Between the Pages: A Novel

by Amanda Richardson

  “Hey,” she chirps. I can hear music and people in the background. “How are you?”

  I grimace. “I’m okay. How’s San Francisco?”

  “Oh my God, you have to come visit,” she squeals. “It’s eighty degrees out. In January.”

  I look at everyone around me in hats, scarves, and gloves. “Maybe soon.”

  She’s quiet on the other end. “I still think you should’ve kept the money.”

  My breathing halts. She knows I don’t like to talk about Emerson. “I didn’t want his money,” I say briskly.

  After I left, I returned all of his money, minus about a thousand dollars I’d spent on various things over the course of the five months I was there. I’m slowly repaying him, but my checks go uncashed.

  I ended up back at Diptyque the week after I left Emerson, much to Samantha’s smug vexation. Randy is my temporary roommate until Hannah comes back from her theatrical tour in February. She’s doing exceedingly well on the West Coast, and even better without Geoff. In fact, she’s been on a couple dates with some hot actor.

  “Have you . . .?” I know what she’s going to ask.

  “No.” I walk quicker to stay warm. “You know I don’t really want to talk about it, Han.”

  We catch up for a few more minutes as I walk. Once I get inside, we hang up with a promise to talk tomorrow. I take my coat off and walk to my room, slipping into a pair of sweats and a wool sweater.

  The truth is, I think about Emerson every single day. Every second of every day.

  When I’m at work.

  When I’m trying to fall asleep.

  When I walk to work.

  When I walk home. It’s distracting.

  He never called or tried to reach out to me, and I think that’s the hardest part—knowing it was so easy for him to let me go. I never intended to take him back, but at least I would feel justified if he tried to fight me on it.

  Maybe I’m not the sister he wanted to fight for.

  I pick my phone up and draft a text to him.

  I just want you to know, it’s taken everything in me not to call you. I wish I could see you. I hope you know that every time I don’t call, I almost do.

  The cursor blinks ominously at the end of the sentence. I debate sending it. I almost want to send it. The silence and un-cashed checks are concerning. Maybe I should see if he’s all right.

  I sigh and lie down on my bed, holding my phone against my chest. My eyes wander to the picture of Chloe. My heart hurts for her. I should’ve been there. I should’ve noticed the signs.

  I now remember that day clearly. Now that I’ve had time to process everything, I think I even remember seeing Emerson. At first I didn’t—when he told me about it, I thought he was lying. But since then, the faded memory has resurfaced. I remember the light in the park, and the way Chloe’s hair shone in the brisk sun. I could tell he meant a lot to Chloe—that’s all I remember. And I’ve tried clawing that memory out every day since, to no avail.

  Just to remember him.

  Just to remember how he was with her.

  The whole day was pretty standard. Class, lunch, class, and then back to my apartment—the very same one I’m in now. Hannah and I found it a month after high school graduation. My parents weren’t around that week, and I stayed holed up in my room studying for finals.

  Chloe still lived with my parents. They’d somehow had some sort of spell over her. She never could defy them the way she should’ve—the way I did. I’d fallen asleep with my Africana studies book on my chest. It wasn’t until a couple hours later when the police came knocking on my door that I found out.

  I remember the way the book thudded to the ground as I rushed to answer the door.

  I remember the way Hannah came running out of her room, and how she caught me as I collapsed.

  I never knew about Emerson’s involvement with her suicide. My parents and the university covered it up nicely. I assume he was telling the truth—that he tried to stop her.

  But it doesn’t change anything.

  He still lied. Or better yet, he withheld the truth.

  He loved her.

  I turn over and grab my copy of Underground Love. I’ve reread it twice since I left. I’m a sicko. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. The dedication says, For C. I should’ve caught the clues. The book is all Chloe.

  Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite.

