by Shea Olsen
What the hell is he doing?
I tighten my grip around the phone and my hands begin to shake, a twinge of pain lancing into the back of my skull.
He’s out at some club—right now—partying with other girls. And then the truth starts to settle into my gut: He didn’t want me at the concert. It wasn’t a mistake that I couldn’t get in—that I wasn’t on the list—he didn’t want me there. He doesn’t want me with him now; that’s why he didn’t come home after the concert. He doesn’t want me.
I can’t stay here. I won’t let him find me here in his room, waiting for him like some obsessed girlfriend who can’t take a hint. No different than Ella St. John after all. My fingernails dig into my palm, and I climb shakily to my feet, clicking off my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I think back to Tate’s face at the airport, his expression when I told him I would defer college—that I wanted to go on tour with him. That I loved him. The blank mask descending over his face, the eyes that could barely meet mine.
My head begins to ache. I let him make a fool out of me. Again. I’m so stupid. So, so stupid.
I hurry down the stairs and out the front door, desperate to get away, suddenly certain he’s going to bring those girls back here—and that I’ll be colossally, unbelievably embarrassed.
Well, I won’t let him have that satisfaction, at least. My eyes blur even though I try to hold back the tears. My car sways ahead of me, out of focus in the unrelenting rain. I press my palms to the hood when I reach it, bracing myself—for a moment, it’s the only thing holding me up.
I swerve around to the driver’s side door, wiping tears away with my forearm. I wish I wasn’t in heels, I wish I hadn’t dressed up for him. In an outfit he bought me that day at Barneys, no less. I hate him for making me give a shit. I hate him for making me fall in love with him. For making me just as much a fool as every other girl in my family. For making me break the promises I made myself, all those years ago.
The tears dull my vision and I reach for the door handle when I hear something behind me. Nothing distinct—the shuffling of feet, a low inhalation. I pause and turn around—my blood frozen in my veins, my mouth caught half open.
Standing a few feet back, just beyond the ring of light spreading out from the porch, is a figure, a dim silhouette. It could almost be imagined: conjured up from the mounting fear that scrabbles down my spine, dancing down every nerve and making the muscles in my body tense. I brush at my eyes again, trying to clear away the tears, to focus through the rain—to separate the figure from the surrounding branches.
And then the outline takes a step forward, and I know it’s real.
My heartbeat rises. “Tate?” I ask in an exhale, hating myself for the desperation in my voice, the hope that rises in my heart.
The silhouette takes several more quick steps forward. And I know in an instant that it’s not Tate. The figure is narrower, slighter. It moves closer, crossing the driveway, and finally steps into the muted light from the front porch.
I recognize the face.
It’s the girl from the bathrooms. Same short black hair, freckles, and snow-white skin. She’s wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and black jeans: dressed to be concealed, hidden in the darkness.
“What are you doing?” I ask, words that seem insufficient.
She doesn’t respond.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say again, reaching back behind me for the door handle of my car—but it’s locked.
“I followed you,” she answers.
A sharp stab of fear edges its way along my thoughts. My eyes flick to my car door; how fast can I get to my keys?
“Don’t,” she says, sensing what I’m thinking. And I turn my gaze back to her. The rain lightens just barely, and I can see her better in the gloom, the way her eyes stare unblinking.
“Why are you following me?” I ask, stalling as I slowly reach inside my purse.
“I tried to warn you.” Her arms are stiff at her sides and her left palm begins to run along the fabric of her black jeans. “But then I saw you at the concert, trying to get backstage.” Her eyes never leave mine. “You’re not going to stay away from him. I see that now.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice shaking. “Tate and I are done. We’re over.”
“Liar,” she spits, sucking in a breath.
“It’s not a lie.” My left hand searches for my keys inside my purse, but I can’t locate them.
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve loved him longer than you have. Longer than anyone. I saw his very first concert in LA when I was fourteen. I was in the front row and he touched my hand, looked into my eyes like he was really seeing me. Like no one’s ever looked at me before. And I knew he and I were meant for each other. It’s just a matter of time; eventually, we’ll meet again, and he’ll know I’m the one.”
I need to get out of here, call the police, find Tate, and warn him. No matter what he’s done to me, I can’t let him come home to this—another unstable fan. One who might hurt him, instead of herself.
“You can have him,” I say. But her face hardens and grows even paler, if that’s possible. She takes another step toward me.
“I will.” And then adds, “Once you’re gone.”
My fingers finally coil around my keys, buried at the bottom of my purse. I whip around, jamming the key into the lock, and grab for the door handle. Time moves in fast-forward yet I am in slow motion: I yank open the door but she’s too quick, rushing at me, and her hands clamp down against my throat. The door bangs shut again. My lungs constrict, gasping for air. For a second I’m so stunned that my arms are limp at my sides, my vision already starting to smudge out. But then panic crawls up from my stomach and I slam my hands against her face, trying to push her backward. We stumble sideways, to the front of the car, hands around each other, my heels shuffling on the wet pavement.
