The Heartbeat Hypothesis

by Lindsey Frydman

  With a groan, I shoved the book out of the way and laid my head on the comforter again. Textbooks were boring—except this one I’d read once. It had a chapter in it about the heartbeat hypothesis. Anything about hearts caught my attention. The theory basically stated that every living creature had a finite number of heartbeats.

  If that was true, then my limit was up long ago. I drew the short straw in life, pulled a low number, and that number—whatever it was—came at age sixteen and it should’ve been the end to Audra Madison.

  But instead, I took someone else’s heartbeats, someone else’s time. Emily’s done-its. Her could’ves, should’ves, and would’ves.

  I lifted myself from my horizontal position and grabbed my phone.

  Me: Hey. When are you free next?

  I sent Jake the Facebook message without thinking twice, but he wasn’t online, and I had no idea when he would receive it—or if he’d respond.

  Patience was not a virtue I’d mastered yet.

  I opened Tumblr and quickly pulled up my own page. Two posts. Fourteen to go.

  He kept his promise about making the glow stick picture “artistic.” I was in it, yes, but I was underwater, and all you could make out was my giant blob of dark red hair and a faint outline of my legs.

  I loved the quote Emily had used, so I used it for my own image, along with her hashtags.

  It’s okay to be a glow stick; sometimes we need to break before we shine. #GlowSticksInThePool #GlowStickParty #NoFireworksForMe #MyFavoritePhotographerJake

  I needed to focus on homework and figure out what happened to those cats, but my eyes kept drifting to my phone, waiting for the beep that never came.

  …

  “Audra, we’re going to this party.” Kat propped her hands on her hips—but her I mean business look only made me laugh.

  “Why can’t we just go get ice cream and watch movies instead? I don’t really feel like talking to a bunch of strangers tonight.” I sat on the bed and hit the power button on my phone, hoping for new notifications. Nothing. I clicked the phone again and laid it down.

  “We’re going.”

  “How about you go to the party, and I’ll stay in with the ice cream?”

  She shook her head. “No, because I want to go, and I want you to go with me. As my best friend, you’re legally bound to come with me as my trusty companion.”

  I laughed. “How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

  “You don’t want to know. Did it work?” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “Nope.”

  “Fine, how about this. You should come with me because I won’t have as much fun without you. We can eat our weight in ice cream tomorrow if you want.”

  I considered for a moment, grinning at her enthusiasm. “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

  Kat always found a way to make me say yes to anything. When we were thirteen, she insisted I wear this bright pink lip gloss to school because it “matched my complexion perfectly.” And when we were fifteen, she talked me into spending all my savings on a single red skirt, claiming I looked “stunning” in it. If she wanted me to swim in a shark tank with her, she could’ve convinced me.

  I changed into my favorite pair of skinny jeans, a pink T-shirt, and my supersoft gray sweater. Since the frat house was five blocks away, I opted for ballet flats, and we headed out.

  Kat kept a slow pace with me for a while, but once we came within three blocks of the party, we could already hear it. Low thrums of the bass music. Random shouts and laughter. I hurried beside Kat as she hopped and skipped down the sidewalk—probably singing in her head.

  The noise level skyrocketed to something like hand grenades and fireworks when we arrived at the front steps. This had to be violating some sort of noise ordinance, but hey, whatever.

  We crossed the threshold and within minutes, a couple of guys shoved beers into our hands. The red plastic cup kind that tasted like dirt. I didn’t bother mentioning that I rarely drank beer. Alcohol was on my should-be-banned list, both because I was only eighteen, and because my doctor advised against “joining the crowd simply to fit in.” She did add that one drink every now and then would be okay, since it’d been two years since the surgery and I was as healthy as could be.

  People wandered through the large single-story house, moving from room to room. Some danced to the blaring music, others shot Ping-Pong balls at cups. I was never good at dancing or beer pong, so Kat and I stuck to wandering.

  She kept looking left and right as we trailed through the crowd, her hair, perfectly straight tonight, swinging side to side. “Are you looking for someone specific, or another boy toy?”

  Kat laughed. “I don’t have boy toys.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She glowered for all of five seconds before grinning. “I’m just trying to live up the full college experience before my nursing classes start and I’m stuck in my bed with only an anatomy and physiology textbook to keep me company.”

  “But you have two whole years of gen eds before that happens.”

  “And I want all of those two whole years to be full of awesomeness.” She wrapped her hand around my wrist. “But to answer your question, yes, I am looking for someone specific. A guy I met at the campus coffee shop. Well, two guys technically. They’re right over there.”

  Kat whisked me to the other side of the room, though I didn’t know which guys we were headed toward until they stood directly in front of us.

  “This is Dillan,” Kat said, nodding to a tall guy with sandy-blond hair. “And his friend, Patrick.”

  “Always nice to meet a fellow ginger,” Patrick said, smiling at me.

  I laughed awkwardly, touching the side of my hair. “Thanks. I think.”

  Kat turned away, leaning in toward Dillan, saying something I couldn’t hear. That was when Patrick started talking to me. And once he started, I didn’t think he knew how to stop.

