Be My Downfall

by Lyla Payne

  I definitely didn’t want to think about how my experience with Trent made it easier to understand Kennedy—not the reason she’d fallen onto this path, but the reason it was incredibly stupid of me to even entertain the idea that I could get her off of it. “It’s nothing. Don’t change the subject.”

  Her gaze burned the side of my face, but she gave up after a moment and sighed. “I’m cheating. That’s how I have a 4.0.”

  Her admission distracted me from the surprise flood of Trent memories. “What?”

  “Not like you’re thinking. I just mean I’m only taking classes I don’t have to do anything for but take exams.”

  “How do you ace the exams though? If you don’t go to class or do the reading or assignments?” I worked my ass off for my straight As.

  “I’m taking three math classes, intro French, and intro Italian. I’ve got some like, autistic-level math skills and I’m fluent in fourteen languages.”

  “First of all, I’m pretty sure that’s not politically correct. Second, what are you going to do next year? Whitman’s a liberal arts school—they’re going to make you take English and history and whatever else.”

  “I don’t know. My parents’ trust fund is paying for college and has no stipulations about G.P.A. I guess I’ll stay until Whitman kicks me out.”

  We pulled up to the freshman dorms before I could think of an appropriate response that didn’t sound like a monologue from a Lifetime movie about staying in school. The Jeep idled as I tried to figure out how to ease out of the situation. I liked Kennedy. I did. But if my mini-freakout on the way here proved anything, it was that I couldn’t handle being around her.

  Not that she wanted to be around me.

  “Thanks for the fuck, Wright.”

  It could have been weird, but she shot me a sly grin that made it seem normal. Total Kennedy Gilbert move. My own lips curled up in an immediate response.

  “Well, I’d believe you if you could remember it.”

  “And, I have good news! I’ve decided on your box.”

  “Yeah?”

  The smile slipped from her full lips. Those eyes, blue and green and brown all at once, turned serious. “The ‘way too nice for his own good’ box. I have to tell you, Wright. You’re the only Whitman guy in it at the moment.”

  “Who else am I rooming with, then?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified. But if I were the type of girl to have friends, we could definitely be friends. The way it is, I plan to happily acknowledge your presence on campus. Deal?” She stuck out her hand, a shuttered expression on her face.

  The flicker of pleading in her eyes stabbed me in my rusty heart area. It joined the slight throbbing that had started when she’d admitted she didn’t have any friends. Even so, that same organ knew this was the best thing for both of us.

  Other organs spoke up every time I stared at her mouth for too long, and did more than that when a memory of her naked, sweating skin flitted through my mind. It would fade like every other fun night I’d had during my almost two years at Whitman. Most likely.

  “Deal. I can’t wait to casually wave at you at The Pub.” I bumped her knuckles and we both smiled again, but it wasn’t so bright this time.

  Kennedy grabbed the door and slid out of my Jeep. “Like I would ever go to The Pub. What am I, a Greek automaton?”

  She slammed the door with a better smile and turned around, sprinting up the steps to her dorm and leaving me shaking my head. If I shook it hard enough for long enough, it might clear her right out of it.

  Chapter 8

  “Hey, Toby.”

  The high-pitched voice knocked me out of the script I’d been reading—a new indie flick that centered around a drug cartel in New York. The chairs in Dr. Porter’s waiting room were ridiculously comfortable—I’d fallen asleep out there before, after a later-than-usual night of studying—and his receptionist was eighty years old and deaf, so she wasn’t a distraction.

  I looked up and into Annette Davis’s china blue eyes. I didn’t know her, per se, but we all knew of her since she’d been one of Quinn’s top seeds while the game was still going on. “Hey, Annette. You’re still coming here, huh?”

  She shrugged, tiny spots of red blooming on her cheeks. “Not because of Quinn. Turns out it’s kind of nice having someone listen to you, even if you’re paying them. Plus, I’ve run into more Whitman students in the waiting room than at The Grind.”

  “I know what you mean. We’re stupid, rich college kids. If we didn’t have our angst, what would we have?”

  She laughed and hiked her purse up on her shoulder. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here. Only because the press would splash it everywhere.”

  “I’m not the only one on campus avoiding the press. Whitman has great security.”

  “Okay, well. Adam—I mean Dr. Porter—is ready for you.” She hurried out of the office, but not before the red spots turned into flaming splotches.

  That was weird.

  “Tobias, you can come in now.”

  Dr. Porter’s disembodied voice floated into the waiting room and I shoved my iPad into my messenger bag, climbing to my feet. The thick carpet muted my footsteps as I traded the waiting room for his office, then settled on the soft leather couch. There were multiple degrees and weird paintings on the walls—art and I did not understand one another. The thick drapes and soft lighting lent a concealed, calm feel to the space that leeched the tension from the back of my neck.

  Dr. Porter was young, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, and tall. He had at least three inches on my six-foot-one, favored stubble, and generally put off the kind of hipster vibe that wasn’t terribly prominent at a conservative school like Whitman.

  “How are you doing today, Tobias?”

