This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  “Yep, you know that Dave Johnson guy? He had Chris’s phone, but the cops aren’t arresting him. I guess he got a big lawyer.”

  “That sucks.” Michael stares at the pool. He’s quiet for a minute. “But you know, maybe he didn’t do anything. Why would Chris go down there if that’s where he got beat up before?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he was hoping they’d beat him up again and then I’d have to end this break.”

  “That would be pretty screwed up,” he says. “Like, you know the time I got attacked? I never go near that street anymore.”

  He doesn’t understand. I tell him about the stalking and the phone calls and everything. It looks like he’s going to say more, maybe argue with me, even defend Johnson again, but then he glances at me, and maybe he can see I’m getting pissed, so he just pats my arm and says, “Take a break. You need it. Take thirty.”

  Maybe he thinks you jumped and I’m fooling myself, but he’s wrong. Johnson had your phone. Nobody keeps a phone if they’re innocent. That’s a sick fuck kind of thing to do. He did something to you, I just know it. I don’t say another thing to Michael, just stalk off the deck.

  9:40 PM Friday, Michael’s car

  Michael offers to drive me home. Maybe he can see I’m kind of a mess. Maybe he feels bad for defending Dave Johnson. Maybe he wants to make it up to me.

  My dad’s back for graduation and he was going to pick me up when I called him, but I might as well as take the ride. So I say okay.

  When we get in the car, Michael blasts the country music, which is what he listens to when he’s not on the pool deck. The convertible top yawns open. Then he hits the gas. With the top down and the music on, it’s so noisy it’s impossible to talk.

  We fly down the road. “Relax,” Michael yells.

  He looks at me with those blue eyes and smiles, all high cheekbones and sculpted jaw, blond hair tossing around in the wind. He really is like a model. I can’t blame you, I guess, for thinking the wrong thing.

  I lean back against the seat. My eyes flutter shut. The cold wind whips my hair against my face. The heater blasts hot air against my body. You know how much I love the mix of hot and cold things. It feels real good. But I still feel guilty enjoying anything.

  A slow song comes on, a woman’s voice, sad and twangy; I never heard it before, but it’s kind of beautiful. I’m about to ask Michael who it is when an airy whistle comes from the driver’s seat. From Michael. He’s whistling, badly.

  It’s the same whistle.

  My eyes fly open. We’re not near my house. We’re heading out of town.

  “What are you doing?” I say, my voice sharp with panic.

  He stops whistling. Doesn’t say anything. Keeps driving.

  “Michael, where are we going?” My hand grips the armrest.

  “Relax,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

  Relax? I can barely breathe. My chest pinches tightly inside me. “You don’t know how to whistle?” Does he hear the fear in my voice?

  “I’m trying,” he says. “Everyone should know how to whistle. I figure it’s a major defect in a human being to not be able to whistle. You haven’t seen me practicing on deck?”

  I’ve seen him do duck lips. But I couldn’t hear him. I shake my head and wrap my arms around my body. I’m shaking. He doesn’t know that I know.

  “What do want to show me?” I say.

  He glances at me. “It’s okay, Jessie.”

  “What are you going to show me?” Louder now.

  “Relax.” His fingers grip tight on the steering wheel. “I just want you to meet my new guy.”

  “Did you go down by Matheson Trail Sunday night?”

  “That was your bike?”

  I nod. Oh my god.

  “I thought it looked familiar.” He gives me a sharp look. “Jessie, stop freaking out….Like I said, I just want you two to talk.”

  Us two? What is he talking about?

  We’re out by Bear Lake. He turns down a road where all the cabins are. Josh’s cabin is out here on the other side—I remember the time we stopped by to hang out. He’d just come in from water-skiing.

  On this road, a couple cabins have lights on, but most of them are dark. I pull out my phone, expect Michael to rip it out of my hands, but he doesn’t stop me. My hand is shaking. I text Josh: Michael is the whistler, took me to Bear Lake, by cabins

  I push send.

  “Jessie.” Michael shakes his head, pissed, like I’m the one acting crazy here. “We’ve been friends a long time. Don’t you trust me?”

