“Told them what?” Jake stood, shoulders back, fists clenched.
“I…” Scrambling backward, I fought for a standing position, wishing I could stop crying. Wishing, wishing, wishing.
“You told them about Emily?” His voice was low and laced with pain. “About what I said?”
“I thought…” I couldn’t talk over the sound of my heart beating wildly, my lungs expanding too quickly or not enough—couldn’t be sure. “If you knew what really happened—”
“Did you figure it out?”
I backed up as he advanced toward me—not out of fear—well, maybe a little fear. But I wasn’t afraid of his fists still balled into knots, or his tense and ready shoulders.
“Did you? Did you fucking figure it out?”
I sucked in air, breathed in the metallic tang of blood. My throat closed. Fingers shook. That look in his eyes.
Cold. Empty. Dead. All aimed at me.
“Jake, I—”
“Get out.”
My words became bombs in my mouth, detonating and traveling down my gut, burning like fire. Nerve endings, already on edge, exploded and ignited my soul.
He brushed past me so quickly I felt the air moving. “You were right. This is all your fault.”
Burning.
I hurried after him, surprised I got my shaking legs to move.
“I need to find my mom.” Jake stopped his descent down the hall and said, “You remember where the door is, right?”
His tall, lean frame disappeared.
The vise around my chest tightened, denying precious oxygen to my lungs. My heartbeats sped up, warning of more violent detonations. Tears rushed to my eyes with an intensity I never thought possible.
That’s how I knew my heart was truly breaking.
I nearly fell down the stairs. And that might’ve been perfect—I longed for unconsciousness. Anything to take the pain away. I couldn’t get to the door fast enough. The fresh air outside smelled like leaves and perfect campfire weather, which was the universe’s sick way of kicking me in the gut. Fumbling with my keys, I managed to unlock my car and climb inside.
The sounds coming out of my mouth were amplified in the tiny, enclosed space no matter how I tried to stifle them.
I ruined everything. Now Jake hated me. I did everything wrong when I’d only been trying to do the right thing. Look where it left me.
I guess what they say about no good deeds was true.
Pulling my phone out took a lot of effort. And seeing the screen was proving to be difficult.
911. I needed to call them.
No. No, no, no.
Did I?
Should I be allowed to decide something like that? Interfere more than I already had?
But what if Jake’s father was dying and my phone call saved his life? What if he woke up and turned his rage on Jake again? Or maybe the cops would show up and arrest Jake.
I buried the strangled cry escaping my lips and let my phone slip through my tear-soaked fingers.
Maybe I deserved to burn forever.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jake no longer had an active Facebook or Instagram page. As far as I knew, he might’ve thrown his phone into a lake by now.
Days turned into weeks, and then I stopped counting, tried to focus on classes and the upcoming holiday break. But I was alone. Completely, truly alone.
I’d depended on Kat. We’d been friends for so long I didn’t know anything different. I expected her to always be there. Nothing could come between us.
Except death.
Maybe because I’d cheated death, I deserved this.
Maybe this was my fate: to be a girl with someone’s stolen heart. To be without the two people in the world who meant something to me besides my family. To be the girl who wanted to honor Emily’s name—but only managed to disgrace it.
I didn’t deserve to have her heart.
I never would.
“He’s going to catch you sleeping.”
My head swiveled when someone whispered beside me.
The girl sitting two seats down from me in the psych auditorium stared at me, half smiling, half frowning.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Looked like it to me. Thought I’d save you the embarrassment of getting called out.”
Maybe my head in my hands made it look like I was sleeping, but it was far from accurate. I’d forgotten what normal sleep felt like anyway.
I straightened. “Thanks.”
The lines on her face disappeared, and she gave me a real, worry-free smile. “No problem.”
Friends. Was it moments like this that led to friendships?
The girl whose name I didn’t know turned her attention back to the lecture. I couldn’t focus on anything but what she’d said.
After my class, I returned to my dorm—my new one. I’d gotten a single. There was no way I would share that room with some stranger, not after Kat.
I’d texted Jake my new address, just in case…
That would take a miracle, and I’d pretty much reached the cap on lifetime miracles.
This dorm, the small space I shared with only myself, it emphasized my loneliness. No one to talk to. No one to see. That kind of silence was so incredibly loud.
I stared at my new bedspread—plain light blue—and the undecorated white walls. Nothing about the room was dark, but it was still the most depressing place I’d ever seen.
The heavy silence crushed me, consumed me. That’s when the numbness subsided, and it took all my willpower to not scream.
I snatched the keys from my dresser and fled the room. Maybe I never had to go back.
Thirty minutes went by. I wandered around campus, paying little attention to what I passed, who I passed. I had no one to look for, no one to see.
I was alone in a place full of people.
…
I listened to Professor Otto babble on about depression and sadness, regret and loss and all the things I didn’t need to hear.
It was torture.
While I tried to tune the lecture out, I pulled my phone from my purse and furthered the torture by scrolling through my Tumblr, stopping at the photo of Jake and me. Couldn’t say when I became a masochist.
