Remember Me Forever (Lovely Vicious Book 3)

by Sara Wolf

  “I’m scared. Every corner I turn—I’m convinced he’ll be on the other side, waiting for me.”

  “Then why come out here alone at night?”

  “He doesn’t like the dark,” she says.

  “Fascinating,” I say, filing away the information for later use. “Not that you’re scared,” I correct quickly. “But that someone so terrible could have a fear so mundane.”

  She shrugs. “His dad locked him in the closet a lot when he was a kid. For hours.”

  We’re quiet. Isis tries to break the tension.

  “So, you and Bikini Girl going steady, then? Charlie said it was to get info out of her, but I mean, c’mon, look at her. No living thing with a portable piss tube could not feel something while dating someone that hot.”

  “She’s boring,” I say, my voice acidic. “If you must know.”

  “I do say, I must know.” Isis takes on a faux-British accent.

  “Why? Why would you care?”

  “Because, idiot,” she snaps. “I like you. I told you that a long time ago. Not that you’d remember—you get confessions like that all the time, why would you remember one from an annoying, angry little girl—”

  Even after all the hurt, she still likes me.

  “I’ve hurt you,” I interrupt. “You deserve someone better.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Oh my God, I forgot how arrogant you are. Who are you to decide what people deserve?”

  It goes unsaid between us, but even she can tell what I’m thinking.

  “And Sophia…Sophia loved you. She would’ve wanted you to be happy. That’s all any of us can do in this short-ass life. Try to be happy. And I know it’s killing you and I know you blame yourself, but you’re not the only one blaming yourself—”

  She stops, a choke ending her words.

  I’m not the only one. How could I have forgotten that? What kind of selfish prick had I become—running away and leaving her to bleed over my shadow, and the shadow of all the things she should’ve done? She waited alone in silence and fear, bravely holding together the pieces of my life that I abandoned because I was too selfish to stay. Even after I abandoned her, she held on to the memory of me, to her feelings for me, guarding them carefully so they wouldn’t start to rot. Any other girl would have given up. Any other girl would have sown hatred for me for the rest of her life. But not Isis. Not my stubborn, courageous, kind Isis.

  “It’s okay.” She looks up, smiling, though her eyes are waterlogged. “It’s nice of you to pretend you still like me, but… But I understand. If you don’t really, you don’t have to say I should find someone better. You should just tell me. I know I’m not—I’m not all that ladylike, and I’m weird and loud, and I’m inexperienced, and I know that isn’t your type. And I’ve got a lot of huge, dumb issues, so. That’s too difficult for someone to deal with, I think. That night in the hotel was months ago, so it’s okay if things have changed. You don’t have to feel bad about not wanting me anymore. It’s okay to just like someone as a friend and not want to sleep with them. We can be friends. Just friends.”

  I want you. I want you as more than a friend. I want you in my arms, in my bed, where you’ll be safe and ecstatic and all mine. I want to show you how good a kiss can be. I want to show you life isn’t always suffering—it’s pleasure, too.

  My brain screams it, but my mouth never moves, condemning me to silence. I have to be stone. The slightest crack and I’ll spill my every secret at her feet—that I crave her like a parched plant craves the rain. That the only time I feel alive—honestly, radiantly alive—is when I see her purple streaks, the outline of her shoulders, her smile.

  But what kind of barbed love could I offer her? I’m broken, shattered like a mirror of lies. She would try to pick up my pieces and only cut her fingers on them. Any love I could give her would hurt her more, when all I want to do is heal her. I want to build her back up, not tear her down with me. She is too important. Any further hurt by a man could tip the scales of her heart irrevocably, and send her into the place of no return, where no light or love could ever reach her. I’d ruin her for good. And I could never live with myself if I ruined her.

  Not after Sophia. Not after ruining a girl once before. Once is an accident. Twice is malicious and unforgivable. I’d be no better than Nameless. If I put my own wants and needs above her safety and well-being, I’d be no better than him.

  So I put my best mask on. The lifeless one. The one Isis practically destroyed. There are only shards of it left, but it’s so familiar I fill in the blanks quickly and make my expression unreadable.

