“What is it?”
I walk around behind him, and I’m right: his hand is curled into a fist.
“What’s in your hand?”
He draws his hand up to his chest. “Why are you down here?”
“I forgot about the cal take-home test. I’m not going to be distracted, Landon. Open up your paw.”
His eyes are boring into mine. There’s something on his face, something that makes my stomach tighten.
“Please?” I whisper.
He opens his hand. In the milky moonlight streaming through a nearby window, I can see the blue plastic of a pill bottle, and my heart rolls over.
“Relax,” he says, his face a mask of calm. He sets the bottle on the island. “Just an Ambien.”
But I have sharp eyes. I’m used to babysitting Emmaline, whom I once found munching vitamins from the Flintstone bottle.
“What’s in your other hand?” That one is hanging suspiciously down by his thigh.
“An Ambien.” His voice is so steady, his face so calm, I’m not sure how I know he’s lying.
“Let me see.”
“Look at the bottle, Evie.”
“Open up your hand,” I challenge.
“What are you, my mother?”
“Open up your hand.”
Landon’s shrewd, gray eyes bore into mine.
“Do it—or I’ll get my parents.”
Anger twists his features, but he opens his hand, revealing several small, white ovals.
“Five! You took five of my dad’s Ambien?”
“Shhh.” He grabs the bottle, tosses it into its drawer, and grabs me by the hand, pulling me toward the basement stairs, as I cry, “Landon, what the—”
“Shhhh! Evie—”
“You have to—” put them back, I’m going to say, but Landon’s hands seize my waist. I’m lifted up and set down on the third stair.
“Quiet! Evie, please,” he hisses.
“You can’t just take them! Five’s too many!”
“Shhh.” He holds a finger over his lips, like we’re in first grade. “Evie, please be quiet and listen. Come downstairs with me.” His face has lost all of its calm. His eyes are burning.
“No. Why?” I look over my shoulder.
“Why do you think? To talk.”
“Give me the Ambien, and then we will.”
His jaw tightens. In the dim stairwell, his gray eyes look flat and hard—but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just come downstairs.” His tone is pleading.
I glance around, and, seeing neither of my parents, follow him downstairs. My mind races as I stare at his broad shoulders, rocking with his movement. Why five? Can you get high that way? What do I do?
He reaches his bedroom door, then turns to face me. “Fuck. Am I making you uncomfortable?” He looks pained. “Do you want to…I don’t know—sit on the stairs, and I’ll stand by my door?”
He runs his free hand through his hair, and I notice his eyes. They look bloodshot, with dark smudges beneath. Desperation is etched in his features.
I heave a long sigh. “Go into your room, and I’ll come, too.”
I follow him into his bedroom. Both beds, I can’t help noticing, are made.
“You haven’t been to sleep at all tonight?” I ask as he stands with a hand rubbing his forehead. There’s only one lamp turned on in his bedroom, and it’s on a nightstand right behind him. Golden light rolls out around him, casting Landon’s tall form in a shadow.
“No,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Because I fucking can’t.”
“You have insomnia?”
He exhales roughly, running his hand back through his hair.
“Is it drugs?”
“Fuck, no. Do I look like I want to end up in a fucking halfway house?”
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. “You’re stealing my dad’s Ambien.”
“Because I can’t sleep.”
“What do you mean?” I press.
“Humans have to sleep, Evie. I can’t. So I went looking for some sleeping pills and I found this. It works, so…” He lifts a shoulder, looking pained. “I only take it when I really need to.”
“Five!” I shake my head. “Did you think my dad wouldn’t notice?”
“Yes. The prescription is from 2005. Clearly, he never takes it.”
“Still…you can’t be taking five per night. The dose is—”
He’s shaking his head. “These aren’t for tonight. I already took one, in the kitchen. These are for the next few times I need one.”
I try to picture Landon swallowing my father’s Ambien in the kitchen. That means he didn’t even wait to walk downstairs. He must have wanted it right then. I look at his face, his tired eyes and his downturned mouth. He looks unhappy. Maybe even miserable.
