The Heartbeat Hypothesis

by Lindsey Frydman

  Chapter Twenty

  One week.

  That’s how long Kat had been dead.

  I stared at my phone once or twice daily, expecting to see her name on my caller ID. See a text from her. Hear her tell me how she was completely in love with my new shoes and would do anything if she could borrow them.

  Seven days.

  How many until I’d stop hurting?

  I wanted to drop out of my classes, but Jake talked me out of it. Still not sure how he managed that.

  Laying my cheek against my palm, I shut my eyes, wishing class would end already. I liked psychology before. But Kat had been in this class with me. And the material we were learning made me want to hide in my room and never come out.

  I was depressed enough as it was—on the verge of tears at any given moment.

  “Anger,” Professor Otto said, “is a natural defense against pain.”

  I pried my eyes open, blinked up at the clock.

  “If someone is expressing anger it is more likely than not caused by an underlying pain. This is especially true in clinically depressed patients.”

  Depression was the chapter we were on. Fucking perfect.

  I blocked out the rest of the lecture. I couldn’t listen anymore and still keep my sanity.

  When class finally ended, I headed for the auditorium doors, and my phone vibrated in my hand.

  Jake: If you come to the piano room, I’ll play something for you.

  Distracted by his text, I nearly ran into a girl turning the corner. I mumbled my apologies, adjusting the strap on my bag.

  It was a strange request from Jake. His lessons always focused on me hitting the keys, creating the music. Not the other way around. And he’d never offered to play anything for me before.

  When I got to the piano room, Jake was alone. As usual.

  Every time I saw him, I thought of what Kat said to me. And then I’d think of our kiss the other night, and I’d know she was wrong. Or that she could’ve been wrong. Jake was capable of more than maybe and supposed to.

  “Hey.” I inched toward the piano and lowered my bag to the floor. “Since when do you come here during the day?”

  He shifted, making room for me on the bench. “I normally don’t. But I’ve been working on something. So. All right, ready to hear this?”

  I nodded.

  He lifted his arms and inhaled a steadying breath. He pressed down on the black and white keys, filling the quiet room with music. His fingers glided across the piano seamlessly until the song lilted to an end.

  All I could do was stare at his hands, unmoving now.

  “So it was terrible,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s okay. I can take it.”

  “No. No.” I laughed. “No. It was great. Jake, it was beautiful.”

  His smile took on a weird shift, part of his mouth crunching together, his eyebrows following suit. “It’s no Bach or ‘Clair de Lune’ but…I haven’t written a whole lot of songs.”

  “Wait. You wrote that?”

  His brows relaxed, but his mouth kept the jagged shape. “Yep.”

  Now that I knew, I wanted to hear it again. “Seriously?”

  “I guess you inspired me.”

  I swallowed thickly, the cadence of my heart picking up. “Oh—you. You what, wrote that…for me?”

  He didn’t.

  Jake laughed—a low, warm sound. “Yes.”

  Sure, there were no words to the song, so it was no confession of undying love or anything. But it was beautiful and unique and—holy shit. “You—” My throat constricted, causing my voice to squeak. “But why?”

  He shrugged like it was really no big deal. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I…thank you.”

  “Giving you these lessons has reminded me of why I liked playing in the first place. So it’s the least I could do.”

  I bit on my lower lip, trying not to blush. “Definitely not the least you could do. Seriously. It’s great. You’re great.”

  His lips moved, but not into a smile—and it was all I could pay attention to. He was so close. Mere inches away. “Thank you.”

  “I’m the one thanking you, remember?” I said, looking away from his lips.

  Jake stayed silent, placing his hands atop the keys. He made a few notes, slowly, carefully. Even those sounded beautiful. But then he stopped and twisted toward me.

  He kissed me. Gently. Deeply. Fiercely. Like he was trying to tell me something he couldn’t put into words.

