“I’m not freaked out,” I lie. “Just confused.”
“I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
His empathy makes me uncomfortable, though I’m not sure why. “I can’t talk long.”
He’s silent. Taken aback, probably. I look at his note in my hand. “You said you had answers. So start talking. Who are you? How do you know me?”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay. First, my name’s Auden.”
“Auden, like the Broncos running back?”
“No. Like the poet, W. H.”
“Oh.”
“My parents used to be hipsters.”
We both laugh sheepishly, and I smile. “I see.”
“Usually, I claim the football player namesake around here,” he says. I can hear a smile in his voice as well. “Keeps things uncomplicated.”
“So, you’re new here. How long have you been in town?”
He’s silent for a moment. “I’m not new. At least, not very new. I’ve lived here for almost two years.”
I process his words, frowning. “Here in Orchardview?”
“Yes.”
“Weird.” I’m surprised I’ve never heard of him in all that time. New people in Orchardview are usually the topic of conversation for weeks, especially someone who looks like this guy.
Auden exhales, and there’s a slight tremor to his breath. “Shelby…you have heard of me. We know each other. Very well.”
The vision from therapy flashes in my head. Suddenly, the air seems thin.
“I’m not in the mood to be messed with, okay?” I say, my voice harder than I intended.
“I’m not—”
“I don’t know you.”
“Shelby. Just listen—”
“No. We don’t know each other. I’ve never seen you before…” His image comes again, him sitting beside me on the hood of the car, and the claim evaporates on my tongue.
“You need to trust me on this,” he says. “I can explain everything.”
The assurance in his voice only puts me on edge. It feels like someone is sitting on my chest.
“I have to go.”
“Wait. Let me—”
I slam my thumb on the screen of my phone. In my blur of emotion, it takes me three tries to successfully end the call. Breathing hard, I jump up, pull out one of my dresser drawers, and slam my phone into a folded pile of shirts. I push the drawer closed hard and stand with both palms pressed against the dresser as I struggle to calm my racing heart.
• • •
I barely leave my room Saturday and Sunday, watching one movie after another, only coming out to get a plate of food, then locking the door behind me. I think everyone is relieved when Monday morning rolls around. I switch into autopilot as I head out of the house and off to school. Classes bleed into each other. The hallways are a haze of faces and noise. Even my interactions with Grace are robotic and carefully neutral.
But when I’m ready to go home to climb into bed and finish watching Gone with the Wind for the millionth time, Cam Haler corners me outside the lunchroom.
“Seashell!” he says, grinning. “How’s the ocean?”
It’s an old joke, one that was only funny when I thought he was hot. Still, you have to admire his dedication.
I smirk. “Getting warmer every year, or so they say.”
“Science, schmience.” Cam’s expression softens. “Seriously though, are you feeling okay?”
“Much better,” I say, with a bright (and forced) smile.
Cam is convinced. “Awesome. Glad to hear it. Let’s walk to auditions together then.”
“Auditions?”
“For the fall play. Romeo and Juliet?”
I blink. “They’re today?”
“Uh, yeah. Try right now.”
How did I not remember this? I normally spend days preparing for an audition. I’d have my monologue memorized, blocked, and polished. Now the thought of being in the school play sends a cold stab of dread through my stomach. I shift my backpack to the other shoulder. “I don’t know, Cam. I wish I could, but—”
“Do not tell me you’re backing out.”
“I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Like what?” Cam’s eyes are wide, incredulous. “What could possibly be more important? Shelby, you picked this play. Mr. Lyman only did a Shakespeare because you begged him.”
I remember sitting on the edge of Mr. Lyman’s desk, explaining how even though the play had been done a million times, our version would be special. Why did I think ours would be different? The memory is splotchy. It’s as if there’s a piece missing. I reach for it, but there’s only emptiness, like thin, white smoke.
Cam shakes his head in exasperation. “I can’t believe you’re backing out. What is wrong with you?”
His words strike a harsh chord. This inward resistance is unsettling, even to me; I can only imagine how it must look to Cam. Not to mention everyone else. It’s a serious crack in my carefully maintained facade that everything’s fine with me. If I don’t audition today, half of the drama club will be tracking me down, asking what’s wrong.
“I’m not backing out,” I say. “I’m going to audition.”
“Damn right, you are,” Cam says.
He grabs my hand and marches us forward. Stepping through the worn double doors of the auditorium brings an unexpected rush of comfort. That smell—a mix of wood and dust and stage paint. The sight of the red, padded chairs. The way the stage lights make the velvet curtains glow. The wide openness of the stage. This is exactly where I want to be.
• • •
Mr. Lyman likes to give his students what he calls “the real Broadway experience.” I have no idea if he’s ever actually been to New York, but to the small crowd of students who willingly bear the label “drama nerd,” he’s an expert, genius, and mentor all in one.
