The doctor moves in. I hadn’t even called her office. I’d called Brandy.
We’d been waiting at the doctor’s door when the front desk clerk unlocked it.
“Just a cold,” I say. My phone dings. I ignore it. Dr. Hughes has a no-phone rule. Plus, I kind of know it’s from Matt. I’d texted him and told him I had a headache and wouldn’t be at school.
“Your transplant book lists the kind of cold meds you can take, but I’ve written them down here. Because of your immune system, the cold might hang on longer than before. You need to rest, get fluids and TLC. Don’t go to school as long as you’re running a fever.”
She tilts her head to the side and folds her hands over her chest. I know that look. “Your mom doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
I shift my shoulders, trying to knock off the guilt. I’d lied to the desk clerk, but lying to my favorite doctor is harder. “She just started her job this week. I didn’t want…”
I hear her exhale. “She’s going to be furious at you for not telling her. And she’s going to be livid at me for not calling her.”
I get my con face on. “But I lied to you. You never knew any different. My bad.”
She sighs.
“Besides, I’ll take her anger over her quitting her job or something. Because she would have. You’ve seen her.” Those damn marbles rolling around my chest get heavier. “She gave up everything to take care of me. I refuse to do that to her again.”
Dr. Hughes frowns. It hurts. I don’t get a lot of frowns from her. “She loves you.”
“And I love her. That’s why I did this.” The doc’s frown remains steady. “I’m going to tell her. But now I can tell her it’s just a cold and you’ve given me your white-coat blessing.”
She drops down in a chair. “How are things other than your cold? You feeling okay? School not too much for you?”
“It’s great. Good.”
“College plans?”
“Working on ’em.”
She picks up her chart and clicks her pen. Click. Click. Click. “And the dreams?”
I consider lying, but I’ve already done that today. “Still having them.” I vaguely recall I had one this morning.
“And you still believe these are more than dreams?”
“Yes.” I wish I could lie to her. I know that’s what she wants to hear.
She nods. I can’t read her expression. Not sure if it’s disappointment or disbelief. “There’s support groups that you can join. Others who may even share your feelings.”
That almost sounds as if she believes me. “I’m okay.” Right then I realize I’m no longer scared of Eric. Maybe it’s because I love his brother.
Maybe it’s because I’m more afraid of Jayden Soprano.
When I leave, Brandy is in the waiting room, chewing on her nails. She does that when she’s nervous. I didn’t think about how bringing me to the doctor would worry her. I’m a terrible friend.
I walk over to her. She looks up, eyes round, cheeks pale. It’s a look I haven’t seen on her face in a long time. It’s the oh-God-my-friend’s-dying look. I hate what I’ve done to everyone. But at least this time it’s nothing. This time. “I have a cold.”
“You scared the shit out of me over a cold?” she says way too loud.
Then she jumps up and hugs me. The waiting-room crowd watches us.
“You’re going to get my cold,” I whisper.
“Don’t care,” she says. “I love you,” she blurts out.
“I love you too,” I say, and get teary-eyed. When we pull back, I see everyone is staring. But they’re smiling too.
On the drive back, I text Matt, confirm it’s a cold, and say I’m fine.
Brandy insists on playing nursemaid. She gets me home, runs to the store, and buys the cold medicine Dr. Hughes suggested and a couple of cans of chicken and stars soup.
I hate chicken and stars soup. But when she serves it, I eat at least half of it because she bought it. I strip down to only my old extralarge, extraworn blatant-book-geek T-shirt and panties.
We lay in bed. I still have a few marbles rolling around my chest. But they are lighter as I listen to her talk about boys, sex, and graduation. She’s scared we’ll stop being friends when she goes away to Austin. She’s afraid Brian will find someone else when he goes to school in Alabama.
I can’t promise for Brian, but I assure her we’ll still be friends when our hair’s gray and our boobs hang down to our belly buttons. And that really happens. I know. I saw Grandma naked once. Not pretty.
At one o’clock, the doorbell rings and Brandy goes to see who it is. When she returns, she’s not alone. Matt stops at the foot of the bed. “How sick are you?”
