Collateral Damage

by Katie Klein

  Voicemail. But that's okay.

  "Daniel? It's Parker. Give me a call back when you get this. I know what to do for Jaden."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The key is beneath the planter beside the door, just like he said it would be. It jams in the lock, sticking halfway, refusing to go further. I jiggle it, pull it out, and try again. It takes several seconds of twisting and turning to get that key all the way in, but, when it does, the door unlocks, opens easily.

  Jaden's voice sings in my ear.

  Something else that needs to be fixed.

  I step inside the house. "Hello?" I call, cautious.

  My voice echoes, but no one answers. I close the door behind me, wind the lock. The front room, closed off the last time I was here, is open. And trashed. Clothes, hair dryers, curling irons, make-up. It's like a war zone.

  "Shit," I mumble.

  Instead of aged wood and paint, I smell flowers. Perfume. Hairspray. I know Jade was here getting ready for Daniel and Sarah's wedding with the rest of them, but I can't find her in any of this.

  I head upstairs with my bag, taking steps two at a time. I turn the corner, push open her bedroom door….

  The sight of it sends shocks of familiarity coursing through my veins. This. This is her. The blue comforter, the breezy curtains, the door to her closet—that secret passageway leading to the attic.

  The attic.

  And there, on her dresser....

  The hardwood floor creaks beneath my shoes as I move closer. I touch the soft petals—the pink and purple tulips I left on the windshield of her car before slipping inside the gymnasium—before I stood along that wall, waiting for Principal Howell to call her name at graduation.

  She kept them.

  She put them in a vase and left them on her dresser.

  She kept the postcard, too—the foggy Hamilton street. It's stuck between the frame and the mirror.

  Everything inside lifts at this. That she kept these things—these things that were ours—that they were important enough to save. It gives me a renewed sense of hope. Maybe she can forgive me.

  I flip on the bathroom light, and there it is.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Weddings take time. Receptions take time. But I don't know for sure how long I have, and I've never replaced a faucet before. I open my backpack and remove the box containing the brand new brushed satin fixture. I pull out wrenches, towels, plumber's putty and Teflon tape, lining them up across the floor.

  I open the cabinet door beneath her sink and shut off the water supply. I check the faucet to make sure the water's off, then use the wrench to unscrew the valves and supply lines.

  I check the time on my cell phone.

  So far, so good.

  I tear open the box, remove the instructions studied religiously the night before, and get to work: caulking where the faucet will go, installing the drain rod, and connecting new valves and lines to the fixture. The dripping faucet wasn't the only problem—Jaden wasn't getting cold water to her sink. Daniel said the old lines were probably crossing. New ones should fix this.

  Once everything is assembled and tightened, I turn the water valve back on. I swipe my dirty hands across my jeans, wipe my forehead against my sleeve, say a quick prayer, and twist the knobs.

  Water gushes from the faucet.

  It works.

  I turn on the hot water and wait for it to warm. It warms.

  I turn on the cold water. It goes cold.

  And it stays cold.

  I exhale relief, swallow back a laugh.

  It works.

  I check the time, gather my tools, and shove them in my backpack. I wipe the sink and the floor with the towel. At the last minute, I grab Jaden's wrench, too—the one she used to tighten the old faucet.

  A souvenir.

  I survey the bathroom.

  Perfect.

  Outside the sun is setting, casting orange and red reflections throughout Jaden's bedroom, setting the walls on fire. The bed is made. The rug vacuumed. I could run a finger across the dresser and not find a speck of dust.

  I laugh. "Neat freak," I mutter. "There's no way in hell you don't make lists."

  I shut her bedroom door, lock up the house, return the key to its planter.

  It's nearly dark by the time I reach my apartment. I drop my bag to the floor, toss my helmet on the couch, and head to the freezer to find something to eat.

  Hot Pockets.

  That's it.

  Grocery shopping hasn't been a priority lately. My lease runs out at the end of the month, anyway, and then I'll be back in Hamilton full time.

