Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Breathing—heavier and heavier. Heavier and heavier. Heav—

  RINGING. LOUD, PIERCING RINGING.

  My eyes flip open.

  Darkness. So much darkness.

  And ringing. So much ringing.

  I fling my head to the side, looking at my dresser. My phone is all lit up. Vibrating. Ringing.

  I jump out of bed to grab it.

  And it’s him. Him. Him. Dr. Bl—

  Aiden.

  One. Two. Three. Answer.

  “Hello.” My voice sounds funny. Throaty. Like I’ve been—

  “Callie, are you ready?”

  Ready? “Um, ready?”

  “For dinner.”

  Dinner, righ—

  “Your class must’ve been really short tonight. It’s only eight thirty.”

  “Eight thirty? At night?” Still throaty. Not the right sound…doesn’t sound like my voice.

  8:30. At night. Oh my God. I missed class. I’ve never missed class. Ever. How did I—

  Wait. Wait. Wait. I’m sitting up in bed. Talking on the phone. Here.

  I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m movi—

  “Callie?” A little frantic. Worried.

  {Roxette, singing by herself now, reminds me of my thoughts before dying. Or before just passing out, I guess.} He was there. In my thoughts. In my final thoughts. In what I thought were my final thoughts anyway.

  Part of my world. Part of—

  “Callie? Should I come in to get you?” Really frantic now. Really—

  I shouldn’t be worrying him. Hurting him. He’s going to start thinking about his Mom aga—

  Quick decision. I run out of my dark room, into the lighted hallway, and down the stairs. I grab my purse and slip on the black pumps sitting on my shoe towel. I grab my keys from my purse and move out of the—

  He’s on my doorstep. A bit of a mess. Big eyes. Hand running through his hair.

  His arm reaches right out for me. He grabs my hand and pulls me in. Tight.

  My body firmly smashed against his. His hands pressing into my back. Pressing. Pressing. Pressing. My head buried in his neck. His cologne. His breath on my cheek. In my hair.

  My body loses itself in being with him…in him…for a moment. Two moments? Three? Until—

  He gently releases me, simultaneously grabbing the keys from my hand.

  I stand. Just watching him lock my door. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

  He grabs my hand, and we walk to his car. He opens my door, and I slip into my seat. He starts the car with one hand, his other hand finding mine again as we drive off.

  Warm fingers squeeze—

  Shit. I didn’t do my leaving-the-house checks. Oh my God. Water is probably running in the downstairs bathroom. A vent in the living room is probably covered—probably going to start a fire.

  My throat gets dry. My hand goes limp in his.

  What am I doing? How did I get so irresponsible in one day?

  I missed my routine. I missed class.

  I missed class. You can’t just miss a graduate class. Not if you want to pass. Not if you want to get your degree.

  Oh my God. I didn’t even email Dr. Harper to apologize for missing class. I just missed it like it’s of no concern to me. Like I just didn’t…don’t…care about his class or about my pregnancy paper or about my degree or about writing in general.

  And he has every right to fail me. I swear his syllabus says something about severe consequences for unexcused missed classes. Severe consequences for when you miss a class. Missed a class.

  I glance at the clock on his dashboard. 8:42 p.m. Class technically goes until 9:00, though we rarely stay that long. But I don’t know when Dr. Harper leav—

  He squeezes my lifeless hand. “Callie? Are you okay?”

  I jolt my head toward him. “I need to go to the university. Now.”

  He looks surprised. Confused. “Oh…okay. But—”

  “I missed class. I don’t miss class. I can’t miss class.” The words just spill out of my mouth as he makes a turn, now heading toward school.

  His face is crammed with questions, but he doesn’t say anything. He just drives.

  We don’t have much time. Dr. Harper always ends class early. Always. Does he leave early too? Did he already write to my advisor…or to the dean…or to the president of the university…to tell on me?

  I begin to lift my hand out of his fingers so I can pick off my nail polish.