Part of the real Broadway experience is auditioning on the empty stage. Mr. Lyman sits in the third row, in the dark, holding a clipboard. He’s the only one who gets to watch, aside from the student stage manager, Ana Guerrero. The rest of us wait out in the hallway, running lines from the scene he gave us. I’m auditioning for Juliet. And Cam’s going for Romeo. Of course.
I’m staring at my script when Ana breezes out of the auditorium.
“Shelby. You’re up.”
I follow Ana through the double doors and step onto the stage, blinking at the bright lights above me. I’m nervous, yet standing here sends a current of strength through my body. Strength I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Good to have you back, my dear,” Mr. Lyman says.
I dip in a low curtsy. “Happy to be here, oh Captain, my captain.” Mr. Lyman and I share a love of Dead Poets Society.
“Excellent. So, you will be reading from act two, scene two. Famous balcony scene.”
“Got it.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Um, don’t we need a Romeo?” I glance around me. It’s not like Cam not to miss a moment in the spotlight.
“Right,” he says. “Let’s give our new recruit a try.”
I frown, squinting into the shadows offstage as a tall figure moves up the aisle from the audience. He obviously wasn’t waiting out in the hall with the others. Since when does Mr. Lyman allow that?
And then he steps into the light and onto the stage with his dark, tousled hair and deep eyes.
Auden.
Chapter 6
He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he steps into the center of the stage, staring in that same unreadable way he did the night of the pep rally. I’m so shocked I stare back until he’s standing beside me. Then I turn toward the audience, unsure if I’m afraid or furious.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, my voice low, but sharp.
; “Auditioning.” I glance at him with a raised eyebrow, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. It brightens his whole face, especially his eyes. My heartbeat skips a little.
“You guys ready?” Mr. Lyman calls out.
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. I’m utterly distracted, dazed.
“Should we start from Juliet’s speech?” Auden asks. “At line thirty-three?”
Mr. Lyman gives a thumbs-up, and Auden points to the place on my script, his hand brushing mine. “That’s you, Shelby.” I blink at the script, trying to scrape together a semblance of composure. I won’t let this guy, whoever he may claim to be, ruin my audition.
I draw in a slow breath, exhale, and hold up my script. Closing my eyes, I try to become Juliet. I’ve never known the kind of love she feels in the moment of this famous speech, but somehow, reaching inside me, there’s inspiration. A shadow of passion. Of pain. Only fragments of an emotion I couldn’t possibly know, but they are there just the same.
I open my eyes. “Romeo.” My throat catches as I speak his name. “Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
The rest of the speech flows from me, almost with a life of its own. Auden watches me the entire time, the flicker of a suppressed smile on his lips. I try not to let it distract me, but then my speech ends and it’s his line. Out of nowhere, he drops his script and clasps my hands in his.
“I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; henceforth I never will be Romeo.”
We run the entire scene. Auden has every line memorized. He’s a perfect Romeo. Where did this guy come from? He holds nothing back, and while I know he’s acting a part, my pulse reacts as he touches my face, kisses my hand. It’s partly shock at his boldness. Surprise at his commitment to the character. And maybe it has something to do with his dark eyes fixed on me. It’s almost more intensity than I can handle.
The scene ends, and Auden turns to the audience, giving me a moment of peace.
“That was fantastic,” Mr. Lyman says, clapping. “I’m so glad you auditioned. It’s not often we get fresh blood in this program. Especially someone from New York.”
Auden shrugs and smiles.
“Okay. Thanks, you two,” Mr. Lyman says. “Why don’t you stick around in the hallway? I want to run another scene in a bit.”
I nod absently and turn for the stairs. Casting a glance over my shoulder, I watch Auden rush to his backpack and jacket, which he left on one of the aisle seats. He looks up at me, as if to make sure I’m headed out as well. My stomach flips. I don’t want to face him. I’m not ready to hear what he has to say.
The darkness of backstage looms before me like a safe haven. And in that instant, I have an exit strategy. Mr. Lyman is distracted, talking to Ana about who to call in next. Auden is all the way across the auditorium. Seizing the moment, I rush offstage.
I’m not sure if Auden will follow me. I don’t want to risk it. Or am I really trying to find a place where we can talk alone? Am I actually hoping he’ll follow me?
Scoffing at my own stupidity, I head into the maze of curtains and backdrops. It’s dark here, with only faint red light to help me navigate. I inhale that familiar, dusty smell and try to calm my racing heart. I just need a moment to catch my breath and clear my head.
“Shelby?”
His voice comes from the other side of the curtain, and I freeze. Footsteps shuffle to the left, then right. And then Auden’s face peers into my hiding place.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
He smiles a little, stepping into my curtain cave. “Please.”
But I’m not amused. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll scream.”
He seems taken aback by my threat. “I’m not going to hurt you, Shelby.”
“Why are you stalking me? What do you want?”
“I’m not stalking you. I just want to talk to you.”
“You said plenty the other night.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I’m screwing this up, but you have to give me a chance to explain.”
