“A little pie never hurt anyone. Does this mean I can snap a picture of you covered in pie and post it for the done-it?”
“Whatever you want, Cheez-It.”
And bam. I smashed that thing right at his face. Not too hard—but little globs of yellow goo went flying past him, landing on the wall and falling onto the floor. Pieces of pie covered his face and dripped onto his shirt.
I bent forward laughing. “That was so much fun.”
He laughed, too, crinkling his pie-covered face and bringing his hands up to wipe it off. “It’s…colder than I expected.”
Through my fading giggles, I twisted to set the pan down and said, “That was kinda epic, don’t you think?”
“Hey, look.”
I turned back to see one pie-covered hand zooming toward my face. Before I could lunge out of the way, his fingers smeared banana cream across my nose and cheek.
“I can’t believe you fell for that. But I had to see how it looked from the other side.”
For the briefest moment, I thought I’d start crying—a mixture of sadness and hysterical pie-induced laughter. But I didn’t. I was proud of that.
He wiped more globs of crust and whipped cream from his chin and lips, chuckling to himself. “Eating it might not have been so bad. It’s damn good pie.”
I mimicked his actions, wiping the dessert from my cheek. Something about eating the pie straight from my face didn’t seem right. But whatever. I smiled and licked my fingers. “Oh damn, that is good.”
Jake chuckled again. “Take a picture so I can get this pie out of my hair. And the floor.”
Oops. “Okay, okay.” I dug through my purse sitting on the edge of the couch until I located my phone. “Say cheese.”
And he actually did, drawing the word out. I snapped a photo, then we both fell into obnoxious laughter.
Tossing my phone aside, I pressed one hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath. “I’m never going to be able to look at cheese the same way. You know that, right?”
He wiped pie from his forehead with a short chuckle. “That might’ve been my intention all along.”
“Such a jerk.” But I grinned.
“I’m going to hop in the shower. I’ll be quick.”
I nodded and when he disappeared, I went to the kitchen to rinse my hands. After wetting a paper towel, I wiped it across my face. I considered looking in the mirror to double-check that I’d gotten it all. But a part of me didn’t care.
Water fell from the shower, muffled through the closed bathroom door. The comedy show still played silently on TV, but I had no interest in it. I wiped most of the pie from the floor, but paper towels only did so much—and they tore apart when I scrubbed the carpet. When I’d done all I could, I sat on the couch and resorted to looking around—something I’d done inside Jake’s apartment so many times.
White walls surrounding a simple black couch and black-framed photos. Even a black rug. I wanted to buy him a red throw pillow to add some color.
The only thing that wasn’t overwhelmingly black was a box beneath the coffee table. It was a royal blue—slightly better. It was tattered around the corners, maybe from being opened over and over, but I imagined it was dusty on top like its days of being overused were done.
I sank to the floor, reached out my hand to touch it—because I had to know. Was it something Jake found important, something he used a lot? Or was it that lost box of “things” I suspected it to be?
The mystery box wasn’t heavy. It slid out from underneath the table with ease.
No dust.
I frowned, examining it closer.
So what was in the box?
Put it back.
That was the right thing to do. Pulling it to check for dust was violating his privacy enough. Shit, that made me weird.
But I had to know what was inside.
Maybe it was where he kept his photographs. Maybe the ones of me were in there.
Ask him.
What if it was something else and he didn’t want to tell me?
This internal debate continued. Frantic, scattered thoughts buzzed, and I turned the box around, and played with the corner, testing how easily the lid would slip off.
I removed the lid, instantly regretting it. No matter what the box contained, it wasn’t worth the ache in my chest or the way my head pounded.
But I reached inside anyway, as if my fingers had a mind of their own. The contents were mostly papers. A small notebook stuck out. A few envelopes. Folded notes—some carefully, some haphazardly. Something yellow caught my eye. A thick notebook, worn down over time.
I gaped, my hands frozen above the pile of miscellaneous things.
My eyes darted to the bathroom door. Water still rumbled through the pipes so I pulled the notebook from the box, thumbing the pages quickly.
It was page after page of scribbled writing. Sometimes only a few words, sometimes a few lines. There were even drawings on some of the pages. Landscapes mostly. Trees. Bushes. Mountains. Flowers.
The images were beautiful, while the words were sad.
I tried to steady my shaking hands as I flipped through the pages, through mentions of Emily and of his parents. Words of hopelessness and despair. Words meant for Jake’s eyes only.
One line appeared on multiple pages, over and over again until it was burned into the back of my skull. What’s the point?
The point of what?
I had a bone-deep feeling I already knew the answer and simply refused to acknowledge it. So I shoved Jake’s journal back into the box, trying to make all the contents appear untouched. Placing the lid back on, I blew out a breath.
The water shut off.
A heavy weight sat on my chest, smothering me in guilt.
What had I done?
Chapter Seventeen
I sat completely still on the couch, watching the muted TV, but paying no real attention. If I could help it, I’d never look at that box again.
