Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You okay?”

  “Not really.” She pauses for a moment.

  “Okay. Come home,” she says. God, I love Ellie.

  I barely acknowledge another human on the train ride home, going through the familiar motions without savoring any of the sights or sounds of the city I’ve grown to love so much. When I walk through our apartment door, I drop my stuff off on the coffee table and collapse onto our oversized loveseat that Ellie’s parents got us from Pottery Barn.

  She comes out in tiny pajama shorts and a tank top, her hair in a bun. She got a job at a high-end restaurant a few weeks ago, saying she’s not sure yet if she wants to pursue a career in philosophy anymore. But at least she’s working, and honestly, with the tips she’s getting, she’s probably better off doing what she’s doing.

  She leans over the kitchen bar and grabs a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes that she has all ready for me. She hands it to me then grabs a glass of wine she’s already poured. Like I said, I love her.

  I look down at the food, but I’m not feeling particularly hungry. The wine, though, I can handle.

  I sigh and look at her.

  “Wait, before you start,” she says, pulling out her phone, “Keely wants to check in.” I hear the ringing of the video call, then Keely’s face pops up.

  “What’s up, bitch?” she asks. I smirk at her familiar vulgarity. “Why the long face?”

  I sigh and rub my temples.

  “So, that guy I’ve been hooking up with…” I say, watching as their eyebrows raise collectively at the same time. “It’s actually Wyatt.”

  “Fucking told you, Ellie!” Keely shouts.

  “Dammit! I owe you five bucks,” Ellie says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh, come on,” Keely says, and I can hear her snarl through the phone. “You really think we couldn’t figure it out? All secretive, staying out late, virtually no details on the actual sex itself? It had to be him you were hiding.”

  “Yeah, plus that Ricky guy you showed us was def not your type,” Ellie says. I roll my eyes and let out a chuckle of surrender. Of course they knew.

  “So, what’s going on with the big, bad, boss-man?” Keely asks.

  “I was kind of an ass today,” I say. “I mean, I don’t owe him anything. We have an arrangement, and nothing more can come of it because he is who he is and I am who I am. There’s too much baggage there.”

  “But…” Ellie says, egging me on with her hand.

  “He was acting all weird after work today, and I thought he was being an ass because I’ve been working on this sort of secret project with my boss.”

  “Why is the project a secret?” Keely asks. I shrug.

  “I don’t know. I have a feeling there’s some competition between the two of them,” I say with a shrug. “But anyway, I called him out on it. Told him he was the same ass I always thought he was.”

  “Whoa,” Ellie says.

  “Yeah. But it turns out, he found out that the guy who killed his sister—the actual guy—is up for parole.”

  Keely whistles. Ellie’s eyes grow wide.

  “Damn,” Keely finally says. “That’s fucked up. How can you get parole after murdering a kid?”

  I lean back in my seat. I don’t know. I don’t know any of the details because I didn’t ask, and he wouldn’t have stuck around long enough for me to, anyway.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know much. I just know that I was a bitch about it,” I say.

  “Well,” Keely says, “this could go one of two ways.”

  I settle back into the chair, knowing I’m in for a Keely lesson.

  “First, you can just let it go. Like you said, you don’t owe him anything. You had no way of knowing what it was about, and yeah, it was a little self-centered of you to think it was about you and your boss, but whatever. He’s still the dude that fucked you over all those years ago.”

  I nod. Option one is, basically, the mantra I’d been repeating to myself in my head on the way home.

  “And option two?” Ellie asks.

  “Option two, you could apologize. Talk to him about it. Be nice about it. But…beware that might mean you’re crossing that whole hook-up-only line,” Keely warns. I swallow. Because this is what I wanted to do the second he stormed out of that building.

  I nod slowly.

  “I want to do that,” I say quietly. They both stare back. “I can’t imagine what that feels like.”

  “Then do it,” Keely says matter-of-factly.

  “But...that line…”

  “Might just have to be erased,” Keely says with a shrug. Ellie nods in agreement. “Plus, no one has to know. You can be there for him and not a soul—especially your parents—has to know.”

  I nod and take a swift bite of my potatoes. Suddenly, I have a little more of an appetite. I tell Keely I love her, finish off my plate, and change into something more comfortable. I’m in yogas and an oversized hoodie when I head to the front door.

  “Go. Be a friend,” Ellie says with a wink. I roll my eyes.

  “I’ll be back later,” I tell her.

  I grab a cab and head uptown to his apartment building, my heart thumping in my chest. I hop out and walk into the lobby, when my phone vibrates in my hand.

  I can’t hear anything but the blood rushing through my ears.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, my voice low.

  “Hey, kid,” he says. “What are you up to?”

  “Oh,” I say, swallowing and looking around like he can see me from Tilden. “Just about to have dinner with a coworker. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. All’s good. Just saw on the news that the man who killed Willa Mills is up for parole,” he says. I swallow. Before I can say anything, he goes on. “They mentioned her brother. Did you know he also works at Caldell?”

  My heart is throbbing in my chest. I walk across the lobby and lean up against one of the walls.

  “Uh, yeah, someone had told me that,” I say. I hear my mother in the background.

