Ruthless Love

by Penelope Bloom

  I didn’t feel the least bit bad about any of that. Every ounce of destruction just felt like a small punch back at my father.

  But I thought I’d feel justified by now for what I’d done with Kennedy. For once in my miserable life, I’d done the right thing. So why did it feel so shitty?

  No matter how hard I tried, I just kept remembering the way she’d cried in the cafeteria—the way she’d broken in the parking lot when I threw my stones.

  I found my car keys on the front porch Saturday morning, and maybe something about that had been what convinced me not to crack open a beer for breakfast. I doubted Kennedy had meant anything by giving them back, but they’d just looked like a reminder to me—a reminder of how being too much of a pussy to face any of this sober had made everything worse.

  There was a knock at my door on Sunday.

  I ran my hands through greasy hair. I was pretty sure I hadn’t showered, but I couldn’t quite remember. When I pulled the door open, Logan was standing there. “You’re really embracing this whole grunge thing, huh?”

  I walked away from the door, leaving it open so he could follow me inside. I ran my arm across the couch, knocking some cans out of the way so I could sit.

  Logan did the same on the love seat, sitting down. “You know I don’t usually try to tell you how to do your shit, but I feel like I’ve stayed out of your business for long enough to earn at least one exception.”

  I leaned my head back. Listening to Logan lecture me on how thoroughly I’d screwed up was the last thing I wanted right now. He didn’t even know the full truth. Nobody really did.

  “First of all,” he said. “Are you going to clean this up before your parents come back, or what?”

  “They’re gone for another few weeks,” I said dismissively. “Not worried about it.”

  He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “What about the drugs?”

  “What about them?” I snapped.

  “Three years of nothing and suddenly you’re getting your stomach pumped? It doesn’t add up.”

  “I’m a dumbass. How does that add up for you?”

  “I’m your friend, Tristan. Whether you like it or not. I also know you well enough that you bitching at me isn’t going to scare me off.”

  I sighed. “Then hear this: I’m not going to talk about it. Any of it. I don’t care how you phrase it or how many times you ask. It’s all in the past now, and I’m moving on.”

  He watched me for a few moments, running his hands together. “Okay. Then listen. Kennedy really cared about you. I don’t know if that mattered to you or not, but she did. Unless I’m blind, I think you cared about her, too. Even with as much as you managed to fuck things up, I’m betting you could still fix this. But you can’t fix it like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Without taking a shower, for starters. But I mean being closed off. You can be a dick and refuse to tell me anything all you want. But if you want her back, you need to be honest with her.”

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  Logan stood. “That’s all. And now I’ve done my duty as your friend to at least expose you to some decent advice. I’m guessing you won’t do shit with it, but at least I can tell myself I tried.”

  Logan left, leaving me to sit on the couch and think about what he’d said.

  The problem he didn’t understand was that I wasn’t keeping secrets to protect myself anymore—at least not from her. The secret that stood between me and fixing things with Kennedy was for her sake.

  I knew what it was like to have nobody in the world who gave a shit about you. To have no parents. Kennedy only had one left, and she was better off with a psychotic mom than no mom. God knew I’d take a couple psychos over the empty rooms in this place.

  I let out a long, frustrated sigh. I just needed to move on with my life. It wasn’t ever going to feel good, but I could bear the burden of letting Kennedy think I was an asshole if it meant protecting her. I was just going to have to live with that.

  39

  Kennedy

  It had been a little over a week since Tristan got kicked off the football team, and I hadn’t made much progress in the moving on department. It still felt like an open wound—and not the kind that was gradually scabbing over and healing. It was more like the kind that needed antibiotics, stitches, and every topical cream in the pharmacy.

  Except I didn’t have any of that.

  And this morning, I had to finally accept my period was officially late. It should’ve come on Wednesday, and today was Saturday. I asked Logan to give me a ride to a doctor’s office to get tested, mainly because I was too scared to buy a pregnancy test at one of the local stores and risk a rumor spreading.

  Logan was a gentleman and didn’t ask any questions about why I needed to secretly visit the doctor on a Saturday. He dropped me off and let me know he’d be around town when I called to get picked up. I thanked him and headed into the small office.

  I’d spent my whole life being taught by my mom that I was never supposed to trust places like this. They would label me with a dozen illnesses I didn’t have and rob us blind at the pharmacy for the medications. It was half the reason my mom had taken my treatment into her own hands this whole time.

  I smiled at the woman behind the counter. She asked the reason for my visit.

  I cleared my throat, leaning in close and making my voice as low as I could. “Pregnancy test,” I said.

  She gave me a sad, knowing smile, and handed me a clipboard with some forms to fill out. “Just fill out the first two pages. You can leave the last page blank—that’s for the physician.

  I went to sit down and started filling out the form. On the list of symptoms, I had to check dozens of boxes, even though I wasn’t sure why they needed all that information when I was just coming for a pregnancy test.

  I had to wait nearly half an hour before I was called back. A young guy took me into a room, weighed me, measured my blood pressure and pulse, and then told me a doctor would be with me shortly.

