Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  They nod, and we check out and get back in Keely’s car.

  “Okay, so how the fuck did this happen?” she asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror as she begins to pull out of the lot.

  “I honestly have no idea,” I say, staring out the window.

  It’s true. One minute, I was seething. I was picturing his death in more ways than one. I was remembering the fear, the pain our family felt for months because of him.

  And then, the next, all I wanted was his body. Like I wanted to take something from him. Keep a part of him for myself or something. It was animalistic. Weird.

  “Is he, like, really hot?” Keely asks. Ellie gasps again.

  “Holy shit—yeah he is!” she says, letting Keely look at his Facebook picture on her phone. I moan and cover my eyes with my arm.

  “But I thought you, like, hated his guts? I mean, isn’t he the reason you almost didn’t get to come to college in the first place?” Keely asks. I moan again.

  “Yeah, he is,” I mutter behind my arm.

  “You know what this means,” Ellie says, turning to me with a smug look on her face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It means you just had the dick,” she says matter-of-factly. I see Keely’s eyebrows shoot up in the mirror. I shake my head.

  “No, it does not,” I say. But they both start laughing and smiling, making tormenting sounds at my expense.

  “Oh, yes, it does,” Ellie says. “So, the next time you want to ask me why I keep letting Dickson into my pants, remember last night. Remember how badly you wanted him—so badly that you forgot everything he ever did to you.”

  I swallow.

  “Okay, Miss Thing,” Keely says. “I know you’re not about to let what she just did validate the fact that you’re still fucking someone’s husband.” Ellie swallows, and I cross my arms over my chest and smirk at her through the mirror. “And you,” Keely says, eyeing me now, “next time you want to go on one of your judgmental tangents, remember last night.”

  I moan again, sinking down into the seat.

  A few hours pass, and I’m staring at my naked self in the mirror. My parents and brother are going to be here within the hour, and we have reservations at one of the nicest restaurants in town. But all I can seem to do is stare at the hickey Wyatt left on my chest. Normally, I’d be panicking, trying foundation and a cold spoon—all the old tricks—but he left this one low enough that no one will see it. And even if they could, there’s something about it that entrances me, reminds me of last night. For the briefest of moments, he was mine, and I was his. And I will never, ever say this out loud, but it felt good. For a moment.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “You almost done in there?” Keely asks. “Some of us have to pee.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say, reaching down to grab my dress and put it on.

  “So,” Keely says, sitting down on the toilet before I’m even out the door, “I assume you won’t be telling the fam about your run-in?”

  I scoff from the hallway.

  “Fuck no, and you better not, either,” I say. She laughs.

  “Well, no shit. Hopefully, you won’t run into him again before graduation.”

  I nod. Then my eyes get wide. Shit. Graduation.

  Keynote speaker.

  Oh, fuck me.

  “Fuck,” I say, plopping down on the couch and dropping my face into my hands.

  “What?” she says, following me out after she washes her hands.

  “He’s the fucking keynote speaker,” I mumble.

  “What?” she asks.

  “He’s the fucking keynote speaker,” I say again, loud and clear. She steps back.

  “What? How? Why? Why would that be?” Keely asks. She stalks over to the kitchen table and sits down, opening her laptop. She types away for a moment.

  “‘Commencement speaker will be Mr. Wyatt Mills, graduate of Melladon, 2015. Mr. Melladon has recently made partner at a public relations agency in Manhattan and has still made time to run a foundation for families of missing and murdered persons,’” Keely reads from the school-wide email that I got and promptly ignored. She looks up at me.

  Ugh. Murdered persons.

  Wait. Public relations agency?

  “What agency?” I ask.

  “Please hold,” Keely says as she searches his name. Her eyes get wide, and she bites down on her thumbnail. “‘Wyatt Mills named partner at Caldell Communications,’” she reads the headline.

  Caldell Communications. As in, the place where I’m supposed to launch my career in just a few short weeks if this next interview goes well.

