In Her Wake

  “No, I’m too old for this. You’re borderline.”

  I can’t believe I’m back here. I can’t believe I’m crashing in my old room, now vacant again. It feels both like no time and an eternity have passed, the wounds that never healed somehow torn wide open. But I’m numb to the fresh wave of pain because I haven’t felt anything but that in almost two years.

  Rich phoned me two weeks ago and begged me to come out to visit. My mom overheard and interpreted the conversation, and then prodded me until I agreed. I can see now that I should have just dug my heels in, but I do pretty much whatever my mother asks me to. It keeps her happy.

  Thirty seconds in the door and I’m already exhausted. I’m used to solitude now. Not two hundred freshmen bumping into me from all sides. Something I would never have noticed when I was drunk but that irritates the shit out of me now that I’m sober. Luckily, I can see over the sea of heads.

  That’s how I spot her.

  There’s no doubt that it’s her; I’ve memorized her face.

  Leaning against a wall on the opposite side, her lips wrapped around a clear bottle filled with clear liquor, her fiery red hair a wild mane against the stark white wall, a tight black T-shirt showing off toned arms. She’s in no rush to part with that bottle, guzzling back a good portion before she hands it off to someone, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Her eyes at half-mast.

  She’s wasted.

  My heart starts racing. What the hell is Kacey Cleary doing here? By my calculation, she’s probably finishing her last year of high school, having lost at least half a year while recovering.

  I tug my cap down even farther, though I doubt she can see two feet in front of her.

  Shit. What if she does recognize me? How would she react? Does she know my real name? What I look like? I can’t say for sure that my face wasn’t printed in a newspaper somewhere. She could have Googled my name and found a dozen game shots with me in them. I have my helmet on in most of them, but you can find a profile picture of me easily enough if you’re looking.

  I don’t know that she was, though. I wonder if Kacey Cleary gives a fuck about anything anymore. Her Facebook account is inactive. She hasn’t posted a single word and the well-wishes have dwindled, as everyone moves on.

  I do know that she shouldn’t be at a party in this state. I’ve heard of bad things happening when girls get that drunk. Especially when they don’t care.

  But what do I do?

  A blond stumbles into my chest with two beers in hand. “Hey, do you go here? What’s your name?” She’s tipping her head back way farther than necessary to look up at me, telling me she’s trying to flirt but is too drunk to do it right.

  I smile down at her anyway. She’s a good cover. I can stand right here and watch Kacey. “I’m Trent, and I used to go here.”

  “Really? When’d you graduate?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Kacey shift from the wall and begin climbing the stairs, her arm hooked around the railing to help her. Two guys following her.

  Shit. “Uh . . . two years ago.”

  “Cool. I’m Kimmy, by the way. Here.” She shoves the beer toward me, splashing some onto my chest.

  Just what I want. To smell like a brewery. I take it anyway, because you just don’t come to a keg party and not drink. I suffer through another few minutes of conversation, worrying about where Kacey went and what’s going on, when Kimmy asks, “So, who did you come here with?”

  Perfect. My out. Rich has disappeared into the crowd. He’s like his cousin—a social butterfly. “A friend. Actually, if you don’t mind, I need to go find him.” I flash her a smile. No reason to be a dick to her. “It was nice talking to you, Kimmy.”

  I don’t wait for her response before I push my way through the crowd to the stairs, my pace picking up with each step. “Where’d the redhead go?” I ask the guys leaning against the railing at the top of the landing, waiting in line for the can. A head nod directs me to the closed door at the end of the hall.

  The locked, closed door.

  I start hammering against it with my fist.

  I can just make out a male voice hollering, “Busy!” from inside.

  “Open the damn door. She needs to get home. Now.” It’s a risky move. I don’t know how she’s going to react to any of this. I half-expect her to throw the door open herself and tell me to fuck off. But when she doesn’t, I start hammering against the door again. I’ve earned a small audience by now but I don’t care. “You’ve got exactly ten seconds before I bust this door down!” And I can. Easily. I’ll probably end up with a dozen frat guys jumping onto my back, too, but oh well.

