Emma steps over to him and brushes her hand against his upper arm. “He’s right, you know. You are a great guy. And you have nothing to worry about. I mean, shit…we’ve got chips and salsa and everything. What could possibly go wrong?”
“True,” Matt answers, shoulders raised in a small shrug. “Chips and salsa always do impress the ladies.”
“It’s a fact,” Emma says with a happy little smile.
“Well, since I already have my pants on and all, I guess I’ll just prepare by hitting the head and checking my teeth for green stuff,” he says, his voice more tempered now. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Not at all.” Emma points down the hallway. “First door on your left.”
“Thanks.” He puts his cell phone down on the coffee table before turning back toward the bathroom.
The moment his back is to us, Emma makes a silent, mock scream, raising her hands to her cheeks and opening her mouth and eyes as if she were the Home Alone kid with the aftershave. At first I can’t tell if it’s a happy mock scream or a frustrated one. But it’s quickly evident that she’s thrilled Hadley is actually coming. She’s practically dancing around her apartment, collecting all the empties from the coffee table and taking them into the kitchen for recycling.
I like seeing her this happy.
On her final trip out of the kitchen, the door buzzer sounds. She freezes for a brief second, looking at me with excitement. Then she hurries over to the intercom box and slides the door release button.
“Should we wait till he’s back out here to open the door?” she asks in a half-whisper.
“Nah.” I stand up from my place on the couch and turn toward the door to welcome Hadley. “Don’t make the poor woman wait. He’ll be out in a second.”
Emma makes her way over to the door, taking a quick detour past the couch to give me a peck on the cheek. Just before she gets there, there’s a series of three quick knocks. They’re heavier than they should be. Before I can stop her, she opens the door to let Hadley in.
Only it isn’t Hadley standing outside her door.
Chapter 44
David—Age 18
I had the dream again. The one where I fly into the water underneath the Laurel Bridge and rescue my mother. I’m really fucking tired of having that dream. I’ve had it a couple times a week for the last ten years, and it never changes. Never. In the dream I’m still eight, and after we fly out of the river together, my mother tells me the same things she’s told me dozens of times before. She thanks me for loving her enough to give my life to her. She tells me I’m brave. She tells me she loves me. But it’s all a bunch of bullshit, and more than anything, I wish I could turn it off. I wish that, just once, I could go to sleep without worrying that the same old festering scab will be ripped open yet again the instant I close my eyes. I always wake up feeling panicked and defeated. Powerless. I feel like some kind of fucked-up Sisyphus, destined to live through the same fictitious moment over and over again. Destined to have the reality of my failure thrown in my face time and time again. Destined to see “what could have been”—if only I was brave enough. Strong enough. If only I had loved her just a little bit more.
It happens almost every night. Ad nauseam.
Sometimes I feel like I’m cracking apart.
I take a deep breath and climb out of bed, running my hands through my hair and straightening the covers the moment I climb out of them. It’s February, and it’s cold as shit in this apartment. Shep must have forgotten to pay the electric bill again.
I walk out into the living room to check the thermostat before I take my shower and get ready for school. It’s my senior year. Only three and a half months to go until graduation. I can’t wait. The thermostat tells me it’s fifty fucking degrees in here. Jesus. I’m glad I told Sarah I would come hang out at her house after school today. At least I can stay someplace warm until her dad comes home at five. Then I’ll have to climb back out her bedroom window before he sees me and return to this freezing shithole. Here’s hoping Shep wakes up half-frozen himself and still has enough of his brain intact to call the electric company and give them his credit card number.
On my way back through the living room, I see my wallet sitting on the kitchen counter. I swear it was on top of my dresser when I went to bed last night. I always put it in the exact same spot. Right between my keys and my cell phone. I walk over to the table and look down at it. It’s open. I don’t even need to pick it up to know the money is gone, to know my own father came into my room last night searching for cash. I look over at his closed door, knowing he came home from the bar just long enough to steal from me, and then he went back out to drink away my last sixty bucks.