We’re moving too fast, the momentum driving us along the side of my car, sliding across the fender, and then we are stumbling out away from it, across the driveway, into the dark. But we don’t make it to the edge of the driveway; the force of her body is too great, and I feel my feet catch beneath me, and then we’re both falling.
We thud hard against the ground, the concrete rising up to meet me. Little white spots blur my vision and I realize the back of my head is throbbing, heat spreading over my scalp.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell her to stop, but there is no air to form the words.
I meet her eyes, only inches from mine, coal-black pupils magnified like she’s staring straight through me to the other side—hollow but also satisfied. Her hands close even tighter around my throat: pressing, digging, fighting to push the life out of me. And everything begins to slow. I gasp and kick and claw at her, but her face twists into a sagging grin, caught somewhere between laughter and tears.
My nails dig into her cheeks, pulling away skin, but soon I feel the strength start to leave my limbs. And my vision blots with speckles of red.
Everything is slipping away, fading like a vast black curtain billowing over the top of Tate’s house and settling down over me.
The sky is beautiful. The clouds receding, drifting away. It’s now black and dotted with tiny lights. Stars.
Nothing but the stars. It’s all I see. They burn as they fall, raining down and touching my skin, making everything white.
The sky dims. Spots bursting.
The world turns shallow, out of focus.
And then nothing but dark.
* * *
My heartbeat is the first thing I feel: hammering every joint, every bone connected by tissue. Knocking my body apart.
I peel my eyelids open, sticky and watery.
The sky shakes above me.
There is a flash of dark hair—the girl, still above me. And then a sudden release of press
ure—of her body being lifted from mine, hands leaving my throat. But I can’t move. My legs are like anchors. My arms tingle. My head throbs worse than before.
Someone screams: the girl, I think.
Movement, feet against the concrete, hands clawing, scraping.
I realize my eyelids have slipped closed again and I force them open. A face rises into view. I flinch, expecting the girl again—back to finish things. To kill me this time. But it’s not her.
It’s Tate.
His lips are moving. His eyes are like a bottomless ocean, and I want to sink down into them and never come up again. He’s speaking but my mind is unable to parse the words. And then his arms are beneath me, lifting me up, and I feel empty of anything but air, and I let him carry me, my head pressed to his chest.
The black descends once more, only the sound of Tate’s heartbeat thumping against my ear chasing me into the darkness.
* * *
The steady beeping of a heart monitor rouses me from sleep. Am I in a hospital? When I open my eyes I see Tate. Relief washes over me, until I remember what happened.
“Hey,” I say, my voice a sandpapery rasp.
“Hey.” He tries to smile, but it’s strained. “How do you feel?”
I close my eyes and take stock. The aches are there—my head, my throat, my back where I hit the concrete—but duller, not the agony I remember. I glance at the IV in my hand—yep, hospital. “I’ve had better days. How long have I been here?”
“A few hours. You have some bruising on your throat and maybe a concussion, so they want to keep you overnight, but they said considering everything, you’re really lucky.” His mouth twists, like he can hardly say the word. “Your family’s up front with Hank, talking to the police. I... Do you need anything? A doctor? I should tell them you’re awake.”
“They’ll figure it out,” I say. “These monitors have to be good for something.” It hurts to see him here, knowing where he’s been tonight, at some club with other girls—it’s a pain that has nothing to do with the aches in my body, but I don’t want him to go. Not quite yet.
He rubs the back of his neck and his eyes fix on mine. But they are not the eyes I remember—the eyes of someone who can’t live without me. They are the eyes of someone who’s already gone.
“Charlotte,” he begins, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea about that girl—I didn’t know I had a stalker, much less that she’d go after you. God, I never meant for any of this to happen. I never would have put myself back in the public eye if I’d thought it would make you a target. You have—”
“I wasn’t on the list,” I manage to say.
He is silent.
“I watched other girls get in, but I couldn’t.” I swallow, my voice scratchy and raw. “Do you know how humiliating that was?”
His face tenses and his gaze drops to the floor. “You should rest,” he says, instead of acknowledging what happened tonight. How he so callously pushed me back out of his life. “We can talk about this later, when you’re healthy again. When your voice...when you’re feeling better.”
I think briefly about telling him to call the doctor after all—surely they can bring enough morphine to numb the pain I know is coming. Instead I study him, the tired eyes and set jaw. “I don’t think there is a later for us, is there, Tate?”
“Charlotte, you don’t... I can’t...”
I want him to stop there, not to say anything else. But he goes on, and I know I’m right.
