He knows a brush-off when he’s been brushed. Amazingly, he holds his shit together. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
From there he goes to the roadside park where they found Eric.
Turning off his car, his chest goes straight to hurting. He stares at the white cross and remembers the flowers and stuffed animals that had been left before. Now they’re gone. People are forgetting Eric.
He swallows the golf-ball-size knot lodged in his throat. It rolls down and becomes another lump of pain in his chest.
Recalling the crazy vision he had earlier, he gets out of his car. Cold, he zips his coat. The image of Leah wearing it fills his mind and eases his hurt.
He’d really wanted to ask if she and Trent were a couple again, but he never found the nerve. He walks past the picnic table and into the woods.
Fear stirs his gut, and he’s sure it’s Eric’s fear.
“What happened here?” He walks the path. It feels so damn familiar—not because he’s been here almost fifty times since Eric died, but because he’s seen it in the dreams. He inhales cold air: there’s nothing here but a trail that leads nowhere.
Nowhere but to more pain.
“Tell me, Eric! What happened?” His voice rises. The cold air seems to quake. Or is that him?
After five minutes of fighting tears and walking in a haze of hurt, he realizes this is futile. Perhaps if Leah comes she might see something different. He makes a mental note to ask her.
When he gets in his car, his phone on the passenger seat flashes a new message. He swipes it, hoping it’s Leah. It isn’t.
It’s Ted asking if he’s okay. Questioning why he cut out early last night and saying they are throwing hoops this afternoon. Truthfully, every time he’s been with the guys since Eric died, he’s left early. He knows why.
They’re always shooting the shit, having fun. It feels wrong for him to have fun. It occurs to him, though, that having fun with Leah didn’t feel wrong. It felt so right. Probably because she understands.
“We need friends,” he hears his mom say.
He goes to text Ted to say he’ll be over, but the text bounces back. He remembers that right along this road is a dead zone.
He looks up and wonders if that’s why Eric never finished his text that night. What was it he had typed? I need …
What had Eric needed?
Matt stops himself from going there, starts the car, and forces himself to do the right thing.
When he gets to Ted’s, they are already playing basketball in the backyard. He joins in. They go at it hard. He works up a sweat, and for about an hour, he forgets.
16
Later that afternoon, I help Dad load the dishwasher. Chore done, I say I have a book waiting on me and start to my room. I do have a book waiting, but first I have two things to do, well three.
1. Check my blood pressure. I’ve felt fine all day. A little shaky when I was at Cassie’s and lot shaky when I kissed Matt. Normal stuff I’m sure. However, the fact it was high this morning has tap-danced on my mind.
2. Call Cassie. And I need to check my blood pressure before I call because I know that’ll make my blood pressure soar.
3. Call Matt. Or was he supposed to call me? I think we just said we’d talk. Either way, I’m looking forward to it. And I’m trying to forget about the scar. Taking the cross-that-bridge-when-I-come-to-it approach. If we come to it. A couple of hot kisses doesn’t mean it’s turning into something real. Something that would lead to clothes falling off.
In my room, I plop facedown on the right side of my bed, the side not covered in “maybe” clothes that I need to try on. Yeah, I decided trying on clothes in front of Brandy wasn’t a good idea. I don’t blame her. I don’t. But her reaction still stings.
I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling fan and do breathing exercises. Only when I feel my muscles go lax do I fit the blood pressure cuff on my arm. The machine hums, tightens, and releases. Finally beeps. I’m relieved when the numbers are good. It has been weighing on me more than I realized. I guess I’m not completely confident that I’m out of hot water. As I write the number down, I notice it’s higher than yesterday’s, but Dr. Hughes said it would fluctuate.
I start thinking about to-do item number 2. But I need the right words.
Hi, Cassie. Remember me, the blatant book geek? The sick girl? I was wondering what you know about Eric’s death?
So not good. I rub my palm on the pink bed covers.
