Six Months Later

by Natalie D. Richards

  “So…” he says, trailing off and jerking his head just a little toward the kitchen. Or my bedroom. It could be either.

  Please let it be the kitchen. Please.

  I glance around because, hell, I’ve never had a boy come over to study. Not a boy I’m dating at any rate. I have no idea what the parent rules are in this situation.

  “Let me go get my book,” I say dumbly, heading for the stairs.

  “Or I can come up there,” he says, shifting his own book in his arms. “I actually dropped my stuff in your room earlier.”

  He was in my room. Presumably alone. I feel icky all over at this.

  “There’s more room in the dining room,” Dad says, and I can tell by his face that he’d prefer us there, a mere ten feet away without a doorway in sight.

  But Mom frowns at him pointedly. “We’re getting ready to watch a movie, George. They’ll never be able to focus. Plus, there’s no Internet in there.”

  “They need Internet to study?” Dad asks, emphasizing Internet and study as if they’re code names for something much dirtier.

  “Don’t be obtuse, George. They always study in Chloe’s room.”

  Do we? Or is my dad closer to the truth? Do we do something else? I feel my throat going dry as I realize exactly what we really might do in my room.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says, waving us toward the stairs with a roll of her eyes like she’s completely cool with all of this.

  I am not cool with this. My ribs feel tight, and my knees are wobbly.

  “The dining room would be fine,” Blake says, but I’m not buying his tone. This has brown-nose-the-parents all over it.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mom says, clearly eating right out of his hand. “We’ll be down here if you need anything.”

  “Right down here,” my dad adds.

  I storm up the stairs, catching a glimpse of my crimson face in a decorative mirror on the wall. None of this seems to bother Blake, who follows me like a Labrador retriever, closing my bedroom door very quietly behind us.

  I immediately scan every inch of my bedroom for signs of Adam. Ridiculous, I know. It’s not like he left a trail of clothes or anything. God, don’t think about Adam stripping off clothes. Not when Blake might be expecting me to strip off clothes.

  Better yet, maybe I can just not think at all.

  “What’s the test on?” I ask, the words squeaky.

  Blake just laughs and crosses the floor between us, threading his fingers in the back of my hair. He pulls me in and all I can smell is his cologne. It’s too much, too strong, and all I can think is, Mom would die if she knew how this guy had snowed her over.

  I have maybe a half second to process that this is going to happen, and then his lips close over mine.

  I’ve been kissed enough to know when someone’s doing it right. And Blake is technically doing it right, tilting my head just a little. Urging my mouth to open for him. And he’s pressing into me just enough to make things interesting, without mashing his kibbles and bits against my thigh or anything.

  My heart is hammering for all of the wrong reasons. I fumble under his kisses, feeling like there’s no right speed for my lips, no comfortable perch for my hands. And I really need to stop overthinking this before he starts thinking something is up with me.

  Trouble is, something is up with me.

  Namely, I can’t stop thinking about Adam.

  This is wrong. Guilt is tearing through me, my every instinct commanding me to pull away from him. I can’t do this. I just can’t.

  I pull away, and Blake gazes down on me, eyes dark with hunger. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, forcing myself to touch his shoulders. “School is just…”

  “Hm…” he says, cutting me off with another long, slow kiss.

  It’s even worse than before. All I can think about is Adam. And God, it’s wrongity-wrong-wrong, but for one second, I close my eyes tight and pretend I’m with him. I think of blue eyes and a low laugh and all the things I should never think of now.

  Blake gives me a little appreciative moan, and the sound of his voice is so startling and so foreign, that I pull away, wiping a shaking hand over my mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back to my desk. “I’m really sorry.”

  Blake watches me in a very cool, detached way. The same way he looked at me that morning at Trixie’s. As if he’s about to pick me apart and label all the gooey bits he finds.

  “You know, I thought we were done with this,” he says.

  “Done with what? I’m just tense, Blake.”

  “Yeah, I got that memo. You’ve been tense ever since that night at my house.”

  I don’t have to ask to know what night he means. The night I hit my head. The night I forgot. Or remembered. Hell, I don’t even know what to call it.

  You could tell him.

  I toss the idea almost as soon as I think it. Something as deep as the marrow of my bones tells me I can’t tell Blake about this. Not any of it. And I’m definitely a girl who believes in going with her gut.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. A broken record. “I think the pressure of the applications and senior year—it’s a little more intense than I thought.”

  “Are you doing your meditations?”

  “Yeah,” I lie, turning away so he won’t see the irritation on my face.

  But it’s there, burning through me. A strange mix of fear and discomfort. I don’t like him acting like my mother. Trying to fix me.

  “You know you should think about coming with me to the gym. It might help you burn off a lot of that anxiety.”

  “Thanks, I just don’t…” I trail into silence because it hits me like a ton of bricks. I don’t want to be with Blake. I just don’t. Even if Adam didn’t exist at all, I still wouldn’t.

  Despite everything I felt, all the long afternoons I spent gazing at him on the lacrosse field, this isn’t right. Not for me.