  His use of my full name brought on a knee-jerk eye roll every single month. No one called me Tobias, not even my mother. My grandmother used to, but she’d died ten years ago and I’d thought the use of my full name had gone with her.

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  The idea of talking about what happened with Kennedy seemed wrong, especially knowing that she saw Dr. Porter, too, but my parents paid him an ass-ton of money to help me deal with the repercussions of Trent’s running away. No matter how I tried to pretend my interaction with Kennedy had nothing to do with that fallout, it had, at the very least, dragged the pain closer to the surface than it had been in months.

  “We passed the anniversary of your brother’s disappearance, right? How did that feel?”

  “I don’t know. I had dinner with my parents in Bern. We didn’t talk about it.”

  “Did you want to talk about it?”

  I hesitated for the briefest of seconds. “Yes. Even though Trent’s not dead, it feels like he is. If we don’t talk about him, it’s…I’m afraid I’ll forget all the good things I want to remember. That I ever had a brother at all.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Well, you know dad’s office is committed to pretending Trent’s off in the Peace Corps somewhere, and it’s like my parents have started to believe it.”

  “I don’t think that’s true, Tobias, but maybe it’s easier for them to think of him happy somewhere, perhaps finding himself, instead of the scary truth of where your brother probably is in reality.”

  The reality was that Trent could very well be dead. He had a HIV diagnosis, a heroin addiction that led him into dark alleys and bathrooms and the homes of the kind of people that would slit your throat and then snort coke off your body. Those were the people he’d chosen over his family. All we could do was hope he’d gotten lucky, so that if one day he decided to get clean and come home, he’d have the option.

  Even though my dad’s publicist would have to work overtime for a week to patch over the right story. She probably wouldn’t mind. Miriam was a beast.

  “What else has been going on?” Dr. Porter changed the subject with his typical abruptness, w
hich was his way of trying to shock loose unexpected honesty. His tactics might have worked better on kids who weren’t forced to take psychology. “How was the rest of your spring break? Have you thought more about dating or making friends like we’ve discussed?”

  My psychologist had pointed out, with little subtlety, that my aversion to getting involved with the guys at the house, or a girl, could be connected to my feelings of betrayal over Trent. I saw his point, but I was content on the fringes at SEA. As far as girls, I’d never met one that made me want to try to get over it, with the possible exception of Emilie. While Kennedy made me feel something, I didn’t need a master’s degree in head shrinking to see the folly of trying to wade into the deep end of the pool with a girl who’d rather drown with me than teach me to swim.

  “Spring break was good. Great skiing.” I sucked in a deep breath and decided to go for it. “I did meet a girl.”

  “Do tell,” he leaned forward, switching from playing the doctor to playing the friend in the blink of an eye.

  I didn’t have real friends because I didn’t want them. Dr. Porter wouldn’t be my first choice, even though he probably knew me better than anyone else at this point.

  “She’s fun and I like her. I knew she had a bit of a party girl rep, but the more time we’ve spent together, the more I think she has a problem. Or several.”

  “What makes you think that?” He asked the question as though he thought Kennedy’s issues might be all in my head.

  “I don’t think many people are more qualified than me to make this call,” I replied, a little irritated.

  “Humor me. I deal with addicts, too. Maybe I can help.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever talked to her sober, but it’s hard to tell. I think she’s fine, but then later she doesn’t remember anything that happened.” I hesitated. “We went home together after a dance and I even put her through some sobriety tests, she seemed good…then in the morning didn’t even remember having sex.”

  “Do you think she honestly doesn’t remember, or did something happen that she didn’t want to discuss, so she acted like she didn’t remember.”

  I thought back to the morning we’d met, to the fear on her face when she’d woken up snuggled up with my hand, the instinctive, oozing panic. Kennedy hadn’t been faking that—I would bet my life on it. But the other morning she’d been calm. Maybe it was that she hadn’t wanted to face her meltdown.

  It made me feel a little bit better, anyway, even if she had lied.

  “It’s possible. She had…I don’t really want to talk about the details of my sex life with you, since that’s not really why we’re here, but it was weird. She’s a mess.”

  “Tobias, you do not need me to tell you these things, but I’m going to say them anyway, so you don’t pretend they didn’t occur to you. First, this is not the kind of girl I would suggest for you to ease into the serious dating scene. I know you struggle with finding women who hold your interest, but this feels like you being attracted to what you know. Second, you can’t save everyone. You can’t save anyone who isn’t willing to save themselves. I worry that if you let yourself get involved with this girl and you end up losing her the way you lost Trent—which is a very, very real possibility, given what you’ve told me—it will end up destroying you, too. And you have to think about your family.”

  Some people might resent the family comment, but it didn’t bother me. My dad had been in politics since before I was born; it was simply my life. I wouldn’t trade it, with the singular exception of getting my brother back. I knew the truth of his words, had told myself the same things over the last several days, ever since I dropped Kennedy off at the dorm. She clearly didn’t want to change, and I couldn’t stand by and watch someone else destroy their life.

  “I know.”

