by A. J. Pine
I smooth out my black T-shirt, the one with the faux name tag that says, Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. It’s the perfect complement to my chevron maxi skirt. But maybe I should have gone for long sleeves instead of a long skirt.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, watching me cross my arms over my chest, but all I do is shrug.
With a gentle hand, he grabs one of my wrists, and I unwrap like a budding flower. But I’m not a flower. I’m a twenty-two-year-old girl who, for a week now, has been able to turn a blind eye to before. Not that I haven’t talked about my brother or what happened to people I’ve met.
Obviously, I think, as my eyes dip to glance at my arms. Impossible not to be a conversation starter when I illustrate it for all to see.
“She’s your friend,” Spock says, breaking the silence and pulling me back into the moment. “She just wants you to be okay. This isn’t going to be some big How’s Zoe doing? party. Jess wouldn’t do that to you.”
I laugh at how ridiculous it sounds when he says it out loud, because of course that’s what I’ve been expecting all day.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I’m overthinking this.”
He wraps his arms around my waist and lets his head fall to the exposed skin on my neck. He kisses me there, sending a shiver down my back. Then he kisses my chin, the line of my jaw, my nose, until finally his lips find mine.
“Yes,” he says, voice soft and low. “You’re overthinking. Is this . . .” His head swings around to the other side of my neck, where he repeats the same routine . . . and I shiver again. ”. . . helping to clear your mind?”
I nod, and I think I say something like the word yes, but it might just be a squeak.
“Maybe, when we get home tonight, you can help me clear my mind a little more if you’re up for it?”
He pulls his head back so his eyes meet mine—dark, blue, and intent.
“I’m up for anything you need, Supergirl.”
A grin spreads across my face, and I bite down on my bottom lip trying to suppress it.
“I guess we should go in?”
As soon as the words leave my lips, and definitely before I have a chance to knock, Jess opens the door.
Spock’s eyes go wide while mine narrow at her nervous smile.
“How fucking long were you listening?” I ask, not sure yet if I’m really upset or on the verge of laughter.
She starts to giggle, and I have to fight not to let her infect me.
“Um . . .” She taps her index finger against her lips. “I heard Spock say something about clearing your mind and then you saying it was time to go in.” She crosses her arms. “Zoe, I’ve been dying to get you over here. You think I haven’t been sitting by the window, watching for your car for the past fifteen minutes while I let my talented chef do all the work?”
“It’s true!” someone yells from within, Adam. “But it’s been more like twenty minutes.”
Jess shrugs. “What can I say? I’m happy you’re here. If I try dropping in unannounced again, Adam’s liable to spend his first paycheck before he earns it—on tattoo sleeves.”
I force out a laugh even though my skin grows hot.
“Mmmm,” I hum, changing the subject from tattoos to food. Whatever Adam was doing in the kitchen, he was doing it right.
“I know,” she whisper-shouts as Spock and I both finally step foot inside the door, Jess closing it behind us. “He’s been looking for something to fill the time that basketball used to take, and cooking kind of stuck. This is the guy who ordered Chinese twice as much as we did, and he’s freaking Bobby Flay now.”
She laughs, and I finally give in, laughing along with her.
“Here,” I say, pulling the seven-ounce Hershey’s Kiss from my shoulder bag. “My grandma said you should always bring something sweet to someone when you first see their new home—something about making sweet memories.”
I thrust it at her, and her eyes light up. When she hugs me, the square box still in her hand, she squeezes tight, and I realize how much I’ve missed her since we left school.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask when we both step out of the hug.
She bounces with excitement, her brown locks bouncing along with her. Jess wears a simple blue sundress and flip-flops, but everything about her seems to sparkle. Even when I didn’t know her like I do now, I saw her sadness, the weight she carried without letting anyone in. Losing her ability to have children at the age of twenty was something she thought she had to shoulder alone. Looking at her now, it’s hard to believe I’m seeing the same person—healthy, realizing her worth, a guy in the kitchen who always saw that worth even when she didn’t. I can’t help it when my insides twist, ever so slightly, with the prickle of envy.
