by Ann Aguirre
I text a little more with Clay, just bits of nothing that leave me feeling more cheerful.
Then I remember there were four pings. Which means I have an unread message. The last one is from Creepy Jack. My skin crawls as I open it. Busier than expected, don’t be mad. I miss you. Letting out a slow breath, I close my eyes on a drowning wave of relief. I mean, I already told him I have plans on Thursday, but I was afraid he might insist on getting together. Now that my stitches are out, my excuses will only go so far. The clock is ticking on Morgan’s investigation, and I have to turn up some answers before Creepy Jack gets suspicious.
I’m tempted to ignore the text completely but that will probably piss him off. So I write, I’ll be waiting, and then turn off my phone.
In the morning, as I pull out of the garage, I spot Mrs. Rhodes in the doorway, watching. Normally this would strike me as sweet, but given her reaction to my question last night, it’s more like she’s keeping tabs on me. Shit. I already know she needs money. Would she report on me to Creepy Jack? The scary goose bump answer is, Yeah, probably. This morning I can’t get off the estate fast enough.
Last night’s group is hanging out by the school’s front doors when I stroll up. Oscar breaks away from the pack to fist bump me while the others keep talking about whatever’s hot on the art scene. Eventually Sarah calls, “Thanks for having us over.”
I don’t think she means for her voice to carry like it does, but ten heads swivel in our direction and the whispering starts. Jesus Christ, I can’t even have movie night without it being a thing? Wait. Morgan. Morgan can’t. My knees go weak when I realize how I’m sinking into her life like I’m in quicksand. Will there come a point when I don’t even remember being Liv? As I stumble back against the wall, I wonder if that would be such a bad thing.
“You okay?” Emma asks.
Tish comes over to inspect. “You’re pale, even for you. Did you eat?”
“Yeah. I guess I’m still … adapting.”
I’m surprised to get a sympathetic arm pat from Emma, then Sarah and Tish fall in beside me, as if they’ll protect me from the buffeting crowd. Letting them do it—that’s very un-Morgan—I take the escort while the guys follow. The rest of the day goes quicker than I want, probably because I’m so nervous about this family dinner.
Oscar’s waiting for me outside my last class. “You busy?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t hang out with us two days in a row.” By his smirk, I know he’s poking me about the mystique Morgan cultivated.
“I’m going over to the Burnham place,” I say, before I think better of it.
He goes quiet. Nothing like a dead best friend to kill a conversation. Finally he mumbles, “Sorry. I think Ben’s trying to flag me down. Catch you later.”
I don’t see Ben anywhere but I let Oscar make his escape and head for the front of the school, where Nathan is already waiting. Today he’s actually clean, shaved, and dressed in normal clothes. Until now it didn’t occur to me, but he might have shown up in torn jeans, a dirty hoodie, drunk off his ass. But at least he has enough common sense not to do that to my parents.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“They aren’t expecting us until five, so I’m going to the library to work for a couple of hours. I can take you home and pick you up later if you want.” I like the quiet of the town library, plus it’s open longer hours, the resources are better, and there’s free Wi-Fi.
“No, it’s fine. I’m behind in all my classes anyway.” He finally sounds like the Nathan I dated for nine months.
Maybe he’s done melting down over me.
I have mixed feelings. I mean, I want Nathan to be okay, but not this soon, maybe. It’s not like sorrow has a kill switch.
But I don’t say anything as I head out to the car. Nathan feels like a question mark walking beside me. There are so many things I want to ask, but I can’t because Morgan would already know. While I drive, there’s a movie running in my head, no soundtrack, just Morgan kissing him. God, why the hell was Nathan her first? Why did she lie? The fact that she didn’t tell me before we started dating is driving me crazy.