  I think about that, all the things I know about him, his family, things he’s told me while we guarded. But he’s the whistler. “I don’t know,” I say. “You’re taking me out to the middle of nowhere. You freaked me out down by the river the other day. Michael, this isn’t normal.”

  He sighs. “You’re right.”

  He pulls to a stop in front of one of the dark cabins. A figure steps out of the shadows. It’s Dave Johnson.

  10:05 PM Friday, Bear Lake cabins

  Johnson takes slow steps toward me. My heart thumps in my chest. I need to get out and run. I need to hide.

  Why am I here? How do they know each other?

  I look back and forth between the two of them, and suddenly it dawns on me. “You’re with him? You’re fucking with him?”

  Michael nods. “It’s—Jessie, it’s not what you think.”

  “Did you do something to Chris?” I cry.

  “No, no, that’s why I’m bringing you out here. You have to talk to Dave, he’s real bent-up about this.”

  “What?” My whole body shakes with rage. He’s bent-up?

  “Give me a chance to explain,” Johnson says in his overly deep voice. He moves closer, blocking the door, towering over me. I can’t get out.

  I spin toward Michael. “Your boyfriend attacked Chris three weeks ago. And he punched the crap out of a girl half his size. What the fuck? You said you liked jerks, but Michael, he’s not just a jerk. He’s a killer.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “Oh my god,” I rage. “Michael, I saw him. Looking at Chris’s phone. Looking at pictures of Chris. And Chris was down there, running, at the same time he was. You’re telling me this is all a coincidence?”

  “It’s not,” Johnson spits. His blond, buzz-cut head is so close to mine, his saliva lands on my face. “But you gotta stop this bullshit.”

  I look into his killer’s eyes. He has no problem hurting girls. He lunges toward me, his fist clenched.

  I scramble backward. He’s going to kill me. I climb over the open convertible top fabric, jump off and bang my knee hard on the bumper. It hurts like crap. I cry out, grab my knee, and stumble to the ground.

  “Jessie! He’s not going to do anything to you,” Michael says, leaping out of the car.

  Johnson saunters around the convertible. “Calm down. I’m not going to hit a girl.”

  “Really?” I jump up. “What about Tamara?”

  He rubs his hand over the top of his head, looking uncomfortable. His eyes focus on the trees behind the cabin. “That was a mistake. I lost control. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Like you lost control with Chris?” I limp a few steps back. My eyes dart to the woods. Maybe I can make it there. But Johnson is fast.

  “I didn’t lose control with Chris,” he says in his lazy, rich boy drawl. “I meant to teach him a lesson. It should have been me getting recruited. It was my fucking time. He sweet-talked the coach.”

  “Stay away from me.” I hobble backward, away from him.

  Michael runs his hands through that blond hair, like he’s frustrated—with me. “Come on, Jessie, give him a chance. Just listen to him.”

  They both walk toward me. I feel cornered and look back at the woods. Maybe I can run. But first, I need to know the truth. “What happened on Friday night then? Did you ‘lose control’ again?”

  “No.” Johnson shakes his head. “
No, that’s not what happened.”

  But clearly something did. I see it on his face.

  My phone is in my pocket. Maybe I can record this. I can record it and I’ll have proof—if I can get away. I fumble around in my pocket, try to turn it on. “How did you get Chris’s phone then?”

  “I ducked out on my friends to meet up with Michael—it was after Chris dropped you off—but I left my stuff, because I was planning on coming back. They were so drunk they didn’t notice.”

  I remember Michael talking about meeting his new mystery guy. I teased him about putting on cologne. He said his boyfriend liked it. But Johnson was down by the river, with his friends.

  “Your friends know you’re gay?”

  “What do you think?” Johnson lets out a bitter laugh. “They thought I was taking a piss. A long piss. Michael and I were, um, together and then I look up, and Kirk is standing there, with his fucking phone. I thought he was taking pictures of us. So I took off after him. But he threw the phone at me, said to take it. I just wanted to delete the photos. He told me his password and he said to give it to you when I was done with it. Then he ran off.” His eyes are haunted. “I looked on the phone and he hadn’t taken any pictures. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I had no idea why he wanted me to give it to you.”