  “Whoa! Wait up!” someone yells behind me. A dark-haired guy steps in beside me. “Cole?”

  It takes me a moment to recognize him. “Vance. Right?” A fellow Spartan who joined the team two years after me.

  “Yeah.” He flashes a crooked smile. “How’ve you been?”

  I brush his question off. “I need to get this girl out. She’s not up for whatever’s going on in there.”

  He starts banging on the door. “Griff. Open up! It’s Vance.”

  There’s a long pause, and then I see the handle jiggle.

  “Hey!” a guy hollers as I barrel into him, pushing my way through and into the room.

  To find Kacey lying on the bed in her black bra and panties, her jeans hanging off one leg. Unconscious. Or close to it, with her eyes shut, her limbs lax, her lips moving ever so feebly.

  And two assholes in the room with her. Ready to do God knows what.

  Rage ignites in me and I lunge for the guy closest to me, the one who opened the door. The one with his shirt off and his belt undone. Vance jumps in between to stop me, but I send him flying with ease. “What the hell is she on? Did you slip her something?”

  “No! Nothing! She was into it five minutes ago.” The guy’s hands fly up in surrender, fear touching his eyes as I seize his shirt. “She grabbed both of us and said she wanted it. But now she’s like that. We weren’t gonna do anything to her.”

  “Right.”

  A crowd has gathered by the door. I kick the door shut in their faces.

  Vance has regained his footing and steps in between again, along with the third guy. “Look, everyone’s been drinking. Let’s not get out of hand here.” I know that’s directed at me. We may have played ball together but these guys are obviously his buddies, and he’s going to defend them no matter what. He juts his chin toward Kacey. “You know her?”

  “Yeah.” After staring at her picture every day for almost two years, I can honestly say that I do know her. I know the curve of her slender nose. I know the kaleidoscopic pattern of her pale blue irises. I know how, when she smiles, it’s slightly crooked, earning a deeper dimple on the left side. I know the minuscule scar at her right temple.

  “’Kay. Can you get her out of here?”

  A wave of nausea hits me. Am I really going to do this? “Yup.” I know where she lives.

  He hesitates. “You good to drive, man?”

  My glare answers.

  In seconds, I’m alone in a room with Kacey Cleary.

  And I need to remind myself how to breathe.

  She’s here, lying on the bed right in front of me, in a drug- and alcohol-induced unconsciousness. How often does she do this?

  I don’t know if those guys were telling the truth or not, but I’m sure she’s been in other situations like this. And I’m also sure there was no one there to stop it. Even now, though I know it’s wrong, I can’t help but look at her face, at her body, as chiseled and beautiful as it is.

  Even with countless thin surgical white scars running along the right side of her body. From her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs, her waist, her hips, disappearing behind a flock of black ravens tattooed on her thigh. Ravens symboliz
e death; I know because my grandfather was highly superstitious and used to shake his fist at any raven that flew by.

  There are one . . . two . . . three . . . four of them on her creamy pale skin. Four ravens for the four people in her life that died that night, maybe? No, wait . . . A black tip peeks out from where the top of her jeans sit on her right leg. I nudge them down with a finger.

  A fifth raven.

  Five ravens.

  There were five in her car.

  A chill runs down my back as I peer down at my fellow survivor. Maybe she didn’t truly make it out of that car alive either.

  Her eyes flicker open and I suck in my breath. “Youuuuu,” she murmurs softly, and her lips fall back into an intoxicated smirk. A second of panic hits me, but then her eyes start rolling around. She can’t even focus on me. There’s no way she recognizes me.

  How much did she drink? Enough to poison her bloodstream? Definitely enough that she may be puking within the hour. I don’t really want that to start here.

  With shaky hands, I crouch down to slip the loose pant leg over her foot.

