by Ann Aguirre
Me.
I never thought I’d feel so grateful to Clay but when he strides in, my heart settles. This isn’t the time. I can’t confess with Morgan’s boyfriend in the room, so he’s taken the onus off me. Plus, Mr. Frost would definitely give my parents trouble, even if they believe me.
So whatever I decide to do, I have to plan it well, and the clock is ticking. Tomorrow I start truly living Morgan’s life.
5
I’m in the front seat of Mr. Frost’s Cadillac, buckled in safely, and he’s driving ten miles below the speed limit, constant anxious glances at me as we go. It would be natural if I were terrified of cars, but I don’t remember much about the accident. It’s all jumbled in my head, and I only remember talking to Nathan moments before it happened.
“You can rest when we get home,” Mr. Frost says. “Wanda will fix you a tray. She’s been cooking all day.”
For a minute, I have no idea who that is, then I figure out it must be their housekeeper, who I’ve always called Mrs. Rhodes. But I’m not sure if that’s what Morgan says. Probably not, as the woman has been working for the Frost family for ten years. Morgan’s mom died when she was seven, and Mr. Frost hired a lady to help with household management.
“Thanks.”
“I know you’re struggling. Do you want me to make you an appointment with—”
“No,” I cut in. Therapy is the last thing I need. A smart, determined person poking around in my head? That’s a recipe for disaster. “I just need … some time.”
That sounds reasonable, right?
“Okay. But promise me you’ll talk to Clay, at least.”
Shit. I was planning to break up with him first chance I got, but it occurs to me that Mr. Frost will take this as erratic behavior. They’ve been together almost six months, Morgan’s longest relationship to date, and if I dump Clay, it’ll probably read as a danger sign.
I make an assenting noise, one Morgan used when she felt impatient. God, I hate that I’m copying her. The deeper into this life I sink, the harder it will be to extricate myself later. Presuming that’s possible.
“Your phone was broken,” he goes on. “I got you a new one and had the techs at work transfer all your content and contacts. Don’t worry, I didn’t read your messages.”
“Where is it?” That seems like her; she always had her cell in hand.
“In your room. I can carry you if—”
“Pass. I can make it up the steps before collapsing. I won’t tear my stitches.” The sharpness slips out because I just can’t handle his hovering.
Since that’s probably how Morgan would feel too, Mr. Frost relaxes a little as he pulls into the drive. Next, he taps the button to open the massive black wrought-iron gates. Getting onto Frost property is an immense production. There are cameras mounted on the stone posts on either side and they swivel as we go past.
I wish with all my heart that I was going home to our cozy three-bedroom ranch house and that I could crawl under the covers in my own bed. Instead, an imposing stone villa comes into view as we round the curve. The variegated granite gives it a shimmer effect when the sun catches it right. As a kid, I thought of it as Morgan’s princess castle, but as we got older, so much space for two people seemed sad.
It’s a quarter mile from the gate to the mansion, lined on both sides with a lovely mix of black gum, crab apple, magnolia, and redbud trees. In the spring this drive is breathtaking, but it’s late summer, and I’m watching the rearview mirror. Those closed gates make the whole place feel like a prison.
Mr. Frost parks the car. I always loved the fountain in the center of their circular drive. It’s rigged with special lights, so when Morgan hosts a party, it glows red, green, blue, shifting through all the colors on a timer, while frothy streams shoot up in different patterns. Today the fountain is turned off, so the stone rim is dry, catching sparkles from the sun. Despite the sweltering heat I shiver as I step from the air-conditioned car. Mr. Frost takes my arm and I throttle the urge to pull away.
You’re not my father. Don’t touch me.
But this isn’t his fault, either.
Just a little longer. Then I’ll have some privacy.
Yet when I’d dismissed that flight of stairs I didn’t realize how much it would hurt hauling myself up them. Mr. Frost hovers as I struggle but I wave him off. I rode in a wheelchair down to the car and haven’t walked all that much. Each step pulls the incision holding my guts in, and my shoulder throbs like crazy. By the time I get to Morgan’s room, I’ve broken out in a cold sweat and I fall onto her bed with a quiet groan. I put on sweats for my discharge, so I don’t have to change clothes. In hindsight this seems like awesome planning.