  His fingers are slow to let mine go. He glances over at me for a second as I begin tearing at my nails. He doesn’t say anything, though. Still doesn’t say anything.

  Silence. Complete silence. {Steve Miller Band. “Fly Like an Eagle.”}

  Nail picking. Nail picking. Nail picking.

  No polish left. I clench my hands on my lap, my fingers digging into my black skirt and—

  His hand is on mine. On my lap.

  The heat of his hand. Burning my legs. Burning my—

  There he is. All lit up by our headlights. Dr. Harper. Walking toward the campus parking lot. Walking toward us.

  Before I can say anything about stopping, the car slows down. He sees Dr. Harper too. He probably—

  His hand moves from my lap. He rolls down his window and calls out, “Dr. Harper.”

  Here we go.

  Dr. Harper looks, squints toward us at the sound of his name. He starts walking our way, clearly not scared of potential murderers or kidnappers being out to get him.

  He walks toward the driver’s side of the car. Toward him.

  And this is clearly going to be awkward. How am I going to explain that I’m with hi—

  He’s here. A face in the window.

  “Oh, Dr. Blake. Nice to see—”

  His eyes shift. He sees me. “Calista?” Confusion in his eyes. About my company? About my missed class?

  I just nod and then open my mouth, hoping for some words, some miraculous, mystery words to come out of my lips to properly and believably explain my absence from—

  “Calista has not been feeling well at all tonight. She wanted me to bring her by to see if she has any work to make up for tonight’s class.” Him. Smooth. Of course.

  Dr. Harper still looks surprised. Confused. He looks at me. “I’m sorry to hear about your sickness.” He smiles. “I did look over your rough draft earlier today, and it’s unbelievably polished for a draft.”

  Yes. That’s because I checked it three zillion times.

  He continues. “You are clearly working well ahead of schedule on this assignment, so there is no need to worry about missing class tonight.”

  I’m ahead…BECAUSE I checked my paper so many times. If I hadn’t, I would’ve been behind. And I probably would’ve been expelled or something for missing class tonight.

  So my extra checking was…is…justified. Responsible. Prudent. Proactive in an unforeseen way.

  I’m not going to mention this right now, however.

  Dr. Harper carries on a conversation with Dr. Blake. It sounds like they’ve known each other for a long time. It sounds like Dr. Harper asks him to do a class guest lecture every year.

  Dr. Blake’s guest lecture. That night seems like forever ago now. Forever ago.

  I thought it was the worst thing in the world. Him bringing my purse to class. Him talking about me.

  I’d prefer that three hundred times over what he’s wanted me to do since—going to a movie…eating a million calories…not thoroughly proofing a paper…omitting tasks from my routines…allowing someone to put a needle under my skin…telling him if a song ever gets stuck in my head for a prolonged period of time…

  And I haven’t actually done, well, most of those things, but he’s wanted me to…

  It was better when he was just bringing my purse—

  “Good night, Calista. Feel better.” Dr. Harper looks at me again, his head poking through the window. He still looks so curious. But that’s because he doesn’t know that I’m a nutcase. So he doesn�
�t understand my affiliation with his psychologist friend.

  We could’ve met at a bar or something, though, right?

  {Dionne Bromfield. “Yeah Right.”}

  Dr. Harper continues to look at me.

  I smile at him. And it’s real. Because he’s not going to get me kicked out of the university for missing class. “Good night, Dr. Harper. See you next week.”

  He nods and moves away from the window. And we exist again in silence. For a—

  “You did well on your paper—even without the triple check.” He sounds proud.

  He shouldn’t be proud. Not even a little bit.

  He holds my gaze for a second, smiling, before starting to drive again.

  I force a quick smile back. Not saying anything. Racking up yet another lie of omission.

  I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep lying to—

  “Dr. Harper looked surprised to see us together.”

  I nod in the darkness. Like I used to nod in his office. Nod. Nod. Nod. “He really did. He kept looking at me like he just couldn’t comprehend how the two of us could be in the same car.”