  “Blake,” I say, but then I pause because I can’t believe I’m about to do this. “I think I might need a little bit of time. A little…time off.”

  “Time off,” he repeats, and while it’s crystal clear he knows where I’m going with this, he’s not angry. Not angry or shocked or even particularly hurt.

  “A break,” I tell him. “Just to sort out my head.”

  I turn back to him, and he’s very still and calm. After a while, he comes forward, touching my face with soft fingers. The touch is tender, but somehow his face isn’t. God, it’s so confusing.

  “Do you mean break for now or break forever?” he asks.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean or what I’m doing. Walking away from Blake is counter to everything I’ve ever wanted. I keep hearing Maggie’s words in my mind. Am I running away? Is that what this is?

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just know I need some time to sort it out.”

  “Of course, Chloe. Take your time. You know I’ll be here.”

  The words are the stuff of movies, but his face is flat. He’s like a very bad actor reciting even worse lines.

  And I’d like to know who the hell wrote them.

  We file back down the stairs. He is all easy civility as he offers me a sideways hug at the door.

  “Leaving already?” Mom asks. Her eyes flick nervously between us. Sensing trouble in paradise? Maybe. Dreading said trouble? Definitely.

  “Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head. He looks more upset now, and somehow I feel like that’s for show too. Like it’s all for her benefit. “I’m suddenly pretty tired.”

  “Well, be careful driving,” she says. “Tell Daniel we said hello.”

  My eyes go wide as I turn to her, blood running through me like ice water. “Daniel?”

  “His father,” she says. “Honestly, Chloe, where is your head these days?”

  Stunned by my slipup, I say nothing. Blake’s slipping too, that thin veneer of sadness sliding away to reveal the first expression
I’ve believed all night.

  Suspicion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I pound on the door this time. No delicate knock. No milling around on the welcome mat. Or the place where there would be a welcome mat if this place were in any way welcoming. I just spilled out the biggest whopper of a lie I’ve ever laid on my parents to get here at eleven o’clock on a school night, and my patience has run seriously thin.

  I’m just about to shout Adam’s name or throw a rock at the window when the door flings open, an old woman appearing in the entrance. Damn.

  She’s wearing a floral polyester shirt, one that hasn’t seen a washing machine in far too long. Her thin white hair is pinned sloppily away from her wide and wrinkled face. This woman doesn’t share a single feature with Adam. From her watery green eyes to her skin, which is so white it’s almost pink, she is the absolute opposite of Adam, who is all sharp, dark lines and piercing eyes.

  I finally find my voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  She doesn’t say a thing, just blinks up at me like she can’t even imagine what I want. Or maybe like she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. Which is possible if the smell of booze coming off her is any indication of how she’s spent her evening.

  “Is Adam here?”

  He slides into view then, still tugging a shirt down over his torso. I catch a sliver of damp, golden flesh above his jeans and force my eyes to his face.

  His hair is still wet from the shower, his feet bare on the carpet.

  “I’ve got it, Grandma,” he says.

  “Gloria?” she says, looking up at Adam with an expression that’s much sweeter than the one she offered me.

  “No, Grandma, it’s me. Adam.”

  “Adam,” she says, touching his arm.

  “Yes,” he says, turning her gently back toward the house. “You should go in. It’s cold.”

  Her face puckers up, lines folding in on lines until she looks like a raisin leached of its color. “Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!”

  My mouth drops at her sudden hostility. Her shouts dissolve into a coughing fit, and then she walks away, still swearing as she hobbles deeper into the apartment. Adam watches her for a moment, and then turns to me, looking wholly unaffected.

  I must look desperate because Adam holds up a hand and grabs his jacket from a hook by the door. I watch him jam his bare feet into his half-laced boots, and then he’s following me into the night, his breath steaming in the darkness.

  “You can’t be here,” Adam says, and God, I thought I was paranoid, but he’s redefining it tonight. He’s searching the parking lot, pacing back and forth on the tiny slab of cement outside his door. “Have you ever heard of a phone?”

  Is he looking for a girl? Oh God, he just got out of the shower. He could be getting ready for a date, and I just showed up here.

  I feel sick to my stomach. Sick just about everywhere, really.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t—I needed—” I can’t even make words anymore. I’m looking around too, dreading the arrival of a girl I never even considered existed. But I should have.

  “Just tell me why you’re here. And make it fast, Chloe. It’s not…” He doesn’t finish, just sighs and looks at me expectantly.

  I don’t know how to condense all the things that brought me to his door tonight. My call with Maggie? What I overheard Dr. Kirkpatrick say? The fact that I think somehow whatever happened to me wasn’t an accident or a sickness and the fact that I think Blake’s dad, maybe even Blake himself, is in on it?

  I have a million reasons to be here tonight.

  “I think I broke up with Blake,” I say. Moronically. Because that fact isn’t anywhere on the list of relevant crap I need to say to him.

  Except that it obviously is, because Adam stops with the looking around. He looks right at me, until I know beyond a single doubt there isn’t a girl coming. There isn’t a girl at all. Not one that isn’t standing right in front of him.