But I’m not mad. Because it’s happened before. Lots of times. And I’m not going to stop him. Nothing’s ever going to stop him. It’s just a fact.
I pick up my wallet and sort through it as I walk back down the hallway to my bedroom. The only thing he ever takes is my cash.
Except this time it’s different. Something else is missing.
A thick film of fear clouds my eyes when I realize that my mother’s folded-up letter is not where it’s supposed to be. The small slot underneath my driver’s license is empty. Completely empty.
I walk to my father’s room and open his door. He’s there, passed out on the bed. Curled up on his side wearing nothing but his boxers and socks. I haven’t seen him shirtless in years. He’s skinnier than I remember him being. Older. Weaker. He’s worn and ragged and beat-to-hell. He looks like a working man mashed up with a heroin addict. Like life ran his body through a waterless spin cycle for years, until he came out all dried-up and shriveled. Wasted.
I see my mother’s letter there, on the bed next to him. It’s unfolded and flattened but fully intact. The sight of it makes me want to puke. That paper, with its smeared ink, is the history of me. The reason I am who I am. The reason I dream that goddamned dream almost every single night. He had no right to take it. No right to read whatever words he could manage to decipher. No right to look at my mother’s scribbles and think about his eight-year-old son standing on that bridge right next to her, wishing so hard that he could just touch her skin and say goodbye.
I pick up the letter and fold it back over on itself until it’s small enough to slip back into the empty slot behind my driver’s license.
I don’t wish I had saved her. Not anymore. Now I wish I would’ve jumped off that bridge and drowned right there next to her. I wish we both were gone.
I wish I’d made a different choice.
Chapter 45
Matt—Present Day
I look totally normal. Way more normal than I actually feel. Right now, as a matter of fact, I feel like a walking freak show of not normal. I feel about as far from normal as I’ve ever felt. But…at least I look normal. And thankfully people can only see how you look and not how you feel. That’s something guys like Clark Kent and Peter Parker—and me—always appreciate. If I can keep from tripping over my own tongue, I should be okay. I should survive the evening without Hadley knowing just how completely not normal I feel.
On the outside, my hair looks good, my shirt is pressed, and there’s nothing green in my teeth. As I look at my reflection in Emma’s bathroom mirror, I see a normal, decent-looking dude. But on the inside, I’m a jumbled-up mess. Nervous as hell. Marvelously aware of my own awkwardness. Terrified she’ll regret ever texting me in the first place. I keep telling myself I’ve got nothing to lose, but the truth of the matter is, I do have something to lose. I could lose what’s left of my self-respect pretty damn quickly if Hadley decides to run for the hills before the evening’s even over.
As I finish washing my hands, I hear voices coming through the bathroom door. They sound louder than they should. Really, David? Do you have to argue with Emma right now? The last thing I need is for Hadley to walk in on some horrific lovers' quarrel. I open the door quietly, just far enough to hear what they’re saying.
The fi
rst voice I hear isn’t David’s. Or Emma’s. It’s another man’s voice. Deep and irritated.
The voice says, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out you were there? Did you actually think it would work?”
Whose voice is that? It isn’t Brad’s or Cameron’s, that’s for sure. My stomach drops when I consider that maybe it’s Emma's brother. Or the guy with the gold rabbit teeth. The gangster rapper guy. Maybe he’s here because David pissed him off somehow. Maybe he’s here to settle something. Great timing, no matter the reason. All I know is I’m not coming out of this bathroom until he leaves. There’s no way I’m throwing myself into that mêlée.
Then I hear Emma’s voice. She’s incensed. Beyond irritated. Her voice is like a whip, lashing out at him. Whoever he is. “Yes, you fucker, I did. I thought that maybe, after all these years, he’d be sick and tired of you walking all over him and ordering him around. I thought maybe he’d wanna start thinking for himself. I thought he should know what you did to him. How much you manipulated him.”