  I listened—guess he thought since we were both redheads that made us besties—and someone must have turned up the music, because I said, “What?” every couple of sentences. Eventually I resorted to nodding and smiling. Patrick either didn’t care or didn’t notice.

  He was only an inch or so taller than me, which put him at maybe five foot seven, and I’d be willing to bet our weights were nearly the same. Despite being short and thin, he was actually kind of cute—if I ignored the large gap in his teeth. And he was nice—if I overlooked a few bad jokes.

  “Do you want another drink?” he asked, leaning closer.

  I shuffled backward and offered him my cup. I’d had nothing else to do besides empty it while Patrick rambled. “Sure.”

  He grabbed it and disappeared into the crowd of mostly drunk college students. I breathed in, thankful for the break. Kat and Dillan stood closer together now, her hand twisting a lock of hair. Because I couldn’t resist anymore, I pulled out my phone to check my messages.

  Nothing. But… Wait.

  Jake read my message. He’d read it and not responded.

  What the hell?

  I’d been ignored before, but this one, it stung. To know Jake intentionally avoided talking to me—freaking hurt. Even if he was just a guy I barely knew. And yeah, we hadn’t spoken since the night in the pool, but I assumed he’d been busy. If he had time to read my message, he surely had time to send a quick reply.

  I shut the screen off and tried to ignore the pulsing in my temples and the twisting in my gut.

  Fine. Ignore me. Whatever.

  But it wasn’t fine, and it wasn’t whatever.

  Patrick came back too soon, holding out the refilled cup.

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing it from his fingers and taking a small sip. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

  Without waiting for his response, I zipped away, between a group of girls and down a hallway. There was a line for the bathroom, of course, so I leaned against a wall, waiting my turn. A girl with nearly nonexistent shorts steadily groped the guy she
was with. Their make-out session was an ugly train wreck I shouldn’t have watched, but I couldn’t help it—I’d never seen anyone fit their whole tongue in a guy’s ear.

  I finally peeled my gaze away and moved on to something—anything—else. People milled about in various states of drunkenness, and I tried to keep my people-watching as covert as possible. I saw a head of hair that looked strikingly similar to Jake’s. The guy was almost the same height, too. Then he turned around and I saw his face, the camera in his hands.

  Holy crap.

  It was Jake.

  No.

  Yes.

  He stood off to the side, scanning the crowd for something or someone—or maybe nothing at all. Hair fell into his eyes as he looked down at his camera.

  When a girl walked out of the bathroom, I eyed the open door and should’ve been relieved it was finally my turn, but I couldn’t resist glancing back at Jake.

  His figure slowly melted into the crowd, disappearing near the front door.

  I spun in that direction, slinking through the throng, saying “excuse me” and “sorry” again and again. Think I stepped on some feet, too.

  I was a few yards away when Jake reached the door, pushing it with his palm.

  “Hey,” I said, moving faster.

  He didn’t hear me—or chose to ignore me.

  “Jake. Jake.”

  He halted, halfway down the porch steps.

  I planted myself on the top, looking down at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought it was an open party?” His voice stayed neutral, but the lines on his forehead deepened.

  My spine went rigid. “Why didn’t you message me back?”

  Silence.

  I dropped a few steps until I had to tilt my head back to look at his face. Tapping my fingers against my jeans, I drew in a long breath. “I messaged you.” As if he didn’t already know. “Uh. I haven’t heard from you and…I wanted to set up another time to meet. I don’t have your number so…I had to Facebook you and—” The more words I let stumble out, the more I questioned why I’d run after him in the first place.

  He tipped his head slightly, his eyes assessing me. “Shit. I…” Digging into his front pocket, he removed his phone and held it out in his palm. “I was in the middle of messaging you back when someone called. I got distracted. Then my phone died and I forgot I’d never finished the message. I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted a lot lately.” Jake’s gaze drifted past me. “Busy with classes and work.”

  “But you’re at a party. Life can’t be that busy.”

  “I’m not exactly here for the party.” He motioned to the camera between his hands, lips tilting into the barest of smiles. “It’s not a lie. I’m not here for the party.”

  Where was the art in a party full of drunk, slobbering college students? “Okay.” I bit my lower lip and twisted my hands together when his gaze fell on me again.

  Jake shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped closer, reaching his hand out. He hesitated, brows lifting fractionally. Then with a sigh, his fingers curled inward. He dropped his arm and his gaze. “Audra…I’m really sorry.”

  My mind was stuck on the way my name sounded coming from him in that low, rough voice. I wrapped my arms together, running my hands down them to chase away the line of goose bumps. “It’s fine. I understand.”

  His jaw twitched. Fingers flexed and unflexed. “I’ve still got more pictures to take,” he said, taking a step back. “If you still want a piano lesson, I’ll be in the rec center at seven on Monday, okay? Meet me there.”

  I nodded, offering him the best smile I could manage. But as he turned to go, I whispered, “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  He flashed me a questioning look. “Sorry for what?”