  Fucking great.

  “No fucking way,” I say. “No goddamn, fucking, shit-ass way!”

  “Calm your tits,” Keely says, closing the computer and coming back over to me and sitting down on the couch. I’m starting to feel lightheaded. I can feel this weight pushing down on my chest.

  In just a few hours, he will be standing in front of thousands of us, my parents included, while he talks about the hardships he’s faced and how he’s overcome them.

  He will be there, back in New York, in just a few weeks, while I attempt to become a grown-up.

  Oh, and he screwed me silly last night.

  All of which I have about ten minutes to get over before Mom and Dad get here.

  “Bitch,” Keely says, taking my face in her hands. “Calm. The. Eff. Down. Seriously. You’re giving this guy way too much power.” I suck in a long breath and open my eyes.

  “What?”

  “It’s only been a few hours since you saw him last. But before that, it had been years. And look at you—a sweaty, anxiety-ridden mess. Seriously, fuck this guy. I mean, not literally, you already tried that and look at you now.”

  I narrow my eyes at her and shove her shoulder as she cackles.

  “I mean it, though, Mare. Give your parents a warning that he will be speaking. You guys will get through it. Celebrate your graduation, because you’ve worked your ass off. Don’t let him have this.”

  I nod.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say just as there are about thirty-seven overly enthusiastic knocks on our apartment door.

  “Good girl. Now, showtime for Mommy and Daddy,” Keely says, standing up to greet my family.

  My parents have been an emotional wreck since they got to Florida. My brother is soaking in all the sights and sounds of the Florida college life; he just finished his freshman year at a small school in Pennsylvania, and he’s having a blast. But my parents…they can’t believe I’m done. They keep saying how proud they are, keep telling me they wish I didn’t have to take out all those loans, keep telling me how amazing it is that I already have a job prospect.

  “Oh, baby, I just wish we could have—” Mom starts again at dinner. I take a sip of my wine and roll my eyes.

  “Ma, please,” I say. “It’s fine. A lot of kids take out loans. That’s just par for the course for my generation, okay?”

  “I know, honey. It’s not just the loans. I just wish you didn’t have to go through college with such a cloud over your head.”

  My dad looks down at his plate and clears his throat. I swallow.

  I know what cloud she means. She means Wyatt Mills.

  The cloud that was between my thighs last night. I swallow and take another nervous sip of wine. Then I shrug.

  “There was no cloud. There is no cloud,” I say. “Everything is back to normal. I refuse to let any ‘clouds’ control my life.”

  Mom smiles and nods, and Dad squeezes my hand from across the table.

  “Proud of you, kid,” he says. I swallow again. I guess this is the best time to mention it—not that any time is good.

  “But on that note,” I say, my voice shaky. “We got an email from school about some graduation details. And, well, there was some information about the commencement speaker.”

  Dad raises an eyebrow.

  “Oh? Someone good, I hope?”

  “Oh!
Is it Oprah? Or maybe Ellen?” Mom asks. I laugh nervously and shake my head.

  “Actually,” I say, “it’s a Melladon alumnus. Remember that ‘cloud’ we were talking about?”

  Dad puts his drink down on the table, and the glass hits so hard I’m sure it’s going to break. Mom’s eyes are wide, and even Tucker has brought his attention back to the table instead of our waitress’s ass.

  “Yes…” Dad says.

  “Yeah, well, the particular alumnus speaking is none other than Wyatt Mills himself,” I say, leaving out the part about him practically running the place where I might be working.

  Mom blinks a thousand times in a minute, while Dad just stares at me blankly. It’s like they didn’t hear me.

  “Whoa,” Tucker says, “what are the fucking chances?”

  Mom’s head whips to Tucker.

  “Language,” she says. He rolls his eyes.

  “Are you...are you kidding me?” Dad says, and I feel my heartrate accelerate. I shake my head.