It can’t be the guy with the gold rabbit teeth. Why would Emma say those words to him?
David’s voice is next. “What the fuck are you talking about, Emma? Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did. Tell me you didn’t go see Evan.” David’s angry, too. What the hell is going on?
“Looks like you got yourself a smart one there, Em,” says the stranger's voice. It’s filled with arrogance. Superiority. Assholeness.
“Fuck you, Ricky,” shouts Emma.
My heart stops.
Holy shit. It's her brother. But why? He’s supposed to think she’s dead. Why would he come here? Panic stretches into my every nerve, kicking my brain into overdrive. What am I supposed to do? What if he tries to do something to her? To them?
“Yes, David,” Emma continues, still angry and bitter. “Yes, I went to see Evan. I borrowed Matt’s car and drove there by myself. I did it because the police called me and left a message. They said they wanted to talk to me about what happened to my stepfather. I had to do something to keep them from finding out what you did. I needed to protect you, and I knew that if I told Evan the truth about how Ricky set him up—if I told him that Ricky deserves to be in jail just as much as he does—he would tell the police. And I was going to back him up by telling them the exact same story. I wanted to look that sorry-ass motherfucker right in the eye and tell him what his own brother did to him before I talked to the police. Before I told them what Ricky did. So, yes, I went to see Evan, and I told him exactly what this dickless jackass did to him.” Now I know where she took my car. And that it definitely had something to do with her brother.
“What?” David shouts back at her. “You did what? Jesus, Emma. What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me the police called? Why didn’t you let me handle this?”
There’s a brief pause before Emma answers. And when she does, her voice is calm. Almost timid.
“Because I knew what you would do. And I don’t want you to go back to being that person ever again."
I’m beginning to get the impression that whatever happened on that bridge wasn’t what David told me it was.
“Well, isn’t this just one happy little ass-fuck,” Ricky says, his voice dark and downright evil.
“Screw you!” Emma spits. This time I hear movement.
“Whoa!” yells David, fear and alarm charging through his throat. In that one word, I hear the same panic I heard on the phone at three o’clock in the morning, before the bridge. And in the parking lot, after he pulled her out of the water. I hear dread, penetrating and all consuming. It’s for real. Something’s happening. It strikes me like a punch to the jaw. “Ricky,” David continues. “Don’t. Just…please. Don’t. Come on, man. Put it away. Put it down.”
I don’t even have to ask what it is that Ricky is doing because I already know. I can hear it in David’s voice. Emma said her brother was dangerous and unpredictable, and he’s here now, ready to prove it.
I reach into my pocket for my cell phone. I need to call 911 before someone gets hurt. But my cell phone isn’t there. Because I left it on the coffee table.
I open the bathroom door, and before I can think too much about it, I slip quickly and quietly down the hallway and back into Emma’s bedroom. I hope it’s there. I hope it’s back in her drawer, where she said it belongs. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I know that having it is better than not.
I open the drawer. The bottom one. The one Emma opened the night David failed to pick her up. The night he was getting his ass kicked by some junkie. It’s there. Sitting alone in the drawer. Gratefulness washes over me. I pick the gun up and slide it into the back of the waistband of my pants, just like they do in the movies. My hands are shaking, and my brain is screaming at me to not do this. To not walk out into that living room. To just crawl under Emma’s bed and pretend that whatever’s happening out there is nothing more than a bad dream.
But I can’t. I can’t pretend. I can’t let David and Emma out there with a man who wanted to wipe his own stepfather, and his sister, off the face of the planet. I can’t ignore the fact that some crazy idiot more than likely has a gun pointed at them right now.
Shit. I probably wouldn’t fit under her bed anyway.
There’s only been five seconds of silence since David told Ricky to “put it down,” but it feels like an eternity. What’s happened in those five seconds of silence out in the living room? I don’t hear any voices. No movement. No breathing. But the air is crackling, alive with expectancy and question. Singed with unease.
