One Life
Page 1
Also by A.J. Pine
One Night
One Life
A. J. Pine
InterMix Books, New York
AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC
375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014
ONE LIFE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by A. J. Pine.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19230-0
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / October 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words
are the author’s alone.
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Contents
Also by A.J. Pine
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Polka dots are perfect for any occasion. I’ve been saving this dress for a special one, and I guess today is . . . special.
I thought I’d need help with the zipper, but turns out the unexpected weight loss has its perks. My arm reaches it easily at the small of my back, pulling it up almost to the top, no problem. I look down at my breasts, mouth pursed in a pout. Amazing what can happen in a week.
“Come on, girls. Why is it you always shrink at the first sign of a skipped meal?”
They don’t answer. At least my mother won’t be able to complain about seeing my piercings through my clothing, as they will be well camouflaged by the loose fabric of the dress. Mom has her coping mechanisms, and I have mine.
I reach over my shoulder to pull the zipper the rest of the way and allow myself a small smile when I see the white polka dots on the cuffs of the three-quarter sleeves. I remind myself the notched collar sports the same design, white polka dots on black cotton, the rest of the dress a fitted bodice with an A-line skirt skimming my legs just above the knee. I see the dress in my mind’s eye the way it looked when I tried it on in the overpriced secondhand boutique in Chicago. It was only last month I went to sign the lease on the apartment I’ll be sharing with a stranger, only last month when I had no reason to forget to eat. Except now I’m the girl with the incredible shrinking tits, not that I let my eyes drift to the mirror to take in the evidence.
The dress is on, and I can argue its appropriateness by virtue of color. If Wyatt saw it, I know what he’d say. Bitchin’ dress, sis. I guess eighteen-year-olds can still get away with that word. Wyatt could, without affecting a surfer-dude accent and without any hint of irony. His bitchins were sincere.
“What about the hair?” I ask aloud, as if he can hear me. I shrug. People talk out loud to the dead all the time, right? Not like Jess is out there with her ear pressed to the door. So I continue. “I mean, is Mom going to freak about the dress more or the hair? I’m hoping the hair will cancel out the dress and vice versa. Then she won’t freak about either.” I chuckle and roll my eyes. “Or she’ll go off on both.”
I run my fingers through the longest part of my hair, my overgrown bangs, and assume it looks as it always does—only slightly more noticeable. The box of hair bleach and dye, a handy little kit, sits on the corner of my dresser, the remains of how I spent my night before the memorial. I read the directions again, reminding myself to wait one more day before washing to let the color set, then drop the box in the trash. Even though the color is permanent, the first wash is always an experience. The one part of this trip home that makes me laugh is turning my childhood shower into what looks like a Smurf crime scene when I wash the residual blue dye out of my hair tomorrow morning.
Well, guess it’s time to test the reaction of a much-harder-to-shock crowd. When I open my door, my roommate, Jess, and her boyfriend, Adam, sit waiting on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. Jess swivels back and forth, her nervous energy balanced only by Adam’s calm. When she sees me, she stands, and Adam does the same. They look at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to say something first. I glance back and forth between the two of them, Adam in a charcoal button-down, black pants, and a royal blue tie. Not that I ever aim to blend in, but Jess’s simple black dress and cardigan will be great fodder for Mom’s crusade to “get Zoe to tone it down a bit.” Note to self: Don’t stand too close to Jess at my parents’ house.
I blow my bangs out of my face and nod in Adam’s direction.
“Like the tie, Carson. Maybe you should be my date instead.”
He doesn’t answer, only glances at Jess, who then turns to me, those wide eyes of hers searching for what she thinks I’m trying to hide.
“Geez,” I say. “Who died?”
My breath catches with that last word, but I don’t falter. I won’t falter.
“Zoe.” Jess’s voice is a gentle plea as she strides toward me, hesitating before lifting her arms to pull me into a hug.
I let her because this is my job today, letting those who want to grieve with me think they’re comforting me. Because really, that’s what comforts them. But when I rest my head on my friend’s shoulder—when I wrap my arms around her and reciprocate the gesture, for one small moment I let it all unravel, the thread inside me that’s pulled so taut, the one keeping me from collapsing into the grief I know is there. But I pull away before letting it find me. Today I have to stay one step ahead, a pace beyond its grasp.
“Too soon?” I ask, clearing my throat and slipping back into my role.
Jess holds my gaze and offers a conciliatory smile.
“Too soon,” she says, and then adds, “So, blue, huh?”