I’m hurting bad enough that I don’t even care about my situation at the moment. Sleep is all I need; it’s everything. In ten seconds I’m out.
When I wake, the rich glow of twilight tints the room purple, which is an improvement. Morgan’s room is all cool elegance, white plus white. Before, I was afraid to spend much time in here. One dropped slice of pizza or a broken ink pen would ruin everything. But Morgan said it made her feel peaceful … like a snowy field. We don’t get much snow in Renton, maybe a sprinkle once a year. It definitely never sticks or stays.
There’s a tray waiting beside the bed, which means Mrs. Rhodes came in while I was crashed out. That probably wouldn’t bother Morgan, but it’s kind of freaky for me. My mom and dad never come into my room. If they need me, they knock. My mom isn’t the snooping kind. She doesn’t rifle through my belongings or poke at my computer. It’s not that she’s perfect, but when she loses her temper, she always apologizes afterward and explains why, so I know it wasn’t me. I mean, sometimes it is my fault because I’m not flawless either. And sometimes we misunderstand each other. I think of all the times I shoveled down something she cooked and ran back to my room without saying more than ten words, and I choke up.
I’m sorry. I didn’t know how fast it could all be taken away.
My dad is a little tougher. He’s a college professor and he’s always demanding to see my homework. I swear he scores my papers harder than my actual teachers, but his criticism gets me better grades. On weekends, he’s all about cooking pancakes for brunch and then book shopping. His idea of family togetherness is a monthly book club, where we all discuss what we read. I pretend to hate it, but honestly, it’s kind of cool.
Overall, I won the parent lottery, and I can’t stand that they’re only three miles away, three miles that might as well be three thousand. My brother used to text me when he wanted something, and I’d go down the hall to find him surrounded by video games and chip bags, no matter how often Mom yelled at him for eating in his room.
Jason Montgomery Burnham, we’ll get roaches. Rats. Rats and roaches. Is that what you want? One day I’ll come in here to find you covered in them.
The light flips on. Someone’s in the room without knocking. I bite my lip against the instinctive complaint. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.” Mr. Frost steps into view. “Did I wake you?”
You just turned on the light in a dark room. Stupid question, your answer is yes. Except for two inescapable facts: one, I was already up, and two, that’s bitchy, as Morgan seldom was. Only in this cool, vague way, so the person she insulted was never completely sure if she meant that how it sounded. But I don’t have her command of verbal subtlety.
So I just shake my head.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, I just woke up.” Again, duh. It’s so awful that I think Mr. Frost is an idiot when he’s trying so hard. But I can totally tell that technology is his forte, not people.
“Do you mind if Clay keeps you company?”
“It’s fine.” I never would’ve guessed he’d be so diligent about visiting a sick girlfriend.
Seems like Morgan was right in picking Clay, against popular opinion. I remember how shocked everyone was when she showed up with him at prom. He quit school two years before and was basical
ly off the market, dating-wise. People said he preferred hooking up with older women. In Clay’s own words: Schoolgirls are a pain in the ass … and a waste of time.
Morgan changed his mind. And now I’m reaping the benefit.
So damn wrong, on every level.
6
Never did I picture Clay hanging out at Morgan’s house. In fact, I was never sure if her dad knew they were together. Morgan wasn’t big on explaining herself, even to me. So it’s awful, but I imagined him as a dirty little secret. See, the Claymore boys are what my Mamaw would’ve called white trash. Their dad died in a mine accident when Nathan was ten. As for their mom, well, her habits are … irregular at best.
None of that is Clay or Nathan’s fault. Regardless, I love Nathan. His family situation never impacted our relationship, except that he spent a lot of time at my place.
But now I’m tangled up with his older brother.
Feeling guilty, I muster a smile as Clay steps in. He hovers by the door with enough awkwardness that I can tell he hasn’t been here often, and he contrasts sharply with the décor. Everything in here but Clay is sleek, delicate, and feminine, like a room designed for a shoot at Marie Claire. But he’s not a stealth boyfriend, that’s for sure, even if he’s not who Mr. Frost would pick for his pride and joy.