  I clutch it to my chest as I fall asleep. Again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Finley

  I have the next day off, so I wake up before seven as per usual and change into something warm. Randy is awake, sipping coffee at the dining room table that we bought to replace Geoff’s ugly coffee table. I know Hannah is appreciative that we’ve scrubbed the place of that scumbag.

  “Morning, tootsie,” he chirps. I skulk away and pour myself some coffee. Randy is much too chipper in the morning. Once my mug is filled with coffee and lots of creamer, I sit down across from him and stare out into the grey morning. “Why are you so morose? Life is beautiful.” He smiles at me.

  “Please don’t throw that yoga bullshit at me this early in the morning.”

  He laughs. “Come with me tonight. I’m meeting a guy, and I need reinforcements.”

  I shake my head. “We’ll see. I have a lot of writing to do.”

  He sips his coffee slowly. His tanned skin and dark lashes are very enchanting. His large, almond-brown eyes are also very convincing when they become all puppy-dog-like.

  Actors.

  “Fine,” I groan. “But only if it’s Ace.”

  “Oh God, no. That place is a dump. I was thinking that cute, trendy place on Sixth?”

  I groan louder. “Sure. Fine.”

  Suddenly, he leaps up. “Can I make you over? Please?”

  I want to groan again, but I know it would be rude. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want to me.” I wiggle my eyebrows and he giggles.

  “It’s a good thing I’m gay, or I might take you up on that offer.” He smiles and walks away, shaking his toned booty. I stare out of the window until I finish my coffee.

  When I’m done making breakfast, I get dressed and head to Remedy Diner. Randy isn’t working, but I find the noise helps me concentrate. I always thought it was the opposite.

  Go figure.

  Walking into the diner, I sit down and connect to the Wi-Fi on my phone. I check myself in and then open Instagram—anything to put off my impending writer’s block. I haven’t written a single word since leaving the beach house. As I scroll through, my heart stops when I get to a picture Isaac posted about an hour ago.

  My eyes brim with tears when I see the image of Ralph and Waldo sitting in what I can only presume is Emerson’s apartment here in the city. Isaac tagged himself as “in NYC.” I completely forgot I was following Isaac, but then the hazy memory comes back. Isaac had begged me to follow him on Instagram, so I did—just to piss Emerson off. And then Emerson and I shared one of the best kisses of my life.

  Isaac must not post often, because this is the first glimpse I’ve had of the cats. My cats. I miss them so fucking much. But I miss their dad even more.

  I open my laptop and begin to draft an angry letter to Emerson. It’s very therapeutic, and by the time I’ve finished the fifteen-page saga, three hours have passed. My eyes automatically scan the diner.

  I know it’s irrational, but I check myself into places on purpose. I want to give Emerson an opportunity to run into me if he so pleases.

  Turns out, he doesn’t care nor does he want to, because my life has been one hundred percent Emerson-free since our blowup.

  And more lonely than I ever thought possible.

  I stand to go, packing up my things. I pay the bill with the only money I have—a crumpled twenty I found in an old pair of jeans. I wait for my change, and then go home to watch reruns of Friends. Perhaps by the time Randy and I go out, I will be out of this stupid funk.

  *

  Oh my God, I
look like a prostitute. Randy’s hands fly all over my face as he touches up my makeup. I smile politely as he stands back, surveying me.

  “More blush,” he declares, and I have to jump back. It causes me to teeter on the stripper heels he’s put me in. I steady myself on the doorframe.

  “No more,” I beg. I look at myself once again. “I look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Except with more makeup and way less class.” I pull at the hem of my too-short dress. It’s a tight, red number with cutouts on either side of my ribs. My hair is straight and sleek, and . . . I don’t even remotely resemble myself. “This is too much,” I whine, feeling very exposed. I wave my hands around nervously. Not to mention it’s like ten degrees out. I just want to scrub all of this shit off and climb into my beloved sweatpants.

  “Please? For me?” he begs.