  The air between us feels hot and cold together. Charged the way I’d imagine it would be before lightning strikes.

  “You said that’d be a huge mistake,” he says, taking a step toward me.

  His eyes flick down to my lips, and God help me, but I feel that look in my knees. Maybe right down into my bones. “I did?”

  My voice is breathy, and I’m moving in too. Adam nods, those gorgeous kaleidoscope eyes of his drinking me in like he’s been starved to do it.

  It’s wrong. Every part of me knows that you don’t slide into a new guy’s arms a pitiful three hours after breaking up with your boyfriend.

  Still, I can’t help this. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

  My hands flutter up to his chest, and he’s leaning in so close I can feel the dampness from his hair against my forehead. He closes his eyes, and I curl my fingers in his shirt.

  “You have to go,” he says, and there’s this broken twist to his words, like he’s forcing them out.

  “I don’t want to go. And I don’t think you want me to either.”

  “You have to,” he says, and the words sound like torture, but he pulls back from me. My fingers drop away from his shirt, and he starts looking around again. Checks his phone.

  My chest feels too tight, my heart too big. Whatever I’m feeling for him is too much. I hate it. It eclipses everything I’ve ever felt before, and I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t know how I got to this place with him.

  Probably because someone stole the memory of it from me.

  Tears spill hot and slick down my cheeks, but there’s nothing I can do to stop them. “Someone did this to me, Adam. Someone made me forget things, and I know it had something to do with the study group. And with Dr. Kirkpatrick—”

  “Chloe, I can’t do this,” he says. I can see the pain in his eyes, but he’s shaking his head and taking a step back. He looks bound and tied. He stands mute, checking the street with a furtive glance.

  “Fine, then don’t. But give me something, Adam! At least tell me what happened between us.”

  “Nothing,” he says, but the look of anguish on his face tells me otherwise.

  “Liar,” I say, and then I rush him, taking both of his hands and pulling him closer to me.

  I can smell clean water and soap and cinnamon, and I can see his body go tense beneath my touch. “Not one of the moments I’ve remembered is nothing, and I think you know it.”

  His eyes drift closed and he swallows hard. I have never, ever wanted to kiss someone so much in my life. Except it’s more than that.

  “Go home, Chloe,” he says, gritting each word out like it’s physically painful. “Please just…go.”

  ***

  I stare at the pictures on the fridge across from me and push the oatmeal around in my bowl. Mom offers me a mug of something steaming, and I shake my head.

  She sighs and slouches into the seat across from me. “Did you work it out with Blake last night?”

  Work what out? Oh. Right. My ruse for getting out of the house was rushing after my devastated boyfriend.

  I shake my head again. It’s about the only move I’ve got this morning.

  “Maybe he just needs some time,” she says, assuming Blake was the initiator of the breakup.

  The whole thing with Adam last night has me totally on edge, so her comment pisses me off endlessly. My head snaps up like a cocking pistol. “Blake isn’t the one who needed time off. I do.”

  “You?” she says, looking faintly horrified. “You broke up with him?”

  I scrub my hands over my face because the whole thing is ridiculous. How am I even having this conversation? How can I break up with someone I don’t even remember dating? “I don’t know. I said I needed space. We’re taking some time.”

  “Time? From Blake? Honey, have you thought this through?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ve loved him since you were a freshman.”

  “Well, I’m not a freshman anymore!”

&n
bsp; Her face goes tight and hard. “Watch your tone, young lady. I’m perfectly aware that you’re not a freshman. It’s just a little shocking. The two of you have been so happy.”

  “Have we, Mom? What do we do together that makes me so happy?”

  She pushes back from the table, looking startled.

  “I grabbed some pictures from your scrapbook room,” I tell her. “The ones by the book you’re working on for this year.”

  “That was supposed to be a surprise,” she says weakly.

  “Mom, you give me one every Christmas. You leave them on the table in the basement for months leading up to it.”

  Her face twitches a little, her gaze drifting to the table.

  “I love them,” I tell her. It’s a stretch, but she seems to need to hear it. “It’s sweet and thoughtful, but it’s not really a surprise, okay?”

  She shrugs. “Fine, but what does it has to do with Blake and you?”

  “I don’t see how I was happy with Blake,” I tell her. “Every picture showed me at places I never liked to be. Most are at school. Some are at games. There was a bowling alley page.”

  “You had a double date that night,” she says defensively. “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that I hate bowling, Mom. I don’t really like school, and I’ve never, not once, been to a baseball game.”

  “Well, Blake’s an alternate on the team, isn’t he? It’s different when you’re dating an athlete.”

  “Yeah? Well, who is he dating? Because the girl in those pictures isn’t me, Mom. It just isn’t.”

  I can tell this is too much for her to process. She collects my untouched bowl and the mug of tea she’d offered and rinses them in the sink.

  “Your supportive silence is touching,” I say.

  “What do you want me to say, Chloe? You think leaving Blake will make you happy? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Some people choose unhappiness, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Somehow, right around the time you turned sixteen, you decided your life was just too miserable.”