At this point I have no idea what she’d say or do. But this is uncharted territory for anyone. Their relationship hasn’t been tested by tragedy, so it’s not like I’ll set off Clay’s alarm bells, no matter how I act. I’m so sorry, Morgan.
“Looks like you came from work,” I say.
Clay has on faded jeans and a black T-shirt imprinted with a logo. Before, I was nearsighted but now I can make out the words from here. The name of the shop is India Ink; the design’s pretty cool, actually, red and bronze with a steampunk vibe: a skull wearing a top hat and goggles, with a cog to frame it. INDIA INK curves in a banner above, which looks like it has ink spattered on it.
“Yeah. I’ve been worried about you all day.”
I have to remind myself he’s talking to Morgan, not me. He’d want to pull my soul out through my nostrils if he knew the truth.
“I … hurt.” This is bald, basic truth on every possible level.
“Do you have any meds you can take?” He crosses the room and as I’m watching, I realize he’s taller than Nathan.
Because he’s thicker, Clay doesn’t register the same lankiness. I’m guessing he’s six one to Nathan’s five eleven, broader at the chest and shoulders. Nathan is lean like a swimmer, but nicely muscled. They both have hazel eyes, though Nathan’s are greener while Clay’s tilt heavier toward gold. Both have strong jaws. Nathan’s face is narrower and his brows aren’t as heavy. Clay usually looks sleepy, as if he’s bored by life and you, whereas Nathan is sharp and focused, strong on eye contact and quick with a smile. When forced to talk, Clay deploys this annoying drawl, like each word costs him money, but Nathan never met a stranger.
I love that about him.
I never told him. Because I was worried how he’d take it, I was waiting for Nathan to say it first. Same reason I never had sex with him, though Morgan said I should get it over with. She’d laughed and said, You’re so cute, Liv. You think it’ll ever be magical? Please. At best it won’t suck and it’ll be fast. Now, I can never say it. I can’t touch Nathan at all.
My chest hurts.
Belatedly I realize Clay is waiting for an answer. “Sorry, lightheaded. I have to eat something before I can take any pills. Let’s see what the housekeeper sent up.”
“Must be nice,” Clays mutters.
But he’s smiling. Clearly, he doesn’t hold Morgan’s privilege against her. Perching on the edge of the bed, he sets the tray across my lap and I uncover it. There’s fresh fruit, tofu-yogurt, homemade vegetable soup, and gluten-free rice crackers. Shit. Morgan’s a vegetarian. She doesn’t eat anything artificial and she’s sugar-free, caffeine-free, gluten-free, meat-free, and dairy-free. I want to cry because I can’t remember which restrictions stem from allergies and which from personal preference. From my earliest recollections, she was a picky eater and she went to the doctor a lot. When we went out, she never ordered much. Kids at school said she had an eating disorder or she must be stuck-up, but there are reasons she’s so careful. One time she scared me to death when her face puffed up and she had a tough time breathing.
What did we have that day? I think for a few seconds. Seafood. So now I’m taller and I have better vision but I can’t eat anything with a shell. A quiet sigh escapes me. Dammit. I love shrimp étouffée.
“Doesn’t look good?”
I glance at Clay, who’s stolen a rice cracker and is holding it to the light. Then he chomps it without prejudice. “Not bad.”
The food is delicious, actually, filling and delicately flavored. Mrs. Rhodes knows her business. I eat everything because I owe it to Morgan to take care of her body. Which makes it sound like she’s a car I borrowed. It’s all I can do not to whimper. Clay doesn’t say much until I move to shift the tray. He does it for me, then brings two pills and water.
I knock them back and swallow. “Thanks. How was work?”
Clay’s eyes widen slightly. This is not something Morgan’s ever asked, apparently. But if I don’t make conversation, he may want to make out. That train can not leave the station. Though it will be tricky—and I feel rotten—I have to put him off long enough that I can break up with him and not have Mr. Frost associate it with the accident.