But there were still other done-its I needed to complete, and I needed to continue without Jake. Maybe doing so would distract me—at least a little. But I was down to slim pickings, and I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to the rest.
Graffiti with hot-pink paint.
I’d never been one to break the rules—at least not obvious laws like graffitiing the town. In hot pink nonetheless. With the way my luck was going, I would get caught. Wind up in jail.
Jake.
I didn’t know what happened to him. Or his father. And since he hadn’t answered my calls or responded to my texts, I’d never know.
My guilt twisted in my gut like a dull knife. But I’d grown used to the pain.
I shoved the phone back in my purse and tried to forget the way Jake had looked at me that night at his parents’.
I’d been so close to everything I wanted, and I’d wrecked it. Thanks to one stupid decision after another. After another. After another.
Sinking down in my seat, I cautiously browsed my phone, looking up the penalties in Colorado for spray-painting the town pink. As it turned out, it was an act of vandalism and none of the consequences sounded worth the risk.
“Do you have the notes from last class?” the girl two seats down from me whispered.
I paused. She was hunkered down in her seat the same way I was. Talking didn’t bother Professor Otto like sleeping did, but it was still frowned upon.
“Um, I’ve got my notes. But I don’t think they’ll help. I haven’t been paying attention the past couple weeks so my notes are…mostly blank pages.” I offered an apologetic smile.
“No worries,” she said, waving her hand. “This material is simple. We probably don’t really need to pay attention to the lectu
res.”
I nodded. That was the only reason I was still passing the class. And if attendance didn’t matter, I would only show up on test days. God, why couldn’t I have gotten a professor who didn’t give a shit about attendance?
The girl—whose name I still didn’t know—went back to scribbling on her pad, a smile still on her face. I stared at her profile for longer than I should have, contemplating what her name might be and if I should ask.
Would I simply find someone and go oh, I like you—I pick you, let’s be friends.
I didn’t know which was worse—considering how to make friends, or plotting out a crime all in the name of a dead girl’s done-it list. They were both weird, I finally decided.
I tapped my foot against the sticky floor, rubbing my pen between my palms slowly, staring out at nothing. Come to think of it, Emily’s entire list was weird—to some degree. Not in a bad way. Because I believed “weird” to be a synonym for “awesome.”
And then I had a thought.
I leaned toward the girl with long dark hair. “I know this seems like an odd question, but do you have any idea where I could find hot-pink spray paint?”
She stifled a giggle, which surprised me. I’d expected her to send me a look like I was speaking in tongues. Guess I had a habit of anticipating the worst.
“I actually bought this spray paint for cars last year—for my sister’s birthday. It’s like car art or something,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she tried to remember the details. “You can get a can for less than ten bucks. I don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for, though.”
I was so stunned by her answer that it took me too long to respond. “Well, maybe.” Did spraying a car count as graffiti?
The girl gave out smiles like they were food and we were the hungry. But I liked it. It made me want to smile back, even though I didn’t feel like smiling.
“Thanks. I think that just might work.”
I tapped on my phone, pulled up Merriam-Webster. Graffiti: pictures or words painted or drawn on a wall, building, etc.
So painting on a car with temporary hot pink would totally count.
Maybe I did have a friend after all. Good old Merriam-Webster.
And then I realized that was the equivalent to having imaginary friends—which hadn’t been socially acceptable since I was seven.
Guilt was a reliable friend, too, sitting in my lungs and firing through my head.
But maybe I needed to friend a person. I leaned to the right again and whispered, “I’m Audra.”
She beamed. “Katie.”
I fought to keep my smile in place even as the blood drained from my face. Of all the names in all the world, her name was fucking Katie.
Images of Kat swam in my head. Emotion clogged my throat, and I longed for the numbness to return.
Staring at my Facebook feed did little to help my sadness. But I kept scrolling, clicking on funny videos, hoping to laugh. I never did. I opened news links and movie trailers. Anything and everything to keep my mind on something easy, something other than the thoughts wreaking havoc on my brain.
Man Cooks, Feeds Ex-girlfriend Her Dog for Dinner.
Oh my God, the world was coming to an end. With news stories like that, how could it not be?
Fourth Graders Suspended after Plotting to Kill Teacher with Hand Sanitizer.
Coming. To. An. End.
I’d had enough of the internet and was about to shut my laptop, maybe open a book, but I paused when I skimmed the next headline.
House Fire Kills Two. Murder-Suicide Suspected.
Underneath the words was an image of a house half eaten away by fire. Charred remains lay along the grass and in the driveway.
I clicked on the link and read the first few lines of the report.
Greg Cavanaugh and his wife, Rachel, were found dead yesterday morning inside their home after a house fire raged late last night. First responders to the scene initially believed the fire to be an accident. Upon further investigation, it has been ruled as an intentional act. Accelerants were detected inside the couple’s bedroom.
I looked back to the picture of the half-eaten house.
The Cavanaughs’ house.
Murder. Suicide.
My heart seized when I considered the possibilities.
No. No. No.
“Oh, Jake.” I said it as if he could hear me.
I wanted to see him, to know if he was okay, to be there for him, the way I always tried. But he didn’t want anything to do with me, and I couldn’t blame him.
