by Tracey Ward
My throat tightens at the memory. My mind won’t let me finish it.
It’s too busy screaming at me that Kyle is holding onto my arm.
I look down where his fingers are wrapped around the bare skin of my bicep. He sees it too, immediately releasing me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.
“No, it’s fine,” I answer in a rush. “I ran into you. It’s not your fault.”
“You’re in a hurry.”
“I’m late.” I hold up my gown. “I’m supposed to be backstage already.”
He steps out of the way to let me by. “You better run.”
I don’t move an inch. I stare up into his eyes and I wonder how we’ve gone this long without talking to each other. I haven’t seen him since the end of the trial when his dad was taken away in handcuffs and his mom was crying on his shoulder. We’ve said about two words to each other since then. Silly, stupid things in passing as we both worked to finish out the school year living inside a fishbowl. Everyone stares at us wherever we go, and we found out quickly that it gets worse if we’re together. Even if we’re not together.
“Are you doing the ceremony?” I ask.
I was convinced he wouldn’t. He’s not a fan of the spotlight anymore. Not in Jackson, at least.
He shakes his head, his eyebrows forming a deep V. He holds up a big envelope. “I just came by to pick up my diploma. Mom is waiting for me at the apartment. We’re gonna go do dinner before the rush hits when this lets out.”
“Smart.”
“Congratulations.”
I smile hesitantly. “You too. Are you . . . did you decide if you’re still going to Villanova?”
“I am,” he confirms briskly. “It’s a done deal. I leave next week. Mom is going with me.” He frowns, swiping his hand back and forth in the air between us like he’s wiping away that last statement. “I’m not gonna live with her or anything. She’s just going to Pennsylvania too. She’ll get an apartment. I’ll live in the dorms. I’m not . . .”
“You’re not living with your mom. I got it.”
“No. But she’s not good alone right now.” He looks down at the envelope in his hands. “She’s not doing great.”
I lick my lips, feeling unsure. “How are you doing?” I ask quietly.
Kyle surprises me when he chuckles. He looks to the side, away from my eyes. “Don’t ask me that. That’s . . . I should be asking you that. And I didn’t. I just started unloading on you about my stuff.” He falls back a step, shaking his head at himself. “I’m such an asshole.”
I follow him. I take that step back, putting my hand on his arm. “No. You’re not.”
“How are you, Grace?” he asks suddenly, his eyes falling intently on mine. “Are you okay?”
I offer him a small smile. It’s my favorite one. I give it to everyone who asks me that question. But while I usually tell them my lie—I’m doing really well—I can’t give Kyle anything but the truth.
“I’m not great,” I admit softly. “I’m scared all the time. I cry constantly. I can’t go near water. I can’t stand the dark. I hate oranges. The smell makes me sick.”
“Oranges?”
“You and your whole family, your house, it always smelled like oranges.”
His face pinches like he’s picked up a sour smell. He looks disgusted. He hates himself for what happened to me. He came to see me in the hospital a week after I went in, his tall body hunched. His face tight with contrition for a crime he didn’t commit. It was awkward and agonizing. He told me everything about Florida. About Karina. He explained that he was only fifteen when they met. They were hot and cold, on and off. He thought he was in love. He was infatuated with her. They had sex for the first time when he was sixteen. She disappeared six months later. Everyone said she ran away, but his dad killed her. He never knew about the baby until now, but he suspected. They didn’t use a condom.
Kyle should have known. That’s what he told me. He blames himself for everything. He should have seen it. He should have warned her how obsessed his parents were with his life. He should have listened to her, talked to her that one last time. He should have asked about the baby instead of dreading the words that would come from her lips. He should have, should have, should have—a million different pains that he puts on himself for his father’s crimes. And he apologized to me for every one of them. Over and over again, but I finally asked him to stop. I couldn’t handle his guilt, my fear, and my parent’s heartache all at once. Something had to give and it was Kyle. He said he was sorry one final time, then he walked away.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters now, lowering his head. He’s having a hard time keeping eye contact with me. His guilt is still a living thing inside him, gnawing at him. Bowing his proud head in front of me. “I thought I saved you and then I just let him go see you and . . .”
The worst moment of my life hangs in the air between us, unspoken. Unending. Kyle can’t get over the fact that his dad did what he did. He can’t stop saying how sorry he is. He feels like he should have been there to save me. Again. But he wasn’t. My dad was there. He jumped Mr. Rixton, slammed him against the wall, and beat him until he cracked his orbital socket.
Kyle was at home eating dinner with his mom.
That fact haunts him—that he wasn’t there. He can’t let it go and that’s all I want to do. I want to move past what happened so I can start fresh with college and the next chapter of my life. I want to turn the page, but Kyle won’t let me. He brings me back to this one every time we talk and I just can’t.
I can’t be near him for more than a minute.
“I’m late,” I tell him in a rush. I pull my hand back from his arm, wrapping it tightly around the bulk of my gown. “I really do have to go. I’ll see you later, Kyle.”
“Goodbye, Grace,” he answers numbly.