“Are you hungry?” Jake asked, stepping into the living room, freshly showered and pie-free.
“Nope. I’ve got this.” Lifting the bottle of rum, I wiggled it in the air and forced my lips into a smile. There was no room in my stomach for food and guilt.
“Planning on drinking until you can’t see straight?”
“You know what they say. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He closed the distance between us. The smell of soap and something spicy wafted in the air as he pulled the bottle from my grasp.
“Hey.”
“Seriously,” he said, brows pulling together. “That’s not a good life plan. Don’t try it.”
“How would you know?”
“Trust me. I know.”
My chest pounded, swift waves of electricity pulsing through my veins. I’d gone through Jake’s stuff. I’d violated his things. And now I only wanted to forget what I’d seen. “You never tell me anything.”
Jake moved in front of me, a serious edge to his expression, and as if I were a skittish schoolgirl, my cheeks burned, and I looked away from his face.
“Some things you don’t want to know.”
I glanced up for a moment, wanting to protest, but the room blurred, so I put my head into my palms and groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Whatever you’re sorry about, don’t be.”
I shook my head, still buried in my hands. Last month, I’d told Jake you’ll just have to trust me. He’d said that wasn’t how trust worked. And now what was I doing?
Ruining everything.
The couch dipped beside me. “You really played the whole song?”
“What?” I mumbled through my fingers.
“‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’? You played it all the way through?” When I nodded, he said, “Think you can do it again?”
I lifted my head and gave him a sideways glance. “I hope so.”
His hand dropped to my shoulder, and he gave a light squeeze. “Let’s go.”
“Huh? Go where?”
“The piano room.”
“Right now?”
“I want to hear you play it. I’ll bring my camera.” He stood again and held out his hand.
“How come you’re always taking pictures of me when I’ve been drinking?” I ask, staring and considering his outstretched hand.
He laughed. “It’s not intentional. Come on. We’ll find something to eat first.”
Forty-five minutes later, I no longer felt the effects from the single shot I’d taken. I’d destroyed two double cheeseburgers and an entire container of fries. Funny, I didn’t feel guilty for that.
We sat at the piano bench, and I pulled out the folded sheet of music. I didn’t look at him as I opened it and flattened the creases.
“You keep that in your purse?”
“I look at it a lot when I get bored in class or whatever. I like having it on me.”
He smiled—a huge, stupid one that made my stomach turn over.
“What?” I blinked, trying not to look nervous. “It’s not that weird.” I set the sheet music in its place above the keys. “Girls keep all kinds of things in their purses.”
“It’s not weird,” he agreed.
“Then what’s with the psycho killer grin?”
That erased it. “What?”
I laughed—more of a half-assed giggle. “I’m kidding. But you’re making me kind of nervous.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Smiling makes you nervous. Got it,” he said. “I’ll try not to smile anymore.”
“Jake.” I eyed him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I do know exactly what you’re talking about.” He inclined his head, lifting one eyebrow. “And sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
Wordlessly, his gaze dropped to my lips. My heart sped up, aware of how he was looking at me—confused by it. His eyes trailed back up my face before I looked away.
“Sorry for making you nervous,” he murmured.
I laughed, but it was still full of nervous jitters.
“I am nervous,” I said, staring at the sheet music. “What if I can’t do it again? What if that one time I played—that time I was alone—what if it was a fluke?”
“I don’t believe that.” Jake’s hand covered mine, squeezing lightly. “You’ve got this. I know you do.”
A slow burn wound its way from my fingertips to my heart, sending it into overdrive. “What if you’re wrong?”
“What if I’m right?”
I looked over his shoulder, and then I shook my head. “So it’s a shot in the dark.”
“I’m right.” He leaned in closer, squeezed my hand a little tighter. “I know you can do this, angel. You don’t have to trust me. Just trust you.”
His words splintered my soul, and I felt a hysterical crying fit coming on. “I don’t think I know how to do that anymore…trust anyone. Or anything. Not even myself.”
His fingers moved and threaded through my hair. He pushed strands away from my eyes, tucking stray pieces behind my ear as I stared at the keys and tried not to cry.
“I know how you feel.” His fingers caressed my cheek, then lower, against my neck.
My skin tingled, and I wanted to bury my face against his chest, for him to wrap his arms around me until all my pain melted away. But I was afraid I would crumble into tiny, unrecognizable pieces of despair, so I didn’t move an inch. “I wish you didn’t. It’s a terrible feeling.”
He offered a small smile, and I was heartsick when his warm fingers no longer pressed against me. I should’ve leaned into him, asking him for the things I wanted, like Kat insisted I start doing.
But I couldn’t—I should’ve been apologizing. Asking him to forgive the fact that I riffled through his stuff. That I saw what I saw.
That I know what I know.
And I couldn’t do that, either.
But what did I know?
Jake had private thoughts—secrets—he shared with no one. So what?
