Nathan snaps the radio off with enough force that I wouldn’t be surprised if the knob fell off. For another moment, we hold hands until the trembling subsides. I’ve seen the phrase “trigger warning” before, but I never understood what it was like to be triggered; it feels like someone’s wired an emotional bomb inside me that could go off at any time.
Once I calm down some, I untangle my hand from his and merge into the sparse morning traffic.
“This sucks.”
Since I can’t disagree, I just pull into the clinic parking lot. The lobby doors have been unlocked but it’s still twenty minutes before the actual office staff arrives, so I’ll chill in the car for a bit. In close proximity it’s really obvious that Nathan has been boozing it up. I decide to swing by his house after this and make him shower. That’s older sister territory, something I never would’ve done as Liv.
If I was Liv, he wouldn’t be drinking.
Nathan closes his eyes, tipping his head against the seat. His lashes are dark and thick, fanning against his cheeks. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw is only a day or two old, though the circles are just getting deeper. A few seconds later he’s asleep. I watch in silence, which is a little creepy, so I deliberately turn my face away until another car pulls into the lot. A trim black woman in a blue suit unlocks the front doors, and I recognize Jeanette King, who works for Dr. Jackson. After giving it two more minutes, I follow her in.
No need to wake Nathan.
There are no forms to fill out, but I wait another ten minutes before the nurse shows up. The doctor comes fifteen minutes after that. Eventually Jeanette leads me to the exam room where the nurse checks everything and writes on my file, then Dr. Jackson makes his way in to look me over.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I decide to test the waters. “Okay. But … I was reading this book about a girl who thinks she’s someone else. Does that … ever happen?”
Dr. Jackson tilts his head. “Is it a book about mental illness? That’s a standard delusion, though root causes may vary.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could be schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or psychotic depression. I’m guessing you haven’t gotten far enough in the story for the writer to explain?” He’s smiling at me, chart in hand, and I make my face respond. “It’s also possible there could be a physiological problem.”
“Like what?”
“Some brain diseases result in psychosis. Parkinson’s, dementia, or even a tumor might create the same issue.”
“Interesting,” I say. But I had an MRI before I left the hospital, so that’s not it.
“Let me know how the story turns out.”
“I wish I had a clue,” I mutter.
“Enough procrastinating,” he adds, like this whole conversation was a red herring to keep him from removing my stitches. “Lie down and turn onto your side.”
If Morgan wasn’t Randall Frost’s daughter, I suspect the nurse might handle this, but instead Dr. Jackson does the honors. It doesn’t hurt at all, more of a tickle-tug. I close my eyes through it, and five minutes later, Dr. Jackson finishes up.
“That’s it, you’re good to go. Give my regards to your father.”
“Will do.” Funny, how the human body can heal trauma in a matter of weeks whereas scars on the heart and mind can last for years. I straighten my shirt. “By the way, I need an official copy of all my allergies for travel reasons, can—”
“Ask the receptionist to print it for you on our letterhead. Are you going away to camp or something?”
“Or something,” I agree.
At the front desk, I repeat the request and it takes all of five minutes for Ms. King to supply the information I need. It’s good to know that I could choose to stop being a vegetarian as most proteins seem to be fine. Top of the list, Morgan needs to be gluten-free due to celiac disease. The strongest allergy is shellfish, though apparently fish is all right. I’m also lactose intolerant and sensitive to strawberries. Surprisingly, I seem to be okay on peanuts.
Nathan is still asleep when I hop in the car.
He starts as I slam the door. “What time is it?”
“Just past nine.”
I ignore his mumbled curse as I back out of the parking space and head for his place. Clay will be there, which means Nathan will start bitching as soon as he figures out what I have in mind. Sure enough, as I turn down Magnolia, he fixes a death stare on me.
“Stop the car,” he demands.
“You can’t go to school like that.” I ignore his objection, driving down the alley and parking behind his house.
Once I cut the car engine off, I can almost hear his teeth grinding, and I have to drag him out by the arm.
Nathan resists until I get him up on the porch, then his irritation melts into a nasty little smirk. “Are you going to scrub me down if I resist?”
“No, I will.” Clay steps onto the back porch wearing a ferocious frown. “And I’ll use the toilet brush. Jesus Christ, you reek.”
He shoves his brother up the stairs and into the bathroom. I follow, mostly because Nathan needs a ride to school or he’ll just skip today entirely. I’m wondering if Clay will be pissed at me for showing up with Nathan, like it’s somehow shady—though this time it really isn’t—but his expression is just … weary at the moment.
He steps up to me and rests his forehead against mine. It’s early so his skin is deliciously warm, not sweaty, and I put my arms around his waist without thinking about it. He reacts a little slower, drawing me in with an inexorable sweetness that makes me feel like he has my heart on a line, only I don’t resist being caught. Clay can pin me to the wall if he wants, though unhurried and tender is good, too.
“Wrangling that jackass is a full-time job,” he mutters. “Where’d you find him?”
“Liv’s grave. I got some food and coffee in him. Figured a shower might finish the job.”
He sighs softly. “Thanks. I keep saying that, but I’m starting to feel like it’s not enough.”
“More than,” I say.
Clay’s big hands move on my back, skimming up until they’re in my hair. In that moment I can’t remember what his first name is. I mean, he’s just been Clay forever. But now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty damn sure he wasn’t named Clay Claymore. Clayton Claymore? No way. He’s not a Clayton. Smirking, I rub my cheek a little against the soft cotton of his white T-shirt. With my fingertips I test the muscles of his back and he jerks as if it tickles.
“Cut it out.”
But making him squirm is fun, so I don’t quit, and then he whirls me, pinning me up against the kitchen counter. Hips against mine, his eyes are melting gold. Through the dirty window panes, the kitchen is gilded with light, crowning him, so it’s all butter and cream and bright, bright lemon, like falling into the sun. My heart does a funny skip-hop, and I hate myself because I can’t pull away. It’s terrible and lovely, longing for someone you know will only break your heart.
Not Clay’s fault. Mine. Morgan’s? Mine.
“What’s your name anyway?”
His thick brows shoot up. “That’s what you’re asking? Right now.”
“Seems like something I should know. I’ll have you fill out a survey later to be sure I can hold up my end as an informed girlfriend.” The words come out with no hesitation at all.
I’m Clay’s girl now. Not Nathan’s. And it’s a different kind of death, but for a second, that same pain flashes over me, flash flooding me, and I’m alone under a starry sky. I have grit under my fingernails. One of them is torn clean off and I taste the blood pooling in my throat. My pulse sounds in my ears, drumming until—
And I’m back, not dying, but hurting, because each step I take down Morgan’s road is a step I never will as Liv.