“What’s wrong?” I ask more softly.
“Like I told you, I can’t sleep.”
“I know, but why do you think that is?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Is it like…you’re just not tired?” Even to my own ears, that sounds stupid. “Is it nightmares? Like, disturbing memories or something?”
“Yeah, it’s nightmares. Every night. The fucking boogeyman.” His tone is cutting.
“Sorry. I just…” I blow my breath out slowly. “I think you should tell my parents. They’re nice, you know that. They would try to help. My dad—”
“No fucking way.”
“Why not?”
“Foster parents don’t like trouble, Evie. Don’t you know that?”
“That’s not true. And anyway, if you just talk to them, I won’t say a word about the Ambien. Just tell them you can’t sleep.”
“You think your fucking dad can help me sleep? What is he going to do, hold me in the rocking chair?”
“Well, no.”
“Before I found the Ambien…” He sighs, looking down and then back up with hard eyes. “These were in the back. But there was Valium right in front of them.”
I gape. “You took some Valium?”
“I took one. I hadn’t been to sleep in three days then.”
My jaw is on the floor. I’m not sure what is more alarming: the idea of Landon being awake for three days, or the thought of what my dad would do if he found Landon pocketing his Valium. “How does no one know this! Why wouldn’t it be in your papers or something? That you can’t sleep.”
“You think they write down shit like that?”
“Well, yeah. So you could have continuity, you know, like from one house to the next.”
He snorts, but even that sounds tired. “Nobody gives a fuck about that, Evie.”
“I do.”
“Yeah, well good for you.”
I take a moment, weighing my options while I blink at him. “You have to put back the Ambien,” I say finally. “My dad could notice, especially if you’ve taken some before.”
His jaw tightens, but he holds his palm out. My fingertips graze his warm skin as I take the pills.
“Tomorrow night, you’ll… I don’t know. I’ll help you somehow. We can watch a movie.”
“Watch a movie?” His lip curls.
“A TV show,” I clarify. “Something super boring, to put you to sleep. I’ve got the perfect one—about real estate.”
He arches his brows. I hold my breath, and he lets his out. “If you say so.”
“I say so.” I want to touch him—so much I can’t keep myself from reaching out and smacking his arm lightly. “I can even make you tea.” I smile up at him.
He smirks, looking like his usual self despite his tired face. “Tea?”
“Chamomile. It’s so relaxing. You’ll see.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I look around the room, then back at his face. “You look super tired. I’m sorry you can’t sleep.”
He shrugs.
“Do you want to talk
about it?”
“Do you have your own couch, doctor?”
I smile. “I forgot. You’re not a fan of therapists. You teased me about that the first time we ever talked, at school that day.”
He nods once, as if to say yep.
“This house is a good place. Trust me. And don’t worry, about the Ambien. Or the Valium. I won’t say anything. But if you need something, you should tell me. Okay?”
He smiles. “If you say so.”
“Tomorrow night. I say so.”
Five
Evie
Except the next night, when I text Landon, asking if he’s still awake, he doesn’t text me back. The morning after, I see him at breakfast, but he hides behind the newspaper. On the ride to school, we roll our windows down so we can feel the fresh air as I drive us down the hills toward town, and play the radio a little loud, the way I’ve done from day one. We comment on the traffic, Landon sings along with all the pop songs—he knows the lyrics to every one of them, thanks to his amazing memory—and when we stop at a light near the school, I ask him how he slept.
“Better.”
As we walk into school, I try to watch him without being seen. I’m always surprised by his height when I stop and pay attention. He’s a full six feet, and in the time he’s been with us, he’s gotten bulkier. His arms and shoulders have filled out, and playing soccer has thickened his calves.
With his haircut and nicer clothes, he’s turning heads, which I notice as I lag behind him.