  “What was the password?”

  “0708.”

  That’s your password. Did he beat it out of you? I look at Michael. “You knew this?”

  “I didn’t know the guy was Chris, I swear—I would’ve told you. My back was to him. I didn’t even see him. Dave just took off.” He sucks in a shaky, scared breath. “He didn’t tell me who it was. He didn’t mention the phone. I had no idea until Sunday. When Dave’s face was plastered all over social media, I called him and he told me everything. I said I’d back him up, but the police already suspected him, so he didn’t want to tell them about the phone.”

  Why would you just give this asshole your phone? “Nice story.”

  “He didn’t do it. I’m telling you, there wasn’t enough time.” His face is solemn. “Seriously, he’s been real broken up about what he did to Chris.” He looks back at Johnson, who’s just staring at me with cold killer eyes. “Tell her.”

  Tell me what? I look back between the two of them, hot with fury.

  Johnson blinks his pale eyelashes. “It was shitty, what I did to your boyfriend. Yeah, he was an arrogant asshole, but I regret it. Especially now.”

  Asshole? He’s the asshole. I’m so angry, I can’t even think of my own safety. I just want to hurt him. I fly at him and shove hard at his brick wall of a chest. He doesn’t move.

  Fury slides over his face.

  Then he shoves me. I stumble backward and fall on the ground, scraping my hands on the gravel. He towers over me. “You don’t hit me.”

  “Holy crap, Dave.” Michael pushes between us and helps me to my feet. Then he shoves his shoulder against him. “Get back,” he grunts.

  Johnson pushes him aside. He’s way bigger than Michael. He jams his finger at me. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Why didn’t you give me the phone if you’re so innocent?”

  “I wasn’t going to give you shit. You know how many news stories there have been because of you? My life is destroyed. Everyone’s saying I’m guilty. The cops have been at my house all week. I’ve been getting hate messages. Because I got in one fight with the guy three weeks ago. You pretty much killed any remaining chances I had to get scouted for anything. No college is going to accept me. I’ve been training my whole life for this. You took that away from me, you fucking trash bitch, and now you say I killed him? When you’re the person who broke up with him? You did this, not me. I didn’t do nothing to that fucking—” And then he says it. He says that word.

  Oh my god. I fly at him and slap his face as hard as I can. My nails rake his cheek.

  Johnson winds his hand into a fist and drives it at my head. It doesn’t hurt, weirdly, not that bad. Not like you’d think. But I can’t hear.

  “Stop!” Michael shoves him away from me. They grapple with each other, look like they’re wrestling. Johnson’s trying to push past him to get to me. Michael shoves him hard. They fall on the ground. Michael is on top of him screaming: “You said you just wanted to talk to her.”

  “Get off of me!” Johnson grunts.

  “We’re done,” Michael pants. “You hear me? We’re done.”

  “Fine. I was done with you anyway.” Johnson jerks away, pulling himself to his feet.

  “Don’t go near her,” Michael says, standing, and blocking him. His chin is bleeding. Weirdly, I can smell his cologne.

  Behind us, a car screeches up. I’m hoping for the cops, but it’s a familiar Toyota. Josh jumps out. “Get the fuck away from her.”

  I dive into his car and lock the door. My whole body is shaking. Josh drops back in and takes off, tires screeching. “Holy shit,” he’s saying. “Holy shit.”

  I look back.

  Michael is getting in his car. Johnson is sitting on the ground.

  We drive off. Michael follows. We leave Johnson there.

  I pull out my phone with fumbling fingers and call the detective. He says he’ll be sending a squad car out to pick up Johnson for assault, but he knows everything I’m telling him and they’re looking at your phone. “I’ll have more news soon, Jessie.”

  “What do you mean?” I breathe. “Did you find his body?”

  “No.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t tell you anything yet. But I will soon.”

  I hang up and turn to Josh. “He says he has news.”

