by A. J. Pine
I have to stop to collect myself, and he’s too quick for me to protest, on his knees in front of me before I notice him move. His hands cup my cheeks, and even in the midst of all this, his touch is a buoy that keeps me from drowning, and just for this moment I don’t want him to let go.
His thumbs swipe at my tears, though it’s useless at this point. My cheeks are soaked, and as he kisses me—and I let him—we drink the mingled salt water of loss. I let my fingers travel through his hair, over the wetness of his eyes and cheeks, trying to stamp the memory of him on all my senses. The sweetness of the coffee on his tongue mixed with the bitter taste of tears. Because we both know this kiss is good-bye.
“I fucked up,” he says. “I love you, and I fucked up, and there has to be some way to fix this.”
I take his wrists in my hands and push him from me.
“I’m humiliated, Zach.” He flinches at my use of his name. “I feel like this whole weekend was some sort of setup, some joke where everyone knew the punchline but me. You could have told me how you felt. You should have told me first.”
He stares at me, his blue eyes now a clouded gray.
“You’re right,” he says. “And I feel like I’ve tried, but you keep pushing me away the closer I get. Jesus, Zoe. This weekend wasn’t a joke. It was meant to show them how amazing you are.”
I drop his hands, and they fall to my lap. As much as I know I should push him away, breaking physical contact isn’t within my strength anymore. I have to go, yet having him this close, I can’t fight against the need to stay.
“Even though I told you everything about me, that I quit drinking on my own before I had the chance to find out how much like my mom I truly was, you still think I have a problem.”
He clears his throat, then rises to sit on the bed next to me.
“Grief can bring things out in us, Zoe. And maybe because of my experience, I’m more attuned to yours. I know you’re not drinking, but there are other things, ways you cover up your pain.”
He looks down to my bare forearms, to my reminders of how I failed my brother.
“People get full sleeves of ink,” I protest. “Have you seen my roommate? Is she an addict?”
He shakes his head. “You’ve been covering yourself up for longer than I’ve known you. And I think every fucking inch of you is beautiful, Zoe. Every goddamn inch. But you’re hiding what’s going on inside, and that’s the part that scares me.” He takes a long breath. “You don’t know what it’s like between me and my parents now, the lack of trust they still have. I have to be transparent with them. It’s the only way to repair the damage I’ve done. So yes, I told them about you, that I’m worried—because I thought they could help. There’s such a thing as addiction transfer. I learned about it in treatment . . .”
“Fuck you,” I say, cutting him off. “You’ve been judging me since the day you met me, when I was nothing but up front about my past.” I take a deep breath. “Do you believe we choose who we love?”
A simple question, but it’s one that stuns him to silence, so I answer for him.
“No,” I say, mustering as much conviction as I can. “We don’t. Love chooses for us. I’ll admit it—I was a goner the minute I met you, recovering addict or not. Love’s choice, not mine. But what if Wyatt hadn’t died? What if you never had a reason to come back and make me some sort of penance project for your own past. What then?” I ask, watching each of my cruel words hit him like daggers. “Guess what? Loss chooses for us too.”
“Zoe, don’t,” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“I’m the reason Wyatt’s gone,” I tell him. “I knew what he was doing the night he died, and I did nothing. The only reason you’re even here is because he’s gone. This?” I motion between us. “What’s happening now—this is what I deserve.”
I wrap my arms around my midsection, trying to steady the trembling.
He stands up now, paces back and forth with his hands clasped behind his neck.
“I’m not a goddamn addict,” I say. “But you see what I do to people I love. And we’re strangers. There’s no way to love someone you never really knew in the first place.”
Even without the cluster this weekend has turned out to be, it’s better to cut our losses now. I wasn’t there for Wyatt, and if what Spock thinks is true, if I am some sort of addict even without the drinking, then I’m poison for him as well. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have.
I open the door, hating myself for taking the light out of his eyes. My suitcase rolls behind me as I walk out the bedroom door, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word.
Somehow I sit behind the wheel of my car now, not sure how I made it down the stairs and out of the house without notice. Or maybe everyone heard us and knew to keep their distance. It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, the key in the ignition, my hands trembling as they white knuckle the steering wheel.
Distance. I need distance. So I back out of the driveway and start to drive. As his house fades in my rearview mirror, the trembling lessens until I am nothing but hollow and numb.
And I just keep driving.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Empty. That’s what I am when I wake up to the sound of a text. For a second I hope, but then I look at my phone. Patrick.
I make a good supervillain, eh?
Below the text is a picture of him dressed in a green suit and green bowler hat emblazoned with a question mark on the front. The Riddler.
You do, I text back. Then I add, Where’s the mini con tonight?
His response comes quickly.
Actually at a bar right by you, Tiny Lounge. Wish you were in town.
And I wish I was anywhere but here.
I’m home. Can I meet you there tonight?
Spock with you?
His name is a punch to the gut, an emptying of the already hollow space inside me.
Just me. Please just give me a time to meet. No questions, k?
10:00. After fireworks, he says. No more texts after that.