I take a deep breath and say three words, loud and clear, so they can all hear me.
“I’m coming out.”
There’s a pause before anyone responds.
“Who else is here?” I hear Ricky say, his voice hot with annoyance and surprise. “Who is that?”
I slowly walk down the hallway and out into the living room, my hands raised up in the air like I’m starring in some old-school Western. My heart is jumping up and down, ready to burst out of my chest and run.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ricky asks, looking straight at me.
“Leave him out of this,” says Emma. I look over at her just long enough to see how red her skin is, how enraged she is. How much she hates her own brother.
It’s just like I thought. He’s holding a gun in his hand, his eyes moving back and forth between the three of us. My hands are still raised in the air. I step forward until I am a pace or two in front of David and Emma, right in between them. Then I stop. I’m less than ten feet away from Ricky’s gun, but this is where I have to be in order for them to see the handle of the gun resting against my lower back. I can’t see their faces, but I hope to God they see it. I hope to God that David comes up with some sort of plan before Hadley’s welcoming committee consists of three dead bodies and a murderous lunatic.
“Listen, man,” David says to Ricky, his voice now suddenly calm and collected. “I don’t know where you want to go from here, but I’ve got money. Lots of money. How much do you want? Name your price. A hundred grand? Two hundred grand? Three? Whatever you want. It’s yours. Right now. I’ll go upstairs and get you whatever you want. Just tell me how much.”
David has three hundred grand sitting in his apartment? Holy hell.
In my peripheral vision, I see David step forward. Closer to Ricky. And to me.
“This is not about money,” Ricky barks. The words are sharp and separate. A disjointed line of bitterness. “This is about revenge. He fucking told them already. He fucking ratted me out, the little shit. Because of you, Emma. You. They came to the house this morning to question me. I told them I had no idea why Evan would lie like that. But as soon as they started asking me questions, I knew right away that you got to him and convinced him to do this. And you just went ahead and confirmed it for me not ten seconds ago. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Somewhere far away. Because there is no way in hell I’m gonna rot in a jail cell right down the
hall from the little brother that put me there.” He’s smiling now. Aiming his gun right at Emma and wearing a sick, malicious grin. “And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you fuck me over without paying for it.”
Who says shit like that to their little sister? He’s not going to shoot her, is he? Take this gun, David. Take it. And shoot him in the fucking balls.
“You goddamned son of a bitch,” Emma spits at him. She leans forward on her toes ever so slightly, like she’s about to charge him. She wants to knock him down and beat him senseless. Except he has a gun.
Ricky must feel it, too, because he moves first, stepping toward her and holding the gun at her chest. I’m frozen. Panic and terror coursing through my veins.
David’s hand touches my back. His fingers brush against me for a split second, and then they’re gone. The sudden, rapid absence of the gun both lightens me and sets fire to the pit of my stomach. David steps in front of me, rushing toward Ricky. He knows what’s about to happen. The sudden movement shifts Ricky’s attention from Emma to David in a mere heartbeat.
I hear a loud crack. A burst of noise splits my ears open, buckles my knees, and sends my body to the floor. My gaze bounces from person to person, looking for an answer.
Emma’s eyes are wide. Enormous. Bottomless. And David is perfectly still. Standing there, staring at Ricky, with his arm and the gun stretched straight out in front of him. Ricky’s body shifts backward by one small step. His eyes are narrowed. His face is cold. Emma snaps to life, grabbing the gun out of David’s hand, turning to Ricky, and pulling the trigger. Three shots. Straight into his chest. Perfection.
From my place on the floor, I watch David fall. Both of his hands move to his stomach while his knees sink lower and lower until they meet the ground. It’s almost like something heavy is pushing him down. Breaking his back with its weight. He’s kneeling there, beside me. Speechless and stunned. I see red seeping out from between his fingers.
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