On shaky feet, I stumble back to the car. The summer sunlight does little to dispel the icicles growing in my veins. I whisper, “Are you there?”
But this time no reply comes.
I manage to convince myself that I’m going crazy and start the VW. But I can’t forget the scar on the tree and the way I felt standing in the shadow of its branches. In self-defense, I crank up the volume on the last song Morgan played, and it’s oddly cheerful, upbeat even. When I get back to the Frost mansion, I find a note from Mrs. Rhodes informing me that there are plates in the fridge ready to be microwaved and that she’ll see me Monday. She probably doesn’t normally stick around on Saturdays but since I just got out of the hospital, Mr. Frost asked her to put in some overtime this morning. I suspect she figured that if I’m well enough to make her pack breakfast for my boyfriend, she can knock off work. That logic isn’t inaccurate, either.
I head up to Morgan’s room, sit down at her desk, and get out a notepad. Okay, I have several questions that demand answers, so I list them in no particular order.
1) What was Nathan talking about with, “You never told her, right?”
2) Who’s trying to blackmail Morgan and why?!
3) What the hell am I supposed to do about Creepy Jack?
4) Did CJ really kill Morgan’s mother?
Seeing the list in black ink makes everything feel more real. The weekend looms before me with no prospect of relief or entertainment. The walls close in, and I want nothing more than to grab the car keys off the hook in the kitchen and escape to my old life. But I imagine my parents reacting to Morgan pleading for asylum and let out a sigh.
Yet I can’t resist dialing. It’s okay for me to check in, right? Plus I need to ask about Nathan and me visiting on Thursday. On the third ring, my mom answers, sounding tired. Her voice is quiet and flat, a little husky, which makes me think she’s been crying. Tears clog my own throat instantly.
It takes all my self-control to say, “Mrs. Burnham?”
“Morgan!” At least she seems pleased to hear from me.
“Yeah.” But I can’t push out the words; there’s just no way. I know how stupid it is, so I can’t frame the question, How’s everyone doing? The answer is self-evident.
“You holding up okay, honey?” She shouldn’t be asking me that, but it’s indicative of how awesome my mom is. Even though she’s hurting, she still cares about Morgan, who’s been my best friend for so many years that she probably thinks of her as a second daughter.
“Not really,” I whisper.
My mom sniffles. “Me either.”
Oh, God, my chest hurts. Rubbing it doesn’t make the ache go away, and I try to control my breathing so she can’t hear me cry. The tears slip down my cheeks. She must pick it up from the silence, however, because her voice comes back soft and shaky.
“Did you need something?”
“I was just … checking in. Nathan and I were wondering if we could come by on Thursday, but we weren’t sure—”
“Of course,” Mom cuts in. “You two practically lived here, before.”
That word is a shackle around my ankles and a weight dragging me down. I sniff, hoping she doesn’t hear it.
She does. “You’re welcome anytime, Morgan. Both you and Nathan. I’m sure you must’ve been wondering if it would hurt us to see you but it hurts more pretending Liv never existed. If you’re up for it, I’ll make her favorite dinner and we can go through the album.”
I’m in hell. There’s no other explanation.
“Okay,” I whisper.
As soon as we disconnect, I tip over onto my side and curl into the fetal position. It pulls my stitches, so the pain lets me hold together for an extra thirty seconds before I dissolve into messy, hiccupping sobs. My head’s aching by the time I cry myself into a damp, twitchy ball. The house is still quiet, nobody to disturb me grieving for myself.
Before I can think better of it, I pick up my phone and message Nathan. We’re on for Thursday at Liv’s house. Meet you after school?
God, it’s weird writing about myself in third person.
He replies faster than I expect. Did you talk to her parents?
Yep. I hesitate before sending. Yet what else is there to say, really? I can’t tell him to have a good weekend, and I shouldn’t encourage him to text me. We’re already on shaky ground because I can’t stop thinking about how Nathan said the pain only stops when he’s with me. I wish I could say the same, but it only reminds me how screwed up everything is. So I just add what Mom said, and I have another message a minute later.
Christ. Not sure I can handle a stroll down memory lane.
You have to go, I send back. She’s expecting us.
This time it takes almost five minutes for Nathan to say, Fine. Thursday after school. What’re you doing anyway?
I swear I lose my mind temporarily because I answer him just like I would’ve as Liv, with complete honesty. Just finished crying my eyes out. Otherwise, not much. You?
If there was any way to get that text back, I’d vaporize and beam through the atmosphere to suck the words back into my fingertips. But once the imp of impulse takes over, it’s a free-for-all, and I’m locked on my screen waiting to see how Nathan will respond. Morgan never would’ve said anything like this to him, but death is a game changer, I suppose.
I’m no better. Come over, stop me from drinking.
I swallow hard. Just this morning, I was perched on the kitchen counter with Clay kissing me. It’s beyond wrong to hang out with Nathan when his brother’s not around, no matter how much I want to. Under no circumstances can I get between them, but I’m legit worried about Nathan. Maybe that sounds heartless, but Clay is bedrock solid, maybe because he doesn’t realize what he’s lost. I message Clay at work. It might kill me to friend-zone Nathan but I can’t watch him self-destruct. I solicit permission for self-indulgence, swearing to myself that I can keep a lid on feelings that I’m not allowed to have anymore.
Just got an emergency flare of a text from your bro.
What’s wrong with him? comes the immediate reply.
Hands trembling, I forward the text to Clay. If I’m not lying or sneaking around, then it’s marginally less awful. Right? The speed of Clay’s answering text humbles me. As I read, a fist closes around my heart.
Anything you can do, I’d appreciate it. It … means a lot to me that you’re willing to help me keep what family I have left together.
Okay, I send back. As a special favor to you.
You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
No, I’m officially the worst.
I try not to think of this as a date as I put cold compresses on my eyes. Morgan’s pale complexion shows the redness, and the swelling is bad enough that I can hardly see. Once I’m steady enough to drive, I leave a note for Mr. Frost, though there’s no telling what time he’ll be home. As Liv, I always thought Morgan was lucky; she could basically do whatever she wanted, any day of the week.
Now that I’m literally in her shoes, I realize how lonely that is.