  “I apologize,” I say. “For leading you into thinking we were something more than friends.”

  The light drains from her eyes instantly at my words, something deep and bright dying within her. Hope. But she hides it in a split second, sweeping it under a rug of sardonic exasperation. For all the things she is miserable at, she is very, very good at hiding her pain.

  “Ugh, stop that. Apologizing looks so gross on you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stands up, putting her hands above her head and stretching, making a satisfied noise. But I can read her easily—it’s a farce. It’s a moment for her to regain control over her emotions, to hide them from me. She turns and smiles.

  “So, I mean, just a casual question between friends is okay, right?”

  I nod.

  “What you said about liking me…that night in the hotel. Was that true?”

  I swallow and form words carefully. “Yes. But something changed, and now—”

  “No, I get it.” She laughs. “Really, it’s fine. Feelings change, hormones, experiences, all that good stuff just mixes everything up in our brains. It’s a wonder people are stable at all! Shit, sometimes I’m surprised I feel the same way about somebody for more than a week, you know?”

  To anybody else, she’d seem fine. But to me, the pain in her offhand words is palpable.

  “Isis—”

  I stand, and she takes an abrupt step back, holding her arms up.

  “Hey, whoa there. I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t come near me right now. It’s night, is all, and you’re a guy, and, you know. It just freaks me out. Nothing personal.”

  My throat tightens, something heavy sinking in my stomach. I’m like all the other men to her now. I’m just another one who’s disappointed and hurt her.

  “Right. I’m sorry.”

  “Again with the apologies!” She grins. “Get a hobby, or like, a better word for sorry. ‘Pancakes.’ Yeah, that’s it. Replace every ‘sorry’ with ‘pancakes,’ and watch your life become a thousand times better. Also, fatter.”

  I’m trying to piece together the right words for her, words that won’t hurt her, but I can already tell I have. There’s no taking back what I said. The damage has been done. Isis, always the faster one, smiles and salutes me facetiously.

  “All right, I think I feel sleep coming on. Going on, actually. I’m sleepwalking right now. You’re talking to a not-awake person. Ooooh!” She makes a creepy noise and then coughs. “Uh. Right. So. I’ll see you around, James Bond. Try not to shoot anyone you don’t have to. Shit hurts.”

  “I could walk you to your dorm, if you’d like.”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine. Ears like a hawk. Except hawks don’t have ears. Do they? I dunno! That’s why I’m in college. Good night.”

  Isis leaves, and I remember, with painful regret, what it’s like to be cold again.

  Chapter Nine

  3 Years, 50 Weeks, 0 Days

  I go to parties in college for the same reason I did in high school—to forget.

  In the two weeks after my and Jack’s meeting at the fountain, I realize just how important parties are. I’m not one of those people who like big crowds, but I don’t hate them, either. They’re useful—when there are so many people around you, talking and laughing and living their lives, you start to forget your own. You can get lost in them, in their energy, in the c
rowd itself. For all of the seven hours the party is going on, I don’t have to think about Jack, about his voice saying, I apologize for leading you into thinking we were something more than friends. For a brief moment between shots of vodka, I forget he ever said that, and the seed of hope in my chest that he still likes me can glow warmly. It’s an illusion, a fake, but it’s so pleasant and soft I do everything I can to live in it. And that means lots of parties.

  If you asked high school me if I was thinking about becoming a college party girl, she would’ve laughed in your face. High school me was smarter than that. She was smarter than I am now. But pain does funny things to people, and denial is the only sweet release, no matter how temporary.

  So yeah—I dance. I drink until I puke. I sleep on someone else’s bed, or floor, in someone else’s locked room to keep the wolves out. And when I wake up, I do it all again. For as long as I can, until classes start or a worried Yvette calls.

  After two weeks, I’m starting to feel okay. Numb, but okay.

  But God must’ve heard my prayers for something good to happen. And Buddha. And frankly every god ever worshipped on this green earth, because Kayla texts me with incredibly great news on Thursday.