Hi, Cassie. Can you explain why you told the police you didn’t see Eric the night he was killed, when he told his twin brother—who by the way I have the hots for—that he was going to your house?
Not good either. I sit up and rub my itchy palms over my knees.
Hey, Cassie. Matt is having a real hard time believing Eric killed himself. Do you, by any chance, know why anyone would want to hurt him?
Not great, not bad. Not how Matt would have worded it, but we differ in opinion on Cassie’s possible involvement.
I sit up, fluff my pillow so I’m comfortable, and open my contacts list. I find her name, stare: all I have to do is swipe it.
Just swipe it.
Just do it.
Do it already!
My heart thut thut thuts in my chest. I swipe the dang thing.
The phone rings. Rings. Then rings again. Every ring ratchets up my anxiety.
Breath locked in my lungs, I wait for her voice. I hear a click. Shit! I forgot what I was going to say? I scrub my hands harder on my knees.
A voice starts, but it’s a message. I let go of a sigh. “Sorry, the person’s mailbox you are trying to reach is full. Goodbye.”
Click.
I sit there, my pulse swishing in my ears, phone pressed against my cheek. Then I feel it. Relief. It’s over. I tried. I called. Now I get to call Matt.
But I’ve got nothing to give him.
I remember the look in his eyes that he’s almost always wearing.
Grief.
I know that five-letter word well. It took up residence in my heart when I lost my grandma three years ago. For months, I refused to think about her being dead. I pretended she’d gone back to Florida to winter. That soon she’d show up on my doorstep, all warm, smelling like cookies and hot chocolate, and she’d move back into the fourth bedroom.
She never did.
Eventually, I stopped lying to myself. I didn’t think about her that much, or at least when I did think about her, it didn’t hurt as much. Then when I got sick, I thought about her a lot. It didn’t hurt then. It brought me comfort.
I had this idealistic vision of what heaven would be like. A huge library of books. And Grandma. We’d sit at a table, sunlight streaming in, drinking hot chocolate or sweet peach tea. We’d spend all day reading and working the crossword puzzle together. Grandma loved books and words as much as I do.
It was when I found a box of all her old books that I started reading romance. Who knew my grandma enjoyed sexy books?
My mind flips from missing Grandma to Matt. How much harder would it have been if I thought someone took Grandma’s life instead of her eighty-eight-year-old heart just giving up? Or even if she’d taken that life herself? A lot harder.
Figuring out what happened to his brother won’t take Matt’s grief away. But it’ll offer that elusive thing—closure.
I found it with Grandma when I came across a stack of her letters she’d written me the year before she died. There was this unwritten message in all of them: Enjoy life.
In one letter, I found one of her amazing quotes, which I clung to when dying. One that will help me discover New Leah. Don’t do anything you know you’ll regret. But do enough to know exactly what you’ll regret and learn to regret less. For a grandma, she was cool.
The thing I know I’d regret now is walking away from Matt before giving it a chance. Besides, I want to help him. If that’s all there is, then so be it.
I call Cassie again.
The same message play
s.
At least now when she sees the missed call, she won’t think it was a misdialed number.
And she’ll … Holy shit! She’ll call me back. Cassie Chambers is gonna call me. Which means I need to be prepared.
I bite down on my lip. Why hadn’t I thought about that? Probably from burying my effing head in the sand. That worked when I was dying too.
Yup, I’m glad I took my blood pressure earlier.
After a deep breath, I start to dial Matt, but my phone rings. I yelp and throw it in the haphazard pile of maybe clothes.
Which isn’t smart, because if it’s Cassie, I need to answer it. I scramble up on my knees—not that easy to do on a memory foam mattress. The phone’s still ringing, but it’s buried in a mountain of scar-showing shirts.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I start throwing clothes willy-nilly. Left. Right. Up. Down. I finally find it. I snatch it up, without even checking who’s calling. I swipe it. I spit out, “Hello.”