  I lowered my arms and pressed my palms together. “About Emily.” I’m sorry she’s dead and I’m not, and that you want her to be standing here and not me. I’m sorry if this isn’t what she would’ve wanted—me living the life she couldn’t have.

  I’d never seen anyone stand so still and straight-faced for so long. The only movement was his chest rising and falling with increasing pace.

  When he spoke, agony laced every word. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

  My whole body trembled, a thousand tiny needles pricked at my skin, and I couldn’t keep my voice from wavering. “I think…I feel like—”

  “No.” He shook his head, inching toward me again. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you apologizing.”

  Peering across the street at a cluster of trees, I swallowed. The coils in my chest tightened like a winding rubber band until I thought I might snap in two.

  Jake said my name again, lower this time, and when I looked at him, he was only inches away. “I have a lot of shit going on. None of it has anything to do with you.” Two fingers brushed the edge of my cheek, and he gave me a halfhearted smile. “You just don’t know me that well.” My skin burned beneath his light caress.

  “That’s the whole point,” I whispered, still shaking. “I don’t know anything about you. But I want to.”

  “I’m not an easy guy to understand.” His fingers drifted down my neck, and he took another deep inhale before he pulled his hand away.

  I’m beginning to see that. I ran my own hand over the spot where he’d touched me, then rubbed the back of my neck. “Most people aren’t.”

  “I know.” His eyes grew unfocused as he lifted the camera up. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you Monday?”

  I nodded and he stepped past me, heading for the back of the house, his shoes crunching over the dry grass.

  Flattening my palms against my sides, I looked at the porch steps, wishing I didn’t have to go back inside, through the crush of people. Wishing Jake weren’t leaving me.

  “Hey,” he called from yards away, his figure merely a shadow beneath the trees. “I want to know you, too.”

  Chapter Six

  The clock ticked to six fifty, and my muscles tightened as if World War III were about to erupt inside the dorms. I stuck my feet into my gray flats and snatched my keys off the dresser.

  Remembering Jake’s rule about being late—or whatever it was—I made a mad dash for the rec center. By the time I reached the ugly purple-and-gold chair, I was out of breath, tiny hairs sticking to my forehead. Not cute.

  In the piano room, Jake sat on the black bench, his back to me, fingers hovering over the keys like he’d been playing something.

  I attempted to smooth my wild hair and padded farther into the room.

  “Hey there,” he said softly, swinging his legs around.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “So, you ready to learn how to read sheet music?”

  “Definitely.”

  I sat next to him on the bench and tried to focus on his hands and not his face, on the notes and not his voice.

  That lasted about thirty minutes.

  I swallowed and rubbed my palms together. “Who taught you how to play?”

  He removed his fingers from the keys and looked at me with stormy eyes. “Ah, I taught myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I haven’t played in a long time. It’s…kind of weird, I guess.”

  “Weird that you taught yourself?”

  “No, weird because I never figured I’d play again,” he said in a soft voice, shrugging a shoulder weighed down with tension.

  I swallowed and looked down at my twisting hands. “How come?”

  “I told you. Piano is just a hobby. So, you remember where C is?” he asked, closing the door on our brief conversation.

  “Um. No.”

  The lesson continued, and the talk stuck to keys and rhythm and notes, instead of the things that truly mattered.

  When we were done for the night, I shifted off the bench and grabbed my purse from the floor.

  “Any big plans for tonight?” Jake asked.

  I slid the strap over my shoulder. “Oh, uh, not
really. I might spend the rest of the evening watching Disney movies.” I had no classes on Tuesdays, and I loved Disney, so I figured why not waste the entire night?

  He stepped closer, invading my personal space—not that I minded—and dipped his head. “Sounds torturous.”

  “You don’t like Disney? Oh man…we can’t be friends.”

  Placing a hand on my shoulder, he tilted his head, brows raising. “All because of a few animated flicks? That seems mean.”

  “It’s not. They are so much more than animated flicks.” They were wonderful and moving and all things fabulous and happy. “All those catchy songs—”

  “That’s the worst part,” he said, moving back, removing his warm touch. “The songs, God, those songs are—”

  “They’re awesome.” My response was loud and shrill and it echoed off the four walls, but I laughed anyway. “That’s the best part.”

  Jake picked his bag up off the floor. “If you say so.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  The corners of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly, like he was holding back a laugh. “How about we do lessons on Monday nights? Are you good with that?” His fingers brushed lightly against the back of my hand, but when I looked down, they fell away.

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Disney movie night was an epic failure. Three hours in, I was past the starry-eyed gaze of my seven-year-old self. These movies I’d found so incredible when I was younger were not so awesome.

  They were all lies.

  I drudged through the last movie I’d had lined up because it was my favorite. Beauty and the Beast, to my surprise, was still enjoyable despite my jaded Disney’s-a-lie mood. But I spent half the time wondering about Jake and Emily and all the things I didn’t know. Like how Jake never seemed truly interested in playing the piano but wanted to teach me anyway. How I sometimes thought he enjoyed my company, but then he’d turn around and act so formal, putting space between us. One minute it was nice and the next, it felt cold. The questions and unknown answers surrounding Emily’s death swirled through my mind.