I want the lightness, the happiness, the part of my life where I’m past the tough stuff. I’ve never thought much about time travel, but right now I’d be all for a little trip to the near future—my future, the place where I’ve made it through however long now might be.
I shake my head, letting the thought dissolve since just thinking about time travel gives me a headache.
Jess leads us through a small living room to the kitchen, where Adam stands at the stove stirring a pan of penne noodles in a sizzle of red sauce.
“Penne arrabiata,” he says, holding up the wooden spoon for Jess to pluck off a steaming noodle. “Might be a little hot and spicy for summer, but it’s Jess’s favorite, and she swore you loved spicy too.”
He looks at me, and my eyes drop to the pan and back up to him, my brows arched and pleading.
He dips the spoon back into the pan, then lifts it to offer me a noodle. I grab it and pop it into my mouth, my tongue first burning from the temperature of the food then from the spiciness of the sauce.
“Perfect,” I say, just as Jess pulls a pitcher out from the fridge—a tall glass pitcher filled with a sparkling pink liquid.
“Who’s up for a Shirley Temple?” she asks.
And just like that, it’s before. I don’t have to dress up like a superhero. I don’t crave the sting of the needle against my skin. I don’t need anything to cover up how I feel now. Jess gets it. She doesn’t ask me any questions. Instead, she acts like this is something we always do, have grown-up dinner parties at each other’s houses and drink Shirley Temples. I don’t have to be anyone other than myself—just the version of me who existed before I had a reason for all the rest.
“By the way,” Adam says over his shoulder. “Nice ink, Adler.”
I smile and watch as Adam and Spock fall into easy conversation, and Jess pours us each a glass of pink. Then we head outside where Jess and Adam’s place opens into a small backyard—one, she tells me, that she shares with the rest of the tenants.
“We haven’t really met anyone yet, having just moved in, but it’s quiet out here tonight.”
We sit at a picnic table that could hold eight people, another perk of the shared backyard. There’s really only room on the patio for the table. Beyond that is a small, rectangular patch of grass, all of it enclosed by a chain-link fence.
The guys meet us outside with the food, and it’s perfect—good friends, good food, and Spock and I doing this normal boyfriend and girlfriend thing, something I’m still getting used to.
“So you cook now, Carson?” I ask, as he sets the bowl of pasta on the table.
He leans down and wraps his arms around Jess’s midsection, kissing her on the neck.
“Yeah,” he says, sliding onto the bench next to her as Spock does the same next to me. “Jess has a lot of prep work to do this summer before her program starts, and I’m still on the job hunt, so . . . I don’t know. We have to eat.”
Jess interrupts him. “And I’m shit in the kitchen unless it’s coffee.”
I laugh. “I know,” I say. “I lived with you for a year. But you’re fantastic at picking up takeout, so that made up for it.”
Jess dishes out the pasta, and Adam passes around
a side of garlic sautéed green beans.
“Wow,” I start, after tasting the main dish and the side. “You’re fucking good, Sexy Vampire.”
He beams, doesn’t even flinch at me busting out the nickname Jess and I gave him after we met and got him hooked on The Vampire Diaries. It’s weird to reconcile this guy with the one I met last fall—one who everyone on campus knew and recognized—Adam Carson, number eighteen, point guard. Dark hair and chiseled jaw, he was, and still is, a minor celebrity in college basketball. But we didn’t know him. Now here he is, cooking us dinner and moving across the state line for Jess.
“I know,” Adam says, and there’s the cocky and self-assured guy who watched The Vampire Diaries with us without thinking twice about it. “Which one of you is the cook in the relationship?” he asks, looking at me and Spock.
Jess swats him on the shoulder. “Hey, they just . . . you know . . . started things. I doubt they’re cooking yet.”
My skin burns as I feel Spock looking at me in my peripheral vision.
