even think about telling her to go fuck herself.
Parked outside the library at the end of Marisa’s shift, he got out and met her at the steps.
She stopped cold. “Jared.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was really into my work, and I just lost track of—”
“I have to go.”
“I know you’ve got a shift at Shelby’s tonight, but do you have time for a quick bite?”
“I can’t.” She paused, clearly put off. “I’ve got to get home and fix Kit his dinner before Sarah comes.”
“Look, Mar, I’m really sorry I didn’t call. It’s not t
hat big a deal.”
“Really, Jared? Is that what you think?”
“I don’t understand. I said I was sorry.”
She shook her head and hurried past him.
“Mar? What the hell is going on?”
She stopped. Turned. “It’s over, Jared.”
~ 44
Jared spent the rest of the day writing—writing out of anger. He wasn’t angry with Marisa; he was angry for not knowing how he’d screwed up this time. Right there on the street, passersby be damned, he’d begged her for an explanation. He’d made a scene, upsetting her more, and when her tears came and those dreaded words flew at him, stinging him, he knew the hard truth: it was over.
You’re just a fucking liar, she’d said. That’s all you ever were.
He deleted his work. It was crap. Every last word.
Enraged, he grabbed his laptop and flung it from his desk. It struck a stack of unpacked boxes and crashed on the floor. His anger swelled and he shoved nearly everything from his desk; in his fit he rapped his knuckles on the Underwood.
“Fuck!”
He slipped backward and stumbled against his chair. It tipped over, and he tripped over it, crashing hard to the cold hardwood floor.
His blood felt as if it were boiling. His chest pounded. He curled up, fighting the agony in his bones. Blood flowed from his nostrils. He cried out as the pain stabbed through his skull.
It finally passed. He lay on the floor, out of breath. The rage ebbed. A moment later, he could sit up.
“What the hell is happening?” he whispered. Sweat beaded his forehead. He wiped the blood on his sleeve.
He got to all fours and found his phone beside his laptop. He dialed Marisa. No answer.
He redialed every five minutes. Sometimes every two. An hour later, at ten past eleven, she finally picked up.
“Saturday,” she told him. “I want the truth.”
She hung up.
~ 45
Jared called Marisa on Saturday morning. He was thankful she picked up, and more thankful she still agreed to see him. When he arrived in town around three that afternoon, he stopped to buy a bouquet of orange daisies along the way. As he stepped to the Land Rover outside the flower shop, he hesitated, deciding to ditch them in a receptacle a few feet away. Whatever he’d done to upset her, she’d see right through him.
At her front door, he hoped Kit would answer, giving him some kind of buffer. He never liked confrontations. Especially with Marisa.
He was tapping his thigh when she opened the door. She turned away solemnly, and he followed her inside. They sat in the living room, and she waited for him to start.
“How’s Kit?”
“Fine. He’s at Sarah’s. I didn’t want him here for this.”
“Listen, Mar. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”
She gave his cheek a fine eye. “Rough time shaving?”
“Huh? Oh. The bruise. Yeah. The car door.” He didn’t know how she’d react if he told her about the pool mishap. It was something he still couldn’t figure, and he wasn’t ready for any probing. Besides, it was clear she had more pressing issues on her mind.
She looked him over again.
“I know,” he said. “Still a little bloodshot.”
“The veins are worse. And you’re sweating.”
“It’s another warm one.”
“Would you like some water?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She got him a glass and he took it. He drank half the water and set it down. He started tapping his leg.
Marisa crossed her arms.
“Maybe you should start,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Really, Jared? You don’t know?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you should start at the beginning.”
“Beginning?”
“Kyle Duncan.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Tell me what happened that day.”
“I did. There’s nothing more.”
“Nothing.”
“Marisa … I swear.”
She picked up her cellphone from the table beside her and scrolled through some items on the display screen. When she found what she was looking for, she paused, then looked at him soberly. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
Jared started to say something. He stopped.
Marisa handed him the phone.
~ 46
The video was shaky at times, the audio often cutting out. And yet, there were moments of perfect clarity, mainly after the crowd around Kyle Duncan had settled and the person who took the video had settled with them.