“You’ll never know how sorry I am for what I did to you tonight. But I can’t let you give up college for me. Your dreams, everything you’ve worked for your whole life. You said you loved me, and I... I can’t tell you what that means to me. But what happens when you get tired of being on the road—living in a cramped tour bus, spending hours backstage in a greenroom, traveling to so many cities and countries you start to lose count? When every arena looks the same? What happens when the novelty fades and you start to resent me for taking you away from the life you were meant to lead? And who knows how many other crazy fans might be out there. It’s safe to say I haven’t had the best luck in that department. You think I want to risk what happened to you tonight happening again? I just...it can’t work, Charlotte. You need to go to Stanford, where you belong. Where you’ll be safe.” He touches the metal bar on my hospital bed, tightening his knuckles around it.
I should feel some relief, hearing the explanation I didn’t get before the concert—he has always worried about keeping me safe, protecting me, even if it means breaking my heart. But instead, I just feel anger—overwhelming rage that once again, his fear of hurting me is driving us apart. “So you’re making the decision for me. It doesn’t matter what I want, what I need, or what I’ve told you I can handle. You get to decide, just like always.”
His shoulders straighten back, his arm falls to his side. He’s so gorgeous, I think. Even now, even though every word he says is breaking me apart, I can’t help but admire how achingly handsome he is. It makes this hurt even more.
“I wish it could be different,” he says, looking away from me now, unable to meet my gaze. “But it’s easier if—” He bites down on his lip.
“If we end this,” I finish for him, pain dancing across my temples.
He nods. “I can’t live with watching you sideline your future for me. And you’re right, you deserve more than the occasional weekend visit. There’s no middle ground here, Charlotte.”
For a moment I can’t respond. The tears I’ve held at bay are biting at my eyes, my lips threatening to quiver. “There’s never been middle ground with you. It’s always all or nothing.” My fingers clench the sheet, holding tight to steady myself. “I think you should go now.”
He makes a soft sound—part protest, part sigh. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. For everything.”
His fingers slide along the edge of the bed, so close he could touch me, run his hands up my bare arm and kiss me. But he doesn’t. He pulls his hand away and turns for the door. He pauses once, his back a rigid line. And I think he’s going to turn around, say something else—just one more thing to make everything okay, to make this not hurt so, so much—but instead he steps out into the hall, disappearing from my life.
And I am undone.
TWENTY-FOUR
GRANDMA AND MIA TAKE ME home from the hospital the following day. I ride in the front seat, silent. Everything feels muted: watercolors bleeding across a white page. At home, I brush through the living room and down the hall. Even this house feels foreign to me, the old Charlotte who used to live here someone I no longer recognize.
“You all right?” Mia asks behind me. I hear Grandma across the hall, putting Leo down for his nap.
“No,” I say, sinking onto the bed and turning away from her. I can hear her breathing, sense that she’s there, but I don’t turn back to look at her. Eventually, she moves away, closing the door behind her.
I spend three days in my bed. Mia brings me food, asks me how I am, tries to get me up—but I just don’t have the strength. She brings Leo into my room to cheer me up; he grabs my finger and smiles and makes me feel a tiny bit better. Grandma is surprisingly understanding. She hasn’t mentioned Tate once.
Carlos comes by every day after school, and just sits with me, not making me talk. He doesn’t try to cheer me up like he might normally do. Just sits there.
Slowly, I find my way back to who I used to be. I pull my favorite novels off my bookshelf, reading passages, comforting myself with the words. I open my laptop, paging through photos from old Banner assignments, trying to imagine who I was when I took them, figure out if I’m different now. I open my e-mail, go through the assignments my teachers have sent, get a little work done here or there. I’m still behind, but my counselor says that Stanford will understand, that they won’t fault me for any grades that slip after a hosp
ital stay. I tell myself that it’s good I didn’t fill out any deferral paperwork yet—that everything can just get back to normal now. Stanford next year, med school after, the future I so purposefully planned.
I tell myself I should be glad, that it could have been much worse.
That at least I didn’t ruin my life.
On Thursday night, Mia comes again to my door, knocking softly to see if I’m awake. She sits on the end of my bed and touches my hair, pulling it away from my shoulders. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes; I squeeze them shut, trying to hold it back.
“Does your head still hurt?”
“No. It’s not that,” I say.
“I know,” she says gently. “He broke your heart, didn’t he?”
I nod and cover my eyes with my hands, a whimper shuddering from my lips.
“They’re not all bad,” she says, touching my shoulder. But I laugh: a short, painful laugh.
“I’m sorry, Mia,” I say, looking up at her, this girl I used to idolize when we were kids.
“For what?”
“I haven’t been a good sister. Not since Leo. I think... I didn’t understand...” I remember all the ways I judged her. I didn’t want to help her, even when I could have.
“We’ve each made our own mistakes,” she says. And the forgiveness in her eyes almost makes me break down all over again.
I look down at my hand, at our mother’s ring. It used to remind me not to be like her, but I fell in love just as hard as she always did.
“I don’t think I need this anymore,” I say, sliding it from my ring finger.
Without looking at me, she slides it onto her own. It fits perfectly—maybe even better than it fit me. Her skin is darker, closer to the shade of our mother’s, and it looks just how I remember.