  “Unfortunately not. He graduated before I even got to Melladon. Apparently, he runs some support group for families of missing and, uh, murdered people.”

  I let the information sink in for a minute.

  “I’m really sorry, guys,” I say. Mom laughs nervously and puts her hand on mine.

  “Oh, honey,” she says, “it’s not your fault. What a horrible coincidence. It’s like the universe is playing some trick on us.”

  “Damn, that’ll be fun to watch,” Dad says sarcastically. Then, he throws an arm around my shoulders. “But yeah, hon, it’s not like it’s your fault.”

  I smile and nod.

  “Yeah,” I manage to mutter.

  “Well, I guess it could be worse,” Dad says. “I guess we should be thankful you’re not bringing him home to us or something!”

  With that, he and Mom share an uncomfortable laugh. I join in, guzzling down my wine like it’s my only lifeline, because right now, I’m pretty sure it is.

  5

  December 2014 - Wyatt

  I can’t breathe. That’s all I keep thinking.

  We’ve been at the police station for hours now, and they just keep asking us the same questions. I’ve walked them through the evening’s events what feels like twenty times. The detective keeps asking if I’m forgetting anything.

  But I can barely see straight, let alone think straight. I’m a senior in college. This is my last semester break before graduation. My last Christmas living at home with my parents. And my sister.

  I keep running through the trip to the store like something new is going to stand out to me.

  One second, she was here with me. Texting me back. Telling me she was waiting in line.

  The next, she wasn’t answering my texts or calls.

  I saw her walk out of the store. I looked down at my phone to finish texting Brenna. I looked up. Willa was gone. There was some sort of dark SUV speeding away.

  But Willa was gone.

  When I went into the store, no one had seen her. There were only a few people left shopping and not a single person saw her.

  When I ran around the parking lot, she was nowhere. When I got in my car and drove circles around the perimeter of the shopping center, she was nowhere. When I called her twenty-three more times, she was still nowhere.

  I called 911, then my parents, all in shock.

  And now we’re here.

  “Son, is there anything you remember? Did you happen to get a glimpse of the make or model of the SUV, maybe? The license plate? Anyone seem out of sorts?” the tall, big-boned lady detective asks me again. My dad squeezes my shoulders as my mom takes my hand. “Did you see anyone you recognized? Or anyone you didn’t, that might have seemed like they didn’t belong?”

  I lean forward, holding my head between my hands and rubbing my temples.

  I pulled up to the side of the store and let Willa out while I drove around to find parking.

  I watched her walk around toward the front of the store.

  She was waving to someone, then she disappeared.

  Wait.

  That teacher.

  She was waving to that teacher. The history guy. I didn’t have him in high school, but a lot of my friends did.

  “She saw a teacher she knew. Mr. Porter, I think his name was,” I say.

  “Joe Porter?” another male cop asks.

  “I guess so, teaches history at the high school.”

  The cop nods.

  “Do we know what kind of car Joe Porter drives?” the lady detective asks the cop. The cop swallows.

  “I believe he has a navy-blue Explorer,” the cop says. Mom’s eyes grow wide.

  The two cops excuse themselves, and I feel this twinge of uncertainty in my belly. Mr. Porter seemed like a decent guy. But my sister’s missing, and he saw her last. I look at my mom. This is the first time all night she hasn’t been actively crying. Something’s replacing the tears in her eyes, and I’m pretty sure it’s hope.

  Yeah. Let’s focus on this Porter guy.

  6

  Wyatt

  I’ve been walking around like a zombie since this morning when Maryn Porter bolted out of my room after what was the best sex I’ve ever had.

  I had a dinner with a few of my old professors, drinks with some old college friends, and nothing pulled me out of the slump. Now, I’m slowly dressing myself for this graduation ceremony, but it feels like it’s in the way far off future rather than in just a few hours. I’ve agonized over this speech for weeks, read through it a million times. And yet, somehow, this morning, I don’t seem to give a damn about it.

