My heartbeat skips as I reply in kind, “Yes. When you picked me up.”
“Oh.” He laughs a little. “Oh, yeah.”
I smile as I thank him again. Can’t help it. But silence falls as we walk to his car and get in, and it turns uncomfortable quickly.
You know what? It’s fucking stupid. It shouldn’t be this way. We’re grown and we like each other. Why did I tell him we should just be friends—why do I feel like I have to watch myself around him? What’s the difference, really, in spending time together as friends and spending time together as something more? Why should Aaron dictate something like this?
But I know. I can’t date him when Aaron is slowly smothering me. Can’t pull him under with me. I can’t be intimate with him when Aaron might show up—I did it once, but I planned for it to only be once. I wanted to step out of the shadows for a little while, and that’s what I did. As much fun as I had with him, I expected the whole thing to go similar to the stereotypical, never-talk-after-this-ends one-night stand. I didn’t think he would care this much, which was great because I didn’t think I’d care this much.
Thinking about it that way makes me sound like a selfish piece of shit.
I don’t deserve to have even Will’s friendship. I’m just fucking lying to him. Leading him on when I know (and not so deep down anymore) that no matter how much I want to be who he needs, I’m a waste of his affection.
“Hey,” his soft voice breaks into my thoughts. I nearly explode out of my skin when I feel his fingers on my face. “What’s wrong?”
I look at his wet fingertips when he draws them back, and I hear the choked noise that leaves me, and I realize I’ve started crying.
Embarrassed and dejected, I breathe jaggedly and shake my head. “Nothing.” I shove the heels of my hands across my cheeks.
“You know I don’t believe that.”
I look past him, out the driver’s side window, and try to breathe properly. I wonder what to say. What to do.
Admit that I killed Aaron.
I shake my head again, more fiercely. No, I didn’t kill him.
“Come on, babe,” Will murmurs, wiping at my cheeks himself. “Tell me.”
My whole body aches. He’s wonderful. He gets more and more wonderful all the time. And I’m…I’m….
My eyes fill with more tears as I look at him. “I think I need to go home,” I whisper.
I can’t see his disappointed frown through the blur, but I hear it. “Really? You changed your mind about going to the movies?”
I nod, remembering how thrilled he was earlier when I agreed to spend more time with him after dinner. Damn, that hurts. “I’m sorry,” I wobble out.
He hesitates before he asks, “Is it because of what I said about how you look? Should I have kept my mouth shut?”
“No, it’s not that,” I rush out. “You’re gorgeous, too, Will, always. I’m never not thinking that about you, so I’m happy you think it of me.”
When I blink my eyes clear of tears, I see relief on his face, but it’s soon replaced by defeat. “So it’s Aaron. He’s what’s bothering you.”
I bite my lip hard and nod.
“He’s still here?”
I glance at where he’s floating through the hood of the car and nod again.
Will sighs.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I can deal with him being around, so what is it that’s upsetting you so much?” He looks at me closely, concernedly. “Is it worse than you’re telling me? Is there something I should know?”
There it is. My chance to be a responsible, honest adult.
And, quite unsurprisingly, I can’t take it. He’s looking me in the eyes, asking point-blank if things with Aaron are worse than I’ve let on, and I can’t tell him the truth.
He’s wonderful, yes, and he likes me, yes, but he’s known me a month. In that month, despite how I really feel about him, I’ve been poor company when I’ve been company at all. If I’m honest about who I am, it’ll be the last straw. He’ll decide he can live without me. And I don’t want to give him the chance to decide that.
I tell him through a tight throat, “No, there’s nothing you should know.”
And I immediately hate myself for it.
I really am selfish.
He can see through me, I know, but he doesn’t press me. He just looks tired. Sad. He looks tired of me, I think, and I don’t blame him. Maybe he doesn’t need to hear the truth to realize I suck; being able to see that I’m keeping it to myself might do the trick.
As well it should. He deserves better than me—better than a broken girl—better than…than a….
“Home, please,” I try not to sob.
He obliges me.
After I’m in my house, chest aching from the stilted goodbyes we just gave each other, I slide down the door and cry freely.
Aaron lets out one of his atrocious, watery laughs. “You know, Eddie was right. You are a bitch, through and through. Who knew such a horrible person was hiding inside that pretty little body?”
I kick my feet out at him and scream through my tears, furious and pained.
I don’t want to be a horrible person.
Admit what you did, that voice in my head says again. And again, I shove it back. And then I shove myself up off the floor so I can hunt down the bottle of whiskey in my kitchen.
I haven’t held on to many of the lessons my parents tried to teach me, but there was one I think I agree with my father on: there aren’t many problems a glass of Crown can’t drown.
And, no, I don’t know why a man who lived and breathed the Bible liked to drink whiskey. And I don’t care.
I don’t want to care about anything right now.
6: Will
“Mom, why do you think a ghost would haunt a person?”
She doesn’t look away from the lasagna she’s building. “Now, is it an actual person being haunted, or do they just happen to be in the same place as a ghost? ‘Cause that old dead bastard Vee dealt with just stuck around the house. He didn’t follow her out and about. It was the place that was haunted, not her, see?”
