by Nessa Morgan
“She didn’t have to,” he admits, also admitting Hilary spoke to him. “Want to talk about it?” Zephyr stares off into the dark, staring at something I can’t see in the distance.
“Would you?” I ask bitterly, absently playing with the cord to my headphones.
He thinks a moment. “Fair enough,” he responds, matter-of-factly. “We just going to sit out here?” he asks. There’s a good foot of space separating us. It’s small to the naked eye but feels like a canyon between us.
“Yep,” I answer, both tapping my toe on the rock to the beat of the music and wrapping the cord around my index finger until my starts to throb. In this light, I can’t see my finger turn purple so I give up the goal. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to be wherever you are,” he tells me, turning his head to look at me. I can feel his eyes, feel that they’re filled with concern, not pity, as you’d expect from some people in his position.
I push my hood back, dragging my hand through my hair, and let him pull me to his chest. His scent overwhelms me; calming me. For someone reason, I start crying, soaking his sweatshirt in tears I didn’t know I wanted to shed. I couldn’t tell you the reason I’m crying, there’s just some part of me that needs to release all this emotion.
“I don’t know why I let this shit get to me,” I blubber as his hand rubs against my back. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. I know he didn’t want to date an emotionally unstable nut bag that cries every time something doesn’t go her way—no one wants that. I feel like one of those girls on those stupid television shows they target to teenagers, the girl that can’t seem to get her life together but the boyfriend stays with her because he just can’t find the courage to leave her.
I don’t want to be that girl or turn Zephyr into that guy.
“Stop apologizing,” Zephyr whispers, smoothing down my frizzing hair as his voice cuts into my thoughts. His words stop them before I start sobbing uncontrollably while overcome with self-loathing.
We sat on that rock for a good hour or two before I stopped crying, his hand tangling in my unruly curls as he continued to rub my back. It was another hour before I decided to head home and face my aunt. And then just another thirty minutes before I could convince myself to climb from the rock and take my ass home to face the music of what I do.
And the music sounded like cats going through a woodchipper to me.
The house is toasty warm when I walk through the door, instantly shivering because of the temperature change. It started raining during our walk—turned run—home.
I ditched Zephyr at his house, forcing him to let me do this alone. I loved that he wanted to be there for me, this was just something I needed to do alone.
“Joey?” Hilary asks quietly from the kitchen. She pokes her head around the wall, looking into the living room and smiles when she sees me. I return it faintly. “I’ve been worried.”
“I know, Aunt Hil,” I tell her, walking and dripping into the kitchen. I’m soaked through, the rain I predicted turned into a downpour and now I look like a drowned rat. Hilary is at the stove stirring cheese in a saucepan. Random. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I should apologize,” she tells me sincerely, continuing to stir. “I should have told you about the letters a long time ago, I really do apologize for keeping you in the dark for so long.”
“I can understand why you didn’t tell me.”
Hilary pauses for a moment, thinking about something while tucking her orange hair behind her ear. “Here, continue stirring this for me, please.” She thrusts the spoon into my hand and I take her place at the stove, slowly stirring whatever it is she is making. “I’ll be right back.”
She leaves me in the kitchen; I can hear her quick steps up the stairs to her room. A moment later, three or four seconds, her steps are carefully descending the stairs and she’s back in the kitchen holding a very large bin.
“What is that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I stare at the gray bin in her hands.
“These are all of the letters he sent you since you’ve been living with me.” My aunt drops the bin and wipes her hands as if she were happy to be rid of the baggage. “I’ve never opened them, I’ve never wanted to, and I don’t really know why I kept them all these years, it would have been smart to trash them as I got them—maybe, I wanted to give you this choice, maybe I’m just an idiot—but here you go.” She quickly turns, grabbing something from the table, and places it on top of the bin.
The letter that she ripped up, she must’ve taped it back together for me after I stormed out.
“Are there really one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-six letters waiting for me in that thing?” I ask. I’m a little weirded out by that little piece of information alone than what could possibly be in the letters.
“I’m not sure if that’s the exact number,” she starts, puzzled. “It would kind of be weird if I just sat around counting his letters to you, but I promise you, they’re all there, every one you’ve ever received since living with me.” Hilary rubs her hands on her jeans. “I’m sorry I tried to keep them from you, you’re right, I’m not the one who should make the decision whether you read them or not. It should be you.” I think that might be a first, right there. “And if you still want to talk about what little I know about your past and that night, I might be able to do that too.”
“Seriously?” I ask skeptically. Am I wrong for not trusting this?
“No,” she starts sarcastically, narrowing her green eyes. “I’m lying only to get you to stir the cheese sauce for macaroni and cheese.” Her face breaks into a smile.
“All you had to say was macaroni and cheese and I’d do anything you ask.” I smile.
“That true, huh?” she takes the spoon from my hand. “Start boiling some pasta, then, child. I’m pretty sure there’s a new bag in the cupboard above the fridge.”