* * *
Dee was with a client when I got home, so I’m not even sure she knows I’m here until I step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my head, the same time she steps out of her studio.
“Holy shit, Blue! You scared the crap out of me. When did you get here?”
Judging from my nap and the past two hours I spent readying myself for tonight, I take a guess.
“Five hours ago?”
She squints, and her eyes scan my face and then move up. Dee yanks the towel free from my head.
“Fuuuuuuck. Guess I can’t call ya Blue anymore.”
I run a hand through the wet, overgrown bangs that fall to my face, pushing them back and out of my eyes.
“How’d it turn out?” I ask.
She crosses her arms, studying me. “Haven’t you looked? Because, girl, I’m convinced you can pull off anything now.”
I shake my head. “I never look. Not right away, at least. I like to just feel the change. Then by the time I see it—most likely when I don’t mean to—I’m already her, that other girl.”
She hands me back the towel, the light green cotton now stained with a fiery red.
“Looks like someone died of less-than-natural causes . . . and you’re trying to clean up the evidence.”
Close enough, I think. Because isn’t that what happened? The Zoe that was his, the one that hoped and trusted, she’s gone. And I’m the one who killed her.
“Supervillains mini con tonight,” I say, my voice flat.
She pouts. “If I had known they were going to split it between heroes and villains, I never would have done the whole Catwoman thing last week. Plus . . .” A smile blooms on her crimson lips. “My last client, a guy who just had me do a cover over his ex’s name on his chest—and it was a good chest—asked me out, and I said yes.”
After her giddiness subsides, her expression falls, and she finally realizes what’s out of place with this scen
ario, other than my hair.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says. “Shit, Blue. I mean Red. What the hell happened?”
I don’t answer her question but instead ask her one in return.
“Are you working until you go out tonight?”
She sighs. “I have a break right now. Ya wanna talk?”
I throw the towel on the bathroom floor behind me and walk past her and into her studio. She follows me in to find me already on the chair, shirt off and chest bared.
“Do you know what an oleander flower is?”
She nods. “It’s beautiful . . . and it’s poison.” She drops down in the rolling chair next to me. “Zoe, maybe we should talk about what’s going on before we do this.”
But I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to see her forehead creased with concern. I just want to feel the sharp sting of the needle against my skin.
“Just the outline,” I say, ignoring her suggestion. “Right here.” I tap the smooth plane of skin above my left breast, above the selfish heart I never knew was there until it poisoned the people I loved the most. Wyatt’s gone. I left Zach high and dry to deal with his grief alone. I’ve ignored Jess, my best friend, as much as humanly possible because I know she’ll see right through me. And I just peaced out on one of the best people I know because he made a mistake. I’m lost, I want to tell her, but Dee is too new to thrust my baggage in her direction. She’s only supposed to be the person who lets me crash at her place for dirt-cheap rent. She didn’t sign up for this.
“Zoe,” she starts.
“Please. I have enough money to pay you.”
“It’s not about the money, Zoe. Shit’s getting a little too real.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady the tremble threatening to escape when I speak.
“Please,” I say again. “If I was any other client, would you question my choice, ask me to talk before you did your job?”
As soon as the words come out, I regret them and the harshness with which I throw them at her. And for the first time, I see something other than Dee, the crazy-cool girl who gave me a place to live for ten weeks, the girl who can sing a flawless karaoke duet one minute and draw something beautiful on command the next. I see something other than her ruby red smile and sometimes-scheming eyes. She’s a girl who could have been a friend if I was the me I was a year ago. But I have nothing left to give now, other than the hurt I see in her eyes.
“I’ll draw the transfer,” she says, and that’s where our conversation ends, the room silent until the whirring sound of the vibrating needle begins.
* * *
Patrick sees me when I walk into Tiny Lounge, but he has to do a double take to realize he knows me.
“Damn, Smurfette. Where’d you go?” he asks.
I adjust the strap of my green tank so it doesn’t rub against Dee’s latest work. The outline of the oleander flower is small but noticeable on my pale skin.
“Is that new?” he asks, and I nod. He doesn’t ask much more about the new ink, and I don’t offer any information. Tonight it’s part of my cosplay. Though I admit my effort beyond the hair and the body art pales compared to Patrick’s costume. A fitted green tank is the only green article of clothing I own, so I went with jeans and called it a day. Or I guess it’s night now.
“Poison Ivy is badass,” he says. “But even more so if she gets fresh ink the night of the mini con.”
I force a smile.
“You going to tell me why you aren’t in Wisconsin with hottie and hottie’s hot dad?”
I shake my head, wanting to do anything other than talk about Spock or Zach or whoever he is. The name doesn’t matter. Either way, I silence my phone and don’t check for messages. Because part of me still hopes while the other knows what’s done is done.
“Tell me something that will take my mind off, you know, hottie.”
I don’t laugh at my lame attempt at a joke, and neither does Patrick. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. The whole hair-dye thing isn’t taking effect yet, giving me the reboot I need. I might need a day or two to start feeling the otherness I crave. But I do have the rush of the needle, the sting of physical pain beginning to bury whatever I was feeling before Dee worked her magic.