  I sigh. “Can you at least tame the eyes? They’re too raccoon-y.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re talking down Third to Avenue A. I am freezing my fucking face (and ass) off. When we get to the overly crowded club, we have to stand in line for twenty minutes. Luckily, they busted out the space heaters, and I’m only mildly cold rather than hypothermic.

  Once in, Randy drags me to a spot with a few other flamboyantly gay men. The thumping beat of the bass is grating, and I want to go home instantly. We all make introductions, and a few shots get passed around. I don’t know where they come from, but free booze is always welcome. I begin to feel better. A few minutes later when I’m thoroughly buzzed, I offer to buy the first round for Randy and me. I tell him that it has to be beer, because beer is cheap. He gives me attitude, telling me we shouldn’t mix beer and liquor, but I ignore him and make my way to the bar. I push past the many sweaty bodies and find an opening.

  I order two Budweisers. The total is ten dollars. While the bartender is opening the bottles, I connect to the club’s Wi-Fi and check my account balance. My eyes go wide at the number. Twenty-five thousand and two dollars? I know for sure those two dollars are mine. But the twenty-five thousand?

  “Ten dollars, please.” The bartender looks at me expectantly. My mouth hangs open. I could just pay—I technically do have the money. But I don’t want to spend a single cent of Emerson’s pity money.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t find my card,” I lie. “Let me get my friend.”

  I walk back toward Randy. “I forgot my debit card at home. I need to use the restroom. Will you please get our beers? I’ll pay you back,” I slur.

  I’m not even sure if he hears me, but he nods, and I walk to the front door. The bouncer lets me out and I instantly go from hot to cold. My fingers shake as they dial Emerson’s number.

  This is not a good idea, I think. You’re drunk. Also, it’s almost midnight. He’s probably not even awake.

  The first ring sends me into a tailspin. I can feel myself start to cry, and he hasn’t even picked up. I walk away from the crowds, down the street. It rings a second time, and then right after the third ring, he picks up.

  “Finley?” He sounds surprised. I guess that’s a good thing.

  “I don’t want your money,” I murmur. My tongue is beginning to go numb. “Take it out of my account right now.”

  He sighs loudly. “It’s your money, Finley.”

  “Fuck your money,” I slur. “I don’t need it. I told you before, I don’t need it, or you, so why can’t you understand that?” I stumble and almost fall, but I catch myself on a tree.

  Where did that tree come from anyway? I glare at it. Emerson is quiet on the other end.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice worried.

  “None of your business,” I say glumly.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just calling to ask you to leave me alone. No need to come stalk me again,” I retort, giggling at my drunken wit.

  “Are you alone?” His voice is frantic. “Finley?”

  I let out a loud breath. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m going back to the club now. Goodbye, ’merson.”

  I end the call and steady myself on the damn tree. How did I get so drunk? I feel like I can’t even walk. I slowly push forward, looking around. I must’ve walked farther than I thought because I don’t recognize the street, but I know I must be close since I can hear the gaggle of voices waiting outside. It’s dark, and I’m worried about tripping and breaking my neck in these damn stilettos, so I take two uneasy steps forward.

  Just then, I feel cold metal at my temple and the presence of someone behind me. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. I stiffen, turning slowly. A young guy has a gun to my head—to my head! I gasp.

  “Wait,” I mutter, my eyesight fuzzy. “Are you mugging me?” I squint.

  The guy is young, wearing all black, and he looks absolutely terrified. “Give me your purse,” he whispers frantically.

  I laugh. I realize it’s a stupid response, but the alcohol is making me unjustifiably brave. “Yeah, okay.” I begin to walk away. He cocks the gun. I begin to sweat.

  I don’t want to die because I’m being argumentative. I know that.

  “I’ll fucking shoot you.” His voice is like ice. Just as I’m about to hand him my purse, he lunges forward and tackles me. I hit the ground full-force, and he kicks me once, hard, in the ribs before snatching my purse and running away. Everything hurts. I hit the ground hard, and though I might be numb, I know I’ll feel it tomorrow. The last things I see before passing out are his sneakers, running, running, running . . .