  Fireworks ricocheted in my chest as he pulled away, and even still when he returned to slowly pressing the piano keys. He glanced over, and a subtle smile brightened his face. When he looked at me like that, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he felt the electricity, too.

  After a few minutes of listening to him play, my stomach turned and toppled around, stabbing me with invisible needles instead of thrilling fireworks—just like that. No warning. That’s the way it always happened when I thought about Kat. Sometimes I’d get distracted enough to truly not be thinking about her. Like before. And then wham—all the agony would return. How long could a person survive with that kind of pain?

  “It never stops hurting,” I whispered.

  Jake stilled his fingers, turning the room silent. “Nothing lasts forever, angel.”

  I turned to him. “Why do you call me that?”

  “You can keep asking me, and I will keep telling you the same reason.”

  I wanted to laugh—but the pain in my chest insisted I cry.

  “I think this pain might last forever,” I said. “Maybe you were wrong.”

  “You’d doubt me?”

  “You’re the one who hasn’t seen your parents in two years because of what happened, so if you’re trying to tell me you’re not still in any pain, I call bullshit.”

  I wasn’t looking at him while I spoke, so when I turned and took in his expression, something new twisted in my gut.

  “You’re right,” he said slowly, controlling his voice and steadying it out. “I haven’t seen them. And yes, I still feel pain over what happened.” His face lost all its happiness, all its clarity. Now it was empty, and if there was a fraction of emotion left, it was only agony. “But I hope that one day I won’t have to feel that way anymore. Am I not allowed to do that?”

  His voice hardened as he spoke, increasing the storm in my chest exponentially.

  I’m such an asshole.

  No wonder I never had real friends other than Kat.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” I smashed my hands together instead of pounding them against my forehead. “I’m just so—I feel so awful all the time, and I didn’t mean to be rude. I don’t know anything about your family. I have no right to say any of that.”

  Jake’s face didn’t relax as much as I’d hoped. “I don’t like talking about them. I honestly don’t like remembering they exist.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to apologize.”

  My heart ticked off the time as it passed in silence. I’d done it again. Pushed too far. But I tried to stop myself, I tried—

  “Do you still want to know how she died?”

  The air turned colder, and the room felt smaller now, emphasizing the closeness of Jake and me. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  He opened his mouth, staring hard at my face, but he didn’t make a sound. One second passed. Two seconds. Three. And then I stopped counting.

  “When we were little,” he said, breaking the silence that was constricting my heart, “my dad always beat on me. Sometimes he beat my mom, but mostly me. Definitely never Emily. I would have never…let that happen. And I don’t mean he smacked me around when he got pissed off. He beat me until I thought I might pass out and not wake up, until I thought, this time might be the last. And if not this time, maybe the next…”

  I stared at his furrowed brow and hard, angry jaw. At his clenched fists sitting side by side on his lap. His chest rising. Falling.

  What did
his heart sound like—how fast was it beating?

  It was a nice diversion from thinking about Jake’s father beating the living hell out of him.

  After hushed moments of imagined heartbeats, Jake continued. “I moved out the day I turned eighteen and I thought—” His words turned to murmurs. “I don’t know what happened after I left. Emily was seventeen. She only had a year before she could move away to school. She was okay. She was happy. She was okay. There’s no way she killed herself.”

  Oh God.

  “Jake,” I said, staggered by the jagged sound of my voice.

  He looked at me for the first time since he’d started talking. “She didn’t kill herself.”

  I swallowed. Remembered to breathe.

  He shook his head, running a hand through his hair roughly. “My parents told me there were drugs in her system when she died. But they didn’t tell me which ones. And it’s not like I ever got to see a medical examiner’s report. So it doesn’t prove a thing. Not to me. My parents could’ve easily lied.”

  “What do you mean? Why…why would they do that?”

  He stared silently at the piano. Maybe he didn’t want to say it as much as I didn’t want to think it.