I climb the counter, something that my aunt scolds me for half-heartedly, and grab the elbow macaroni noodles from a cupboard she’d need stilts to place things in. I suspect she had help of the hot neurosurgeon kind. That makes me smile. Knowing that he’s been here and helped put away groceries. It’s so adorable, so domestic, and I wish I caught it on camera.
After dinner that night, I dragged the seriously heavy bin—that I’m positive is the reason for the freaking ozone layer because imagine how many trees were sacrificed for these unopened letters—up to my room. I debate whether I want to crack open a letter or just shove it in the back of my closet until I’m ready. That starts my questioning if I’ll ever be ready. Maybe, maybe not. I decide to go with the latter, kicking the bin into the back of my closet until I could successfully cover it with other items that make a great disguise and forget that it’s there.
Okay, so forgetting that it’s there is going to take more time than five minutes, but out of sight, out of mind, right. That had to work… eventually.
***
The start of November was a little boring—okay, very boring. I almost fell asleep doing menial activities, like classes. I finally told Hilary, after Zephyr threatened to tell her for me, about the school Idol singing competition of which I was a part. She told me that she’d be there with whistles and air horns for when I undoubtedly won in the end. I told her she had too much faith in me, I wasn’t certain I was going to make it past the first round. Hilary only responded with, “I’ve heard you sing, honey,” before leaving for work.
I sent in more college applications, deciding to forego applying to any schools on the East Coast. Mostly, I wanted to stay close to home but everyone decided that stay close to home meant stay close to Zephyr. So, maybe they were just a little bit right to think that, but I refused to openly admit it. They wouldn’t judge me for it, or whatever, not my friends, and they didn’t discourage me from applying to close schools. All they told me was to go to whatever school I wanted. My aunt just told me to be happy and follow my dreams.
Thanks for the help, people.
Yeah, I don’t understand my sa
rcasm, either.
But even Zephyr told me not to worry about him and the future. I just couldn’t help it, it was staring me in the face and taunting me. And I didn’t want to head to college, start a new life, and leave Zephyr behind. He didn’t deserve that.
It was easy for him to say don’t worry about it or don’t worry about your future, his was not approaching at lightning speed.
With a sigh, I bury my face into my hands with thoughts of my future running rampant in my mind. In movies, the future always seems so perfect—it’s the intended goal. Can I just live in a movie? Those characters have it easier.
I continued to work diligently on my senior project, even having that important discussion with my aunt that I begged for, which was not that great. She didn’t have any new information for me. All she knew was what I knew, and that’s not much. My mother did a great job of keeping my aunt in the dark about all aspects of her life with my father. Although, Hilary did tell me that my mother and father separated two weeks before the murder. From what my aunt understood, and she was still a bit fuzzy, my mom had kicked him out and he didn’t want to go. She had to get the police involved and then she, like any other woman would, changed the locks to prevent him from returning. She was even debating moving houses, maybe leaving the town. Aunt Hil continued to tell me that my mother even filed for divorce, my father just couldn’t be found to serve the papers.
Maybe that had something to do with his rampage. The fact that his wife wanted him gone, from what I’ve heard, he didn’t seem like the man to take things like that lying down, he’d get up and do something even if it ruined lives.
I’m not done searching yet, I doubt I’ll ever be, but it’s more exhausting than I ever thought.
So when that first weekend arrived, I decided that I needed a little relaxation and a break from everyone, everything, and all of the questioning. I tossed aside all of the homework, grabbed a book from my shelf that wasn’t school-related, planted myself on the living room couch with a blanket, and started reading. Halfway through the first chapter, I decided that I wanted ice cream, specifically Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. The problem was we were out of ice cream and I had to leave the house.
[Insert obnoxious whine here.]
“Aunt Hil!” I yelled while walking out of the kitchen, heading through the living room to the stairs. I had to confirm our lack of ice cream.
“Hold on,” she calls back. I hear steps upstairs before she runs down the steps—bouncing is the more correct term—and stops in front of me. It’s a moment like this, when her face is clean of makeup and she looks happy, that I realize how young she looks, almost like a teenager. “Yes, honey?” she asks.
“I want ice cream,” I tell her, running my hands down my bare legs. It might not be smart for me to venture through the November air in shorts, but I’m too lazy to change. “I’m thinking of heading to the store.” I grab my jacket and tie my hair up in a ponytail. “Want anything?” I ask before grabbing her keys from the bowl by the door, listening to them jingle as they dangle from my fingers.
“Oooh, yeah, let me think a moment.” Hilary thinks for a moment, tapping her finger on her chin, her green eyes rising to look at the ceiling. “Golden Oreos, please, I’ve been craving those like no other, lately.”
“Random,” I blurt out with a giggle, tucking a few loose strands behind my ear. I shove my feet into a pair of purple flip-flops by the door. I look like a hot mess.
Before I turn, a light knock, knock raps on the door, catching both my aunt’s and my attention. We exchange quick glances with each other. I wasn’t expecting anyone today; everyone is busy. Hilary even mentioned earlier that Patrick was busy with work, so we’re perplexed.
“I wonder who that could be,” Hilary mutters with a shrug.
“I move toward the door and pull it open without checking the peephole, a bad habit I need to break. But, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?