  And warm arms picking me up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Emerson

  I don’t sleep at all. Instead, I make myself a pot of coffee and watch Finley sleep. I still feel sick from the way I found her on the ground—still, drunk, beaten. I carried her back to my apartment and sent Hannah a message on Facebook, letting her know that Finley was with me. I’m not sure which friend she was with, but I’m hoping Hannah will pass the message along. I left the part about the mugging out. I didn’t want to worry anyone unnecessarily.

  Finley’s breathing is even, and she looks so peaceful when she sleeps. Her makeup is smeared, and her dress is much too revealing, but she still looks beautiful. I tuck her into my bed fully, ensuring she’s warm enough. She was like ice when I found her.

  I finish my book—my book that I wrote.

  After Finley left, I felt helpless and broken. I fueled that energy into writing, and for the last two months, I’ve been writing like a madman. Tonight I wrote the final two words. The End. They’re my words; for the first time since Underground Love, I wrote my own book all by myself. Finley may have been gone, but her presence in my house, in my heart, fueled some faith into my blood. Into my mind. It was all her.

  And this book is definitely all her.

  I lean back and study the document before me. I’m proud of myself for the first time in a long time. The loathing I felt those first few weeks alone were difficult, but right here, right now, I am proud of myself.

  A little past six, Finley stirs. I’m staring at the wall behind her with a cup of fresh coffee in my hand. She looks around, not noticing me at first. When she does, I can see the hurt behind her eyes.

  I betrayed her.

  I know that. I know I messed up. I might not ever get her back—the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect over the last two months. I didn’t reach out to her, because it wasn’t my place. I figured she would call if she wanted to talk to me. I tore up all her checks. She was paying back the $1000 slowly with a $75 check here, a $65 check there . . . I couldn’t do it. I wanted her to keep that money. She needed it. And I never told her that the $24,000 she sent me went into a separate account. For her. Yesterday, I decided to send it back.

  I guess it was too soon.

  “Finley,” I say, watching as she stirs.

  “My ribs,” she winces, clutching her side.

  I nod. “You got mugged. Thank God you’re okay. They’re just bruised. I had you checked.” It’s true. My neighbor is a
doctor, and I woke him up last night to check her out. She was asleep, but I wanted to make sure she was okay. Everything was fine. She just needed rest and lots of water.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t see how this involves you.” She begins to stand slowly. Her words cut me, but I press on without involving my emotions. “Were you watching me?” She stands unsteadily, grabbing her shoes and looking around for her purse. “Oh, right. I got mugged. No purse. I assume you let Hannah know.” She watches me with dark, pained eyes.

  It’s only now I can see how much I hurt her. She looks thinner somehow. More fragile. The bags under her eyes aren’t hidden by makeup. And the way she’s looking at me right now—with uninhibited disdain—tells me everything.

  She doesn’t trust me anymore.

  “Hannah knows. I told her to tell the friends you were with that you’re safe. That you just drank too much.” I run my hand through my hair and then place my hands in my pockets. I have the relentless urge to reach out and comfort her, but something tells me she would not appreciate physical contact right now.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she says through bared teeth. “How did you find me?”

  I shuffle my feet and look down. “You’ve got to stop fucking checking yourself into Facebook.”

  She laughs and throws her hands up in the air. “I’ve never had any issues. I think you’re my only real stalker, Emerson.”

  She grabs her jacket, ready to leave in a huff. Just then, Ralph and Waldo come waltzing into the room, no doubt roused awake by her voice. Finley’s face turns angry at first, and she glares at me with wide eyes. Then her face crumples, and she drops to her knees. Both kittens jump into her lap. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, and she closes her eyes as they love on her and nuzzle her arm, chin, and nose. Ralph purrs loudly. He always did love her more than me.