“You really want to know?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
So he tells me about his boss, a woman in her forties named India, though he’s pretty sure that’s not her birth name. Four other people work as artists there: Tank, Gail, Rodney, and Blue. He talks about these folks with unusual enthusiasm; he’s lost his perpetually sleepy expression, so I’d call this his excited face.
“I have a long way to go before they’d even remotely consider me for an apprenticeship but it’s beyond cool that I’m on site and learning. Not full-time.” From his expression I can tell he wishes he got more hours.
“Walk me through an average day.”
“I’m there Wednesday through Sunday. I pitch in as needed, clean up and close the place down.” His tone is quiet. “But I’m curious why you’re asking. I mean, you only cared about my days off before.”
How the hell did these two hook up?
I was with Nathan first, and sometimes the three of us hung out, but it wasn’t regular. Mostly it was Nathan and me or Morgan and me, but it wasn’t like I forced Nathan to get his brother to round out a double date. When she hooked up with Clay, Morgan told me she had a new boyfriend. I bugged her for days, begging for details, but she was delightedly sly, savoring the surprise. A few weeks after that, he took her to prom. But like the dietary stuff, I can’t ask Clay to remind me of “our” romantic past.
“I just wanted to know what you do. Is that weird?”
“Nah. It’s cool.” Clay’s got a dimple in his left cheek.
Never noticed that before.
“You’re being so nice. So … I’m trying too.” Harder than you know.
“That’s not really your wheelhouse, huh? We both know you only let me call you sweets because I do it ironically.”
At this I laugh because that’s so Morgan, locking onto a pet name that isn’t one at all. The motion pulls my stitches, and it hurts. Reminds me that I’m here and she isn’t. I shouldn’t be in her bed, eating her food, talking to her boyfriend. But I can’t dissolve in front of Clay again; he’ll take it as a sign that Morgan trusts him when it’s only that I’m a complete wreck.
I’m about to play the sick and fragile card when he leans in and kisses me with exquisite tenderness. My hands fly to his chest, but … his mouth, his mouth, his mouth, hot and rough and soft. I don’t shove, because there’s a glorious, wicked spark, low and sweet. As first kisses go, it’s all gossamer, butterfly gentle, delicate as air. While it’s happening, I don
’t consider Nathan. Memories of his brother, my boyfriend, crash in on me when Clay drags rough knuckles down my cheek. And I hate myself because I don’t hate it; the path of least resistance beckons.
It’d be so easy to slide into this life and make everything of hers mine.
7
I spend a week convalescing.
At the end of that time, Mr. Frost takes me for a checkup, where Dr. Jackson compliments my healing prowess. Another three weeks and Morgan’s body will be more or less recovered—with a few fresh scars to show for the experience. It’s quiet on the way back from the clinic, mostly because I don’t know what to say.
I’m still marshaling my strength and formulating my next move, but the problem is, there’s no roadmap for a problem like mine. I can’t even use Morgan’s computer to search for similar cases; I don’t know her password and all of my guesses resulted in an admin lock. I might have to “accidentally” drop it so Mr. Frost will get a new one. That bothers me but he can afford it. Plus, I’m sure he’ll just bring home a spare Frost Tech model.
Using Morgan’s phone feels weird, especially when Clay messages me. I’ve dialed way back since he kissed me. Like a chicken-shit, I asked for space via text, and he hasn’t been over to the house since. It’s possible that I can kill the relationship with neglect, though that route is circuitous and painful. In my real skin I’d never do that; with the guy I dated before Nathan, I made a clean break. But I have to walk a delicate line between sanity and survival.
“You don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” Mr. Frost says. “Nobody expects you to. I’ve already spoken to the principal. He said the teachers will be happy to e-mail your assignments until…”
Until when? I feel better? My best friend isn’t dead? Or when some other tragedy has supplanted this one, so people don’t stare and whisper as much? None of those responses is suitable, so I dredge up something else.
“What did the doctor say?”
“That it’s up to you. You’re still recovering, so if school takes more out of you than expected, you can always go home early.”