A tall woman in a black suit that consists of a tiny skirt, with long, dark hair turns to me. She’s wearing very large Chanel sunglasses—I didn’t know those were still in style—they cover most of her face as she smiles at me. From looking at her, you can instantly see the confidence oozing from her body. She has model-like features and towers over me with height and from the help of her heels—name brand, I just don’t follow designers well enough to know who they’re by.
“Hello,” she eagerly thrusts out her hand for me take. I notice the immaculate manicure, the white tips jutting from her fingers. “My name is Ambrielle Knight.”
I take her hand, giving it a light shake. Her name sounds familiar but I can’t place the woman that stands before me, I would definitely remember someone like her. “Hi, I’m Joey,” I reply while I feel my aunt stand protectively behind me. If she could, I’d bet that she’d push me aside to block the woman from me.
This Ambrielle Knight is looking at me like I’m the key to… something, I don’t know, something important. That can’t be good.
“I know that,” Ambrielle tells me, her perfect smile widening, and I have an uneasy feeling rolling through me, a shiver trailing down my back, but that could be from the cold, I am wearing shorts. “I’ve been meaning to discuss doing a piece on you.”
Huh?
“A what?” I ask, instantly confused. I quickly look back to my aunt who shrugs her shoulders; she’s as baffled as I am.
“I work for News Today,” she begins. I can see that she’s someone that loves attention. “We wanted to do a Then and Now piece on you,” the woman tells me, using her manicured hands to emphasize her words. “We just want to show how your recovery is going since you moved here from Texas eight years ago.”
Seriously?
I look to my aunt, confused. She doesn’t share the sentiment.
Hilary pushes me aside, stepping in front of me, cutting me off from Ambrielle. “I remember you and I thought that you understood when I told you when you called,” my aunt angrily spits out. I guess they’ve spoken about this before. “Joey doesn’t need to be reminded of that, of any of that. She doesn’t need to be broadcasted across national television as a victim again.”
Again?
That’s news to me.
“Not a victim. Never would we show her as the victim,” Ambrielle clarifies, taking her sunglasses and sliding them up her forehead, like headband. “As a survivor.”
“The answer is still no.” Hilary grabs the edge of the door, about to slam it in the other woman’s face like I know she should, but I wedge my way between her and the woman, preventing the door from separating us and ending the conversation. I want to hear what more she has to say.
This could be information I need to fully understand my past. Surely, the media would know more about it than me. They found me, after all, and they’re crafty, they have tricks to discover things. They should be able to give me the information I need.
“What’s the point of it?” I ask, placing my hand on the door to prevent my aunt from closing the door. “Really?”
“Joey, you don’t have to do it,” my aunt tells me but I knew that. It’s not like this Ambrielle person is holding a gun to my head, forcing cameras to follow me just so she can get the interview that’s going to start her career.
I wave her off. “I just want to hear what she has in mind, what could possibly be planned if I agree.” And if there’s a chance that any of my questions could gain answers.
“We just want to show how you’ve overcome your tragic past,” Ambrielle starts, using the two words I hate when put together—tragic past, they make my life sound like a Shakespearean play. Last time I checked, I was a far cry from Ophelia. “We want to show everyone that believed you’d instantly dive into a world of drugs and promiscuous sex that you are in the top of your class at school—even graduating a year early, a part of the school orchestra, doing school functions and extracurriculars.” That doesn’t sound too bad—but who are these other people she’s referring to? “We wan
t to show that your past has not affected your future whatsoever.” I’m beginning to like the sound of this.
“And how would you do that?” I ask, actually interested in the idea, provided it doesn’t bite me in the ass. If it can’t answer any questions, which I’m beginning to think was wrong for me to assume, it could, instead, show the people that I’ve grown up with that I’m not a product of my father.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“We would follow you around for a week,” she answers simply. “Any week of your choosing, it’s all up to you.”
I take a moment and think about what any of this could mean for me. It could open doors for me; it could get me accepted to college if nothing else. Not that I’d need help with that, it’s just an afterthought.
“Joey?” Hilary asks when I haven’t spoken for a few moments. She tugs me from my mind back to the brisk cold surrounding me. Now that I think about it, we could have done this inside, where it’s warm.
“I’m thinking,” I tell her. “And this—this piece—it would appear where? On News Today?” I want to slap myself in the face the moment the words leave my lips.
“That, and any other news correspondent that wishes to use it,” Ambrielle explains, matter-of-factly.
“Can I get back to you about it?” I ask, still debating it in my mind. I can see the pros and I can see the cons even clearer, but I just need more time to decide if this is the right thing for me to do.
“Absolutely, take your time.” She digs in her bag, a large Chanel purse, pulling out her wallet. “This is my card, it has my personal line at the office and my cell phone number, and this is my email.” Her French manicured nail points to a line on the card. “These are the best and easiest ways to contact me. And I always reply.”
“Okay, thank you.” I hesitantly take the card.
“I look forward to hearing from you, Joey.” Ambrielle smiles, slides her glasses back over her eyes, and turns away from me.