Homework gives me the excuse not to talk to him, though. We pass from the sunny afternoon to the shady building with tables spread out among the shelves. I recognize the librarian as Miss Pat but Morgan probably wouldn’t. I can’t remember her ever coming here with me. Nathan greets her with a smile; he even pauses to chat while I pick out a spot near the computers at the back. My phone at hand means I probably won’t need to use one of them, but it’s better to be close, just in case.
I’m already reading for Lit class when Nathan sits down. Though it takes some effort, I don’t look up. Morgan wouldn’t let him distract her.
An hour and a half later, Nathan stretches. “That’s it for me. I don’t have anything left.”
“You’re already caught up?”
“You know I’m a genius, right?” Nathan’s really proud of his 147 IQ.
“Whatever,” I say, collecting my stuff. “Let’s go.”
The drive to my old house is quiet, painfully so. I’m aware each time Nathan shifts, each time he drums his fingertips on the door. Finally he says, “Did I piss you off somehow?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re acting weird, even for you, rich girl.”
“I’m just nervous. Wondering how this will be.”
At this excuse Nathan’s perplexity evaporates. “I hear you.”
The place looks exactly the same. Not surprising, as it’s only been a few weeks. But I feast my eyes on the simple brick ranch house for a long moment while pretending to fortify my strength. By the time I climb out of the car, my mom has the door open. She looks a little better than she did at the hospital, though she’s still pale and tired. I can tell she hasn’t been sleeping.
Guilt nearly drowns me.
Before I take more than two steps, she rushes down from the small porch and swoops. As Morgan, I’m six inches taller but she somehow manages to mom-hug me. I hug back, awkward, as Morgan would be, but only because I’m fighting the urge to bury my head in her shoulder and sob my heart out. As Morgan never would. Thankfully Nathan nudges me aside to take his turn and then she leads the way into the house.
It’s a mess, Jason’s shoes everywhere. With a lump in my throat, I take in the cushy brown couch and the stained beige carpet. The wall art we purchased at various garage sales, so there’s no real theme. On one wall it’s boats and another one has a series of faux-Victorian portraits. The TV is on, some talk-show host chattering about the latest big issue.
My dad isn’t home, so we follow Mom into the kitchen. She’s making stuffed peppers, my favorite. Morgan’s version will have soy, tofu cheese, and rice instead of ground beef. But it’s sweet of my mom to remember Morgan’s dietary issues when I, the crappy best friend, couldn’t keep track.
“It’s so good to see you two,” she says, spooning the filling into a hollow green pepper.
“I miss you.” Nathan perches on a stool at the island without waiting to be invited, and his eyes are so green and wistful, like a rainy spring afternoon.
“Me too, hon.” Mom pats him on the shoulder, leaving a smear of tomato sauce. “You’re awfully quiet, Morgan. Is it … strange?”
For a moment I can’t believe she asked, but my mom’s always been up front like that. So I nod. “Would it be okay if I went into her room, just for a sec?”
Her room. My room. This weird, hellish emotional limbo will wreck me.
29
My mom nods, and Nathan doesn’t follow. Maybe he thinks this is a girlie good-bye that he can’t share. He’s not wrong, though he’s not right in the way he imagines. I trudge down the hall to the end, where the last door is closed. It creaks when I open it, making me think nobody’s been in there for a while, and I find things exactly as I left them. The bed’s still unmade, even. My shoes are still where I threw the
m—in the corner near the closet, which is cracked open, showing the mess I promised to tidy up and never did. A thin coat of dust has settled, and I know the reason my mom’s reluctant to clear it away is because once it’s gone, I am gone. The dust is me, gross as that sounds, but it’s my dust, my cells, my hair, and cleaning this room is the same as admitting that Liv Burnham is a memory.
Tears pool in my eyes as I stare in the mirror that tops my white dresser. There are tons of photos pinned up around the edges in the framework of my life: candids of Morgan and me, strip photos from goofy booths, and a pic collage that Morgan made for my one-month anniversary with Nathan. I didn’t even realize she’d raided my phone, let alone had our selfies printed.
