by Ginger Scott
“You’re different, Andrew,” she says. I laugh her answer off, looking up at the sky, knowing she’d say something like that. I’m different. No shit, I’m different. You would be too.
“I…” she continues, stopping to sniffle once. I fold my arms and tilt my head to the side to watch her. I look at her with contempt, but I enjoy the view—of her struggling. I might as well enjoy the show.
“I used to just not know where you went…”
My brow pinches as she pauses to take a slow breath to steady herself. Where I went? She pulls my jacket from her body, folding it in half and handing it back to me. I look down at it, no intention of taking it from her. She’s being ridiculous. It’s cold outside, and her body is shaking.
“Just keep the jacket, Emma,” I protest. I’m not loud now.
“No. I don’t want it,” she says, her eyes meeting mine and leveling me with her temporary strength as she drops the coat at my feet. She swallows hard, as if this hurts. “You asked me who you are, Andrew. But I think maybe I never really knew. Whoever I met when I was a kid, that boy…he’s gone. I don’t know where he went. And I think maybe he never existed.”
I look down at my jacket, then back up to Emma, her arms hugging her body, her long hair wild in the night wind. She’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that’s thin enough the wind forces it against her skin, showing every curve of her body. My eyes scan lower to her jeans and the Converse on her feet, so much of her still that girl, still trapped in the past.
“Why did you come here? Was it just to tell me some poetic shit that I already know?” I ask.
Her eyes soften into pity as she begins to take a step back in the direction of her apartment. It’s late, and freezing, and I’m pretty sure she followed me here by foot. I shouldn’t let her walk home alone. But then again, she shouldn’t have come here in the first place, so kind of her fault.
“I hope you really like Lindsey…” she says. My mouth flinches because I don’t want to accept her statement. I don’t want to deal with her statement.
I bend down and grab my jacket, slinging it over one shoulder as I salute her with my other hand.
“Have a safe walk home, Emma. Maybe next time you drop by, you’ll start being honest with yourself,” I say over my shoulder, as angry with her as I was before her impromptu visit, but maybe now for other reasons.
“I won’t be back,” she says. “In fact, I plan on never seeing you again.” She turns and walks away with purpose, back to where she came from, her stride fast, confident, and maybe…free.
“Fuck!” I yell when I’m sure she can no longer hear me. I tug on the sleeve of the jacket in my hands, ripping a seam in the middle.
When I come inside, Trent is just where I left him, but I’m no longer in the mood to deal with his psycho-babble-shit, so I throw my jacket onto the coffee table and walk right by him into my room, slamming the door behind me.
“This is one of those bad ideas, Harper,” he says through my door a few seconds later. “We all have them, but you went ahead and put it into action. Just…stop now.”
“Shut the fuck up, Trenton. I don’t need you to tell me things I already know,” I say, pulling my pillow up over my face and ears. It won’t matter; I can’t drown out the voice in my head. Turns out, I can’t drown out Trent, either.
“I kinda think you do, Harp. Otherwise you wouldn’t make such shitty decisions,” he says.
I open my mouth to swear at him again, but I decide against it, sighing instead. I smack my hand on the base of the lamp next to my bed, turning out my light, then I flip to my side to plug my phone into it’s charger—setting my alarm to make sure I’m up in time to drive to Woodstock and endure more criticism and advice from my family.
I used to just not know where you went.
It’s that one thing she said that drums in my head when I close my eyes. It was in there, with all of those other things she said. But it’s that one thing that hit my ears as if she were assaulting me with her words. That one phrase, it felt important, and I was too angry to stop and acknowledge it, to question it further.
One question, really.
Don’t you know, Emma? Don’t you know where I went?