  She pulls it away with a small moan. “Come on . . . what’s taking so long,” she says in garbled speech, her lips barely moving. I’m surprised I can even understand it. Her hands slide across her taut belly and pelvis.

  And she begins pushing her black panties down.

  “Jesus! No.” I dive for her hands to stop them from going any farther and shut my eyes, my heart nearly exploding in my chest. Wouldn’t this be a sight for anyone walking in, after the trouble I gave those two idiots!

  She shakes her hands away from mine with surprising force, allowing me a chance to slide her panties back up. She doesn’t fight me anymore as I manage to get her leg back into her jeans and tug them up over her hips. Finding her shirt on the floor, I work it over her head and then reach for her hand to guide it into the sleeve.

  She jerks it away. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  “I need to get your shirt on, Kacey,” I whisper, reaching for her hand once again.

  “No!” It’s a bellow now, from deep within her. Her hand flies from mine once again. “No hands . . . No hands . . . No hands . . .” Over and over again, her distress rising.

  “Okay! Okay. No hands,” I promise, frowning. What is that about?

  It’s not easy, but I manage to get her shirt on. Slipping my arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders, I move to lift her up.

  A slight giggle slips from her lips, and her eyes flicker open again. Freezing me. Even bloodshot and unfocused, they’re gorgeous and light and hypnotizing. I can’t peel myself away from them.

  That’s probably why she manages to get her hand coiled around my head and my mouth against hers before I know what the hell is going on. Her tongue, surprisingly responsive for someone as wrecked as she is, tangles itself with mine, drawing me in with unspoken promises, sending blood rushing through my veins.

  It’s all so unexpected, so fast, so fierce, that I can’t stop it from happening. And then, as she wiggles within my grip and pulls me into her thighs, as her hands slide up the back of my shirt, I find that I don’t want to stop it from happening. We could get lost here together, tumbling down this rabbit hole of blind emotion, in search of a desperate escape that we both want. And maybe that only the two of us can truly understand.

  That’s the precise moment when I come to grips with how low I’ve sunk.

  “I can’t . . .” I wrench myself away, a new kind of guilt growing inside. A disgusting, loathsome sickness in the pit of my stomach.

  Adjusting my clothes and the hard-on that hasn’t withered yet, despite my consciousness, I scoop her up again. Whatever brief spurt of energy she tapped into has faded, leaving her limp in my arms, her eyes closed.

  “Did you come here with anyone?” I whisper more to myself, moving quickly and quietly down the stairs and through the crowd. I have no fucking clue what I’ll say if anyone stops me.

  But no one does.

  Not one person—not one friend—stops me as I carry a semi-unconscious Kacey Cleary out of a party and into a cold winter’s night in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans.

  Doesn’t she have anyone looking out for her?

  She doesn’t say another word until I sit her in the passenger seat of my car. “No . . . car . . . hate . . . car,” she moans, making a feeble effort to roll out.

  “Shhh . . . Kacey. I know.” I brush her hair off her face. It’s even softer than I imagined. “I get it. Just go to sleep.” I hesitate before leaning in to recline the seat for her, wondering if she’ll kiss me again.

  Wondering if I’d let her.

  Yes. I would. It’s so wrong, and yet I would. What the fuck is my problem?

  “It’ll be okay,” I promise, slipping her seat belt over her. Two years ago, I would have laid her down across the backseat and said screw the seat belt. But that’s never happening again.

  “I wish I could take you back to my apartment. It’s so much closer,” I mumble, tucking my coat over her body. Cranking the engine, I program her address—the one I saved in my phone—into the GPS and pull my car away from the curb, not feeling the cold. Not feeling anything but shock over tonight’s turn of events. What if I hadn’t been there? What would have happened to her?

  “Is this the real you? Or just the real you, now?” I whisper, turning to look at her. For everything else that happened to her, she has no glaring scars on her face. It’s still beautiful. That’s something, at least.