I kneel beside the bed and rest my cheek on the sheets. From my weeks at the Frost mansion, I can tell these have a much lower thread count, cheap even, but they feel better than the fanciest Egyptian cotton. My fingers curl into my blue plaid comforter, bunching it closer and closer, until I’m hugging it. A couple of stuffed animals tumble onto my head and land beside me on the floor.
Why can’t I come home?
I want to go home.
The tears drip down my cheeks, off my chin, and dot the dark shirt I’m wearing. Though I didn’t do it consciously, I’ve come to my old house in mourning, black on black. Eventually Nathan comes in search of me. He pauses in the doorway, and I watch the memories hit him, a beating he didn’t expect.
“Pull yourself together,” he orders. “It’ll be worse for Mrs. B if you break down.”
That’s true.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and start to get up, only to find Nathan transfixed, blocking my exit. “That’s exactly what Liv used to do when we were watching some tearjerker.”
Though my heart skips, I try to play it off. All this time, I forgot about something crucial: body language. “I don’t have a tissue or a handkerchief. What else can I do?”
Nathan can’t seem to look away, struggling to put it into words. “It’s not so much what you did as how you did it. That … Morgan, that was eerie.”
“We were best friends for eight years. Is it so strange that I’d pick up some of her mannerisms?” Part of me wants him to guess, so I won’t be alone with it.
If he loves me, if he really, really loves me, he’ll know. That’s unfair, I get it. But that’s how I feel at this moment.
“I suppose not. But I never noticed before.”
“Have you ever seen me cry?”
His expression finally clears and he steps aside. “Not that I can remember.”
“Well, there you go.” I pluck a T-shirt I borrowed from Morgan as Liv from the closet and add, “I need to wash my face.”
Lingering in the bathroom, I manage to get myself together. By the time I head back to the kitchen, you can’t tell that I melted down. Dinner is in the oven now; I can smell it. And Mom is cleaning up the kitchen. Though Morgan wouldn’t think to offer to help, I can’t just watch. So I nudge her aside and roll up my sleeves.
My mom looks seriously startled. “Are you sure?”
“I only look helpless,” I assure her.
The ordeal gets easier when Jason smells the food and emerges from his lair. He’s quieter than before, but he looks better than Mom. Dad is the last one home, as usual; he rolls in just as the food is coming out of the oven. I swallow the joke that he does this on purpose to avoid helping. Coming from Liv, that was funny; from Morgan, it would freak everyone out.
Dinner is fine, but my insides feel like they’re on fire when my mom drags out the album and settles between Nathan and me on the couch. There are tons of Morgan-Liv photo ops over the years. I can remember when I fought so hard to keep her from showing Nathan the shot of the two of us in matching ruffled swimsuits, aged nine. This time I don’t attempt to hide any of the pictures, and we listen to her reminisce for over an hour. These stories are all that’s left.
She doesn’t even seem to notice she’s crying until I shut the book. “If it’s okay, I’d like to push pause on this for now.”
We didn’t even get to junior high.
My mom sniffs, her chin trembling, and I lose the battle. While Morgan may not be demonstrative, I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t, I can’t. I won’t. I wrap my arms around her, tight, and hold on like I used to, before the accident, before everything was broken.
Before.
She surprises me by squeezing hard, rubbing my back like this is for me. And maybe it is.
“I know I can’t take her place,” I whisper, which is insane for so many reasons, “but what if … I mean, I lost my mom. And—”
“You’re already like a daughter to me,” she says. “I know what you’re going to say. And yes, of course. You will always be welcome here. You’re family.”
It’s not what I want, but it’s all I can have. I nod. Then Nathan leans over, wrapping his arms around us both. The three of us lean and cry, until my dad clears his throat. At first I think it’s because he wants us to stop, but when I glance over, there are tears in his eyes too. Jason turns up the volume on whatever game he’s playing in his room.
“Me too?” Nathan asks.
