The Heartbeat Hypothesis

by Lindsey Frydman

  And when I finally put my fingers around the cool metal, felt the weight of it in my hands, I’d forgotten all about my measured breaths.

  “Like this,” he said, moving my hands into position. One underneath, steadying. The other wrapped around the side, close to the trigger. “Hold your arms out straight. Ah, not that straight.”

  Then he said, “Perfect, just like that,” and so I tried to stay just like that. Harder than it sounded. I aimed the barrel of the gun down the field and shut one eye to focus the sight on the target.

  Squeeze the trigger slowly.

  Breathe. In and out. In and out and start squeezing.

  Once I pulled the trigger far enough, the shot fired, sending the bullet rocketing out of the gun. All of my senses were on an ultrahigh setting. Pulse pounding. Gun blasts echoing. Fingers tight around the metal. And then came the relief of it not backfiring and blowing my face off, and holy shit, I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.

  I set the gun down and spun around toward Jake, who smiled. “So, how was it?”

  Something like a giggle escaped me. “It—oh man. It was great. But I still feel, uh, I don’t know. Wired?” I shook my hands in the air for effect.

  “Probably your adrenaline. Shooting a gun does a lot of interesting things to your brain.”

  I nodded, still grinning. I’d read somewhere that firing a weapon releases the same chemicals as a passionate kiss does. I was no scientist, but it seemed pretty damn accurate. Maybe Emily had also read that somewhere and wanted to find out for herself if it was true.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Back at Jake’s apartment, I was still high from the adrenaline—tingling and floating.

  “We can do whatever you want. As long as it’s not Disney.”

  I spun, ready to fire off about how there were other movies I liked to watch, but Jake’s unexpected closeness tied my tongue up in knots. My sudden stop put us only inches apart, but he didn’t step back.

  “Uh. Anything but Disney is fine.”

  He grinned. “Well, that narrows it down.”

  Instead of leaning forward, like I wanted to, I inched back. He stood stationary, tracking my slow movements with storm-colored eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

  “Like what? My game collection is pretty scarce. I’ve got Resident Evil and Call of Duty.”

  I laughed, slipping off my shoes, still inching toward the couch. “As much fun as today was, I don’t think I’d be any good at a first-person shooter. What about…Yahtzee?”

  Jake shrugged out of his jacket. “Do people still play that?”

  “I think it’s one of those games that’ll never die. Like Battleship.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure that game is dead.”

  “Aw.” I pulled my lips into a pout and sighed dramatically. “You sank my battleship.”

  He set his shoes against the wall and shook his head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t turn that into a joke.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Depends on your definition of ‘that bad.’”

  I stopped my retreat and admired the smile lines pressed in around his mouth. Maybe it was the leftover aura of badassery from the shooting range that tempted my feet in his direction. Or maybe it was simply my desire to touch him. To feel the heat of his skin on mine. To feel his energy and drink it in.

  To finally ask for the things I wanted.

  I twisted my fingers against his. When I spoke, my voice came out as a whisper. “Do you believe in clichés?”

  His lips quirked into the smallest possible version of a smile. “Which one are we talking about here?”

  The warmth flooding my face rivaled the warmth emanating from our joined hands. “Do you think there’s a reason behind everything that happens to us? And I mean us as in the whole wide world. Not just…you and me.”

  Jake stayed silent, but his eyes contained pages of unspoken words.

  I grew dangerously close to overthinking.

  “I don’t think I believe that,” he finally said. “I think things just happen, and people make what they want out of them.”

  “Maybe.”

  My instinct was to pull away, but when I released his hands, he inched closer. His hands found my waist, successfully keeping me from running.

  “You know what I do think?” he whispered, leaning his forehead toward mine.

  My heart reacted like I’d had a cattle prod to the chest, and my whole body thrummed from the sensation of his fingers moving gently along my sides. I raised my eyebrows, trying not to act like a fifteen-year-old who’d never been touched before. I was neither fifteen nor saintly.

  His head dipped until his mouth neared my ear, hot breath trickling down my neck. He gripped my lower back. Pulled me against his solid chest. “I think you’re good for me.”

  My pulse spiked with one part guilt and two parts desire. More than I wanted for that to be true, I ached for him to want me the same way I wanted him.

  He leveled his gaze with mine again. “I’m still not sure if I’m any good for you.”

  He was wrong. He had to know that by now.

  I kissed him. My right hand snaked up his neck. His hands tugged me toward him—though there was nowhere else for me to go. I felt every hard plane of his body against mine.

  I’d seen him shirtless before, but I desired nothing more than to admire his muscled chest, feel its warmth against my own. More than just our hands. More than just our lips.

  My fingers wound their way into his hair, and when I let out a soft sound of longing, he twisted our joined bodies sideways, and my back hit the wall. I arched into him, my hips pressing against his. He groaned. “I’m serious, Audra. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I ran my hands down his arms, appreciating the corded muscles there like he was art. Jake was art. Captivating and mysterious. Unique and beautiful.