Chapter 11
Emma Burke, Age 16
“I’m scared,” I say under the comfort of my mom’s hand on my forehead. I won’t admit this in front of my dad. As strong as he is, I’m his weakness. My mom—she’s the one who can handle life’s imperfect parts, but my dad, he doesn’t like to know I have nightmares or misgivings or regrets.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she says, her smile soft. “But…” she scoots in closer to me on the bed, moving the long tubes and cords out of our way, “it’s also okay to be hopeful. And excited. And driven, or curious, or the millions of other things you get to feel now.”
Her eyes are teary, but I know it’s not because she’s scared. She’s happy. We’ve all waited for this day for so long. I’m getting a new heart. In an hour, I will be taken through those doors I’ve envisioned in my head, put to sleep, cut open—and a miracle will happen.
I will be a miracle.
A few nurses come in to take vitals and check on me. My mom steps out of the way, but she keeps her hand on mine as they work around us. I’m glad. The moment she lets go, I know the trembling will start.
I’m scared. But I’m hopeful too.
I’ll be able to do so many things—things I always dreamt of. I’ll be able to skate again. Maybe…maybe I’ll find Andrew?
“Hey, Mom?” I tug on her hand, and she leans down to give me attention while the nurses finish their prep work.
“Have you heard from Andrew’s mom yet? Dad said he found her number and left her a message. Have you…did he…or did they ever call back?”
It’s been six weeks since Andrew was taken away in the back of a squad car. The officers that drove me home after the accident told my parents very little. But they said enough. Andrew was taken in for possession and driving under the influence. None of what they said made sense with the Andrew I knew—or the Andrew I was with all night. He wasn’t acting weird, and I didn’t smell any alcohol or see any drugs or smell marijuana. But maybe you can’t see those things?
I guess he couldn’t see my problems either. My heart was broken, but in Andrew’s mind, it pumped blood and beat just as his own.
I waited to hear from him. I waited for nearly a week, figuring he was probably in trouble for the accident and for the possession charge. From what I could figure out online, he likely got some community service. And he probably lost his license until he’s eighteen. He’s a minor, so I can’t find his court-hearing record online. But he said he would be okay, and he knew what he was doing. He promised, and that’s the only reason I let him do what he did.
Every night, I expected to hear him below my window. I’d sit there and look out at the long roadway leading up to my house, waiting to see him. Maybe he’d walk, or maybe he’d drive even though he wasn’t supposed to.
He never came.
“Mom?” She’s paying attention to a conversation with a group of nurses, but shakes her head and looks back at me.
“Sorry, I was trying to see when they were taking you,” she smiles.
“Andrew?” I remind her.
Her smile stays in place, but even though her mouth doesn’t move, the meaning of her smile—it changes.
“Did Dad talk to him? Is he okay?” I try to sit up, but my mom holds my arm and shakes her head and chuckles at me.
“Honey, no, nothing like that,” she says. I liked it better when I was excited, when I thought my dad saw Andrew. “He heard from his mom. And he’s going to live somewhere else for a while. With a relative, I think. He has some things he needs to work through. Drugs…Em, whatever he has going on, it’s serious.”
I swallow and watch her face for a clue that she has more to say. She brushes a few pieces of my hair back and straightens my eyebrow by running her finger along it—a d
oting thing she’s done since I was a kid. And after a few seconds, I realize that’s all the information she has.
Andrew left. No goodbye or letter or stone at my window. Just some secondhand hint that he has a drug problem and “things to work through,” and I just can’t quite buy the full story. There’s something missing, something I’m not being told.
But if Andrew really wanted me to know, he’d tell me.
“Well hello, Emma,” Dr. Wheaton says, practically glowing like an angel as she passes through my room door. She’s in scrubs; I like this look even more than the white coat she wears normally or the business suits she has for our monthly meetings at her office in the city. Everything else goes silent the moment she arrives. The chaos stops—no more Andrew, or machines beeping, and the sound of privacy curtain rings dragging open and bed guardrails flipping up. It’s all gone. All I see is Dr. Miranda Wheaton’s smile, the same one that made me a promise six months ago that this day would come.
It’s here.
My heart—it’s here.