“Leah?” The voice is male. The voice is familiar, and makes me totally regret answering the phone. My knees sink into the memory foam; my mood sinks with it.
“Leah? It’s me, Trent.”
* * *
Matt helps his mom in the backyard. Then they eat leftover chili and talk about what plants to buy. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention anything else about Detective Henderson or about grief counseling.
After dinner, he hits the shower before he calls Leah. Or is Leah going to call him? He can’t remember. A lot of what they discussed during lunch is lost to him because he was busy just watching her. The way she moved her hands when she talked. The way her eyes were so expressive. The way her smile crinkled her nose.
He’s under the water, hair sudsed up, when he hears his phone. Sure it’s Leah, he bolts out of the shower, reaches for a towel on the rack, but doesn’t find one. He bolts naked across the hall into his bedroom, his slippery, soapy feet sliding across his bedroom floor. He almost busts his ass, but he saves it and dives across his bed for the phone on his pillow.
“Hello,” he answers, winded.
“Matt?”
A smile pulls at his lips when he hears Leah’s voice. It’s almost musical. Not too high, but nice. Really nice.
“Yeah.” He rolls over, places a hand on his chest, and remembers their kiss.
“For a second I thought you weren’t going to answer,” she says.
He’s lost in thoughts and blurts out an apology. “Sorry, I was in the shower.”
“Oh. Do you need to go?”
“No.” He passes a hand over his face. His hand comes back full of suds. Why would I need to go?
“You could call me back.” She chuckles. “If you need to get dressed.”
What? “How do you know…?”
She chuckles. “You said you were in the shower?”
Had he? “Shit!” he says without meaning to. Embarrassment swirls in his gut. Then her flirty laughter fills his ear.
He chuckles. “I’ll call you right back.” He hangs up and the awkwardness of talking about being naked morphs into something different. Different because it’s warm and sweet and welcome. He’s a little turned on. Which is silly and juvenile, but he likes it.
Slipping on some pajama bottoms, finding a slightly used towel on his dresser, he runs it through his hair, dives back on the bed, and hits redial.
“You’re a fast dresser.” Humor sounds in her tone.
“And you’re not?” He adjusts his pillow.
“Not that fast.”
“Yeah, I guess girls make getting dressed an art. Guys just put on clothes.” He cradles the phone to his ear.
“Guys are lucky,” she says.
“Yeah, because we like the art,” he teases. Her laugh softens, and he imagines her smile. “Did you get your closet cleaned out?”
“Mostly.”
Matt knows the real reason for this call is to talk about her conversation with Cassie, but is it wrong to just enjoy talking to her for a few minutes? “Are you ready for school?”
“No.” The word sounds loaded.
“Why not?”
“Everything,” she says.
“Like?”
“Schoolwork. I’m not sure I’m caught up enough. The people. I’m not sure how they’ll take being around me. And then—”
“What do you mean about how people will take—?”
“They know I almost died.”
“Yeah, but … you didn’t die. And you’re fine now. So I don’t get it.”
She goes instantly quiet. Had he said something wrong?
She finally speaks. “It’ll freak them out.”
“Why?”
“It just does.” Sadness brushes her tone and whispers across his heart.
“I wouldn’t worry what people think. And schoolwork? I’ll help. We could meet a couple times a week.” He holds his breath, hoping.
“That’d be nice.” She sounds like she means it too.
“What else?” he asks.
“What else what?” she asks.
“What else bothers you about going back to school?” He wants … no, he needs to help.
She hesitates. “I don’t know. Figuring out who I am now.”
“You don’t know who you are?”
“Yeah.” Pause. “Not really. People change.”
He tries to wrap his head around that. “You think you’ve changed?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t notice that much change.”
Silence fills the line. Just when he’s about to say her name, she answers, “You didn’t really know me before.”