  I stick both packages in the microwave and head to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

  Dinner is ready by the time I emerge. I slip on a new pair of boxers and my jeans, grab my plate and a drink. I'm just getting settled on the couch when my phone rings. I reach for my coat and fish through pockets.

  Daniel McEntyre.

  My stomach flips, turning over. "Daniel?"

  "Parker?"

  "Yeah," I reply. "What's up?"

  "Jaden's up."

  "Did she like the faucet?"

  "She loved it. But that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling to tell you that she just jumped in her car and left. We have a pretty good hunch she went looking for you."

  "For me? Did she tell you where she was going? Wait. Shouldn't you be out of town already?"

  "We're leaving in a few minutes. And no, she didn't say. I assumed she knew where to go."

  "Shit," I mutter.

  "Does that 'shit' mean I have to cancel my honeymoon?" he asks.

  "No. It's okay. I'll find her," I promise.

  He heaves a sigh. "Text me when you do. I don't care how late it is."

  * * *

  The street in front of Jaden's house is still empty when I arrive. She wasn't at the school. She wasn't at Guido's or downtown. She wasn't at the park. I don't know where else she would be. It's impossible for her to track me down. Legally, I'm Chris Whalen of Hamilton, but, as a cop, every last piece of personal information is unlisted. She'll never find me.

  As I stare at that second floor window, with its blue curtains and painted shutters, an idea strikes.

  She has to come home eventually.

  If she's looking for me because she thinks we stand a chance—and I hope to God she thinks we still stand a chance.... This is it. I can't screw up.

  I head back to Guido's—the pharmacy across the street. I scour aisles, searching for office supplies, and grab a pack of Sharpies and thin notebook off the rack. Outside, leaning against my bike, I write. I write by the light of the fluorescent sign hanging above—everything I should've said and more.

  She's still not home by the time I return.

  I cross the street, notebook in hand. I creep along that fence lining the property, moving through shadows. I shove that marker into my back pocket, bite into the edge of that notebook, and climb. I climb that oak tree rising above her house, branch after branch, scraping fingers until I reach the second floor.

  I circle the house slowly, sit down outside her window, and wait.

  I half-expect Daniel to call, checking in on her, but my phone stays silent.

  Seconds tick by. Seconds turn to minutes and those minutes turn to more minutes. I rest against the house, ankles crossed, watch the street. It's quiet—still—and soon I'm stifling yawns.

  She pulls her car along the curb just before midnight. My whole world lifts at the sight of her, when she steps onto the grass in a two-sizes-too-large sweatshirt and shimmering skirt. I'm fully awake now, heart pounding in rhythm with her stride—flip flops thwacking against the sidewalk as she heads toward the front door. And it's all I can do not to jump off this roof, to meet her in the yard, to pull her in my arms. It's the closest I've been to her in weeks and it's still not enough.

  I text Daniel.

  She's home.

  By the time it's sent, a light shines between the cracks in the blin
ds of her room.

  I suck in a breath, gathering strength—please let this work—then tap on the window.

  The light extinguishes.

  I tap again. Gently. And, in a moment, the blinds rise. And there she is. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if unable to process what she's seeing—me, crouched low on her roof, waiting for her. She touches the glass separating us. My heart constricts.

  "Hi," I whisper.

  She mouths the word: "Hi."

  I hold up my index finger, signaling for her to hold on. I pick up my notebook and open it to the first page.

  I know this is unexpected...and strange...but please hear read me out.

  I turn the next page. And the next.

  I know I told you I never lied...but that was (obviously) the biggest lie of all. The truth is: I'm a liar. I lied. I lied to myself...and to you. But only because I had to. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you, Jaden...but it happened anyway.

  And it gets worse. Not only am I a liar...I'm selfish. Selfish enough to want it all. And I know if I don't have you...I don't have anything. I'm not Ethan...and I'm not going to give up...until I can prove to you...that you are the only thing that matters. So keep sending me away...but I'll just keep coming back to you. Again...and again...and again.