I nod. “What do you think? Just did it last night and haven’t really looked at it.”
Jess is used to my chameleonlike abilities, having lived with me through countless boxes of hair dye for each time my blonde roots grow in, but she’s never asked why I refuse to let it grow out. Means I don�
�t have to answer.
“Carson?”
Adam looks up and shrugs.
“You look great, Zoe. You always do.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay, then. I’ll take always looking great.” I turn my gaze back to Jess. “See? Was that so hard?” I tease. If we can just talk to each other like we always do, then life can be like it always was. Nothing has to change.
“How’s your brother?” Jess asks, and I suck in a breath. “Shit. I’m sorry,” she continues. “I mean Zach. He already went home?”
I take two steps back so I can lean against the wall. I’m still standing. That’s what’s important.
“Yeah. He helped my parents with the arrangements. Guess the guy who plans the best frat parties also throws one hell of a memorial service.”
“Zoe . . .”
I wish she’d just stop with the name, saying it like that, asking me for something I’m not planning on giving. A knock at the door gives me a momentary reprieve.
“I swear if it’s that kid with the menus again, I will freak. Like, who delivers menus at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, anyway? Better yet, I’ll use his menu to make a sign that says We only eat at Yu’s!”
But when I open the door, it’s not the menu kid. And that thing Jess was searching for when she stared at me is here now, at the surface, looking at a guy I said good-bye to six months ago. Not that he was mine to leave. Just friends, I remind myself. We were only ever friends.
But this friend of mine is supposed to be traveling the country with his band, living his life on the road until the end of summer. Instead, he’s here.
“Spock?” That’s all I can choke out, the nickname I gave him when I met him last fall at a comic book convention, wearing Vulcan ears. Friend or not, I didn’t want to risk impure thoughts about a guy named Zach, a name he shares with my twin brother. The one who’s home already, planning a memorial.
I take him in, his always shaggy brown hair a little longer than I remember. His clothes are wrinkled, like he’s been sitting in them too long, but he’s wearing the requisite funeral attire—black pants and a button-down shirt, open at the collar. No tie, but I laugh even as the first tear escapes. The shirt is dark blue. Looks like all the men got the memo to color coordinate with me.
Without taking my eyes off Spock, I tell Adam, “You’re off the hook, Carson. I guess I have a date.”
Spock drops the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, and his hands cup my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Zoe. I came as soon as I heard.”
My head spins toward Jess. As soon as he heard?
“Thank you for the text,” he says to her over my shoulder.
My breath hitches, and he pulls me to his chest.
“My brother died,” I say, each word stealing my breath. “My baby brother died.”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words, the sentences punctuated with a sob. Shit. I was doing so well. But in his arms I come undone, and no one says a word. No one says it will be okay, that everything will be fine. Because we all know it won’t.
So I give myself this—a few minutes in the arms of a guy who never wanted more than friendship from me, a guy who never knew friendship barely scratched the surface of how I felt for him. I give myself time to cry without interruption or false promises. Without expectation that I’ll be the one to hold it together for everyone else. Because that’s my role, has always been my role in the Adler family. Zoe keeps her shit together so you don’t have to. I should print that on business cards. Not now, though. Now I get to be selfish.
For a few long minutes, I get to grieve.
Chapter Two
I ring the doorbell. It’s my house. At least it was growing up, but I do it anyway because something doesn’t seem right. This isn’t home if Wyatt doesn’t live here anymore.
But of course it’s my house. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and Spock squeezes my hand. I don’t remember him taking it, but there’s my palm, in his. Jess and Adam stand a couple of feet behind us, and no one questions my behavior. They just wait, like they know I’ll figure the puzzle out. And I do, reaching for the storm door and pulling it open before taking hold of the doorknob, which is unlocked. Why wouldn’t it be? Friends and family are coming to celebrate the life of Wyatt Adler today. Everyone is welcome, and everyone will come because everyone loved Wyatt.
The house is already bustling with our next-door neighbors, Mrs. Watson and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Linnie, setting up food in the dining room. My heart swells and then contracts as I remember last New Year’s Eve. Wyatt and his buddies came home from their snowboarding trip to spend the holiday with their families. Linnie had no plans, so she hung with us, playing board games and watching Love Actually, my mom’s favorite holiday movie. They didn’t even flirt, Wyatt and Linnie. They just snuggled on the couch as if they’d been doing it for years, and when midnight came, he kissed her. Right there in front of all of us.
“What?” he asked me, since my mouth must have been hanging open. “Not like I’m going to kiss you or Mom, so . . .” And he kissed her again.