  “Did you know that before you took the job?” she asks, her voice shrieky and slightly more accusatory than my dad’s.

  “No, of course not,” I lie. “But we don’t work together or anything, so it’s not like I have to be in contact with him.”

  I swallow. I have never blatantly lied to my parents, and I am not a fan of the after-feeling.

  “Oh, good,” Mom says, closer to the receiver now. “If you do, you should request some sort of boundary between you through HR. Some sort of conflict of interest, something or other.”

  I nervously laugh.

  “I’m not sure that exists, Ma,” I say. “Unfortunately, he hasn’t done anything to me—directly,” I add quickly, “that could justify something like that. But I’ll definitely keep my guard up. I can handle him.”

  “That’s my girl,” Dad says. Mom shouts that she loves me as she’s walking away from the phone. I hear my dad take a deep breath.

  “Did you know her brother started a support group for family members of missing people?” Dad asks me. “It’s actually some sort of foundation.”

  “I had heard that somewhere,” I say, thinking about the fact that all this time with Wyatt, it’s never once come up. There’s a long pause, then I hear Dad sigh on the other end.

  “I hope that man doesn’t get parole,” he says quietly, and my heart shatters. My dad, still the same gentle soul he’s always been.

  “Yeah, me either,” I say. “Well, I’m gonna head to dinner, Dad. I’ll call you guys later. Love you.”

  I hit end and throw my head back against the wall. I stare at the elevators ahead of me. I so badly want to get in and press the 20 button. But I can’t. Not now. I’m not the most spiritual person, but that call, at this time, in this place—that’s gotta be a sign. It’s a sign I should leave and get back to hating him, and now, most likely, letting him hate me.

  I sigh and hang my head as I walk back toward th
e big glass doors.

  “Maryn?” I hear him ask. “What are you doing here?”

  17

  April 2015 - Wyatt

  I’ve been back at school for a little while now, and it feels fake. I was able to keep up with all my classes from Tilden, but there are a few big projects I need to be in Florida for to finish up the semester before graduation.

  My parents pushed me to go; they said there was no use in all three of us walking around like zombies. And they’re right.

  I’m on track to graduate with an almost-perfect GPA—damn that stupid chemistry class my sophomore year—and honestly, it’s good to be back at Melladon. I’ve missed my friends; I’ve missed the beach; I’ve missed things that didn’t fully revolve around my missing sister.

  But every time I take a drink, or smile, or make a joke, I hear Willa’s voice in the background. I feel her presence, and I’m hit with a heavy reminder that she’s gone. No one knows where or why. She might need me. She could be calling out for me, begging for me to find her. To save her.

  And I can’t. Because no one on fucking Earth knows where she is.

  As I’m walking across campus to my car, my phone rings, and my stomach drops, just as it does whenever my parents call.

  “Hey, Ma,” I say, nodding to a few people as I walk.

  “Hi, hon,” she says, her voice still low and sad.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. I can’t tell you the last time one of my parents has called just to check in.

  “Well, we got a call from the detectives today,” she says. “They are going to go ahead and clear David Porter as a suspect.”

  I swallow.

  “What? How?” I ask.

  She clears her throat, and I can tell how badly she’s trying not to cry. I picture her eyes, big and green, filled with tears.

  “Ma?”

  “There was another surveillance camera on the backside of the shopping center. It hadn’t been at the right angle, but after reviewing it again, they were able to see him getting into his car with his groceries. Alone.”

  I try to swallow as I slam my car door shut and throw my bag into the back.

  “So? What if he went back in? I saw a dark SUV pull away, Ma. I saw it,” I say, my own voice cracking. We can’t give up. This Porter guy is the only fucking lead we have. The only shot at finding her.

  “Well, there’s something else,” Mom says. “He got into his car at 9:09 p.m. That’s fourteen minutes after you saw the car pull out.”

  “Well, I could have had the time wrong. I mean, I was all stressed, and—”

  “The same camera also caught another SUV leaving, baby. It even picked up a partial plate. And it was right at the same time you remembered seeing the car leave.”

  I don’t know what to say, think, or feel. I throw my head back against my headrest.

  “So, do we have another lead?” I ask, my heart throbbing with hopelessness and hope all at the same time.

  “We might, baby. We might. They are checking the DMV records now to see if we can get any matches.”

  I close my eyes and nod.

  So, the teacher’s out. But someone else is in.

  18

  Wyatt

  I’m walking into my apartment building with a bag of Chinese food when I see her walking toward me. I do a double-take, because after the things we said to each other earlier, I didn’t imagine we’d be seeing each other again. At least, not for a while. And to be honest, I haven’t thought about it much. This whole parole thing is weighing heavy on me.

  “Maryn?” I ask her as her pretty blue eyes flash up to me. “What are you doing here?”

  She stares back at me, her eyes wide and her lips parted slightly. She’s clutching her bag to her body, and I can see a bottle of wine sticking out of it. I look back up to her.