I skirt past him quickly. Once I’m free, I run. I dart down the hall with tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, but I never stop to blink them away. I run as they spill over my face, and I wish I could keep going forever. I want out of this building. Out of this town and the state and my mind. I want out of my body into a new one that never knew what it was like to love and be loved by Kyle Rixton.
The memory is too much to bear.
1 year later
chapter thirty-nine
“You’re coming home for my birthday, aren’t you?” Ashley asks almost impatiently.
“I’m going to try,” I assure her, switching my phone to my other ear. “I’m not sure I’ll have the money.”
“Ask Mom and Dad for it.”
“That’s where I was going to get it.” I pour the bright orange cheese packet over my pasta. It explodes in an unnatural cloud of artificial flavor and cancer cells.
“Mom says I can get a dog next year.”
“That’s cool. What kind do you want to get?”
“A corgi. They’re the cutest.”
“Really? I think labs are cuter.”
“They’re not,” she corrects me sternly. “Corgis are.”
“I guess I was wrong. What are you going to name it?”
“Grace.”
“You’re naming your dog after me?” I laugh.
“I miss you,” she replies matter-of-fact. “I think I’ll miss you less if I name the dog after you.”
I pause, feeling my heart swell. “I miss you too, Ash.”
“Then come home for my birthday. Meet Grace.”
“Oh, you’re getting her for your birthday?”
“That’s when I told Mom I want her.”
I take a bite of my steaming pasta. “Well, if you told Mom that’s when it’s happening, that’s when it’s happening.”
“What are you eating?”
“Mac ‘n Cheese.”
“The box kind or the cups?”
“A cup.”
“Gross,” she groans. “The box is the better one.”
“I didn’t know that. Thanks for the pro tip.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah. I have to go. Do you want to talk to Mom?”
“Nope. I talked to her before you, remember?”
“Okay. Bye, Grace.”
I smile affectionately at her clipped tone. “Bye, Ash. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
She hangs up on me. It’s fine. It feels like home and I’m sick suddenly, like my stomach has flipped upside down inside my body. My pasta that already looked dubious is suddenly inedible.
I frown as I pour it down the garbage disposal.
“What are you doing?!” Erin demands anxiously. She rushes into the kitchen to lean over the sink. “Did you toss out perfectly good pasta?”
“I wasn’t feeling it.”
“I was!”
“Sorry.” I offer her the bowl still coated with orange goop. “You want what’s left?”
“No, you monster. But thanks for nothing.”
“You’re welcome.”
She goes to the fridge to inspect its vast, empty plains. “Were you talking to your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“How is she?”
“She’s good. She’s getting a dog and naming it after me.”
Erin laughs, slamming the fridge closed. “Nice. That’s brutal.”
“I think it’s more of a tribute than a replacement.”
“Tell yourself that.”
I check out her clothes; sweat pants and a tank top without a bra. “So, you’re not going back to class today, I’m assuming?”
“Nope. I’m not feeling it. I’m eating some lunch, taking a nap, and regrouping at about seven.”
“Right around the time the new Broken Badges airs?”
She looks at me with innocent curiosity. “I guess it is, yeah. What a coincidence.”
“Amazing,” I laugh. I snag a browning banana off the tree by the toaster. “You’re going to fail Calculus.”
“I know and I don’t care. I’ll never need it in real life.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Erin snorts. “Please. You’d ditch too if it weren’t for the T.A.”
It’s my turn to look innocent. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re banging Mica. That’s what I mean.”
“I’m not banging anybody. We’re just friends.”
“Who make out.”
“We’ve kissed.”
“Ooh, sorry. I was so wrong about you two.”
“It’s nothing serious.” I take a bite of my mushy banana. “I don’t want serious.”
“No, you want your old boyfriend back.” She hops up on the counter to give me her full attention. “What’s his name? Chris?”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle,” she whispers reverently. “That’s it. The superstar.”
“The one and only.”
“Remind me why you’re not with him even though you talk about him pretty much every single day.”
“I do not.”
“Every day,” she insists forcefully.
“If I talk about him every day why don’t you remember his name?”
She smiles. “Because I like hearing you say it. It’s like a sigh.” She takes a deep breath, fluttering her eyelids, breathing, “Kyyyyyle.”
“That is not how I say his name,” I laugh.
“Whatever. What’s the deal there? Have you talked to him since Christmas?”
“We text sometimes.”
“But have you talked to him?” she needles me.
“No,” I relent. “We don’t talk. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I hear his voice, I’ll cave. I’ll go running right back to him and I can’t. Not now. I’m still . . . I guess still sorting myself out. It’s too soon.”
She frowns sympathetically. “Because of what his dad did?”
Erin is the only person in Nevada who knows about that. I only told her because she’s my roommate and I had to. She heard me screaming in my sleep too many times to ignore. I thought I had it under control back in Utah, but once I moved out here and everything was so new, I guess I freaked. I started having the nightmares again. I hate to admit it, but it’s another reason I don’t physically talk to Kyle. He was in Jackson for two days at Christmas staying with Scott and his family, and after we ran into each other, I lost it. I couldn’t sleep for days. Mom got me into therapy out here in Nevada, and since then things have been better. I feel more solid, but also insane. Seeing Kyle again didn’t just trigger the nightmares. It jumpstarted my heart. Suddenly it’s longing for him. Reaching for something I can’t have, and I don’t know if there’s any kind of therapy made for that.