Chapter 12
Andrew
The potatoes are good. If nothing else, my mother’s garlic mashed potatoes are so goddamned good, I’ve been able to drown myself in helping after helping, which has somehow kept much of the conversation off me.
Not entirely—just mostly. There was that brief moment when I came in and Mom was finishing up in the kitchen where she went through the list of things I need to pay for this month; the bill for spring tuition is due, and my insurance is apparently going up…again. Not that I ever get to drive. My car has been sitting in the apartment storage garage since the accident, the damage to the wheel well just enough to throw the alignment to shit. It’s fixable, but just like everything else in my life, it costs money.
“I hate you; I hope you know,” Kensi whispers in my ear, leaning into me while my mom, Dwayne and Owen talk about Germany more. I stop eating, my fork stuck in my mouth as I turn my head sideways and look at her, taken off guard by those words.
“Wha?” I say, mouth stuffed full like a chipmunk.
Her serious face breaks slowly into a smile.
“If I ate like you did, my ass would be so fat. It’s not fair, and I hate you for it,” she says.
“Oh,” I grin, laughing with my full mouth. I swallow my last bite, stand, and pick up my plate and hers to take them to the kitchen. She follows me, and I hear Owen’s steps coming behind her. I’m too full to eat any more, so I guess I should take his last lecture before he leaves the country. I ready myself for a litany of reminders not to fuck up, be good to Mom, and never trust House, but the lecture doesn’t come. Instead, he leans silent on the counter opposite me as I rinse the dishes and slip them into the dishwasher.
I pick up the towel, sensing he’s still staring at me, and finally give in. “What is it?” I sigh.
He chuckles, his arms crossed over his chest, finally nodding his head to follow him outside. I narrow my eyes, but toss the towel on the counter behind me and move toward the door, pausing for Owen to slip on his jacket. Kensi follows us both out the door, and I notice she’s shivering by the time we step down the stairs and begin to head toward the parking lot. Today’s the coldest it’s been this fall.
“Here,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt from over my head and tossing it to her.
“Thanks,” she smiles, putting it on without hesitating. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep warm in just my black T-shirt.
“Why do you always have to make me look like a dick in front of my girlfriend?” Owen says, pulling his jacket off and handing it to Kensi. She laughs and shrugs it away.
“I don’t need it now. I’m good in Andrew’s sweatshirt,” she teases.
“Seriously? He’s all skinny and shit. My jacket’s warmer.” I think he might actually have hurt feelings over this. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking, and I think…shit…I think he might be pissed. I look at Kensi, and we both purse our lips, trying to remain composed. It doesn’t last long as I practically spit out the laugh I’m holding in.
“You’re such a pussy, O. I haven’t been skinny in four years. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass without working up a sweat now—so don’t distract from the fact that I’m a bigger gentleman to your girlfriend with some false illusion that I’m still just a kid. I haven’t been a kid for a long time now. Maybe you’re just an insensitive dick who needs to pay more attention to her,” I say. My words somehow fell into bitterness. I’m not sure how or why, but it’s too late now. Nobody quite knows how to respond, either. We’re all standing in the parking lot caught in the cone-of-awkward-silence I just plopped on top of us.
Owen looks down at his jacket in his hand, then glances sideways to Kensi, who shrugs at him. He lets out a breath of a laugh, then looks back up to me, pointing at me while he puts his jacket back on.
“You are going to take that shit back in about fifteen seconds,” he says, his mouth in a hard line.
I shake my head and whisper, “Whatever.” It’s easier than apologizing.
Owen walks to my mom and Dwayne’s storage garage and punches in the code, and I step forward to stand next to Kensi while the door lifts. I feel better standing next to her, especially when I’ve done something wrong. And I did—do something wrong. My brother didn’t deserve any of that. I’m just in a mood; one I can’t shake. That’s not an excuse to shit on him, though.