The sound of electronic notes broke up the silence. It was the first time I’d ever heard Jake’s phone ring. He glanced down, pulling it from his pocket. Two seconds later, the phone rested on his lap, silenced.
I didn’t realize I was staring until he looked at me and said, “It was my mom.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you answer?”
“She wants me to come home and visit. She knows I won’t, but she keeps calling anyway.”
“Why won’t you go?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at the sheet music in front of us, his hands visibly tightening over his knees.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s none of my business.”
I didn’t want a repeat of our camping trip. And I’d been wrong before—for trying to push. For invading his privacy. Everyone had a right to their secrets.
“I haven’t seen them in two years,” Jake said. “My parents. My mom calls me sometimes. Asks me to drive down there to visit. She wants me to come over for my birthday. I’ve told her no three times already.”
With all the Facebook stalking I’d done, I should have remembered his birthday was coming up.
“But the truth is, I don’t want to see them.” He paused, glancing sideways. “My dad is always drunk, and my mom is usually passed out from her meds—or not taking them. And the latter is much worse. It’s always a shit show every time I see them. What’s the point?”
What’s the point?
I took a few breaths, rubbed my palms together, and tried to keep my face neutral. But I’d heard the bitterness laced over every word, heard the anger and resentment in his quiet explanation of the two people who should’ve meant more to him.
I thought of my mom and dad, of how much I simply adored them as parents. Sure, they’d grounded me more times than I could count. They’d punished me for sneaking out of the house, and taken away my cell phone. They’d done all the appropriate mean parents things. But they weren’t mean. They were great. And I loved them.
Jake didn’t have to say it—he didn’t love his parents.
Sure, maybe some biological part of him loved them because he was supposed to love them—they were his parents, after all. But then, was that love? If you only love a thing because you’re supposed to, is it worth anything?
That didn’t sound like the kind of love I’d want to have.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.
“It’s not your fault my deal of the cards was shittier than most. And I thought I told you I didn’t want you apologizing to me for anything.”
Because I wanted to change the subject—because I knew he wanted me to—I said, “So what are you doing for your birthday?” And yes, I was stalling, too.
“I’m not into the whole celebration thing.”
“That’s super lame, you know.”
His eyebrows shifted upward. “You’re not plotting out a surprise party for me, are you? Because you should know, I disapprove.”
I cracked a smile. “How would I throw you a party? Who would I invite? Neither of us has any friends.”
It was supposed to be a joke—until I’d said it and felt the truth behind it. My words fell flat, a complete merrymaking buzzkill.
“We’re friends…” he said after a long stretch of silence. “But you’re basically the only one because I’m not sure I know how to be a good one.”
I inhaled slowly, wiping my palms against my jeans. “Just don’t shut me out again.” Please.
“I shouldn’t be making those kinds of promises,” he said, not looking at me, his hands in tight balls. “Given my track record.” He paused. “But I’ll try.”
My lips parted, about to tell Jake I didn’t get it. There were lots of things he didn’t want to tell me—so, okay. Fine. That at least made sense. But what didn’t make any freaking sense was all the back-and-forth. First he said he wouldn’t kiss me, then he did…then he said he couldn’t
be my friend, and now he could? To put it simply, I was confused.
But I didn’t say any of that. Desperation looked good on no one.
“You want to give the song a shot?” he asked, oblivious to the torment inside my head.
Since I had nothing left to say, I nodded.
I shoved all thoughts of Kat and Emily—and her enigmatic brother—to a dark place in the back of my mind, and focused on the black-and-white sheet music.
The song is all that matters.
That’s what I told myself, over and over until I believed it. And after two false starts, I played through the song. As it turned out, Jake had been right.
“See,” he said once I’d finished. “Knew you could do it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kat and I discussed our funerals once. How we envisioned them. What music we wanted. Who we thought would show up. We laughed about it, eating popcorn on her bed. She declared that “Satisfied Mind” by Jeff Buckley would be her funeral song. “It’s a happy sad,” is what she’d said.
And she wanted people at her funeral to be happy sad.
I sat hunched over in the pew when her song came on, and I couldn’t find the happiness anywhere in me. It made me even sadder—that I couldn’t give her what she’d wanted.
I would never be able to listen to that song again.
She was only eighteen. Emily was only seventeen. Not nearly enough time for either of them. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t fucking care that life wasn’t supposed to be fair.
I pressed a hand over my mouth to keep from making noise as the pressure in my chest increased.
They were both dead, and they shouldn’t be.
But maybe I should.
Mom came back to the aisle where I sat. She shifted past me and took a seat. “Honey, how are you doing?”
I shook my head. Not good. But I couldn’t speak.
She handed me a tissue, which I balled inside my fist.
I started thinking about what Emily’s funeral might’ve been like. If there was music or a slideshow, and what kind of flowers surrounded her. Did she ever have a conversation with her best friend about her one-day funeral? Did she have a song picked out?
Thoughts of Emily led to thoughts of Jake.
The Heartbeat Hypothesis Page 14