Nothing cures love. Not even time.
“Partially, yeah,” I tell her. “But I also can’t be near him. I’ll lose all sight of myself if I do.”
“Because you want him more than you want a donut right now.”
I groan miserably. “I would kill for a double glaze.”
She smiles. “You want him bad, girl. You’re just embarrassed to admit it because you kicked him to the curb like a sucker.”
“There was no kicking. No curbs. It was mutual and for a good reason.”
Erin rolls her eyes. “Your journey of self-discovery. Yes, I know. Please don’t tell me again. I won’t be able to be your friend anymore. It’s so new agey and lame.”
“It’s not lame. It’s important. I’m recovering.”
“You’ve been recovering for a year, Grace.”
“And what happened was traumatic as hell,” I remind her sternly.
Her face softens. “I know. I’m not arguing that. I’m just saying that you’re doing better. You’re done with the nightmares. You don’t sleep with the lights on anymore. If you’re getting over what happened, why not give your guy another chance? Before it’s too late. Hot piece like him, he won’t wait forever. Someone’s gonna snatch him up.”
I hesitate, feeling suddenly nervous. Kyle with someone else doesn’t make sense to me. It hurts. It aches inside my bones. I feel short of breath just thinking about it. But isn’t that what I am doing with Mica? We’re not dating, not officially, but I’m testing the waters. I’m trying to have a life of my own.
But do I want this life?
I shake my head stubbornly. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re being an idiot.”
“You don’t know. You’ve never met him. He’s not a guy. He’s a planet. He has a gravitational pull. He’s so much it’s scary.” I glance around her to the clock on the microwave. “Crap! I have to go. Fun talk, though. Really uplifting. Thanks for this.”
“It’s what friends are for!” she calls after me.
I hurry to campus, jogging despite the oppressive heat. I’m one of the few people here who loves the hot air that feels like we’re living in a convection oven. It gets into my hair, into my skin and bones until I’m warm as a bun in the oven. Until my fingers stop tingling and aching from the damage done by the ice. I feel like a different girl in Nevada. I’m not the girl who died. I’m not Kyle Rixton’s girlfriend or Makena’s buddy. Ashley’s sister. Craig’s daughter. I’m Grace Murray. I don’t like purple. I love the ocean but I don’t care what’s inside it. I like water skiing better than snow skiing. I hate hummus. I’m allergic to aloe. I don’t love watching basketball. I like football better. I hate baseball. It’s boring. I like playing soccer. I’m great at pool. I suck at darts. I like vodka but I hate beer (sorry, Dad).
When I make it into the freezer cold air of the math building, I realize I’m going to be early. I forgot that I set the clocks forward in the apartment to help Erin make it to class relatively on time. It hasn’t worked. I think she’s onto me and my time turning.
I take my usual seat in the nearly empty lecture hall. It’s at the front, even though instinct told me on the first day that I should stick to the back. I’m not good at math. I don’t want to be called on, but it turns out sitting in the front keeps you off the professor’s radar. He assumes you’v
e got your stuff together enough to be confident making eye contact with him, so he doesn’t bother you. It’s the people trying to hide in the shadows that get the heat.
“Is this seat taken?”
I smile, tilting my head back to look up at Mica. He’s towering over me; lanky and thin as a rail. His hair is golden brown. His eyes a cool blue. He’s handsome in a simple way. An almost forgettable way. If a sketch artist asked me to tell him a distinguishing feature about Mica, I’d say it’s his voice. Not helpful, but true. It’s deep. Like, Morgan Freeman deep and resonant. It’s nice, especially when he’s singing. He’s the lead in a band he put together on campus called Hounds Tooth. They sing mostly covers of nineties rock classics that I don’t recognize or really enjoy.
“I don’t think any of them are taken,” I answer easily.
He sits on the back of the chair in front of me, stretching his long legs out parallel to mine. “Are we on for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. I’m starving. I’ve only eaten a banana today.”
“I thought you went home for lunch.”
“I did. I made a mistake.”
He grins. “Do you want me to order for you at dinner?”
“No,” I laugh. “I can handle it.”
“Okay, but the offer stands. You stare at menus like you’re choosing your last meal. It doesn’t have to carry that much pressure, babe.”
“I like to pretend everything is more high stakes than it actually is. It keeps me on my toes.”
“Your call. Your loss. I’m an excellent orderer. Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere close by. I have a paper to work on later.”
“How much later?”
“If we’re done with dinner by seven, I could be done with the paper by ten.”
“Then what are you up to?”
I cock my head at him coyly. “What are you digging for, Professor?”
“Teacher’s Assistant, not Professor. I wouldn’t be allowed to ask if I could spend the night with you if I was your Professor.”