“Yeah, for sure. A person, though?”
“Well, they’re either the seeing type like your grandpa was or they did something to piss that ghost off.”
I suck on my teeth while I ponder that.
I don’t have any real proof, and maybe I really shouldn’t give a shit anymore, but…well, I’ve started thinking that might be what’s going on with Coralie and Aaron.
I don’t know if I’m stupid or if she really is worth the difficulty of trying to get to know her—either way, I can’t seem to give up on her. It’s been a week since we went to Juan’s and I’ve spent this time trying to figure out what she’s hiding, since there’s definitely something and she won’t divulge it herself.
I know that Aaron wasn’t her boyfriend but they went on a date before he died. His friend from the bar said Coralie hated him, and I believe that—she told me all about how he used to hassle her. And the friend acted like she had something to do with Aaron’s death because she was the last person to see him alive. And the day I met her, she yelled at me that it wasn’t my or my stepsister’s fault that Aaron died. All of those things, plus the panic attack she had after being accused by his friend, plus her saying I don’t want to be involved with her, plus the feeling I had that she was lying when I asked about Aaron in my car after Juan’s…
…it has me wondering if, somehow, she really might be responsible for Aaron’s death.
It would explain why she hasn’t relaxed around me since I learned about his ghost; I only know part of the equation, so she’s still holding back. And she told me Aaron has recently started talking to her, so if he’s haunting her because she’s guilty, who knows what he’s saying? Being taunted by a ghost would mess with anyone just because, but then add in a reason like that…. It’s probably why she’s been so worn-out and withdrawn and e
rratic and everything else.
It’s a little scary to think this might be what’s going on, but mostly, it makes sense to me. I don’t think Coralie is a cold-blooded murderer because I don’t think people like that feel remorse or anxiety. I don’t think they lose sleep over what they’ve done. I don’t think they act how she’s been acting. She’s acting like someone who’s been through something traumatic, like someone who’s got a heavy secret on her heart and doesn’t know what to do with it.
So I’m going to ask her about it, and soon.
The few texts we’ve exchanged this last week felt awkward, even the smileys on Christmas Day, just like parting ways after dinner did. I’ll admit that had actually been painful. I felt like we made progress that night and then all of a sudden we were going backward. Watching her walk to her door, visibly miserable, made me feel like she was a thousand miles away from me.
I want her to be so much closer than that.
She’s going through something that’s really doing a number on her, but when I see the happy parts of her, they’re awesome and addictive. And if I can help her, I’m going to, no matter how frustrating the interim is.
So even during dinner with Mom and Jeremy, I start putting together a plan.
*
The next afternoon, after a half-day of work, I head to Tokens Of Love. Tomorrow is New Year’s Day and my mom’s birthday, and I already got her a gift, but I’m going to get her another one. The shop has a lot of lovingly-made stuff that I know she’d like, and I need to see Coralie.
It’s been hard to, but I’ve been giving her space since the day she said we could be friends. I’ve kept texting light. No matter how easy it’d have been to stop by her job and say hi, I’ve resisted, and I’ve especially stayed away since Juan’s. Today, though, I’m going for it. I’ve learned that if I leave it up to her to get us together, it’s not very likely to happen. And that would be fine if I thought she didn’t want us together, but I don’t. There’s something between us—she’s just scared to get into it. And that’s no way to live.
I find her ringing up a customer who’s buying a bunch of leftover Christmas jewelry. She’s back to looking exhausted and troubled, her makeup gone again, her hair rather limp. Her clothes are a little brighter than usual because her white shirt has, ‘I WISH IT WAS BEDTIME,’ written on it in bold pinks and blues. I guess it’s one of the shop’s in-house designs, because there’s another one on a mannequin nearby.
When Coralie sees me, I wave and give her a little smile. Her breathing noticeably falters and her eyes move over me like they’ve missed me.
Hell, I know how they feel.
After the customer is gone, I step up to the counter. Coralie crosses her arms and hunches her shoulders, her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she echoes.
“How are you today?”
“Not…” she clears her throat and shakes her head, “…not great.” The sound of her voice makes me think she’s been crying a lot lately, and I don’t miss her uneasy glance at the empty air beside her.
I shoot a quick glare to the ghost I can’t see, then say sincerely to Coralie, “I’m sorry.”
More quietly, she asks, “Why are you here?”
“Tomorrow is my mom’s birthday. I want to get her a cool second gift.” And I’m also here to put my plan into action.
“Oh.” After a few moments of seeming to debate asking: “What does she like?”
“Home-type stuff. Dishes, things you can hang up, pillows. All that.”
She drops her eyes to the counter. “We have stuff like that. Quilts and wall decals and picture frames….”
I ask hopefully, “Show me?”
She’s reluctant, but she leads me toward the back of the store, where a big area boasts different kinds of home decorations. Since I really am looking for a gift, I don’t object when Coralie disappears after a second.
I look around for a while, humming when I know the song that’s playing overhead. Eventually, I decide on a striped quilt that Mom will love the vibrancy of. I carry it toward the front counter, behind which Coralie is standing again.