When I pass my locker, I stop like I always do, and like he always does, Landon keeps on moving, giving me a nod as he continues on without me. His locker is down a little ways, closer to our shared homeroom. He stops and gets his books, while I’m unloading most of mine—because unlike me, Landon doesn’t bring books home. I guess he doesn’t have to.
In homeroom, he yawns three times, eventually propping his elbow on his desk and doing the good ol’ cheek-in-palm routine, shutting his eyes when he thinks no one’s looking. The smile he gives me when we part ways is small and strained, falling quickly off his mouth as he turns toward his next class.
“See ya at lunch,” he says over his shoulder.
At lunch he seems remote, talking to Pax about some game they both play on their phones, then helping Makayla with a pre-cal problem. I catch him yawning twice. He’s got a slice of pizza on his lunch tray, but he doesn’t finish it.
That afternoon in the car, he leans his head back against his chair’s head rest a few times, and rubs his eyes a few other times. We chat about Led Zeppelin, Landon telling me the story of how Jimmy Page met Robert Plant. He mentions that Plant had a five-year-old son die, and tells me that the song “All of My Love” is dedicated to him.
“Wow… I didn’t know. That’s super sad.”
“Yeah.” He leans his head back then and stays that way for a while, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. I wish I knew him better, but I’m not sure how to get him to talk to me. Maybe he never will, and I’ll just keep watching him the way I do until we graduate.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t want to know him more. That he’d been the seven-year-old my parents thought we were getting. Then I really think about that, and my stomach clenches.
That night at home, I try my best to ignore him. The way he grins at Emmaline’s crazy, made-up, ladybug tap dance. The way his forearms gleam, so thick and tanned, when he washes his hands in the kitchen sink for dinner. The way his fingers look around his cutlery as he eats my parents’ pork tenderloin and asparagus. The way he laughs at my dad’s weirdo patient story of the day.
After dinner, he does the dishes before going downstairs. I’m left with a view of his shoulders as he loads the dishwasher.
In my room, I take a bath and lie there till the water goes cold.
Several hours later, I text him, asking if he’s awake, and again he doesn’t text me back. He tells me on the ride to school the next morning that he just got my text.
I give him side-eye.
“It’s true,” he says. “I was asleep.”
He has dark circles underneath his eyes, so I’m not sure I believe that.
Tuesday is a pretty ordinary school day. I’m moody from the get-go. Nothing bad happens, but I feel like something did. When I see Landon at lunch, talking about Marvel comic books with Pax and complimenting Tia’s hair braid, I decide I maybe hate him.
I forget about soccer practice until the bell rings, and I’m taking apart my clarinet.
“Who killed your kitten?”
I jump. Makayla is wiggling her eyebrows at me.
“Ugh,” I groan. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve been a moody booty all day.”
“I know.”
Makayla hugs me, and I kind of want to cry. Maybe it’s my time of the month.
Outside by the soccer field, I stretch for longer than my norm and keep on tugging at my running shorts. They feel too short. It’s a hot day, but there’s a breeze that makes my ponytail tickle my neck.
Coach is in a mood, too, it seems, making us run harder than usual before practice. Every time I round one corner of our practice field, I see the boys across the way. No matter how much I tell myself not to, my eyes seek out Landon.
After we run, we all get water, and then we split up into teams. I’m playing forward, my favorite position. After such a lousy day, I’m surprised to find I’m really on my game. I’m moving the ball like a boss, headed toward the goal, when I notice Landon running the opposite way on the field that’s parallel to ours. I kick the ball, and right then, Pax’s elbow connects with Landon’s face.
I don’t know what happens—I guess I’m watching him and not my footing. One second, I’m running, and the next, I’m on the ground. I’m on my belly, my chin in the grass, and OH SHIT MY LEG!
My leg. I start to scream, because my brain exploded when my leg did. I can’t think, can only scream.
Tia’s face is over me, then Coach’s, and I’m crying. “I think…” I gasp, trying to get out “I broke my leg,” but I can’t even form the words.