“It’s all right, Kyle,” the tinny recording said. “I know. I know.”
Jared paused the playback. The image showed him slumped beside the body of Kyle Duncan. Tears and blood were stilled along his lips. He held a chilling grin.
Marisa took the phone from his hand.
Jared lowered his head. “Sonia Wheaton.”
“She came to Shelby’s Tuesday night.”
Jared said nothing. He drank the rest of his water.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Marisa said. “Look at me, Jared. Jared.”
He was tapping again. He stopped. “What do you want?” He had tried not to sound defensive.
“The truth. Just the truth.”
He fidgeted. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Jesus, Jared. You were smiling? Bleeding? You looked like you were in some kind of trance.”
“I wasn’t smiling. I was in shock, I guess.”
“Shock.” She paused. “What about what you said to Kyle? What did you mean?”
“It’s all kind of a blur. It all happened so fast. I was trying to comfort him. I knew he was dying.”
“And Bobby? All those things he said. He thinks—”
“I know what he thinks.”
“What do you think?”
“Sorry?”
“Come on, Jared. You must really think I’m stupid.”
“Mar …”
She held up the image. “Damn it, Jared! Look at you!”
He barely glanced at it. Looked away.
“This is just like what happened with Kit,” she said. “Tell me it’s not.”
He looked at her, but his eyes fell.
“Jared.”
He looked up.
“Look me in the eye and tell me the truth,” she said.
“I have.” He paused. “I have.”
Marisa shook her head. “Same old Jared.”
“I don’t know what to tell you!”
“Do you want this all over the Internet?”
“What?”
“What do you think’s going to happen when Sonia posts this on her blog? On Facebook and Twitter? This isn’t some ‘People of Wal-Mart’ video. This is news. And it’s got award-winning novelist Jared Cole on the front page.”
“She hasn’t posted it?”
“I begged her not to. She promised she wouldn’t until I spoke with you.”
Jared shrugged, trying to play down its significance. “There could be other videos, anyway. No big deal.”
“If there were, they’d already be on the web. Probably the news. You can pretend all you want that this is nothing. But you and I both know you’re full of it.”
“… What does she want? Hush money?”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got? Some cliché?”
“This is just a story to her.”
“Damn it! Are you going to tell me or not?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Marisa pursed her lips and set the phone down quietly. She rose with narrowed eyes. “We’re done.”
“Mar. Listen—”
“No. You’re not listening. Maybe when that video goes viral you’ll get your head out of your ass.”
“So what does she want? Some kind of tell-all interview? That’s not going to happen.”
“What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything. I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s twice you’ve said that. And you’re tapping like there’s no tomorrow.”
Jared stopped. He sighed. “Fine. What does she want?”
“An author interview. About you and your books. In return, she’ll delete the video.”
“Blackmail? Really? This is ridiculous.”
“I would think it’s a small price to pay.”
“Would you listen to yourself? It’s like you believe her and not me.”
“I’ve seen the video, Jared. A lot of others are going to see it, too. If what you say is true—that this is nothing—then I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He tapped again.
“Jared.”
He stopped. He looked down and held there.
Marisa picked up the phone. “I’ll tell her no.” She started to dial.
“Wait,” Jared said. “… I’ll do the interview.”
Marisa canceled the call and put down the phone. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
~ 47
Jared looked up from his chair in Marisa’s living room. “Could I have more water?”
Marisa fetched him another glass and set it before him on the coffee table. He drank half of it and asked her to sit.
He stared at his hands. His skin was discolored and mottled. Thin red lines ran the back of his fingers and the back of his hands; they branched out like tiny forked lightning. They didn’t end at his wrists, but faded higher on his arms. “You know, I can’t remember half of the things I should. Some I wish I could. Some I don’t. But these are always there, aren’t they? They never let me forget.”
Marisa took his hands in hers. “I can’t pretend to know how you feel about what happened to your parents. But you need to let it go, Jared. This guilt is going to eat you alive.”
“It’s not that.” He almost continued, but stopped.
“What is it?”
“… I know you have your doubts about me. About us. I don’t blame you. But I need you to trust me when I say I would never hurt you again. Or Kit.”
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