  He laughs. “Maybe he thinks that we met when I spoke at your class.” He pauses. And gets more serious. “Maybe he didn’t realize that you despised me that night.”

  “I didn’t despise—”

  He cuts me off. “It’s okay, Callie.” He pauses. And drives. “I’m sorry that I hurt you that night. I shouldn’t have brought your purse in for a presentation. And I did throw it out…again…right after that class, but I’m still sorry that—”

  My mouth opens without warning. “Don’t. Don’t be sorry.”

  “I am though.” Quiet. Simple.

  What you have to apologize for is significantly less than what I need to apologize for. For cheating through my therapy. Almost all of it. For secretly listening to music in my head. For letting you believe that we’re making progress. For giving you false hope. For setting you up for more mother-memory-inducing pain. For—

  “We are here.”

  Already?

  We turn into a driveway, a long driveway. A large brick house stands in front of us. Neatly trimmed grass. Flowers surrounding the porch in orderly rows. Pole light on, giving everything a nice, soft glow.

  I glance over at him. “Your house is beautiful. Everything looks so neat and organized, so clean.”

  His face falls as soon as the words slip from my mouth. The car pauses in the driveway.

  But why would he—

  “That’s just what Mom said when she first saw it. ‘Organized and clean.’”

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  {Rebecca Luker floats across a Broadway stage singing “How Could I Ever Know.”}

  Now I’m bringing up his mother not in a stupid I made a mistake kind of way, but instead in an Honestly, I can’t help it because I really am freaking similar to his mother sort of way. Damn it, Call—

  He reaches up to push the button for his garage door. The garage door opens in front of us, and he starts to drive again, moving the car forward. Staring almost blankly ahead. Shoulders tense. Rigid.

  {Rebecca gets louder. Mandy Patinkin joins her.}

  Firm jolt of his wrist. Car off. His hand moves upward. Button push. Garage door closing. Loudly.

  I stare straight ahead. Not seeing anything, though.

  Eyes fuzzy. Watery.

  I hear his door open. And shut. His blurry figure crosses in front of the car. I sit in the silence for a mom—

  My door is opening.

  Time for my feet to walk. For my legs to move.

  For me to face him.

  One. Two. Three.

  One. Two. Three.

  One. Two. Three.

  One. Tw—

  CALLIE.

  Stomach skipping around. I try to ignore it. I pull my right leg up and push it out of the car. One black pump standing in his garage.

  One. Two. Three.

  I push the rest of me out and up.

  Out. Out. Out. Up. Up. Up.

  Up to him. The door in between us.

  Him. Only inches away from me. Him. Not looking at me at all.

  Distant. Not even here.

  I step out of the doorway, out of the way.

  He pushes the door shut and turns toward the front of the garage, toward the big white door that presumably leads into his house.

  He starts to walk. Rigidly. Silently.

  I follow. Nervously. Heels clicking quietly. Silently berating myself for thinking like, speaking like his mother. Wondering if Judy is going to be—

  He unlocks and opens the white door and stands with his back against it. So I can get through.

  Okay.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Walk. Please. Walk. Don’t. Walk. Let. Walk. Judy. Walk. Be. Walk. In. Walk. Your. Walk. House. Walk, walk past him.

  No touching. No breathing. Slowly, I walk into his—

  His enormous, immaculate kitchen. Stainless steel appliances. Dark marble countertops. Large island. Hanging wine rack.

  Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

  And…Judy’s not here. She’s not here. Now his kitchen is even more beautiful. So much more.

  But she might be in another room, Callie. She might be—

  The door clicks shut.

  I look over. And there he stands. Looking uncomfortable in his own kitchen. Looking past me. Or through me.

  {The Beatles break in with “Hey Jude.”} I have to make this better somehow. I have to make him better.

  I scramble to think of something that I can say about his kitchen. Something that his mother wouldn’t have said.

  Umm…I could call it pretty? Big? Impressive? Spotl—

  No, Callie.

  Different adjective. One that she wouldn’t have used when—

  I have it.