“It’s okay,” he says, and my shoulders relax when I hear the smile in his voice. When I let myself angle my head toward him, his eyes are still on me as he speaks. “We all dabble a bit in the kitchen, I guess. I suppose my specialty is breakfast.”
“I’m so happy for you guys,” Jess says. Then she looks at Adam. “I’m just—happy.”
She beams, and it’s contagious. She’s like a kid about to open the first gift at her birthday party, and while it’s so good to see her this happy after what she went through, I feel like the tables have turned. Jess has her shit together. Jess has her life on track. And I sit here, wondering when all the pieces of mine will click back into place.
“I made dessert,” Jess says, and hops up from the table. Adam clears the dishes and follows her back into the apartment.
Then Spock kisses me, right there at the table. Every time his lips touch mine, something broken inside me mends. Slowly, one tiny fracture at a time, he puts me back together. Maybe by summer’s end I’ll be strong enough to be whole again, to give him everything he deserves from me.
* * *
“I know the fall’s going to be crazy,” Jess says as she and Adam walk us to our car. “But can we try to make this a regular thing? Once a month, maybe? Then we’ll find out which one of you is the cook. I know Mr. Nolan here makes a mean scrambled egg, but I’m not sure what else is in his repertoire.”
I’m glad for the cloak of darkness, so none of them see my cheeks redden at Jess’s throwback to the morning she met Spock. In our kitchen cooking me eggs—in his Vulcan ears—it’s a wonder I didn’t fall for him that minute. Then again, I probably did.
Tonight was good. Really good. But when I think about Spock in our college apartment last fall and then see him here with me now, I can’t help wondering if things would have still ended up this way if I hadn’t lost my brother. I tuck away the thought that keeps threatening to ruin this pocket of happiness I’ve found. I tell myself Spock would still be here even if I hadn’t lost Wyatt. Because the alternative—that I’m finding happiness only at the cost of my brother’s life—is too much for me to bear.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “He makes good eggs.”
Her brows knit together, and I don’t answer the unasked question because I don’t want to lie. I put on a good act—the right one for the occasion. But Jess did too. Even after Adam’s comment, she never once asked about my tattoos, not a compliment or any inquiry into what they mean. Maybe it’s that obvious, or maybe she knows we need to pretend for a little while longer.
“Call me tomorrow?” she asks, wrapping me in a hug. “Just to check in.”
“I’ll text you,” I tell her, pulling out of the hug before she’s done squeezing.
She nods, but the pretense remains. No questions.
“Dinner was great,” I tell Adam, and he wraps an arm over Jess’s shoulder.
“Glad you guys could come.” He extends a hand to Spock. “Nolan,” he says, but then Adam looks at me. “I can call him by his last name, right? Because I can’t do the Spock thing, feels too yours.”
This gets a small laugh from me, an indication that any fears I had about tonight were hopefully unfounded.
“It’s fine,” I say, and Adam continues.
“Congratulations on the job, man.” The two guys shake hands. “Congrats to both of you,” he adds, looking at me. “Jess and I are glad to have you two nearby.”
“Me too,” Spock says. And he opens the passenger-side door of my car, offering to let me relax instead of drive home.
“This way we don’t have to swap drivers if we don’t find a good spot,” he teases, knowing my parallel parking skills are nonexistent, and I appreciate the gesture. I’m tired all of a sudden, and I don’t want to think about parallel parking, let alone any of the other warring thoughts taking up residence in my mind.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I say. And I hop in and buckle my seat belt. Spock makes his way to the driver’s side and joins me.
Somehow he knows I need to ride in silence. So we do. Windows open with nothing but the sound of the city at night—music from other vehicles, shouting from bar hoppers walking the streets—filling the space between us. That and those what-if thoughts burrowing deep, deeper than Spock’s smile. Because no matter how good the good is—and it’s nothing short of the best with him—guilt wins every time.
Chapter Twenty-one
First text: They have a case.