  And if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me...

  I will do everything it takes to make it up to you.

  I watch her carefully as she reads this confession. This apology for every lie I've ever told. The promise that I will do everything in my power to make it right. And, with this promise, I toss the notebook aside and draw an X on my chest, crossing my heart.

  Forever. And ever. And ever.

  The hint of a smile plays at her lips.

  She reaches for the metal latch, unlocking the window, then raises the sash. She stares at me—nothing between us—gathers the lavender satin of her dress and steps through the empty frame, her bare feet searching for roof.

  She is breathtaking.

  More than I remember, even. The color of her dress. The thin straps, the silky material hugging her every curve. Her hair, falling in curls past her shoulders. Her eyes, like stars, glistening against moonlight.

  We stand tall, facing each other, and my gaze drifts to her forehead, to the scar—still healing. I trace it with my finger, feeling a thousand memories—tables in the library, bags of Sun Chips, darkened attics; feeling a thousand sensations—her arms wrapped around me, her body beneath mine, the world falling apart around us; feeling a world where she is mine and I am hers and I have everything I could ever need.

  I tuck her hair behind her ear, brush fingers along her cheek. Her eyes squeeze shut, and a tear slips between us.

  I take her face in my hands, force back the lump jamming my throat, and wipe those tears away with my thumbs. "You know you're beautiful? Even when you cry?"

  She takes a hollow breath, and her lungs shudder.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper.

  "I know why you had to."

  "Doesn't make it right."

  "Doesn't matter anymore," she assures me, shaking her head.

  And I know, with these words, I'm forgiven—that she's handed me the greatest gift I could ever hope for. Another chance to show the world how much she means to me.

  A chance to start over.

  To get it right.

  I bend my head toward hers and kiss her softly as a summer moon hangs suspended in the sky above, as stars twinkle overhead, as a cold, endless winter fades to nothing. My fingers slip into her hair, releasing flowers. I rest my cheek against her forehead, breathing her in.

  My lungs squeeze out another breath as a pang of want rips through my body. "I'm going to call you tomorrow."

  "Okay," she replies.

  "And take you to dinner."

  She laughs softly. "Like a date?"

  "Yeah. And I know it sounds cliché, but I'll probably call the next day, just to hear your voice." She laughs, brushes her nose across my jaw line. "But that won't be enough, so I'll want to see you again."

  "That would be fine."

  "And the day after that," I add.

  She pulls away, gazes at me from beneath those lashes. "How long should I expect this nonsense to continue, Officer Whalen?"

  "What? This inexplicable need I have to talk to you, to see you, to feel you, to know what you're doing every second of every day? I was thinking.... I don't know. Forever?"

  "That sounds...."

  "Like a stalker?"

  Her shoulders lift in a gentle shrug. "I was gonna go for amazing."

  And, at that moment, Jaden McEntyre becomes my miracle—my saving grace—healing parts of me I didn't realize were broken, piecing together what I didn't know was shattered.

  Standing here on this roof, with her in my arms....

  I am whole.

  Complete.

  Exactly where I'm meant to be.

  EPILOGUE

  A Few Years Later

  I drag the highlighter across the page, sentence after sentence—definition after definition—information I have two weeks to commit to memory. I stop when I hear footsteps in the stairwell and check the time. It's her. It has to be. I shut my Victimology and Social Change text, cap the highlighter, and toss it on the coffee table.

  Keys jingle against the lock, my stomach growls, and in storms Jaden.

  "Hey." I stand from the couch and stretch my arms, preparing to grab my jacket and helmet so we can head to dinner.

  Jaden flings her bookbag across the living room. It lands with a thunk in the corner.

  Shit.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, hesitating.

  "No. I'm not okay," she replies. "Dr. Seversky is the biggest prick to ever walk the streets of this city. No. That's actually me being generous. The biggest prick to walk this planet."