He paints on a grin, one that complements his Riddler attire all too well.
“If it’s a diversion the lady wants, then a diversion she shall get. How about karaoke or some villain RPGs? We can have lunch on Tuesday and sort out what happened in your classroom.”
Yes, I think. Patrick gets me. Any and all diversions are welcome.
“Wait,” I start. “What happened in my classroom?” But my phone vibrates in my pocket before he replies.
My reflexes move with lightning-quick speed, and for a second my heart leaps when I see the text notification from Zach. But then I remember that Zach is my brother. That’s why Spock became Spock, and I have to choke back a sob at the mere reality of the text being from the wrong Zach. Then I read it.
Lawsuit happening. Investigation starts Tuesday. Dad tried to get her to stop, got her
sponsor involved, but she can’t. Said she needs to see this through. I know you feel the
same as I do about this. Thought you’d want to know.
My teeth clench, and I swallow hard. So much for forgetting anything tonight. Might as well pile it all on, right? I’ve lost Spock. I’m losing my mother’s attention to this lawsuit that will ultimately end in her finding out I could have stopped Wyatt. Why not put the icing on the cake.
“What happened in my classroom, Patrick?” If there was one thing I still had to look forward to, it was getting back in the classroom next week. I thought things went great staying late with Taylor yesterday, but had I somehow messed that up too? “Whatever it is you need to tell me, do it now. I can’t think of a better time.”
I can hear the hysteria in my voice, confirmed by Patrick’s wide eyes filled with worry.
“Zoe.”
This is the first time he’s addressed me with my real name, and the soft, tentative way he says it scares me.
“Just tell me. Please.” Because whatever it is, it can’t top the shit that’s already gone down today.
“Shit,” he says. “You know they’re just kids, right? That they mean well.”
“I’m not following you, Patrick. You’re going to have to spell this out for me.”
He takes off the bowler, so I see his hair parted and slicked to the side. Very debonair. But it’s not the Patrick I’m used to, and the whole situation feels too surreal.
“You left your sketchpad on the desk,” he starts, and my breath catches in my throat.
I think of that first bit of joy I’d felt in over a month—drawing a portrait of Wyatt. Then another and another until something new and good was finally born from my grief. I nod for Patrick to keep going, even though I know this conversation can only lead to one place—more loss.
“Taylor—she was so grateful for the extra time you spent with her yesterday, she ran back in to leave a thank-you card after you had left, and she knocked over an open water bottle that was on your desk.”
“It was my water,” I say flatly, which means whatever happened to my drawings, I could never blame Taylor. It’s all on me. “So they’re ruined?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “My sketches and the start of a story about my brother—all ruined?”
Patrick nods and reaches to put a hand on my shoulder, but I flinch.
I’ve lost Wyatt again.
“I need to go,” I say.
Patrick stands there but says nothing as I make my way to the door. If he says anything after that, I don’t know. Because I’m racing back to my apartment, tears streaking my face. Once I’m there, the door closed behind me, I let out a strangled, “Fuck!”
I don’t check to make sure that Dee is gone, but the stillness of the apartment tells me I’m alone, that only I can hear the unrelenting hiccups and sobs pouring from me. I find my way to my room despite the
blurred vision and collapse on my bed, knees to my chest, as everything inside me comes unglued.
“Please stop,” I say out loud. Because I just need the pain to stop . . . or be silenced. That’s what I need, to silence the pain. I think of the vibration of the needle on my forearm, stamping out the pain of loss, the pinpricking sting above my heart, obliterating the ache for Zach Nolan, recovering addict who thinks I’m one too. If Dee was here, she’d cover my wounds by making new ones that run only skin deep.
But she’s not here.
I am alone. And lost. But in the kitchen I find the key.
Unlocking Dee’s studio door, I tell myself she’ll never know I was here, that I’m not endangering her career with what I’m about to do. The voice in my head swallows any semblance of logic, screaming at me to cover up the hurt because hurting on the outside—I can manage that. But I can’t control what’s happening underneath.
I’ve seen her rip open a new needle enough times to know where she keeps them. The machine is off-limits. I draw the line at anything that may cost her too much money. But one needle? I can replace that.
Without another thought, my hand reaches for the knob of the drawer, the one I know is stocked full of what I’m looking for. But as I start to pull, my phone vibrates in my pocket again.
“Dammit, Zach,” I hiss, my impatience enough to override the fear. What else can he have to say to add to this fabulous night?
But my screen doesn’t say Zach this time, though it’s most definitely a Zach on the other end of the text. Zach Nolan.
Unlock the door, Zoe.
“What?” I whisper, as if he can hear me through a text.
I stare at the screen as it populates with line after line.
Supergirl. Zo. Please.
I forgot my key.
If you’re in there let me in. Let me help.
My thumb trembles as it hovers over the keys. But it’s not just my thumb. My whole body shakes as I try to hit the correct letters.