  I had no idea she went here. Honestly. Our families weren’t exactly in close touch after everything, and there were two distinctive groups in town: one that supported her father and her family, and one that supported mine. They did a good job of keeping the divide strong, and in turn, keeping our families pretty separate.

  I felt a moment of guilt when she mentioned that her family would be here, watching, listening to me.

  But then I quickly let it go when I remembered my mom and dad would be here, too. Listening to me give my speech, smiling up at me. Their only child.

  Well, the only one that’s left.

  But I still can’t shake her. I can’t shake her hazel eyes burning holes through me. I can’t shake these scratch marks down my back. I can’t get over the number of times she told me she hated me, and how each time, all it made me want to do was kiss her.

  I look at myself in the mirror as I tie my tie. I want to bitch-slap myself. Get over it, dude, I tell myself. You’re a successful partner at one of the best communication firms in the city. You make six figures before thirty, have a great group of friends—which includes a few super-hot ladies who are more than happy to escort you back to your apartment on a regular basis. You’ve got it all.

  But despite my little motivational talk, I know it’s all for nothing. Because Maryn Porter is on my mind, and the remnants of my one night with her are still all over me, no many how many showers I take.

  She hates me, and I get it.

  But I can’t hate her back. I never could. And now I know I never will.

  I sigh as I straighten out my suit in the mirror. I rub my head. As my phone buzzes with a text from my mom, I head out of my hotel room door.

  Soon, I’ll be back in New York, back to work, back to my life pre-Maryn. And yet, I know nothing will feel like it was.

  “Well, don’t you look handsome,” Mom says as she tugs gently on my tie. Her blonde hair has a hint of gray in it now, and the lines near her eyes are more prominent. But she’s still such a beautiful woman.

  Willa was so much like her.

  Man, I miss Willa.

  “Thanks, Mama,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

  “You clean up like your daddy,” Pops says, clapping my back. I smile.

  “Well, let’s get to this,” I say, leading them out the doors to wave down a cab.

  “I am just
so proud of you,” Mom says, fluffing her hair in the back of the cab. “I mean it. For you to be chosen out of all their alumni—wow. You have just changed so many people’s lives.”

  I put my hand on her knee.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  “People will be blown away,” Dad says from the passenger seat, his hand out the window.

  “I don’t know if everyone will,” I say quietly. I feel like this is as good of a time as any. They’re going to see her walk across the stage soon. They deserve fair warning.

  “What do you mean, boy?” Dad asks, his dark skin making his tan suit look extra classy. I sigh.

  “I didn’t realize it till last night, but apparently, I’m not the only one from Tilden who went here,” I say. “Apparently, Maryn Porter is graduating today.”

  Mom’s eyes get wide, and Dad turns around in his seat so quickly that it makes our driver jump.

  “What?” Mom says in a whisper. I nod.

  “Yeah, weird coincidence,” I say. I chuckle. “What are the chances?”

  Dad whistles and shakes his head.

  “Damn,” he says, “what are the friggin’ chances?”

  “So her, um, family…” Mom starts to say. I can see the nerves building inside of her, filling her eyes. I nod.

  “Yeah, I’m sure they will be here,” I say. She nods. “But there are three thousand kids graduating today. It should be easy to avoid them.”

  “Well,” Dad says, clearing his throat and running his hand across his goatee, “I wish them all the best.”

  Me too, Pops. Me too.

  I leave my parents at the front of the building and head back to where I’m supposed to meet the class sponsors and administration. They give me the rundown of where I’ll be sitting onstage, who will introduce me, and where to go.

  “And then you’ll stand in line to shake the graduates’ hands,” the sponsor tells me, pointing to the chair onstage where I will be sitting. I whip my head back to her.

  “I’ll be shaking their hands? All of them?” I ask. She smiles and nods.

  “Of course. You’re the guest of honor. You’ll be a part of the receiving line.”