  A noise behind us shattered the illusion that we were alone. I swiveled my shoulders and spotted a janitor pushing a cart. He stopped by the trash can inside the room and shoved the lid off. When I turned back to Jake, his gaze locked with mine.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said in a whisper. “But my parents are to blame. Emily didn’t end her life with a handful of pills. I know she didn’t.”

  I watched the janitor again as he slowly padded out of the room, pushing the cart in front of him. Once he was gone, I scooted off the bench. I felt like I’d been let out of a small box. Relieved. But not completely.

  Because Jake thought his parents were to blame for Emily’s death.

  “That’s why you don’t talk to them,” I said. “But…what about your mom? I mean, was it just your dad who…”

  “My mom couldn’t stop him, even if she’d wanted to. Sometimes I don’t know if she did want to.”

  Because if she’d wanted to stop him, wouldn’t she have left? For her own sake? To save her children?

  “She’s mentally ill,” he said, sliding off the bench. “But it’s never been a good enough excuse for me.”

  I followed him away from the piano and toward the door.

  “You want to get something to eat before your next class?” he asked—he’d decided he was done sharing. I wouldn’t get to ask any more questions about his mom or her illness or why his parents would lie.

  I nodded, but food sounded terrible. I was still trying to stop my stomach from flipping around; how was I supposed to put food in it?

  But I wanted to spend more time with Jake. I always did. Especially now—now that without him, I was all alone.

  We walked past the cafeteria area where students sat around the scattered tables. Some talking, some eating, and some staring at their laptop screens, chewing. I looked over and up, wishing I could ask all of the questions on my mind.

  “I’ve got a gallery exhibition opening on Friday,” Jake said, and I grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop.

  “Seriously? Why didn’t you say anything before? That sounds like a big deal.”

  He shrugged. “It is, I guess. I don’t know why…it’s not like I’m used to having people to invite.”

  He gave a smile I didn’t believe, and it hurt in places I didn’t even know could hurt. I thought of my parents and all the things we’d done together. Spelling bees. School plays. Even dance recitals and volleyball games I couldn’t participate in. If I had my photographs on display, they’d absolutely be there.

  “Is my picture going to be in the exhibition?” I asked, to steer my thoughts in a different direction.

  “That photograph may have made the cut.”

  I smiled. I’d been counting them lately—my smiles—since Kat’s funeral. The numbers weren’t great, but they were bigger around Jake.

  “So you’ll be there?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’ve been impatiently waiting to see what you did with my face.”

  He laughed. “It’s in the art gallery on the first floor of the fine arts building. Opens at five. Closes at eight. So whenever you want to come.”

  I kept the smile on my face even when a thousand new thoughts poured into my brain. Ones like everyone will be staring at my face. But who the hell cared? Things like that weren’t important. Things like honesty and bravery—those were important.

  Honesty like Jake telling me about Emily. And bravery like I didn’t have—to tell Jake how I really felt.

  He held the main exit door open for me. The October air chilled my fingers, the same way thoughts of Emily chilled my heart.

  As we neared my dorm, Jake said, “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yeah, my last class is over at one. Why?”

  “Let’s go somewhere. I have this idea, and I know the perfect place.” He sent me my favorite crooked smile. “I’ll pick you up at two, okay? Dress warmly.”

  I didn’t sleep that night. Staring at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling, I wondered what really happened, if Emily did kill herself.

  Jake lived with that question for two years. No wonder he had demons nipping at his soul, knocking on his door, and threatening everything he sought to have.

  I wanted—needed—to help him. If I could only figure out how.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I wore a dark brown sweater and my favorite pair of boots. The air was brisk, but not intolerable, so I wasn’t too worried—until Jake parked his truck in front of what appeared to be nothing more than a nondescript dirt road.

  He reached into the backseat and pulled out two bags. One I recognized as his camera bag, and the other was a medium-sized duffel.

