Kate

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I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nothing from Max. He was supposed to check in last night: I fell asleep with my phone in my hand. Now it’s creeping up on noon, and...nope. Still nothing. He’s not at work, not answering his phone, and our message history’s starting to look a tad obsessive, from my end—How’d it go with Carson?—Everything OK?—Hey, did your phone die?—You’re starting to scare me—Hellooooooo?

Screw it. I fire off one more: Alive? y/n

It’s been radio silence from Wes, as well, but at least I know where he is. He took off at first light, muttering something about making the most of visiting hours. Doubt he’ll be back before dark.

There’s nothing to do around here, no way to make myself useful. This morning’s breakfast went to waste: Wes took one bite of toast, one spoonful of instant oatmeal, and pushed his plate away. He didn’t want coffee or conversation or company for the trip. I get that: grief’s a private thing. But it sucks—it fucking sucks, watching a friend go through the wringer, with no way to help.

Feels like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

I wander through the kitchen, looking for something to clean, but the place isn’t just dirty. It’s rotting. The damp’s penetrated the Formica: I’d scrape off the counters before I scraped off the stains. And the floor... The linoleum’s split and peeled, with ferns growing out of it. Not sure the Brillo pad I found under the sink’ll be much help there. The bathroom’s in better repair, recently scrubbed and caulked. I wipe down the mirror and rinse the sink, but there’s nothing else to do.

I wander upstairs instead. There’s a weird smell in the hallway, mothballs mixed with...forest floor? Wet leaves and mushrooms? I wrinkle my nose. It looks like Wes is remodeling—or was, at some point. His dad’s old room’s standing empty, walls half-stripped, carpet torn up. The door to the linen closet’s off its hinges, leaning against the wall next to a can of paint. I skirt around it, heading for Wes’s old room. The carpet squidges underfoot. It’s gone a disturbing shade of lichen yellow—gross.

Wes’s door’s open, inviting me inside. He’s made the place habitable, even inviting: there’s a new bed, a small chest of drawers, even a few homey touches. I lean down to sniff at a crystal vase full of wildflowers—when’d he have time to pick those?

A flash of color catches my eye: Wes’s closet. I smile at the sight of his high school clothes, still lined up on one side. Organized by style and season, because of course they were. He still does that: a place for everything, and everything in its place.

I rifle through his old clothes. They really were pathetic, thin and oft-mended. I don’t remember them looking that bad. Then again, he pretty much wore his coat all the time. Even indoors. He’d always say he was cold, but.... “Oh, Wes.” My heart aches for every stain, every patch. No wonder he was so obsessed with cleanliness. No wonder—

I jerk my hand back. “What the—?”

It’s not—he wouldn’t have kept—it couldn’t be.

I push a threadbare gray blazer aside, and it is. A plain white shirt, splashed maroon with old blood. I pull it out halfway. It’s torn, as well, two buttons missing, one sleeve hanging off at the seam.

“Jesus.” I remember that blood cascading down his front. Staining Carson’s shirt as Wes slumped in his arms. He came stumbling out of the locker room covered in it—Carson barely caught him before he collapsed. Never did find out what happened in there. Wes wouldn’t talk about it, and the school... They suspended Matt for two weeks, but after that, it was back to business as usual.

Wes, though—he was out a while. In hospital overnight, and after that... I think he went to stay with his grandpa. Matt came back to school before he did.

I let the shirt swing back on its hanger. Was the sleeve sticking out like that before? I smooth it down—you’re all right. You survived—was that why he kept it? To remind himself he made it?

He shouldn’t know—shouldn’t have to deal with my snooping, on top of everything else. I tuck the sleeve in and straighten out the blazer to cover it. It’ll have to be good enough. Maybe he won’t notice; maybe he’s forgotten it’s even there.

My eyes are watering, and it’s not just the mothball fumes. Not just that I’ve seen something that wasn’t meant for me. It’s a creeping sense of guilt: we let him down. All of us, in our own ways. Wes came back, and we...forgot. Not right away, but by degrees, over time—he seemed all right, and we let it drop. Carson went back to calling him Shrimpy. Kyle quit driving him to school. Me, I went back to blowing him off for Max.

And I’m doing it again. I’ve been avoiding him since the funeral. Bitching to Max about his moodiness, when... Shit, no wonder he’s not himself.

Halfway down the stairs, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Max—finally.

sorry!!!!! hope you weren’t too worried! huge fight with Carson.

don’t freak out. we’re both fine.

A fight—really? I roll my eyes. Can’t turn my back on these guys for a second. Tell me you don’t mean a physical altercation.

He types. Stops. Types some more. Hesitation equals guilt: OMG! You totally fought him! WTF?

I might have accused him a little. he might have punched my lights out.

Stupid. Stupid. I’ll decide whether to laugh or cry after we talk for real. I dial his number, shaking my head.

Max picks up on the first ring. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I promise.”

“You’d better be. That hard head belongs to me now.” I head outside and sit down on a stump. “What were you thinking, going after him on your own?”

“What can I say?—he was pissing me off.” There’s a snort in the background—Carson’s with him? “How’s Wes?”

“Don’t change the subject.” I sag a little. “Not good, though. He’s not eating—had you noticed?"

“Maybe, yeah—he does look thinner.” A voice rumbles in the background. Definitely Carson. “Listen, you need to be careful out there. It’s uh—it’s not Carson. He was in New York when we were in DC. Not peeping on us in the park.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s photographic evidence. I’ll text you in a second. But with him out of the suspect pool, you need to consider....” He trails off awkwardly.

I feel myself flush with anger. “You did not just accuse Wes.”

“No. Not exactly—but there’s only so many people it could be.”

“Wes, though? Give me one reason he’d do this—one reason that makes sense, bearing in mind he’s lost, oh...everything he had.” Maybe it’s the bloodied shirt; maybe it’s the house, with its legions of memories, but every protective instinct I have is roaring to life. “One reason—I’m listening.”

“I don’t have one,” he admits. “Just—you’re alone out there. That’s all I’m saying. Look out for yourself.”

“Right.” I don’t want to fight with Max, but one more step down this road, I don’t see myself holding back. “Listen, my battery’s low, and there’s nowhere to charge it out here. We’ll be back probably tomorrow, the next day. I’ll text you when we’re on our way.”

“Text me tonight.” He pauses, with an audible sigh. “I’ll worry, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Already, my anger’s softening. “And if you hear anything new—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Oh, and tell Carson sorry, from me. I didn’t exactly talk you out of that.”

He chuckles. “No—no, you didn’t. I think he’s okay, though. Or he will be. He’s not happy, obviously, but we’re working together. Going through Dev’s computer again. And there’s a few calls I can make, in the interests of, you know. Ruling out certain people.”

Certain people. Wes. “It isn’t him. You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will.”

We say our goodbyes, but I’m not ready to go back inside. The memories are better out here: picnics under the trees, learning to drive on that empty stretch of road, chasing Wes’s stupid dog.

Wes, the blackmailer. Patient Wes, kind Wes, who put me back together after my wedding, and after every disaster since.

Idiotic idea.