  A word that I heard with him actually. At that bar on that Thursday night three million years ago. From one of Mandy’s sorority sisters.

  I’m not positive that I’ll be using it correctly, but I’m about one hundred percent sure that his mother never used the word in his presence. Or at all.

  I look right at him. Even though he’s not looking at me. Won’t look at me.

  One. Two. Three. Here goes.

  “Pretty sick kitchen.”

  His eyes change right away. To surprise. Amusement. The corners of his mouth raise upward, and he looks at me. Right at me.

  Mood shift.

  {Nice job, Sir Paul McCartney. I think we fixed it. Keep singing.}

  “I’m glad you like it. Perhaps you can help me cook tonight. I know how much you love cooking.”

  He’s back. Sort of. He’s smiling, but his body is still rigid. Still tense.

  I’m not sure what else to do to try to fix it. Fix him. Fix this night. I can just try to act normal, I guess. Whatever normal is.

  Mouth open. “How about I set the table instead?”

  “Okay.” He starts walking to the left, to the next room, motioning with his head for me to follow him. “I’ll show you where everything is before I start cooking.”

  All right. Time for the next room. My next quest.

  Will Judy be in the next—

  “Callie? Are you coming?”

  He’s turned around. Looking back at me.

  I nod.

  Okay. One. Two. Three.

  I place my purse on the counter.

  One. Two. Three. Step.

  Please don’t let Judy be here.

  One. Two. Three. Step.

  Please don’t let this be a trick.

  One. Two. Three. Step.

  Please. Please. Please.

  He crosses through to the next room. I take my final steps. Praying. Sweating. Shaking. Not breathing. Barely seeing.

  Walk. Walk. Walk. Through. Through the doorway.

  My fuzzy eyes quickly sweep across the new room. No bodies. No Judy. She’s not here.

  Tha
nk you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

  My body starts to calm down. It starts to function properly as I look around the new room, the dining room. The large, immaculate dining room.

  I look around slowly. Actually seeing this time.

  In the center of the room, a high dining room table. Shiny wood. Leather chairs. In the front corner, a china closet. Expensive-looking dishes. More hanging wine glasses. A few feet away, a mirror on the wall. High. Big. Spotless. Beyond the mirror, bare wall. And in the back corner—

  OHMYGOD.

  My body begins to lose itself again. Not moving. Not breathing. Not blinking. Not doing anything but staring.

  Staring at the back corner of the room.

  At the PIANO in the back corner of the room. The black, gleaming grand piano. PIANO.

  Chapter 9

  music

  HE HAS A PIANO. A piano. An instrument that makes music.

  Music. Something to play mus—

  My mouth, my lips, move without my permission. “You have a piano?” Stating the obvious.

  I don’t look at him. I feel him beside me, though. Tense. Stiff. Our shoulders separated by about three inches.

  Silence…for I don’t know how long.

  {Damien fills it.}

  Callie. Say something else or—

  He clears his throat as though—

  “Yes. It was my mother’s piano.”

  Her piano. His mother’s piano. Just sitting in his house. Just sitting here. Or—

  Or does he play it? Does he know how to play—

  “Can you play something for me?” The words breathe out of my mouth so quickly. So automatically. So stupidly.

  He remains rigid.

  What the hell are you doing, Callie? Why couldn’t you just ignore the piano? Why couldn’t you just look past it? Seriously?

  I don’t know what to do now. So I just keep standing. Three inches away from him. Both of us completely still. Completely speechless. Just standing. My words, my thoughtless, accidental request just looming over us. Around us. All over the place.

  But was it accidental?

  Or was I, am I, subconsciously testing him, seeing if he’ll admit the truth about avoiding mus—

  “I haven’t played in quite some time. Many years.”

  Probably since his mother pass—

  “ But all right.” Almost a whisper.

  All right? Seriously? He’s going to play. He’s going to play for the first time in, well, probably in as many years as his mother has been gone. He’d rather do that, face whatever awful emotions music must stir up in him than tell me the tru—