  “Pictures?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.” His face gave nothing away, and while I sat there trying to figure it out, he opened the door.

  I frowned, but followed suit, climbing out of my seat and walking around the front of the truck. “You get a kick out of it, don’t you?”

  “Kick out of what?”

  “Confusing people. Being cryptic and mysterious and all that jazz.”

  He laughed, spreading his free arm out to the side as if to say you caught me. “The look you get on your face makes it all worth it.”

  “For real?”

  Setting the bags on the ground, Jake smirked. “Have I ever lied to you before?”

  The question invaded my mind, spreading a fresh wave of guilt throughout my body. No. I’m the only one who’s lied. “But you—”

  “Come on.” He stepped forward, laying his hand against my shoulder and squeezing. “It’s a surprise. Most people like surprises.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not most people.”

  “I know. That’s why I like you.” Jake moved his hand to my face, cupping my cheek, and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “So come on.” His fingers lingered against my skin, brushing hair away from my face. He smiled, then turned away, swiping his bags from the gravel and dirt.

  I caught up to him, and we walked down the overgrown path. It was eerily quiet, with only the occasional chirping of a bird breaking up the silence. That and our footsteps crunching over gravel and fallen leaves.

  Five minutes later, we stepped into a wide-open field. Dull green grass and multicolored leaves covered the space, and aside from the trees, there wasn’t much to see. It was no extravagant garden, but it was secluded and something about that was tranquil. Comforting.

  “Is this the part where you tell me what we’re doing here?” I asked.

  “It’s the perfect spot for a picnic, don’t you think?”

  I eyed him. He just smiled and walked out to the middle of the field. I followed, and he set his bags down, then unzipped the duffel. He pulled out a few plastic bags and a dark blue blanket.


  “I’ve never had a picnic before.” Not like this.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “You were?”

  Without looking at me, Jake spread the blanket out across the grass. “It’s a new one for your list.”

  Oh. “A picnic wasn’t on Emily’s Tumblr though.”

  Jake motioned for me to sit, so I did. He knelt on the blanket and opened up the grocery bags, pulling the contents out. “No. That’s why I said it’s a new one.”

  “But…” I curled my legs to the side and accepted the sandwich he handed me, as well as a can of Coke. “We didn’t finish Emily’s done-its yet.”

  He tossed a bag of pretzels my way, followed by a bag of Oreos. “I know. But who says you can’t do one of your own before you finish the list?”

  Guess he had a point.

  Jake lifted a bag of Twizzlers, red and glorious, waving them in the air. “Thought you might appreciate these.”

  “You sure do know the way to my heart,” I said, reaching for them.

  He laughed and handed them over. “One more thing. Our picnic wouldn’t be complete without some of these.” With a sly grin, he revealed a box, displaying it like a prize on some lame game show.

  I covered my mouth with my hand, and laughed. “You didn’t.”

  “What, you think your eyes are deceiving you?”

  “Cheez-Its?”

  He set the box down. “Appropriate, right? Bonus: they’re actually pretty good.”

  “Totally appropriate,” I agreed.

  “Sorry it’s nothing gourmet. No cheese, grapes, and wine. I guess peanut butter and jelly is far from romantic, but it was the best I could do.”

  “You’re trying to be romantic?”

  His gaze slid sideways, looking out at the thick lining of trees. “Ah, romance isn’t exactly my thing. In theory, it sounds good. Sounds easy. But I always seem to fuck it up.” He smiled, finally settling his eyes on me again. “I wanted to do something nice.”

  It was nice, and I told him so.

  By the time we finished our picnic lunch, a soft breeze had picked up, scattering leaves throughout the vacant field and onto our blanket. We talked about everything and nothing all at the same time, and I decided this was romantic. Not in the way flowers, or gifts, or expensive dates are romantic—those things are easy. Besides, I favored the quiet conversations with Jake in desolate places, sharing inside jokes, eating Cheez-Its and Twizzlers.