  Josh grips the steering wheel hard and lets out a groan.

  “What?” I say.

  “Um, Jessie.” He takes in a giant gulp of air and lets it out as he speaks: “I have something to tell you.”

  11:25 PM Friday, Josh’s cabin

  I’m sitting in Josh’s cabin on his flowery sofa that sags in the middle. Next to me, the lamp flickers. The crickets outside are making a racket.

  Josh is pacing, his hands twitching by his sides, like he’s had too many of those caffeine drinks. “Jessie, I think he jumped.”

  “He didn’t.” My voice doesn’t sound so certain, though.

  He continues pacing. “I told you about the rig, but I didn’t tell you this…on the side of the road that day, he told me he wanted to die.”

  “What?” I breathe.

  “I laughed at him. I said, you don’t want to die. I punched him in the arm, treated it like some joke. I just wanted him to cheer up. Then, it worked. I mean, he smiled at me. He said I was right, he was fine. And we kept running.

  “The next day, when I was driving to Seattle with my dad, I kept thinking about it, how he looked, what he said. I wish I’d told my dad to turn around. I was worried about him all day. Lamed out on my race.

  “During dinner, I almost told my dad that we had to go back. But then, I got Chris’s call and I listened to the voicemail. He sounded great. So I called him back and even though he didn’t answer, I figured he was fine and I went to sleep. But then his mom called in the night—” His face falls.

  He runs his finger under his eye. “I just knew. Dad drove me back. He kept trying to reassure me that Chris was okay. I didn’t tell him what I knew. I kind of tried to forget about it, you know? I tried to convince myself he was okay.”

  I speak up. “Josh, if he did something to himself, it’s my fault.” I blink, but tears are coming anyway.

  He stops pacing and sits down beside me on his old sofa. “No, Jessie. Even if you had broken up with him, it’s not your fault. On Friday, you guys were waving at each other. He was smiling. It was all good, you know? You couldn’t have guessed.”

  You did seem fine.

  “If you’re going to blame yourself, I have to blame myself, and I’m not going to.” He closes his eyes tight and then opens them, gazing at me with this fierce intensity. “You hear me, Jessie?”

  But he doesn’t know wha
t you said to me.

  If You Ever Left Me

  It was last month. You were running your fingers through my hair. Adele was playing on my stereo; we were gazing into each other’s eyes. It was a cheesy, beautiful moment and then you had to go and ruin it.

  “If you ever left me, I’d kill myself,” you murmured, as if that was a sexy thing to say. Your dimple danced on your cheek.

  I sat up in bed, shocked. “What are you talking about?” I snatched my black T-shirt up from the floor and tugged it over my lacy pink bra, the one you liked, which I wore for you, even though it had zero support.

  “Where are you going?” You sat up on your elbows and the quilt dropped down from your body. Your bicep muscles bulged, your abs tightened.

  “You think that’s a romantic thing to say?”

  You blinked those deep brown eyes with those long lashes that had no business being on a guy. Your face was soft, so easily wounded. “I was just saying it. I didn’t mean it. Come on. Lay down.”

  You acted like I was the one who wrecked the moment.

  I picked up my jeans from the floor and tugged them on. “There’s no such thing as just saying it. What if I want to break up with you one day?”

  “Do you?” Your voice curved up, like a sharp note on a violin.

  “What?”

  “You want to break up?”

  I thought you were suggesting it, but then I realized that you thought I wanted to break up. “No, oh my god, no, I mean, one day. Come on, Chris. We’re seventeen. You’re going to college. I don’t know. What are the chances?”

  “I think we have a chance,” you said, pleading with me. “Please, Jessie. I didn’t mean it. I just, sometimes, I don’t feel right, you know?”

  I paused when you said that. I heard you, but I didn’t want to hear you. I’ve got a mom who doesn’t feel right. I couldn’t face that in you. It was like you’d vomited by my feet. I couldn’t even look at it.

  “I’m not breaking up with you, for god’s sake,” I said. “But when you say shit like that, it’s not cool. It’s blackmail. It makes me feel like I’ve got to be with you no matter what.”