I swallow back my retort. Maybe I’m being unfair. It’s entirely possible that I did know him before my treatment and have somehow forgotten. I wouldn’t be freaking out so much if it weren’t for that moment in therapy, the vision of him and me on the car hood. His fingers brushing the hair from my lips. Thinking about it now sends a shiver over my skin.
What does it mean? If he really can explain, I should let him.
“All right,” I say, folding my arms, as if that would protect me from everything that’s happening. “Talk, then.”
His shoulders relax a little. “You’re not going to run away from me again?”
“That depends.”
He smiles, but then his expression turns unreadable. He shakes his head a little. “This is so weird.”
The memory of Grace saying those exact words sends a shiver through me. Auden sighs and casts his eyes upward, as if searching for what to say somewhere in the dusty, reddish light.
“If I told you something that you wouldn’t believe, never in a million years, would you give me the chance to prove it before deciding to ignore me forever?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Just answer the question.”
I try to give it some thought. “I don’t know. I guess so. It would depend.”
He watches me for a moment, his intense gaze so deliberate I can almost feel it like physical touch. My heart pulses harder. He takes my hand in his. I almost pull away, but the warmth and strength of his grip stills me.
“You know me, Shelby. Better than anyone in the world. And I know you.”
I can’t look away from his burning, dark eyes.
“It’s true,” Auden says softly, his voice like kiss. “We’re in love.”
My words come out as a strained whisper. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You know it’s true. You feel it.” He encloses my hand in his two palms and brings it to his chest. “In your heart. You can feel this connection, even if you don’t remember what it is.”
A whir of dizziness threatens to take me, but I grab for my strength. “Don’t touch me,” I say, pulling away from him.
“I can see that you feel it,” he says.
“I don’t even know what I’m feeling, so how could you?”
He sighs. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“You keep saying that.” My voice is sharp. “But you don’t know me.”
“I know where you were this summer. And I know what they were doing to you.”
I stare at him. We only told our very closest friends about the therapy. Mama said it would be best not to draw too much attention to it. Simple country folk don’t go to big cities for fancy new medical treatments.
“Selective memory erasure,” Auden says. “Seems a little extreme for some panic attacks.”
Heat flashes in my chest. “You have no idea what I was going through.”
He gives an exasperated, mirthless laugh. “I do, actually.”
I’m officially done with this conversation. Anger burns on my skin, and I step forward to push past him. But he moves into my path.
“Wait. Hear me out.”
“I’ve heard all I care to.”
“Shelby.” His pleading holds me in place for a moment longer.
“Don’t listen then,” he says, his voice soft but urgent. “But look.”
He reaches into his back pants pocket and pulls out a black wallet. His fingers draw a slim, rectangular piece of paper from the billfold. It’s picture strip from a photo booth. Without a word, Auden holds it out for me.
I don’t take it, but my eyes lock onto the three photos.
It’s Auden. And me. We’re cuddled together in each image. Throwing up fake gan
g signs and wearing sunglasses in the top photo. Cheek to cheek in the center image, smiling brightly. And in the bottom picture, our lips are pressed together. My eyes are closed. Auden’s fingers curl around the back of my neck, interwoven through my hair.
“Do you want to know why you think we don’t know each other?” Auden’s words ring in my ears. “Do you want to know why, in spite of your mind saying that you know nothing about me, your body insists you do?”
He sighs.
“The accident wasn’t the only thing erased from your memory this summer, Shelby. They also erased me. They erased us.”
Chapter 7
One of the symptoms of a panic attack is disassociation from reality. A detachment. Almost like you’re watching your life play out in a dream.
I feel that now, but I know I’m not having an episode. I’m very much here. In this moment. It doesn’t make sense, but I’m oddly calm. Maybe because what he’s saying is too ridiculous to get upset over.
Or does it make sense?
“I knew your mom hated me,” Auden says, his eyes darkening. “But I never imagined she’d take it this far.”
“How do you know about the therapy?” I ask. My voice sounds weak and small.
“How could I not?” His eyes slide closed for a moment. “This summer has been hell in more ways than I can explain. But living without you was the worst part of it. I had to find you. I had to find out what they were doing to you.”
“They weren’t doing anything to me. I wanted to be there. I needed the treatment.”
“And you’re sure you know exactly what was going on? If they can take one piece of your memory, doesn’t it stand to reason they could take another while they’re at it?”
For a split second, I can feel the cold electrode patches pressed to my temples. I can see the sterile helmet of the neural restructuring capsule gradually lowering over my face. The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end.
I’m suddenly aware that Auden is watching me intently. I take a step back. “It can’t be true.”
“I know it’s hard to wrap your mind around, but you have to trust me.”
He’s so earnest I almost believe him. Once again, the image of Auden sitting beside me on the hood of that car shivers through me. It’s too bizarre. It can’t be real. My mind is arguably not a reliable source right now. Facts are the only things that matter.
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