“Just a cold,” I insist.
Brandy walks behind him. “Okay, who’s going to tell me what happened to his eye?”
“I ran into a wall.” Matt keeps staring at me as if worried.
“Ooookay.” Brandy says with disbelief, but drops it. “He brought chicken and stars soup. I told you everyone eats it when they get a cold.”
Brandy hangs out a while, then heads home. I try to get Matt to go, so I can regroup and decide how I’m gonna tell Mom. He refuses.
He lays in bed with me, and we talk about trivial stuff. His best vacation, his favorite movie, the best scenes in Harry Potter.
Then I notice the flicker of pain in his eyes. Did he have another dream? Or…? “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you hear something from Henderson?”
“No.” He pauses. “Ted came by last night. He told me about Eric. He also told me that he told you.”
I feel disloyal for not telling him sooner. “He begged me not to tell you. Said he should do it.”
“I know. It’s fine. I … What Eric said was just a figure of speech. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.”
I bite down on my lip. He wants me to reassure him, and I want to, and I believe him, mostly. But there’s a part of me that worries Ted’s right, not even so much about Eric but about me trying to get Matt to move on. Am I helping Matt or hurting him? If I encouraged him to stop, to let it go, would he? “Henderson is going to get to the bottom of it.” That’s all the encouragement I can do now.
We settle back into low-key chatting. The cold medicine must have made me sleepy, because the next thing I know, a deep loud voice is yanking me from slumber.
I pop my eyes open.
“This is not okay!” Dad’s standing at my door. Matt’s snuggled beside me. He’s lifting his head off my pillow, staring at my dad. I must have kicked my covers off and my T-shirt rose up because my white panties are there for everyone to see.
I snatch the blanket to cover myself.
Dad points a finger at Matt. “Get out!”
Matt scrambles up. “I … I…”
“It’s not what you think, Dad!” I blurt out.
“What I think is he was in your bed. Am I imagining that?”
“I’m sick. I went to the doctor. He brought me soup.” I wave to the bowl of half eaten chicken and stars. The fact that Brandy brought that can doesn’t matter.
Dad’s anger fades faster than ice cream in August.
“What’s wrong?” His fear, the familiar pain, echoes in his eyes. And smacks me right in the chest, reminding me how much I’ve hurt them.
“It’s a cold. Just a cold. I went to see Dr. Hughes. She did bloodwork and everything.” I sneeze, perfect timing.
“Why didn’t your mom call me?” Dad’s no longer glaring at Matt, who’s now standing as far away from my bed as possible, looking eager to bolt but unable to do so because Dad’s blocking the doorway.
Dad’s gaze shifts to Matt. Matt shuffles his feet. “We were just talking, sir. She fell asleep. And I did too.”
Dad nods but his gaze goes to my covers and I can read his mind. Next time you have a cold and are just talking in bed with a guy who brought you chicken soup, you should be fully clothed.
* * *
It’s a week
and a half later. Friday night, to be exact, and I hear the doorbell, knowing it’s the pizza Mom ordered. I sit up, nervous about the dinner conversation I plan to have.
Breathing deep, I stand up, stare at my reflection in my dresser mirror, and finger-comb my hair. It took everything I had to kick that cold in the ass. Actually, I think it kicked me first. But it didn’t kill me. It did increase my I-could-die anxiety.
Dr. Hughes was right about the cold lasting longer than before. She was also right about Mom being livid that I hadn’t called her before I went to see Dr. Hughes. When she came home that night, she did exactly what I was afraid she’d do—had a hissy fit, started rubbing her palms on her hips, and threatened to quit her job.
I did exactly what I shouldn’t have done. Something I’d never done. I blew a gasket. It wasn’t pretty.
It was as if those marbles in my chest turned into golf balls, and the only way I could make them go away was to speak my mind. I told her she had to stop treating me like I was dying. Never mind that I was trying to stop doing that myself. I told Dad he had to accept I wasn’t thirteen and would eventually get naked with a guy.