  I shove my hands deep in my pockets, bracing myself for what's to come.

  Dr. Seversky is quite possibly the first person Jaden has ever hated—vehemently. Dr. Seversky is the first person Jaden ever called an asshole—out loud. I would've never believed it had I not heard it myself. I laughed at the time, begged her to say it again. She refused, and she hasn't uttered the word since, but it doesn't matter, because her feelings for this guy are abundantly clear. And I know more than I ever want or care to know about Dr. Seversky.

  "What happened?"

  She presses fingers against her temples, closes her eyes. "He's just...a prick! I'm so sick of the yelling and the berating and the hovering! I'm tired of not being able to do anything right! I just spent the last three hours getting screamed at." Her eyes open, widening. "Oh my God. It's like he gets inside my head!"

  I open my mouth to say something poignant—something that will make her feel better. Something like it's okay, or he's just trying to prepare you for med school, or if you want me to find out where he lives.... I know a few guys. But nothing comes. She disappears inside the bedroom, exits with a change of clothes, and announces she needs a shower.

  In thirty seconds water is running.

  "There goes dinner," I mutter. I run fingers through my hair, survey the disarray that has become our apartment, then knock on the bathroom door. "Jaden?"

  "Yeah?" comes her muffled reply.

  "Let's stay in tonight. I'll order Chinese, okay?"

  She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Okay. Thank you."

  The number is posted on the refrigerator. Not that we need it. The Market Street No. 1 Chinese Restaurant is on our speed dial. And, after almost four years of Dr. Seversky, I don't even need speed dial—they recognize my voice when I call, ask if I want "the usual."

  I place a quick order for delivery—a mix of rice and sweet and sour chicken and sesame chicken—and tackle the kitchen, tossing out napkins and plastic-ware and empty bags from last night's dinner. Jaden showers until I'm sure the water runs cold, then emerges in a pair of jeans and one of my t-shirts, a towel wrapped around her head.

  "I'm so sick of
him, Parker. You have no idea," she says, continuing our conversation like there wasn't a twenty-minute lull. She heads to the cabinet hanging by the stove—where we keep the medicine—and opens it, searching. And I'll admit there's something inside me that still stings whenever I hear the jostling of that bottle of Advil. Whenever she takes two pills instead of one. Because I never really know if that headache is courtesy of Dr. Seversky or an accident—an incident—that happened years ago. An incident I still dream about. An incident that still, to this day, haunts me.

  "I know," I say. "I'm sorry." It's the best I can do under the circumstances. This adviser thing is out of my control. Beyond my jurisdiction. Even so, I hate not being able to fix this—not that Jaden would let me fix it. She'd never give Dr. Seversky the satisfaction of knowing he took her down. That's not how she operates. She'd rather suffer in silence, vent, rant, scream into her pillow, then take him down.

  She swigs a gulp of bottled water pulled from the fridge, chasing an Advil, and screws the cap tight. "That man is like...my nemesis. It's like he lives to torture me."

  "He pushes you because he knows you have what it takes. He knows you can handle it."

  "He's making my life hell," she replies, tone clipped. "Telling me how stupid I am is not motivating. At all."

  She sets the water on the counter, opens the hallway closet, and rolls out the vacuum.

  Great.

  Jaden is an angry cleaner. Exceptionally difficult days with professors like Dr. Seversky mean mopped floors. Bags of old clothes to donate placed by the door. Dust-free ceiling fans.

  I return to the couch, knowing she'll eventually run out of steam. In a couple of hours the apartment will be spotless, the closets will be organized, and she'll crash. We'll sleep in, she'll wake up a new person, and we'll head to one of those twenty-four hour breakfast places and eat pancakes and bacon until we're nauseous.

  She's vacuuming the bedroom, the door closed, when dinner arrives. I make two plates and pour two glasses of wine. I push back the curtains and turn off the overhead lights so all that's left is the lamp on the end table and the lights from the city to fill the apartment.