  I leaned my mouth toward his, bold from the longing and desire churning in his gaze. “I told you, I trust you.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted slyly. “Careful not to say something you might regret. I can promise you a gun won’t backfire in your face, but I can’t promise I won’t end up hurting you.”

  Even though a slow burn worked its way from my gut to my cheeks, I smiled sheepishly, moving my hands from his arms to his waist. His back muscles tensed beneath my touch. Then one hand cupped my jaw, gently but firmly. His breath was uneven, and his eyes darted across my face, sending a thrill through all of me. It had been so long since I’d been touched like this, since someone looked at me like this.

  Since I’d wanted something so much.

  His lips dropped to mine again, and I welcomed the taste of his mouth, the feel of his tongue. It was every one of my wildest dreams come true, and I wanted this moment to last all night.

  Something rattled against my hip. An electronic melody followed, and I pulled my head back, sucking in a breath. “Your phone.”

  He backed up but only enough to reach into his pocket and pull it out, never once looking down. “I’ve got voicemail for a reason.”

  An instant after dropping the phone to the ground, his mouth assaulted mine again. But this time he didn’t press me into the wall. Instead, he pulled me forward, inching backward. My heart boomed with anticipation and desperate longing.

  A few moments later, my chest filled with a different feeling. The anticipation no longer felt light and giddy. It was heavy now. Overwhelming.

  Jake’s fingers brought the hem of my shirt up, the rough pads sending shivers dancing up my spine. He’d seen me in a swimsuit before, seen a portion of the scar running between my breasts, but it hadn’t mattered then like it did now. Before, it was two semi-strangers hanging out in typical poolside clothing. Now it was intimate. Meaningful. Intense.

  But I didn’t stop him from taking it off.

  When his shirt lay on the floor in a crumpled pile next to mine, he placed his hand on my belly, and with one finger, very gently traced the line of my
scar between by breasts and up to my neck. My chest heaved against him.

  He looked at me like his room was a museum and I was the art. “You’re beautiful.”

  The invasive melody from his cell phone yanked me out of my dreamy euphoria again. I tensed, angling my head.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said against my lips.

  But I knew how often Jake’s phone rang. Two calls in a row weren’t normal.

  Stranger things had happened, so I let the thought slide out of my head, forgotten and unnecessary.

  I got lost in him again, in the way his lips moved against mine, like they’d been designed solely for kissing me. It felt like drowning. And I loved every second of it.

  My bra was somewhere between the living room and the bedroom, and my brain was in another world.

  His phone rang again. This time, he tensed.

  “Maybe you should answer.” My voice sounded breathy and unfamiliar. “It could be important.”

  Jake sat back and groaned. Raked one hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’ll be right back.”

  I was alone on his bed. Topless. Awesome.

  I strained to catch what he was saying, to find out who was blowing up his phone.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” A pause. “Where is he now?”

  More silence.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  My heart jumped at the idea of Jake leaving. I slid off the bed and crept toward the door until I saw him running a hand through his hair again.

  “What’s going on?” I picked up my clothes and clutched them to my chest. The modesty was unnecessary. Jake wasn’t even looking at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “My dad’s wasted. My mom, she’s flipping her shit.”

  Nakedness was so not appropriate anymore. I snapped on my bra and yanked my shirt on. “You’re going over there?”

  “To make sure my dad doesn’t hurt her, yeah.” He shoved his shoes on. Grabbed his keys from the coffee table. Finally moved toward me. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain how fucking sorry I am. But I have to go.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “I—”

  “No. I don’t have time to argue about it.”

  I barely felt the sting of his words through all my panic.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll text you later.” He kissed my forehead so briefly, I could’ve imagined it.

  I followed him out the door, stunned and reeling. He was halfway down the hall.

  And then he was gone.

  I counted out my breaths while I stared at nothing. One breath. Two. Jake hadn’t seen his parents in two years, so he must’ve been compelled by whatever his mom said… Three breaths. Four.

  Tracing the cracks in the baseboards with my gaze, I thought of everything he’d told me, everything I’d learned.

  She’s freaking out.

  Where is he now?

  Understanding sank its grimy claws into me. A sickness settled low in my gut. Hearts weren’t supposed to beat this fast—not even replacement ones.

  I pictured the possible scenes playing out at the Cavanaughs’. Easy to do with the stock footage ingrained into my memory. The picture-perfect house. The smile his mom wore to hide her fear. Everyone’s insistence that Emily didn’t end her own life. And thanks to Jake’s stories, drunken asshole wasn’t an image I had to work hard to imagine.

  The scene grew dimmer when I added more detail. Me showing up to my heart donor’s memorial service. Me pushing everyone to talk about her. Me tearing open the wounds everyone was either trying to heal or trying to hide. When I added Jake to the movie I’d created in my head, the image went dark.

  I bolted down the hallway, hopped down the steps, and sprinted toward the dorms to get my car. Whatever was happening in that house—whatever was about to happen—it was my fault.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jake expected me to go back to my dorm and sit around, wondering and worrying. Of course he did—he didn’t know I’d gone to Emily’s memorial, or that I’d gone to his parents’ house afterward. He didn’t know I’d riffled through his belongings and found his journal, that I was the one interfering and tempting fate.