Chapter Thirty
I spent the next week reading through every news article about what happened at the Cavanaughs’. No one knew why Mrs. Cavanaugh supposedly put gasoline around the bed while Mr. Cavanaugh slept and then took a handful of prescription pills and set a candle next to the bedroom curtains. But that’s what they suspected happened.
Did the pills knock her out, or was she awake to watch everything burn?
It felt sickeningly real, that these were people who’d stood feet away from me. They were just people, like everyone else.
But were they?
The image of Jake’s dad on the floor haunted me. Now the pictures of their burned house was an image I couldn’t lose. Funny how people burned photographs, like you could burn away the memory. Burn away the hurt. You can’t.
If I had died instead of being saved that day I got a new heart, I wouldn’t have ruined Emily’s memory. Jake could’ve been happy. Kat might’ve still been alive.
If not for me, everything could have been different.
Chapter Thirty-One
My heart pounded, rattling my chest—a sensation I’d grown accustomed to over the past couple months. But this time was different. This time, there was no trigger. No thoughts of Kat, or Jake, or my own grief over the way things had all played out. I’d been staring at Professor Otto’s gray hair, half-listening to his lecture, when it suddenly became harder to breathe.
I sat back, but the movement made me dizzy. Drawing long, slow breaths of air did little to stop the room from spinning. The fluorescent lights of the auditorium—the kind that did nothing good for anyone’s complexion—blurred and dimmed.
I was going to be sick.
Shoving my notebook into my backpack, I dragged in a desperate breath and stood. All one swift movement. Surely the other students would notice my sudden exit. Professor Otto, too. I could hear his voice in my head now: it is rude to leave while someone is talking, hoping to teach you something. But it was either suffer the wrath of my grumpy psych professor or vomit all over the empty seats in front of me.
I hopped over feet as I hurried down the aisle. My stomach churned, and I moved faster. But the faster I moved, the more my heartbeat sped up.
I made it to the bathroom, blissfully empty, just in time. After I’d lost my meager lunch into the toilet, I sat back on my heels and stared at the green-tiled wall.
“Audra?”
Bracing my hand on the metal safety bar, I slowly pulled myself up, too nauseous to feel any embarrassment.
“Are you okay?” the voice asked again.
Who would be out there? I didn’t have any friends left, so there should’ve been no one coming to my aid. Not here, in a public, university restroom. Who else—besides a teacher, maybe—even knew my name?
I unlatched the door and tapped it open.
The fluorescent lights in there were even more awful. The hazy whitish beams burst when I looked at them, like exploding stars. I blinked, and the girl came into focus. Short. Mocha-colored skin. Long, narrow face.
Katie.
“Pink graffiti,” I mumbled. Forming words on my lips shouldn’t have been so hard.
She cocked her head, stepping closer. “Are you okay?” Without warning, she laid her palm against my forehead. “Good God, you’re burning up. You’re sick.”
I nodded my head and pressed one hand against my throbbing chest. “I-I feel…terrible.”
“H
ere, let me help you. Do you need a ride home? To the doctor?” Katie asked, swiveling one arm behind my shoulders.
My knees buckled as we moved forward and the room spun, green tiles blending together with eggshell-colored walls. I lost my balance and pitched toward Katie’s petite frame before the blinding lights evaporated.
“Food poisoning?” I repeated.
“Yes. Given the precarious state of your immune system, it’s not altogether surprising.” Dr. Lane folded one hand in front of the other, her brows pulling inward. “But I’m worried about the intensity and the rapid onset of your symptoms.”
I avoided her concerned gaze, wriggling my toes beneath the lightweight blanket.
“Had you been feeling sick before today? Any nausea, dizziness, or rapid heartbeat?”
All of the above. But I’d blamed each occurrence on emotional stress, not physical health.
She stepped closer to the hospital bed. “We’re going to do a biopsy of your heart, to ensure your body isn’t rejecting it. We’ll adjust your medications as necessary after we get the results.” Her voice remained soft and soothing, the way my mom’s voice usually sounded. “Regardless, you’ll need to start being more cautious. Make sure you take your medication. Continue eating a healthy diet, exercise, and try to keep stress at a minimum.”
I closed my eyes and fought the urge to cry. My diet had always been healthy—aside from the occasional pizza and Twizzlers—and I took my pills religiously. But I buried myself under piles of stress, drank more alcohol than I should’ve, and only went on the occasional hike. In my frenzy to honor the gift I’d been given, I’d neglected aspects of my health and ignored the obvious signs.
A few minutes after Dr. Lane vacated the room, someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Since Mom would’ve bypassed the knocking, I expected a nurse.
But it wasn’t.
Katie stepped into the room as if it were riddled with land mines. “After you passed out, I saw the bracelet around your wrist. Called 911. Once they got you into the ambulance, I decided to follow. To make sure you were okay.”
Swallowing thickly, I pushed myself backward on the bed. “You don’t even know me.”
She smiled. “No. But I’m a nursing major. Couldn’t help myself.”
The Heartbeat Hypothesis Page 22