  Wren and I are back in Northplains for fall break! Let’s meet up!

  With all the controlled grace of a choking mule, I make excited noises and text her back. We agree to meet up at a coffee shop nearby, and I’ll give them the grand tour of my campus. Wren—always the quiet, calming presence—asks me if Jack will be there. Kayla’s told him he goes here, of course, so I don’t bother denying it. But affirming it makes my insides roil. Yeah, he’s here, and Wren knows it. He has to know Nameless goes here, too. I hope he isn’t planning to hang out with him. It’d ruin my life forever. Or maybe just my appetite.

  The next few days pass like molasses on an igloo in December, until Friday finally arrives in all its weekend-ish glory. I throw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a very fluffy sweater so I can pick at it while I wait. The coffee shop is practically empty, and I try and fail to sit still. The double shot of espresso doesn’t exactly help, but I thought it would, and I’m so very wrong, and what if Kayla and Wren are way more mature than me now? What if they’re studious and serious and full of Worldly Information I’ll Never Understand™, like how to balance a checkbook or how to order takeout without getting an anxiety attack, and what if Kayla’s made new girlfriends, better girlfriends who don’t say “butt crack” and think out loud—

  “There you are!”

  A Kayla-shaped blur launches into my chest, hugging me fiercely. I hug her back tentatively, and she pulls away, her sheet of silky brown hair longer than I remember. Her smile is the same, though, so infectious and golden I can’t help but smile my biggest right back.

  “Holy shit, you look great!” I state the obvious in an excited voice. She laughs and looks me over from head to toe.

  “And you look way better! I love that sweater! Did you get taller?”

  “I think so? It’s hard to tell when everyone around here is the rough height of a frost troll.”

  “Frost trolls don’t live near cities.” Wren’s patient voice comes from behind Kayla. “They hate technology.”

  “Wren!” I throw my arms around his neck. He adjusts his glasses and smiles when we part. His pale hair is slicked back smartly, just like I remember it, and his sensible khaki pants and button-up shirt never cease to amaze me with the sheer amount of absolute boredom contained in one outfit. But it suits him. It always has.

  “It’s good to see you, Isis,” he says.

  “You, too!”

  “Seriously, though, you’d be more likely to see a forest troll—”

  “All right, Mr. Dungeons & Dragons, give it a rest.”

  “He joined MIT’s campus club for it.” Kayla winks at me, and Wren goes pink.

  “I did not!”

  “And the math club, and the chess club, and the Helpful Hand charity club, and a bunch of others, but he kept looking longingly at the D&D application.” Kayla laughs. “So I filled it out for him and turned it in.”

  Wren rubs the bridge of his nose. “I just didn’t think an impractical club like that would look good on résumés.”

  “It’s okay to have fun once in a million-year cycle,” I chime. He shoots me a small grin.

  “All right already. I’m in it, I’m a half-elf paladin, and none of you can make fun of me for it, period.”

  “Ugh, seriously Wren? A half elf? Everyone and their mother and their mother’s grandmother wants to be a half elf! If you’re going to indulge in a little fantasy role-playing, the least you could do was be less obvious.” I roll my eyes. Kayla laughs again and goes to the counter to order her tea.

  “What would you be then, Madam Rebel?” He smirks.

  “A dwarf warrior. With a giant hammer. If I’m the most awesome person alive in real life, I’m sure as hell gonna be the most awesome in the realm of Dragonsville, too.”

  We fritter away hours in the coffee shop, eating cake and catching up on one another’s lives. Kayla’s slogging through her calculus class, but acing everything else. Wren tutors her off and on, when he isn’t volunteering for a hundred club activities and doing every piece of extra credit he can get his hands on. For once, he doesn’t have the highest grade in every single class, and he says it’s more freeing than anything, like the pressure to be the best all the time and keep that number-one spot is gone from his chest. Of course, he struggled to let that “be the best” urge go, and it was painful, but he managed.

  I tell them the abridged version of life at Ohio State—I’m keeping up in most of my classes, nearly failing two, and my roommate is fantastic.