Thankfully, Dad, always the negotiator, although upset, played referee during my gasket blow and Mom’s hissy fit.
We ended up compromising. Dad worked from home while I recovered from my cold. Mom didn’t have to miss work after just going back. I apologized for not calling them when I realized I had a fever—though I wasn’t really sorry about that—and for threatening to run away. Perhaps that was a tad dramatic. I didn’t apologize about being in bed with Matt.
We hadn’t been doing anything wrong.
I still blame the biggest part of my gasket blow on being sick. Which was a bummer. Not that the whole week sucked. I read four books. I’m up to ninety. Yes!
Brandy came over every day. So did Matt. However, the Dad-at-home part of the bargain meant Matt’s visits were stressful. Not that Matt complained. And not that Dad was rude, just curt. When I apologized to Matt, he said he didn’t care. Nothing was keeping him from seeing me.
We didn’t make out, but we studied. And we talked. A lot. I think I know just about everything there is to know about Matt Kenner. His favorite cartoon was Pokémon. His favorite band is the Chainsmokers. He told me Eric and Matt stories.
I noticed that when he talked about Eric, he didn’t clench his jaw like he had before. I think that’s a good sign.
Mom calls me to dinner. I move in and sit at the table. Instead of diving into the needed conversation, I dive into the pizza. I pretend I’m not freaking out. Pretend I’m not about to lie to my parents. It’s not as if I haven’t lied to them before. I’m not a saint. I’ve lied to them plenty of times.
Just not a premeditated lie. And I’ve been premeditating this one to death.
“Do you really like pineapple on your pizza?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. For some reason, I’ve been craving sweet and salty things together.” Not that I’m tasting anything right now. “It’s good.” To prove it, I take another bite. I’m chewing. I’m contemplating.
Oh, damn. I’m pretty sure I’m going to screw this up.
I actually consider telling them the truth. Just come out and tell them that tomorrow Matt and I will spend the night in a hotel. Telling my parents—well, at least telling Mom—should be easy. She took me for a presex exam. She bought me protection. She put me on the pill.
Yet the last thing I want to do is tell her. Because then all I’ll think about tomorrow is about her thinking about me having sex. So … I hafta lie.
“Oh,” I say around the pizza as if speaking with a mouthful makes lying easier. “I’m spending tomorrow and tomorrow night with Brandy.”
Did I sound guilty? Shit shit shit! I sounded guilty!
“You’re not going out with Matt?” Mom asks, wearing her concerned-Mom expression.
“She doesn’t have to go out with Matt,” Dad says, looking pleased. If only he knew.
“We’ll probably all go to a movie.” I toss out another lie and start chasing a loose mushroom around my plate. When I catch it, I fork it.
“That sounds fun,” Mom says. “Your dad and I are going to the Bensons’ for dinner.”
I swallow, chase, and kill another mushroom. Then push my plate away. “Do I need to help clean up?”
“Nah, you did dishes last time,” Mom says. “It’s your dad’s turn.”
Dad grins. “She can clean up if she wants to.”
“Wouldn’t want to take that joy from you.” I force a smile. Now with the lie completed, I can go to my room and start having my scheduled panic attack over me spending the night with Matt.
34
“I’m going fishing with Ted this weekend in Galveston,” Matt sits down with his mom Friday night when she returns from grief counseling. Lying is always a little hard, even when he’s not doing anything wrong.
Then again, it’s not just the lie that has him on edge.
It’s this weekend. As ready as he is, as excited as he is, he’s nervous. He wants Saturday night to go perfect.
“That’s nice. You haven’t done that in a while.”
So true. He swallows. He knows she doesn’t mean what he’s thinking about, but it still hits a nerve. If the saying “practice makes perfect” is true, he’s in trouble. It’s been eighteen months. And he wasn’t so sure he had everything down then. Jamie didn’t always seem to enjoy it nearly as much as he did.
And he really wants to make sure Leah enjoys this.
His mom gets up and opens the fridge. “You want a sandwich?”