“Definitely.”
“We’re not sending either of you to college,” my dad mutters.
But that’s how he’s always been, acerbic when he gets emotional. I give a shaky laugh like I’m supposed to, and say, “Thanks for dinner, but we should probably get going.”
“I want you here at least once a month,” Mom says.
That’s not enough, but it’s more often than most dead people get to visit their families. At this point my soul is starving and I can’t turn away crumbs.
“Sounds good.”
Nathan thanks them again for dinner, then trails me out to the VW. But he pauses beside it, staring up at the half moon overhead. The stars are spangled bright, too.
Maybe I’m supposed to ask what he’s thinking about, but I’ve had enough. I get in and wait for him to do the same.
“You okay?” he asks when he does.
“Yeah.”
“I guess you could call that cathartic.”
“Mm.” It’s shitty to ice him out like this, but I’m so breakable. Driving away feels impossible, the last thing I want to do.
When I go to start the car, he puts his hand over mine, forcing me to look at him. As Liv, I don’t think I ever drove Nathan around, so the angle feels weird. He’s definitely not thinking about our shared automotive past, however. A niggling worry makes me try to pull back. There will be no more accidental making out between us, especially not in my driveway.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
He turns my palm over and with silent, heartbreaking focus, inscribes LIV on my palm. When Nathan raises his gaze to mine, I’m pretty sure he’s asking a question.
30
I pull my hand back, afraid to answer. But Nathan does that for me. “We should ask my brother for a discount and both of us get her name inked somewhere.”
He doesn’t know.
For a few seconds, I’m flooded with such a mix of relief and disappointment that I can’t tell what feeling takes precedence. When the emotional waters subside, it’s about equal. Starting the car, I nod.
“That would be nice. But wouldn’t future girlfriends mind you having someone else’s name stamped on your arm or whatever?”
“Liv will always be etched on me,” he says. “The ink would just make it visible.”
That’s unexpectedly sweet. And permanent. I don’t know what the future held for us before the accident, but things have taken a sharp left now. Now it can’t happen, even if I’m the same person inside.
It hurts to reply, “We’ll talk about it later.”
The way I’m feeling, I’d agree to nearly anything. Dinner at my old house has pared me down to the bone. It’s weird, though, because what I want most is to drop Nathan off so I can take a break from the grief and guilt associated with him. Not that long ago, the only sola
ce I could imagine would be in his arms. Yet when I pull up in front of his house, I don’t stop him from hopping out. When I drive away, I don’t look back in the rearview mirror, either.
Now I’m faced with a different choice, only it’s not a hard decision. Without much reflection I head for India Ink, which is in the small strip mall out toward the highway. At this hour, only the sandwich shop and the tattoo place are open. The dry cleaner and the discount shoe store both closed at six, and it’s almost eight. After locking the car, I head into the shop, where Clay is manning the counter.
He glances up when the bell jingles, and his expression brightens when he spots me. “I’m glad you came by.”
“You’re a receptionist now?” I tease.
“I wish. It’s a slow night, so she cut out early. I’m just watching the front for half an hour while Blue finishes up on a client in back.”
The inside is different than I expected. I guess I had a middle-class bias because I was anticipating dark, punk, and possibly seedy. India Ink is bright and modern instead, very clean, with red vinyl chairs in the waiting area and pristine black-and-white tile like a purposefully retro diner. Light fixtures overhead are conical chrome, and the back wall is adorned with designs I presume must be available for tattoos.
“This is cool,” I say, leaning my elbows on the counter.
He meets me halfway for a kiss, though I wasn’t angling for that. At his touch, the emotional turmoil left from wading in the wreckage of Liv’s life recedes like floodwater. Without meaning to, I curl my hands into the fabric of his uniform shirt and keep him from retreating. Clay deepens the kiss, making a little growl in his throat over the enforced distance between our bodies, and my stomach muscles tighten. I’m breathing fast when I step back.