  “Can you hear me? Kacey?” I can’t stop saying her name.

  No answer.

  With hesitation, I reach out and graze her fingertips with mine. Not a moan, not a flinch.

  So, I slip my fingers within hers, feeling the softness of her skin.

  And I say the things I’ve wanted to say for so long. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If I could take it back, could change it, I would. I swear it. I’d trade my life in a heartbeat.” And I would, honestly.

  Somehow, saying these words doesn’t make me feel better. Not even slightly. So I shut up for the remainder of the drive. It takes exactly fifty-eight minutes to reach Kacey’s house, and I do it with the heat blasting and the radio silent, and holding Kacey Cleary’s limp hand within mine.

  She lives in a modest brick bungalow, with small, weathered windows and concrete steps leading up to a two-person porch. A dim light flickers, providing poor lighting for anyone coming home this late at night. The roof’s been replaced and there’s a new blue Camry parked in the driveway.

  I let go of Kacey’s hand to shake her shoulder gently. But she’s not waking up. With a sigh, I pull forward until I’m two houses down.

  And simply stare at this unconscious girl in my car. How am I going to keep track of her? How can I know this won’t happen again? Right now, I wish I lived in Lansing. I’m too far away from her. Too far away to witness her deteriorate.

  Before I can stop myself, and with careful hands, I search her pockets until my fingers wrap around her phone. No password to lock it down. I guess she doesn’t care about someone stealing it. Or some creep invading her privacy.

  Like I’m doing right now.

  I quickly scroll through her screens, copying down her phone number.

  The little email icon stares back at me. I scribble her email address down, too—just in case—and then I tuck her phone back into her pocket.

  Scooping her up, I carry her up the sidewalk, up the worn pathway, up the stairs, to the tiny porch, watching for any late-night witnesses. Though no one’s out at this time of night in the middle of winter.

  “I’m going to put you down here,” I whisper, setting her down on the concrete floor with reluctance, leaning her up against the brick wall. She hasn’t stirred, hasn’t moaned, hasn’t cracked an eyelid. I wonder what the hell she’s on.

  And then I
remember that I’m on her front porch, and the last thing I want is for her family to catch me here and begin asking questions. So I ring the doorbell and cross my fingers, my heart pounding the entire time.

  Footsteps approach from inside about thirty seconds later. I leap over the railing to duck behind a tree about ten feet away, making it just as the storm door creaks open and her little sister appears, shielding her eyes against the bright light. “Kacey.” She sighs. I was expecting a shriek, a cry. Something to tell me that this isn’t common. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” The pain within the whisper is unmistakable. She bends down and places two fingers against her sister’s wrist.

  Because that’s what it has come to for this thirteen-year-old.

  Their aunt’s head pops out—full of curlers, like you’d imagine seeing on an elderly woman. “How did she get here?” She squints into the darkness, searching, and I instinctively shrink back.

  Livie’s head is shaking before the words come out. “Can you help me with her?”

  I have to root my feet to the ground to keep from stepping out from the shadows and carrying her in. No good will come of me storming into Kacey’s life like this.

  So, I watch a girl in Snoopy pajamas and a petite woman nearing her fifties try to drag a comatose Kacey into the house. It’s futile. As slender as she is, she’s pure muscle. Finally, after a few minutes, a groggy uncle in plaid flannel steps out and lifts her up.

  “Come inside, Livie. It’s freezing,” the aunt calls out.

  “In a minute,” Livie says over her shoulder as the storm door shuts. Wrapping her arms tight around her body, she drops her head back and gazes at the stars in the clear night sky. It’s dead quiet—so quiet that I’m afraid to move a muscle. “Please don’t let me lose her too,” she whispers to no one. Or maybe to someone. To two people she’s already lost. She brushes her hand against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that have begun falling.

  And the weight of what I’ve done to these girls truly hits me.

  Kacey’s spiraling. Just like me.

  Chapter 12