That was my brother. He and Linnie were a year apart in school, didn’t hang with the same crowds. But that night, there was no school. No crowds. Just good timing between a boy and a girl who might have been. But Wyatt didn’t date, not in the traditional sense. He was too busy taking weekend trips camping or hiking . . . or his latest, BASE jumping, not that my parents knew he was doing it. And now?
I suck in a breath and pull Spock toward the dining room. Mrs. Watson sees me first, and she taps Linnie on the shoulder. When she turns, our eyes meet. Hers glisten, as if she’s been on the verge of tears since she got here but has been waiting.
I let go of Spock so I can hug her, and she isn’t waiting anymore.
She hiccups a soft sob against me, and I rub her back.
“I know,” I say, and she nods, her golden brown hair swishing over my hand. My hair was always light, like Zach’s—true blondes. At least the last time I saw it, it was. But Linnie’s hair matches Wyatt’s, darker with those sun-kissed golden highlights no matter what the season. The vision of him I have in my head fits perfectly with that of the girl in my arms. They looked like they belonged together. And maybe they did—but never got to find out.
“Linnie, honey.” Mrs. Watson taps her daughter’s shoulder. “Let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up. Zoe has lots of people she needs to see.”
She’s right. I do. But there’s a comfort in standing here with this girl who I know got Wyatt. Something about the way she sighs into my shoulder, the way she clearly waited for me to break down. So I let her.
Wyatt Adler was the miracle baby who never should have been born. Years of infertility treatments finally led to me and Zach being conceived and later to my mom’s alcohol addiction rising to the surface. Our parents thought the family headcount would remain at four. But when a recovering alcoholic and the husband who stayed with her through the ordeal get pregnant on their own years later, it’s a gift from the universe. A gift who could do no wrong in their eyes until he went and jumped off a building for a thrill, a faulty parachute the reason why we’re all here today.
Linnie squeezes me tight before pulling away, sniffling before she speaks.
“I . . . I’m so sorry, Zoe. I don’t know why I . . .”
“Please,” I say. “Don’t apologize for missing Wyatt.” I don’t mean missing. She loves him. That’s what we share, but I won’t make her bear the weight of that word. I don’t need to say it to know it’s true. But I ache to know how much she hurts. I feel Spock at my side but don’t look at him. I know what it’s like to want what I can’t have.
Linnie nods, backing toward the bathroom with her mom, and she holds my gaze until it’s cut off by my father. Spock, Jess, and Adam still surround me, but no one has said anything since we walked in. I close my eyes and inhale, one moment of virtual peace before I have to put on the show for the next person�
��and everyone else after that.
“Zoe Bear,” my dad says, an instant grin spreading across his face despite the sadness in his eyes. “Give your dad a much-needed hug, and then introduce me to your friends.” Though youngish still, at forty-six years old, Dad looks five years older since I saw him at Christmas. But he holds the smile for me. Like father like daughter. I guess I learned from the best.
For my dad, he’s pretty dressed up. Black polo shirt, pressed khakis, and boat shoes—a big difference from the various rock band T-shirts and old jeans he wears on the job as the head line cook at our family’s diner. The silver strands in his blond hair shine in the sunlight filtering through the windows.
Dad’s arms open wide, and I step right into them, his Zoe Bear for a small moment.
“Dad,” I half whine quietly into his ear, and I don’t have to say any more for him to know what I’m thinking. Doesn’t matter that I don’t smoke. It’s almost a requirement of entering your twenties to know what weed smells like. The pungent aroma wafts from my dad’s skin and clothing like he overdid his cologne . . . if cologne smelled like pot. Dad doesn’t even drink. From what they’ve told us, Dad hasn’t had a sip of alcohol since Mom got sober almost twenty years ago. He’s not an addict, just a guy who loves his wife and family.
“Don’t tell your mom, honey. She doesn’t need anything else to upset her today. And I . . . I need a little something to take the edge off.”
It takes only a second to imagine the depth of my father’s grief. For all the years of preemptive lectures Zach and I got about being careful at college, of hearing addiction is hereditary, of wanting so badly to rebel against my parents’ clean example—nothing hits me harder than seeing my dad risk the kind of backlash he’d get from Mom just so he can take the edge off.
“She’ll smell it,” I warn, no reproach in my tone. Who am I to judge? We all have our crutches. Plus it’s not like there’s a manual for the right way to deal with grief. We just have to deal.
“I’ll throw on some more aftershave,” he says with a soft smile. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”