Second text: Dad just said the builders left some sort of ladder at the site.
Third text: If this turns into a trial, we’ll have to sit in a courtroom and listen to Wyatt die
all over again.
Fourth text: Say something, Z. I’m starting to go crazy here on my own.
I read the texts before noting the time on my phone. Five thirty-two a.m. What the hell, Zach? And how has Spock slept through my phone buzzing against the wooden nightstand three times plus three extra for reminders?
I slide out of bed and throw on a T-shirt and underwear before sneaking out to the living room. I curl up on the couch and throw the blanket over my legs. Something tells me I’m going to need the added snuggly comfort for this call.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Did I wake you?” he asks, but I can tell by his tone he doesn’t give a shit if he did.
So I don’t sugarcoat. “Yes, you woke me. It’s half past five on a Sunday, Zach. Sunday’s not even awake yet.”
He lets out a small laugh. “I do miss your sarcasm,” he says.
I sigh. “Flattery doesn’t give me back the sleep I’m missing.” I don’t tell him my body would have woken me in the next twenty-eight minutes anyway. I need all the minutes I can get. “But I miss you too,” I admit. Because I do miss my brother, the one I left behind to deal with the post-Wyatt fallout.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. “I’ve been up all fucking night since Dad told me the lawsuit could happen as soon as next month. The court is willing to speed things up so it doesn’t hold up the completion of the structure for too long.”
The idea that ignorance is bliss is mostly true. I’ve been guilting myself out of happiness well enough on my own. I don’t need reminders from home.
“Why haven’t Mom or Dad said anything to me?” I ask.
“I told them I’d handle it.”
“You mean handle me, right? That’s what everyone seems to be doing,” I say. “Why should you be any different?”
Zach lets out a long breath before continuing. “You’re there, Zoe. And we’re here. I know it’s less than three hours of pavement between us, but Mom and Dad know how important this summer is to you. I know how important it is. But shit, Z. Don’t act like the victim when I’ve been trying to keep you in the loop. You’ve been ignoring me all fucking week. Dad thought the trial wouldn’t happen until early fall, fast by any standards, but in a small town, a teen’s death gets high priority. Things are moving
faster, with or without your help.”
He’s right. I’ve been avoiding him, worrying only about myself. But he’s been there dealing with all of this on his own.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I haven’t been there for you, Zach. I’m so sorry.”
He sighs, and in that sound I hear the burden I’ve left him with. I’ve been so concerned with escaping, I hadn’t realized what I left behind.
“I’ll be okay,” he says.
Future tense. He doesn’t lie and tell me he’s okay now. He doesn’t try to make me believe something I know isn’t true. And as much as I love this about him, it breaks my heart to hear what I’ve been ignoring since I got here—his pain.
“The trial information? This is something you’d want to know, right?” he asks.
“Yes.” I close my eyes and silently count down from five. “Yes, it is.”
Not that I can imagine any of us rehashing Wyatt’s death in a courtroom. I think about my mom, putting this case together. How can she relive it over it and over again? That’s what she’s doing, isn’t it?
“Dad’s trying to talk her out of it, but you know Mom. She needs something to focus on, and in one way or another, her focus is going to be on Wyatt. It makes sense and it doesn’t. Because what are you supposed to do, have people on guard to make sure stupid, reckless kids don’t fucking jump off the top of a building with a parachute that doesn’t open?”
Zach’s voice is hoarse with anger and grief. I know him. He just wants to close the book on this chapter and move on. But that kind of coping doesn’t work for my mom. She won’t be able to let go of this, and once lawyers are involved, they’re going to check into everyone’s background, into what everyone in that group was doing that night. And they’ll know. Everyone will know that Wyatt called me, that I knew what he was going to do, and I didn’t stop him. I trusted that “stupid, reckless kid” because that’s not who he was. Not to me. Wyatt was full of life, and he would try anything. But he was careful too, never pushed things too far.
“You don’t believe that, do you, about Wyatt?”