“Nah, I had a hamburger.” He turns the soda can in his hands. The condensation makes his palms damp. Or is that nerves?
Pushing those thoughts away, he glances up at her. “Didn’t you go out and eat dinner?”
“Yeah, some people in the grief-counseling group met for dinner. But I’m usually pretty overwhelmed after the meeting and never eat more than a few bites.”
Matt watches her take out the mayonnaise and lunch meat.
“But it’s helping, right?”
“Yeah. I’m better than I was.” She grabs a knife and starts spreading mayonnaise on the bread. She glances back up. “Then sometimes I feel guilty because I’m better.”
“I know,” Matt says. He’d been dealing with that himself. There’s a part of him that’s walking on air when he’s around or thinking about Leah; then there’s the other part. “I realize I’m happy and then I feel bad for being happy.”
The fact that he hasn’t had the dreams lately is good because he’s sleeping better. But there’s still those odd times, like seeing the shake menu, when it hits him.
Detective Henderson called him yesterday with good news. He’d confirmed that Jayden did have a police record. They weren’t officially opening the case yet, but they’d called to get Jayden to come down for questioning. That’s when Henderson learned Jayden was in Florida with his dad. Matt flipped a little and told the detective Jayden wasn’t coming back. Henderson assured Matt that he’d already called and spoken to the father.
Patience.
“The counselor says it’s normal. We have to keep going,” his mom says. “He promises that it’ll get easier.”
Matt nods and decides to just blurt it out. “Mom, I went to see Detective Henderson again.”
He waits to hear her scold him, tell him that he has to let things go. Instead, she places a piece of ham on the bread, and he wonders if she heard him. He starts to repeat himself when she looks up.
“I know. Detective Henderson has kept me in the loop.”
He swallows the gulp of surprise. Did she also know where he got the black eye that is only now starting to fade? “Why … why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was trying to figure out how I feel about it.” She brings the sandwich to the table and sits down. Her green eyes are round and unreadable.
“And how do you feel?” Did he really want to know?
“Scared,” s
he says.
“Scared of what?” he asks.
“To believe it. I want so badly to believe that Eric didn’t…”
“He didn’t, Mom. I know.”
“I hope that’s true.” She takes a deep breath. “But then when I think someone did this to him, I get furious. And I realize that I can’t let that consume me either.”
“I know,” he says. Right then he remembers what Ted told him Eric said that night. It was the first time Matt really felt any doubt. But when he tried to envision Eric pulling that trigger, knowing what it would do to him and his mom, Matt kicked the doubt away. He knows that Jayden Soprano killed his brother.
When he looks up, his mom’s staring at him again. She leans over and puts her hand on his. “No matter what, we have to go on living.”
“I’m doing that.” He takes a sip of soda.
She settles back in her chair. “I know. I see you smiling more. And I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t due to the elusive and mysterious Lori.”
“It could be,” he says, but his gut knows that’s the most ridiculous understatement that’s slipped off his tongue in a year. Lori is the biggest reason he’s doing as well as he is.
“I want to meet her,” his mom says.
“Yeah.” That’s something to worry about another day. How will his mom feel when she discovers that Leah has Eric’s heart?
* * *
Saturday I drive over to Brandy’s and park in her driveway. Her parents are away this weekend, making it perfect timing. Except that I know Brian is staying there.
I don’t like the idea of interrupting their time. But Brandy insisted I show up at noon so we could chat before Matt arrives at one to pick me up. He hasn’t told me exactly where we’re going, except to Galveston.
I’m nervous as hell. Probably more about my scar than the sex. I keep hearing Brandy’s gasp when she saw the scar and imagining the sound coming from Matt’s lips. I hope he can handle it.
I grip the steering wheel and do some deep breathing to calm my nerves.
“You coming in?”
I jump an inch off the seat, then look at Brandy—still wearing her frumpy pajamas—standing outside my window. I wonder if that’s what she wears when she sleeps with Brian. I brought some long pajama pants, but I also have some sexier tight boy shorts that will match the pink silk camisole that I plan on wearing to bed … and keeping on.