The pain is awful, like a knife that someone’s twisting.
I’m aware I’m crying, but I can’t think straight. Someone lifts me off the field—maybe two people. I’m being carried. Someone’s chest… My forehead’s up against a T-shirt. Then my ears come back online, and I notice the murmurs rumbling through the chest I’m up against.
I catch the word “fuck” and “Evie…”
I look up, and—Landon. He’s the one who’s holding me. Carrying me. We stop, and someone has my legs while Landon has my shoulders. I’m eased onto one of the benches, sitting on it with my legs out in front of me. Coach Shelly is by my ankle.
“Evie, I want to take your shoe off. Can I—”
“No! Don’t touch it!”
“We need to know if you can—”
“No!” I start to cry, and I feel Landon’s arms around my shoulders.
Someone else is there by Coach Shelly—it’s Coach DelMar, the boys’ coach. Through my tears, I see him frown down at my ankle. It looks puffy, maybe slightly bluish. DelMar reaches toward it.
“No.” Landon’s voice is right beside my shoulder. “She said no.” He’s got his arms under my arms, making a loop around my upper chest.
“Can you feel your toes, Evie?” Coach Shelly asks.
“I don’t know.” My eyes glitter with tears. “I can’t tell…” I try to move my toes, but nothing really seems to happen. “It just…really hurts.” Kind of like I hit my funny bone—with a butcher knife.
Coach Shelly turns and blows her whistle, causing the crowd around me to disperse, while Coach DelMar inspects my ankle without touching it.
“What’s the pain like? What does it feel like specifically?”
“Like…stabbing,” I say, sounding breathless. Landon’s arms around my shoulders tighten.
“One to ten?”
I laugh through my tears. “Eighty?”
He nods briskly. “Someone needs to take her in.”
I feel Landon shift his weight behind me.
“Evie,” Couch DelMar says, “we can call your parents and wait for one of them to get here, I can call an ambulance if the pain is too bad to weather it out, or one of us can drive you. Landon? Tia? Or Coach Shelly?”
Tears stream down my cheeks, because I can’t think straight. The ankle throbs, making me flinch. “I want to go…right now.”
“I can drive her,” Landon says. He loosens his hold on me, his hands coming up to my shoulders.
“My mom’s surgery day is Tuesday,” I hear myself say. “Em’s friend’s mom takes her home with them and…my dad gets her at six-thirty.”
“So your parents are both at Carolina General?” Couch DelMar asks.
I nod as tears roll down my cheeks.
I feel Landon come around my side. “Evie.” I open my eyes and see his face by mine. “Is that okay? I can do it,” he says. “If you want.” Landon’s eyes shift from my face to somewhere—maybe Jake—and then he regards me with his lips pressed together.
“Sure.” The ankle throbs, and I curl over, whimpering. I feel Landon’s arm behind my back, and then his other underneath my knees. “I’ll be careful as I can,” he says, as he lifts me.
My whole body feels hot and sweaty, so it’s weird that I’m still shivering as he carries me. I lock an arm around his neck, because I’m irrationally worried he might drop me.
“I’ve got you.” I feel his chin against my hair. “You’re light as a feather, Evie.”
“No, I’m not.” Still crying. I tell myself I need to stop, but I cry more as Landon eases me in to my car’s passenger’s seat, and Tia leans in close to buckle my seatbelt.
I look down at my ankle, resting in the floorboard. “It hurts…really bad, like this.” Everyone around me talks at once, and then it’s Landon kneeling by me once more. “I’m sorry.” His eyes are sadder than I’ve ever seen them, taking me off guard. “I should have thought about the angle, with your legs down. Jake is gonna drive us in his Jeep, and we’ll sit in the back with you.”
“And so will I,” Tia promises. “Landon will sing songs and I’ll play with your hair.”
“Okay.” I’m trying not to cry as Landon picks me up again. My ankle bobs slightly as we walk to Jake’s silver Jeep.