  “I’m so jealous.” Kayla sighs. “Mine is awful. She leaves her dirty underwear everywhere—even on my bed!”

  “You live with a goblin.” I make a face. “And not the gold-hoarding D&D kind.”

  “We’re planning to get an apartment together after the school year is over,” Wren says, and he and Kayla share a tender look.

  “Seriously? That’s fantastic! Can I come visit you and eat all your food?”

  “Only some,” Kayla insists.

  “Most,” I barter.

  The bells over the coffee shop door ring, though I’m so lost in bargaining with Kayla about how much of her bubble bath I’ll get to use when I visit them, I don’t notice who comes in. Wren gets up, making some excuse about the bathroom. Only when Kayla looks over my shoulder does she gasp.

  “Oh crap, is that who I think it is?”

  I look behind me. In black jeans and a jacket stands Jack Hunter, perusing the pastries. But he isn’t here alone.

  “Can I get that one, puh-lease?” a girl begs at his arm. I recognize the voice—how could I not? It’s Hemorrhoid, the chick from the pool party. I try not to look at where they’re touching, something about it making me feel sick to my stomach. Thankfully they can’t see our table; the mottled glass partition is right in front of us, and I shrink behind it more.

  “Fine, Brittany.” Jack sighs. “But just that one, and then we get out of here.”

  Kayla looks to me, then her, then to Jack, and then back to me, and her eyes narrow.

  “Is Jack…dating that girl?” The way Kayla says it, it might as well be poisonous, with how much hate it’s steeped in.

  “I guess?” I shrug and try my hardest to play it off cool, leaning heavily on all the numbness I’ve built up over the weeks. “Who cares?”

  “You don’t?” She frowns. “Isis, what the hell happened? Last time we talked, you were pissed at him but still willing to insult him. You can’t just ‘who cares’ this!”

  Kayla’s voice draws Hemorrhoid’s attention, and I pull at her arm.

  “Hey, please, let’s not do this here.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Jack,” Wren says, coming out of the bathroom. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Kayla and I freeze, watching Jack and Wren. Jack ca
n’t see our table. All he can see is Wren, his icy eyes suddenly hard.

  “Wren,” he says. “When did you get back into the state?”

  “Just today. Here for the weekend, for fall break. It’s weird how Ohio and Massachusetts schools have completely different schedules.” Wren smiles, and Kayla and I look at one another warily. Since when is Wren able to talk to Jack face-to-face?

  “I wouldn’t call it weird so much as typical,” Jack says. Hemorrhoid is too busy with her croissant to butt in. There’s an awkward pause. I spot Wren’s hands behind his back, balled up and slightly shaking. He’s nervous, but he’s trying.

  “Who’s your friend?” Wren asks innocently. Jack narrows his eyes.

  “It’s really none of your business.”

  “Where did you go?” Wren says quickly, never missing a beat. “After Sophia’s funeral?”

  Jack’s eyes flash with the briefest spark of anger. “Away. Obviously.”

  “Right.” Wren exhales. “Well, any time you want to stop being a prickly bastard and start talking to me like a normal human being who loved the same girl you did, albeit in a different way, you let me know. You still have my number.”

  Wren walks over to our table, Jack’s eyes following him. I duck farther behind the partition, desperately hoping he doesn’t recognize the sweater arm he can see as mine. He doesn’t, leaving with Hemorrhoid after she’s gotten her croissant. Wren watches them go, and Kayla stands up, her chair squeaking with the sudden effort.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “To punch him.” Kayla smiles, but Wren puts his hand on hers.

  “Kayla, let it go.”

  “Let me go! He can’t just date someone other than Isis!” Kayla stamps her foot.

  “He can,” Wren says quietly. “And he is.”

  “But—” Kayla looks to me. “Isis, are you okay with it?”

  I start to say no, the word half formed on my lips. But that would be wrong. I’m just fine with it. I have to be. I have to be, or all the effort, all the parties, all the other boys, all the drinking—all the work I did to put distance between Jack and me will crumble and leave me right where I started: alone, and sad, and tired of being alone and sad.