She has her back to me, and when I’m close enough, I hear she’s talking to herself. At least, that’s what I think before I catch what she’s saying—then I realize she’s talking to Aaron.
“Please go away,” she begs him weakly. She hangs her head. “Please. I’m so tired of this, Aaron. I can’t do this anymore.” She goes quiet for several moments and then shakes her head. “But I didn’t….”
Stopped at the counter now, I have a good view of her hair fluttering abruptly. She shudders with displeasure and my pulse skips with it, too, because I’ll just bet that was Aaron exhaling something right in her face. I know what her hair looks like when someone breathes against it. I did it many times myself the night I had her in my house.
Indeed, she steps backward and lifts her head. “Stop getting so fucking close to me,” she says in a stronger tone than before. “Jesus fuck, I’m sick of you.” Then she turns my way, sees me, and yelps.
I frown, worried for her and angry at him. “What’s going on with him?” I ask without pause.
“He—I—he’s just—” She shakes her head quickly and notices the quilt under my arm. Lips pressing together, she holds her hands out for it, looking like she’s not going to answer me.
I pass it to her and stay quiet while she rings it up. Then I hand her my credit card, sign the receipt she lays on the counter, and watch her bag up my purchase with trembling hands and unsteady breaths.
As she gives the bag to me, she opens her mouth, undoubtedly to tell me goodbye. Before she can say it, I ask what I came to ask: “Will you come to my mom’s birthday party tomorrow night?”
Her mouth snaps closed and she looks at me quizzically. “What?”
I set my bag on the floor so I can put my hands on the counter and lean toward her. “I want you to come hang out with us. There’ll be friends and family there, and food. I’d love it if you went.”
She stares at me with confusion, wry amusement, and a little irritation in her expression—and, I see when I look closely, the same longing from when I walked into the shop.
She pokes a fingertip into her chest. “I,” she says slowly, shakily, “am a mess, Will. I’m a huge mess.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “I know.”
Her eyebrows go up.
“Messes can be cleaned up,” I point out.
“This isn’t a spilled glass of wine or something. I’m a person, and I’m…I’ve….” Despair overtakes the other emotions on her face.
I almost mention it—almost ask now if the root of her problems, the cause of her mess, is that she got Aaron killed somehow. But the bell on the front door signals someone else’s arrival, and I remember this isn’t where I want to have that talk.
I bite the question back and say instead, “We all have stuff to work on. No one is hopeless.” Then, despite how much I want to stay, I turn to leave. “So I hope you come over tomorrow. Text me with your answer, okay? And I like your shirt, by the way.”
I barely hear her thank me on my way to the door. Before I step out into the snowy day, I give her a goodbye wave, which she half-heartedly returns.
As I head to my car, I wonder when she’ll notice I left my mom’s gift on the floor by the counter.
*
As I expected, Coralie texted me later to tell me I forgot my purchase. Per my plan, I said I was short on free time for the rest of the day and would be extremely grateful if she could drop the gift off at the party. And as I hoped, she agreed to that…and to stay and eat, too.
Now it’s New Year’s Day and I’m in my parents’ den, enjoying an IPA while I wait for her to show up. My mom is surrounded by guests and Jeremy is out back with some of my uncles and cousins, chatting and tending to the grilling food. I was with them earlier, but I came indoors when they started on Taylor being in jail for driving drunk a
nd killing Aaron.
I’ve got my speech planned out; when I find a good minute, I’m going to ask Coralie outright about Aaron. I’m prepared for her not to like that one bit, but I don’t know what else to do. She is obviously withering away. I can’t stand by and watch Aaron destroy her.
Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe she’s not responsible for his death. But I’m sure she’s hiding something, and I can’t do anything to comfort her if I don’t know what’s really going on.
Man, I hope she’s not one of those people who won’t let themselves be helped.
After another fifteen minutes of waiting, I go to the restroom. Once my hands are washed, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I decided to wear the blue pullover I had on the day I met Coralie, because she told me that night at the bar that she liked it. Hopefully, it’ll work in my favor a little. I make sure there aren’t any bits of bacon-wrapped jalapeño in my teeth, then nod at myself and head back to the party.
As I turn the corner between the main hallway and the den, I run into someone coming the opposite way. It’s a short someone with white-blonde hair, whose delicate frame has lost balance from the collision.
Coralie and I both gasp as we grab at each other to keep her from falling over. The gray sweater dress she’s wearing is soft under my hands, and the look she tilts up at me is tired but ringed with black eyeliner once again.
“Hey!” I huff out, my heart suddenly pounding. “You’re here! Are you okay?”
She nods, one hand gripping my arm and the other my shoulder. Her gaze sweeps over me and her fingers flex for a small moment. “The blue—this blue thing. You’re wearing it.”
Her voice sounds like it did yesterday, though frailer yet. That concerns me, of course, but rather than mention it, I admit, “Yeah, I wore this because you like it.”
I wish she would smile at that, but she doesn’t. She lets go of me and looks at the floor, so I let go of her, too.
Pretty Guilty Page 6