  My feet were on autopilot once I parked my car and climbed out. I walked across the road to the house glowing in streetlight. Like last time, the two-story building screamed of all things normal and perfect. I glanced left and right while I strode toward the door. The rest of the neighborhood remained quiet and empty. Everyone else cozily tucked in their beds, unaware of the horrors inside 264 Bracket Street.

  The door was unlatched—not quite closed—and my hand hesitated a few inches away.

  Knock? Would anyone come to the door?

  Would Jake even let me in?

  I strained to hear something, anything, but all I found was silence. It was a big house. They could be anywhere. I lowered my hand. Stared at the door.

  If I’d caused this—if all of this was my fault—why did I think I could fix it?

  Maybe I should’ve left well enough alone.

  A loud clang sounded from inside the house, followed by the tinkling clink-clink-clink of what must’ve been shattering glass. I yanked open the door and nearly fell when I stumbled inside.

  I stood absolutely still and listened, blood rushing through my veins.

  Muffled voices.

  Moving through the pristine living room, the sounds became louder. Still no one in sight. I walked around a corner, through the kitchen, and did a three-sixty.

  Where were they?

  I found a set of dark stairs, leading to a dark upper hallway. Taking them one at a time, my hand skimmed the ice-cold railing.

  This could’ve been considered breaking and entering. Or maybe it was wrong on an entirely different level.

  A deep voiced boomed from the other end of the house. “It’s your fault, isn’t it?”

  Whatever response was given was overshadowed by another loud crash. I rounded the top of the stairs, shuffled faster down the hall, toward a light at the end.

  “Stop.”

  I couldn’t tell who’d said it—or if I’d even heard it. Could’ve been my own delusions. My feet moved faster, and my heart pumped quicker until I thought for sure this was the time it would break.

  Shouts filtered through the air. Mostly indistinct obscenities. I turned the corner, my mouth going dry. I quickly assessed the room, instantly pegged it for a teenage girl’s room. Emily’s. Of all the places in this big house, they’d ended up in here.

  Light teal walls. Yellow comforter. Shimmering pieces of a broken lamp on the hardwood floor. Jake’s back to me, hands clenched into fists.

  His dad barely inches in front of him, still screaming. “Worthless piece of shit.” And then his hand shot forward, slamming into Jake’s shoulder.

  He stumbled back, and I stepped forward, a high-pitched squeak the only sound escaping my opened mouth. My hand reached out uselessly.

  A raspy growl came from Jake. His spine straightened. He pulled his arm backward, and a heartbeat later, one of his rocklike fists collided with his dad’s jaw in a sickening crunch. Bone on bone sounded louder when there weren’t fifty people standing around making noise.

  “Jake.” My voice was barely there, his name barely a word.

  His dad clasped Jake’s shirt, twisting and slamming him into the closet door. The frame and drywall shuddered and creaked from the impact. I caught a glimpse of Jake’s face. Only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to see it—the fiery hatred and anger burning in his eyes.

  His fist shot forward again, this time smashing into his father’s cheek.

  A tangle of fists. Rough, painful noises. Sharp inhales. Exhales. Grunts and groans. The violent popping noises turned my insides to acid, which bubbled in my throat.

  I was a coward. Because I couldn’t watch anymore. Because all I could do was press against the wall and cover my mouth with my hands, and wish I had the powe
r to disappear. Wish I had the power to change this.

  Something shattered to the floor.

  I squeezed my eyes shut to escape the madness of the room. When I opened them again, his father’s head jerked backward. He dropped like a boulder to the floor.

  I stopped breathing.

  Jake didn’t stop punching him.

  Over and over and over. The crack of bone against bone, flesh on mangled flesh.

  Stop.

  Spatters of red marred the teal walls. Red covered Jake’s fists and his father’s jaw.

  STOP.

  So much red.

  I’d lost count of how many times Jake hit his father since he’d been knocked out, lying limp on the ground.

  “Stop.” I barely heard my voice over my thundering heart.

  How many more punches before Jake’s dad stopped breathing?

  How many before he killed him?

  “Jake. Stop. No. No.”

  Fear and adrenaline exploded within me, and I pushed off the wall. My body collided into his side. It was like slamming into concrete, but he moved, rigid muscles shifting sideways.

  “Stop,” I croaked. “Please, please, please.” Fat teardrops dripped from my nose. Acid burned my tongue. “Jake, stop.”

  Eyes partially covered by hair locked a steely gaze on me. “What the hell are you doing?” His chest heaved up and down, his bloodied fingers twitching.

  The growl in his tone sent my heart to my feet. “It’s all my fault.” The words combined with my heavy cries. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I couldn’t let you do something you’d regret. I’m—God, I wish I could take it back, take it all back.” I wiped at my tears, blinked through the haze clouding my sight.

  “What?” he snapped, backing up onto his knees, away from me.

  I stifled a sob, looked down at his unconscious father—wrong choice. A slice of fear split through my chest.

  Was he dead?

  “If I hadn’t gone to the memorial service and talked to Molly and Dana—if I hadn’t told them—”