  I couldn’t stop my leg from shaking uncontrollably as I sat there. An irrational part of me felt like my mom was going to come bursting through the door at any moment to drag me out. Worse, I imagined what she’d do if she knew why I was here.

  I shivered.

  When the doctor finally came in, he took a look at my wheelchair and then glanced at my chart. There was something strange in the way he was looking at me, but I decided it was probably like my mom said. He was likely trying to figure out the best way to scam me out of my money.

  “I noticed you mentioned you can’t remember the names of the medications you’re taking,” he said.

  “My mom handles all that. She doesn’t like for me to really know the names because of the placebo effect.”

  He stared, then jotted something down with his pen. “I tried to look up your prescriptions in the computer, but I didn’t have anything on file for you at any of the pharmacies in town. Where do you normally pick up your pills?”

  “My mom gets them for me.”

  “From?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know? I’m actually just here for a pregnancy test, though. So I’m not really sure how any of this is relevant.”

  The doctor licked his lips and set his clipboard down. “I’d like your permission to run some tests, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah. I came here for a pregnancy test,” I said, feeling a growing sense of frustration. These guys really were as bad as my mom said.

  “I mean some additional tests. If I could draw some blood and get a urine sample, I’d be able to proceed. All I’d need is your permission.”

  I sighed. “Okay? Sure. But when I called in, they said the pregnancy test is forty dollars. That’s all I brought.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” he said, still wearing that strange look on his face. “We can cover the cost of these, okay? Is there any chance you could bring me some of the pills you take, maybe tomorrow?”

&nb
sp; “Does this have to do with the pregnancy test?”

  “If you are pregnant,” he said slowly. “I’ll need to know what you’re taking so we can determine if your medications are appropriate for a growing fetus. Chances are, you’ll need to make some changes.”

  “I’m sure my mom can figure that out.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But maybe you can bring me some of them anyway, just to be safe?”

  I eventually agreed, because it felt like he wasn’t going to do the pregnancy test unless I did.

  Once he was done collecting everything he needed, he let me know that it would take two to three days to get results back from the lab. I thanked him, and left, feeling strange.

  All of his questions made me feel uneasy. He’d been looking at me like he pitied me somehow. I thought maybe it was my wheelchair, but usually the most that got from people was a sad little smile or an extra glance. It wasn’t the sort of thing that made them look at me like that.

  Whatever it was, it made me too curious to ignore, so I decided I would go through with what he’d asked.

  I had Logan bring me back three days later when the office called and told me my results were in. I brought all my prescription bottles in my purse, feeling self-conscious with the way it rattled in my lap as I moved my chair inside the office.

  This time, the nurse was looking at me strangely before I even got in the room. She stiffly told me the doctor would be in shortly.

  I didn’t have to wait long before the same doctor came in my room. He looked at the bottles in my purse and seemed to recognize some by the shape, size, and color of the pills. Others just drew confused looks from him. Finally, he set the bottles down on the sink and took a deep breath.

  “First of all, and I’ll assume this is good news—you’re not pregnant.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. I hadn’t really let myself believe I was actually pregnant, but the shadow of doubt had been growing while I waited for the test. I’d had plenty of time to imagine how horrible it would be to be pregnant with a baby from a guy who wanted nothing to do with me.

  “I’m afraid the good news stops there. There’s no easy way to say this, Kennedy. Have you ever heard of Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”

  “Is that what I have?”

  “No. It may not be an exact fit here, either. But I believe your mother might. It’s when a caregiver exaggerates or makes up symptoms in the person in their care. Usually, it’s for attention or recognition, but there can be other motivations. I think—”

  I stopped hearing him. His words were like a dull, fuzzy sound in the back of my head as my brain started picking up all the pieces of thread and trying to tie them together.

  “What about the tests?” I asked, interrupting whatever he’d been saying.

  Patiently, he pursed his lips and lifted a long page full of numbers and words I didn’t understand. “You’re perfectly healthy, as far as I can tell. There are more tests I’d need to run to be completely sure. Some of your numbers are a little elevated here and there, but I suspect that’s more because of the medications in your system and not because of any ‘conditions.’”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I’d be happy to refer you to another physician for a second opinion. Even a third. What we’re talking about here, Kennedy… This is a serious thing, and there are likely legal implications. Chances are, once courts get involved, you’ll get some very rigorous testing.”

  I felt like my head was spinning, like I was in a car that was driving too fast and I was supposed to read all the billboards stacked one after another on the side of the highway. I was catching bits and pieces, but the whole picture was still floating just out of reach—too big and too horrible for me to fully get my head around.

  “I don’t understand,” I said softly.

  “I believe your mother was leading you to believe you suffered from imaginary conditions, Kennedy. All your symptoms you described on the new patient form… I think those were all just side effects of the medications she has been giving you. Medications that are meant to treat illnesses you don’t have. Do you understand?”