  He glanced down at his watch. “Our time’s about up. I have a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve started a kind of support group at the halfway house over on Harborview. The first meeting is in two weeks, and I’m asking some of my patients to attend as role models and also to beef up attendance.”

  “What’s the support group for?”

  “The kids there are dealing with various issues, so the group is going to focus on moving forward from things in the past that try to disrupt your progress.” He shrugged. “A catchall for death, drugs, divorce, whatever. Will you come?”

  I didn’t really want to go—my plate was plenty full between frat duties, classes, and my own writing. Still, something about it appealed to me. I hadn’t done group therapy since I’d left home for Whitman, and part of me missed the camaraderie. And, if I was being honest with myself, I liked the idea of doing something, however small, to try to help kids who were willing to try.

  “I’ll give it a shot,” I mumbled.

  “Thanks. Here’s the information.”

  He passed me a card, we wrapped the session, and I traded places with another Whitman student waiting in the lobby, looking forward to Dr. Porter’s group. Maybe it would help take my mind off the fact that there was something between Kennedy and I that was going to be hard to pretend to not want. All I could hope was that my brain would continue its four-year dominance over the rest of me.

  *

  It was easier than I expected to avoid Kennedy for the next several weeks—out of sight, out of mind and all that. I didn’t run into her on campus. She didn’t text me, I didn’t text her. Blair went back to ignoring me in accounting, and the only time I thought seriously about contacting Kennedy was after I got an eighty-two percent on my midterm.

  Not thinking about her was another story.

  The fact that I needed to study made me sorry I’d agreed to attend Dr. Porter’s group at the halfway house, but the night arrived and I didn’t want to be a selfish asshole, either. Maybe taking a break from the mind-boggling nonsense of numbers would help them magically make sense when I returned. Not likely.

  The halfway house—Harbor House—sat less than a ten-minute drive from Whitman. Like many college campuses, our pristine lawns and stucco buildings designed to mimic stately brick were nestled a few blocks from less desirable parts of town, but Harbor House was clean, if in need of paint and new stain on the faded wooden shutters. The smell of baked goods almost covered the scent of hormones and sweat that floated out to the porch.

  A plump, middle-aged woman with graying brown hair answered the door with a tired smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here for Dr. Porter’s group. He said it started at seven?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. Come inside. He and most of the other attendees are down the hall. First door on your right.”

  The house was quiet as I moved through the foyer. A couple of other ladies and one man bustled in the kitchen, holding a murmured conversation while they arranged cookies and brownies on platters. If these kids were anything like I’d been in high school, promising them food was as good a way to get them here as any.

  I passed a den or living room next, where two girls lounged on either end of a worn brown couch, and a boy stared into the fire with headphones covering his ears.

  Dr. Porter’s group gathered in a circle of metal folding chairs in a tiled space probably used for a dining room. He saw me arrive and smiled, looking relieved I’d come. There were two other guys I recognized from Whitman, and Annette, but the rest of the group consisted of teenagers who looked unhappy at worst and bored at best.

  I took a seat and looked around, trying to guess what had led them to this place. They were probably doing the same to me.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” Dr. Porter looked up, surprise lifting his eyebrows. “Oh, come on in. We haven’t begun yet.”

  I turned to the doorway behind me, my heart speeding into a gallop when I glimpsed the late arrival—Kennedy Gilbert. Her ocean eyes startled a bit when they met mine, but she recovered quickly, giving me a smile and taking the last empty seat. It was directly across from mine, which mean
t paying attention instead of staring at her was going to be an issue.

  Dr. Porter droned about the stumbling blocks that life presented, about how we could earn the coping skills to deal with them, and how there were students in the room who had taken back their lives after horrible events. I focused when I realized we were supposed to go around the room and say something about why we were there.

  I was third, after two boys who both mumbled something about getting into drugs in middle school, then getting arrested for breaking and entering. They’d been out of juvie a few weeks.

  “Um, hi. My name is Toby, and I’m a junior at Whitman University. I’m here because when I was in high school, I lost someone close to me after a long…battle.”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell them more, necessarily. More that it could be a huge security risk if I did. I sounded like a huge pussy crying over losing his grandma to cancer or something, especially after their pretty big problems, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  The kids continued—there were a lot of drug problems that picked at my lingering scabs, but a fair amount of violent death smattered the group. When it was Kennedy’s turn, I held my breath wondering what she would say.

  If she was nervous, she didn’t show it, but her smile didn’t go near her eyes. They were blank, staring toward me but not at me.

  “I’m Kennedy. I’m here because Dr. Porter bribed me.”

  “Kennedy,” he sighed. “Please.”

  I’d never heard him sound so exasperated. I was impressed. Also envious.

  “Fine. My family died in a car accident when I was twelve.”

  Dr. Porter moved on, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t said much of anything. My eyes stayed on her face, which relaxed as soon as the attention shifted back to our shrink. When she caught me staring, the expression in her gaze shifted, slicing straight through my bones. It was like she wanted to speak but had been gagged. As though whatever it was had been buried so deep she didn’t have a clue how to reach it.