  “I...uh,” she says, sheepishly tucking a piece of her golden hair behind her ear. It’s funny, but as pissed as I was today—as pissed as we both were—seeing her again makes everything feel just a little bit lighter. She sighs and raises her eyes to me. “I thought you might want to talk. And if not,” she says, pulling the bottle out of the bag slightly, “I thought you might want to get wasted and forget about everything.”

  I lean back on my foot for a minute, looking her up and down. This doesn’t feel like the arrangement we discussed, and yet, now that I know that just being with her is on the table, I can’t think of anything I want more.

  I can’t help but give her a half-smile and nod toward the elevators.

  “Come on up,” I say. She smiles as we walk in together. I can’t keep from checking her out the whole elevator ride up. Yoga pants really are God’s gift to Earth, and the way they hug her curves is making it hard for me to think about anything else. She’s wearing an oversized Tilden High sweatshirt, and she’s like the perfect damn concoction of adorable and dangerously sexy. The elevator dings, and I let her off first. I like that she knows how to get to my apartment. It makes it feel like this—whatever it is—is a little more real.

  She waits for me to let her in then slips her shoes off—another thing I like. She pulls the bottle from her bag and goes into the cupboard where she knows I keep the wine glasses. She opens the drawer to the right of the sink where she knows I keep the corkscrew, and I realize just how much she really does know. I like her being here. I like her being comfortable. It’s hot.

  I set the food down and take out two plates, but she holds her hands up.

  “I just ate, I’m good,” she says. I give her a look and hold up the container.

  “It’s Sesame Chicken, extra spice,” I say. Her eyebrow shoots up.

  “Okay, fine,” she says, and I chuckle. This isn’t the first time we’ve indulged in carry-out together. Although, the other times, we’ve been a lot less clothed.

  She pulls out one of the barstools and looks up at me as I’m preparing our plates.

  “So,” she says, sipping her wine, and I’m preparing for the typical questions I had gotten for so long after Willa went missing.

  How are you doing? How’s your family? Do you still miss her? You’re in our thoughts. I can’t even imagine.

  But instead, she takes a different route.

  “My parents found out today that you work at Caldell,” she says. I flick my eyes up to her as I spoon extra sauce over our plates.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, apparently, they mentioned you on the news today when they mentioned the...uh, guy,” she says.

  “How did that go?”

  “They wanted to make sure I didn’t have to see you,” she says, looking down into her glass as she swirls it around. “My mom wanted me to file a grievance or something, saying I needed to be kept away from you.”

  I swallow nervously. But to my surprise, she actually starts to laugh. “I told them it wasn’t possible seeing as how you’ve never done anything to me directly.”

  Then, she gives me this hot-as-hell, mischievous smile. “They don’t need to know about what you’ve done to me in Florida. Or Chicago. Or here in Manhattan.”

  I smile and shake my head, handing her the plate and taking a seat next to her.

  “Well, that’s...a lot,” I say, scratching my head before I take a bite. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  She looks up at me, spinning her stool around so that she’s completely facing me.

  “Not a damn thing,” she says, her voice dropping just above a whisper. I smile again and knock my knee against hers lightly.

  “How come you’ve never mentioned your foundation?” she asks me. I look down to my plate, finishing my last bite. I clear my throat.

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not something that comes up in daily conversation.” I shrug. She nods. “There’s only a handful of people that totally understand what I...what my family and I...went through. So I guess I just leave it all there with them in the meetings.” She nods again.

  “How often do you have them?” she asks.

&n
bsp; “We try to get together at least every other month. It’s tough because, like I said, it’s a small group. Some of them come from pretty far away to meet,” I say. I can tell she wants to ask more. I look up at her. “I have one in a few weeks, actually. If you want to, you could come?”

  She looks up to me, and a flicker of a smile crosses her lips.

  “I’d like that,” she says.

  We finish eating, making comfortable small talk about a few things at work (she conveniently leaves the gallery job out of the conversation) then clean up and walk over to the couch. She makes herself comfortable again, shimmying a little bit closer, closing the gap between us.

  “So,” she says again, “how does someone who kidnapped and killed a sixteen-year-old get the possibility of parole?”

  Her question hits me like a ton of bricks, but I’ve learned that when Maryn comes in, she comes in hot and heavy. There are no brakes with her; she’s more to the point than a damn needle.

  I lean my head back against the couch, slouching into the cushions. She scoots a little closer to me, resting her head on her fist as she looks at me.

  “I have no fucking idea,” I say, swiping a hand over my face. “This justice system is so fucked up.”

  She nods in agreement.

  “When is his hearing?” she asks.

  “Two weeks. And I’m…” I feel my voice crack, and my hand starts to shake. I put my glass down on the coffee table and lean forward, dropping my head in my hands. I’m not strong enough to go through all of this again. It’s bullshit. She scoots even closer, and I feel the warmth of her hand press against my back, her other hand dropping to my leg.

  “This is fucking bullshit,” she whispers. I nod and take a deep breath.

  “He was caught. His DNA confirmed it. How is it even possible?” I ask. Her hand starts to rub my back now, and I can’t get over how good it feels, how it makes me feel instantly calmer. My problems won’t be solved from her sitting with me, but somehow, now, it feels like I can take them on.