  No. I didn’t understand why that would be true, or why my mom would do that. “You said this Munchausen syndrome thing is for attention. My mom has like no friends. She doesn’t talk about my conditions to anyone. She…” I trailed off, feeling like I might be sick.

  “Like I said. It can be motivated by other factors. It’s a psychological disorder, though, and I don’t pretend to be an expert on it. So I shouldn’t speculate. But, Kennedy. This is very important. You need to stop taking these pills until we can run more tests. I can send these into the lab and figure out what they all are and how your mother got them, but you could be damaging your body by taking these if you don’t need them.”

  “What about my mom?”

  “I’ll have to report this,” he said. “And the rest will be out of my hands. Maybe your father could—”

  “He has been gone since I was five.”

  “Grandparents?”

  “Dead,” I said. My voice sounded like a whisper.

  He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “There are all sorts of programs and protocols in place for things like this, okay? You’ll be taken care of.”

  I rode back home with Logan in a daze. I wondered if they had already called my mom. If they’d already started to pull the bricks from the foundation of my life away. It felt like I was inside a crumbling house. Tristan had been lying about liking me. My mom had lied about everything.

  What did I even have left?

  40

  Tristan

  I pulled open the door and found Kennedy in her chair with her eyes red rimmed and puffy. My first instinct was relief to see her—just to be able to set my eyes on her and feel the faintest shadow of memory from how good it had been to know she was mine. After that, I felt regret. If she was still coming back for another attempt to fix things, I didn’t know if I had it in me to throw more stones.

  I’d been tormenting myself with memories of all the good times between us, and my willpower was at a pitiful, all time low.

  “Tristan,” she said, voice breaking. “I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

  “Come on,” I said, motioning for her to come in.

  I felt ashamed of the mess in my house as she tried to navigate her way to the living room, where I’d at least cleared the majority of shit off the couches. The realtor had come by two days ago and nearly had a heart attack when she saw the state of the place. She claimed my dad was going to send a cleaning crew, which meant I’d just need to throw another party once they were done.

  I wasn’t sure how long I could buy myself time with the cycle, but I planned to buy as much as I could, even if the end game was fucked now. Before, the idea was to secure my scholarship before I wound up homeless. Now, the scholarship was going to be pretty damn hard to get when I wasn’t even on the team.

  I took a spot on the couch and Kennedy decided to avoid the dirty love seat and use her wheelchair, which she positioned in front of me.

  “I’m sorry,” Kennedy said. “I don’t want you to think this is some kind of attempt to guilt trip you into taking me back. I just… I tried to talk to Logan about it, but I couldn’t make the words come out. Even after everything—you’re…” she trailed off, taking a long, shuddering breath and blowing it out. “I trust you, even if that makes me an idiot.”

  “Maybe a little,” I admitted. It felt so unbelievably good just to be talking to her. To see her. To look at that fiery red hair tucked behind her ear and glinting in the light of the chandelier over our heads. “But go ahead.”

  She spent the next five minutes explaining everything—from the pregnancy scare to what the doctor had told her. I’d put most of what he said together on my own when I figured out her mom had drugged me. But hearing it confirmed was something else. I’d been hoping she was just a little psychotic, not full-blown psychotic. Drugg
ing her own daughter and keeping her in a wheelchair was beyond fucked up.

  I swallowed hard, scowling. “I’m not sure what to say, here.”

  Kennedy looked down. “I don’t know if there’s anything to say. I guess I just feel like I wanted you to know. To hear what you thought I should do? Part of me doesn’t believe it, still. I want to think she’s innocent and this is all some big misunderstanding.”

  “Have they contacted her yet?”

  “Not yet. I just saw the doctor earlier today. She’s been at work all day. I guess maybe they could’ve called her already at work or something. But I haven’t heard from her.”

  I thought back to the bitter taste of the sweet tea—to the sinking realization of what her mom had been capable of when she felt threatened. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I hesitated. It had gone way past the point where keeping Kennedy in the dark was keeping her safe. Now, she needed to know. She had to know what her mom was capable of, so she’d realize how dangerous it was to stay in that house once the cat was out of the bag.

  “Your mom drugged me,” I said slowly.

  Kennedy didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes flicked down to the ground, then she finally shook her head slightly. “I don’t—why would she do that?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But it was the night we had dinner. I could tell something was wrong on my way home. And the only person who could’ve possibly known to call an ambulance for me would be your mom. Same with the tip to coach for the drug test, which turned up traces of whatever she spiked that sweet tea with.”

  Kennedy shook her head more fiercely now. “No.”

  I sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you any of this. But now…”

  “Wait. You’ve known this since that night, haven’t you? Even in the hospital?”

  I nodded.

  Anger flashed across her face. She pushed her chair toward me and gave me a shove, which just made her roll backwards. Her face was still scrunched up in fury as she pushed herself back to me again and tried to give me another shove. I caught her hands this time, pulling her halfway out of her chair and on top of me so I could wrap her in a hug. She still tried to hit me a few times, but I let her do it, tiring herself out until the anger turned to sobs. “Why would you keep that from me?” Her voice was muffled by my shoulder.