That sounds almost like an accusation, but he can’t be sure. “I’ll bet I knew you better than you think.”
“Really? What did you know about me?” Now it sounds like a challenge.
One he’s up for. “That you have gorgeous eyes. Light blue, with dark blue rings around them. And your lips are—”
“Not how I look. Everyone knows that.”
“Okay … You liked to read. You’d always had a book with you. You’d get into class and read until the teacher took over. You didn’t want to stop reading, but you always did because you’re a rule follower. You started the book club. You’re smart. You’ve always taken your classwork seriously and always turned in your homework. You’re thorough. You took your time doing tests. You’d finish then go over them again. You were quiet. You hung out with a small group of friends, also readers. One of which is Brandy, who lives across from Austin Walker. And in tenth grade, you had PE seventh period.”
When he stops talking, the line’s quiet. Sounds dead.
“Leah?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, sounding lost. “Here’s the thing. I still like to read, but I don’t like all the same books. I’ll probably join the book club, but I don’t want to run it anymore. I’m not smart about everything. I want to graduate, but I’m not worried about grades. I used to freak if I got a B. Now, I think Bs and Cs are good. Brandy is my best friend and that’s probably never changing, but my other friends … I’m not sure we connect anymore.”
He almost asks if Trent is in that “others” category. He sure as hell hopes so.
Lady prances into his room. Matt helps her up on his bed before she starts barking.
“And,” Leah continues, “I’m not quiet anymore. I say ‘shit’ way too much. Old Leah never said ‘shit.’ Old Leah didn’t have opinions. New Leah has a hard time keeping them to herself. I find myself biting my lip trying not to say things. Or I bite it because I’m nervous over what I said.”
He recalls her biting her lips—recalls wishing she wouldn’t. Her mouth looks too soft to bite.
“I’ve noticed you’re not as quiet, but speaking your mind can’t be a bad thing. And ‘shit’ isn’t the worst thing you can say.”
“I know. It’s just … I’m different. And everyone expects me to be the old me, and it feels like trying to wear someone else’s shoes.”
“
Then don’t wear them. Just be you. Wear your Donald Duck slippers.” A vision of her wearing them fills his head. It makes him smile. “Just be you.”
She chuckles, but it’s short-lived. “First I have to figure me out.” The silence returns. “How did you know when I had PE?”
Crap, he should have kept that one to himself. Or maybe not. “I uh … noticed you looked good in the gym shorts and tank top. So once or twice a week, I’d find a reason to leave class and walk through the gym.”
She laughs. “You were checking me out? Seriously?”
Yeah, but so was Trent and he got you before I made my move. “Guilty.”
Then something suddenly occurs to him. “Do you think you’ve changed because … you’ve got Eric’s heart?”
She hesitates. “Maybe. But not completely. Being sick changes you.”
He was sure it did too. As did losing people you loved.
“I called Cassie,” Leah says abruptly. “She didn’t answer, and I got a message that her voicemail is full.” She pauses. “I waited a few minutes and called again. I’m hoping she’ll see my two missed calls and try me back.”
He hears something in her voice. He recalls the fear in her eyes earlier. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
“Leah, if you don’t want to do this—”
“I’m fine.”
His gut says he shouldn’t be dragging her into this, but she’s all he’s got.
He hesitates. “What if we both go to her house tomorrow?”
“I can’t. I have … I’m going clothes shopping with my mom.”
The thought of not seeing her made tomorrow look bleak. “All day?”
“Yeah.”
“How about tomorrow night? We could…” He considers asking her out. A real date. “Maybe—”
“Can’t. We’re leaving for the weekend. Dad’s friend has a place in Fredericksburg.”
Shit! If she didn’t sound so bummed, he’d suspect she was brushing him off. “All weekend?”
“Until Sunday.”
“That sucks. Lady will miss you,” he says in lieu of saying he will.
“I’ll miss Lady too.”
Did she mean…? “Can I call you?”