“Insensitive dick, huh?” he says, tossing a key at me as he gestures toward my car with his other hand. I let my eyes move from his to the keys in my hand, and it clicks with me instantly. I practically trip over myself as I step to the driver’s side front tire—to the side of the car, the bumper, the front door, the paint—it’s perfect.
“Shit, O!” I run my fingers along the side of the car as I kneel down. “Turns out I’m the insensitive dick. When…how? This must have cost a fortune!”
“It wasn’t cheap,” Owen says. Kensi moves to stand behind me, putting her hand on my shoulder as I stay crouched down, looking at my reflection in the black sheen of the paint. It looks better than it did before Emma and I wrecked it.
Before Emma wrecked it.
I force that thought away, instead wanting to focus on the good things happening right now. I look up at Kensi, and she nudges her head sideways toward my brother, raising her eyebrows. That selfless fucker did this for me.
Damn.
I stand slowly, leaving my gaze on what is probably my most prized possession for a little longer before turning my focus to my brother. Owen simply smiles, raising his shoulders, his hands never leaving the pockets of his jacket while he owns his good deed.
“O, I…I’m sorry,” I say. There’s quiet between us for a few long seconds, and I let it take us over so I can stand still for once in my life and appreciate what I have—appreciate my brother.
“It’s no sweat. You deserve something nice; I’m still proud of you,” he says. “Just as proud as I’ve always been. Maybe…maybe a little more, even.”
I pinch my brow and gaze down at the keys, my keys, in my hand. I haven’t held these keys with an intention of using them in years. Tonight, I’m driving home on my own. No cab for me.
“Why a little more?” I ask, curious how anyone could be proud of me lately.
“Because when shit got hard, you found another gear. It isn’t easy,” he says, his eyes zeroing in on mine. Owen and I never really talk about James. In fact, we never really have talked about our late brother—about what happened, about James’s addiction and suicide. But we don’t have to say words—the scar is there for both of us, different but the same, and we can see it in each other’s eyes. James was hurting, in his own way, and Owen and I are hell bent on never letting each other feel that helpless. We lost James, and the loss is going to stop there.
I move to Owen and reach for his hand, gripping it when he puts his palm out for me to shake. When our hands meet, I move closer to hug him firmly, feeling the tightness I’ve been carrying around in
my chest release just a little, simply from holding my brother close.
“Thanks, O. So much,” I say over his shoulder, my voice hoarse. His hand on my back brings me peace. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“Me too, bro. Me, too,” he says, patting me hard on the back a few times before we both let go for good.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say, looking back to my keys again, still a little stunned that my car, my baby, is back and running and beautiful again. Owen starts to chuckle.
“I don’t want you to pay me back, but there’s one thing you can do,” he says, pulling Kensi into his side, hugging her and moving his hand up and down her still-cold arms. I shrug at him with a questioning look. “You can quit hitting on my girlfriend with your oh, I’m a gentleman, here take my shirt and…oh…did you see my abs? move.”
I smirk as he mocks me, then start to laugh hard when the words he just said finally hit me.
“Dude…my abs? Really? Jealous much?” I look to Kensi, who’s laughing too. Owen’s eyebrows are raised, but he’s not laughing like we are—so we both try our best to stop. “Got it. Okay. No more abs or winter-wear for Kensi. Done. Kens?”
She looks at me.
“You’re gonna need to start bringing your own jacket to things and opening your own car doors and junk, ’cuz…well…you know he’s not going to do any of it,” I say, laughing halfway through as I needle my brother for the last time until he comes back from Europe in a year. He steps forward and pushes me off balance, but his right cheek rises with his grin.
* * *
Today was the first in a long time that everything in me felt right. It was certainly the first in many trips home that I returned to my apartment without feeling like a failure. Mom was easy on me—minus the few reminders about financial responsibilities—and Dwayne was…Dwayne. He’s always neutral, which I suppose I can’t blame him for. He has to be on our mom’s side, but Owen and I make difficult enemies. He really can’t win.