To say I don’t sleep much after the creepy text comes in? Massive understatement.
The phone gives me no clue about who sent the message or why they’re trying to shake Morgan down. I scroll through her message history, but she seems to run a cleaner app that purges her messages regularly. That’s … weird, right? It’s not like I never delete anything; when Nathan sends me his sweaty abs pics, I ogle for a while and then remove. That’s just sensible preventive measures in case of parental intrusion.
This is next level caution, possibly veering toward paranoia. Part of me wants to answer the text, but that might just make things worse. Eventually, I power the cell down, but I’m conscious of it, a heavy metallic weight on the table next to me. I swear, I watch the thing like it’s a bomb about to go off.
Must’ve dozed at some point, and I wake up as it’s getting light outside. Worry camps out in my head—so many problems for me to deal with, and I don’t even know where to start.
There’s a little voice in my head whining, It’s not fair. I want to say, Screw this and go tell my parents everything.
I’m not Morgan. I can’t do this. Those desperate thoughts haunt me as I walk to the bathroom. On Morgan’s legs. I get in her shower and try not to cry.
Mrs. Rhodes brings breakfast while I’m in the bathroom, in and out like a ghost. Jesus, it’s so quiet in this house. At home my parents would be yelling down the hall at us to hurry up, as my mom cooks and my dad sneaks the bacon while accusing random family members of stealing essays he was supposed to grade a week ago. We live close enough that I can walk to school, though Morgan sometimes picks me up. Nathan and I always said it was unfair that we had no wheels unless we doubled with Clay and Morgan.
Nathan.
My heart aches as I stand in front of her walk-in closet. Choosing an outfit seems bigger than what it is, somehow. Then I realize why. For the last three years, I’ve watched her the night before, planning the perfect look. Sometimes she asks my opinion but not always, as I’m not a fashion icon. Whatever I pick, the next day twenty girls will be scouring stores to find something close but not identical. For the first time I realize how daunting that is.
Trying to match Morgan’s impeccable taste is impossible, and I only have ten minutes to get ready. Normally I’d just wear jeans and a cute top, nothing extravagant. But Morgan’s wardrobe doesn’t run to simplicity. Whatever, I’ll do my best to be fashion forward.
Hair is easy, thankfully. It’s her best feature, long and straight, easy to style. I pull off the long ponytail with the hair wrapped around it and then do light makeup, Morgan-style, not mine. She wears more eyeliner whereas I did lips. But Liv’s mouth was better, I think.
Liv. Me.
My mouth was better.
“Are you almost ready?” Mr. Frost calls.
Grabbing phone and backpack, I head downstairs carefully. My incision still hurts, so I have pain meds in my bag, just in case. He’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs in helicopter mode, not that I blame him. With a faint frown he eyes the shoes.
“Is that wise?”
The heel doesn’t bother me right now, but maybe it’s a bad idea. My side will probably hurt like hell if I wear these all day. But there’s no way Morgan would yield on fashion without a fight. I try to cut a deal.
“Ask Wanda to get me a pair of flats from upstairs. I’ll wear them to walk around later. Just please let me arrive in these.”
Mr. Frost wavers. “Okay. But only because you said please.”
He calls out the request and the housekeeper hurries upstairs to find some ballet slippers that should be easier on my various injuries. Five minutes later, he’s driving me to school, despite my protests I’m well enough to take my own car. Morgan drives an adorable blue Beetle, the model that looks like a Barbie car. Here, he stands firm; as a dad he knows to pick his battles. Shoes? No big deal. Daughter who barely survived a fatal car accident? Yeah, let’s put a pin in driving, honey, at least until you’re fully recovered. Since that reasoning makes sense, I don’t argue, and it’s no hardship going to school in his town car.
On the way I get a message from Clay. Good luck. I’ll be thinking about you.
Because he’s a decent guy and I don’t want to hurt him more than I have to, I send back, Thanks ☺. Which is less than I’d want to get in his shoes … but better than silence. Right?
Mr. Frost pulls right up to the front doors and I slip out with a wave. Already the eyes are on me. Maybe it would’ve been better if I could’ve come to my own funeral because people would’ve already seen my reaction then. But because it’s Morgan, this moment is … intensified. Everything about her drives gossip at this school, but she’s so cool about it that I never wondered how it feels.
Answer? It sucks.
These shoes do too. My side already hurts by the time I get to Morgan’s locker. Thank God I’ve seen her spin the combination a thousand times. Otherwise I’d have to plead amnesia in the main office or go after the padlock with bolt cutters. Popping it open and seeing it empty excavates my stomach like a fresh grave. The school makes us clean them at the end of the year, though they give us the same one when we come back in the fall. I can understand why they wouldn’t want food moldering for three months in this heat, but what harm could it do to let us keep plushies and pictures? As a result of their totalitarian sanitation regime, there’s nothing here that was hers, only my memory of what was.
Sure, I can redecorate. I know more or less what she’d pin up. But it’ll be a facsimile of Morgan, just like me. Quietly I lean my head against the inside of the locker door.
“You look like I feel,” Nathan says.
Closing my eyes, I steel myself for a few seconds before turning. And it’s worse than I expected. His face is thinner and he’s growing an I don’t care beard. He doesn’t seem to be sleeping either, as his green-cast hazel eyes are deeply ringed, which gives him a tortured-artist vibe. Even his haphazard style goes with the theme, torn jeans and paint-stained hoodie.
“Did you sleep in those clothes?”
“Maybe,” he mutters.
The irrational part of me can’t stand that he doesn’t recognize me. All that charming star-crossed bullshit, my soul will find yours? I want to burn all those romantic movies down. Because I’m right here and he can’t see me; the eyes aren’t mirrors to anything.
At this moment, I want to hold him. But Morgan isn’t touchy-feely, and Nathan will likely shove me away so fast my head will spin. Yet maybe under these circumstances … I mean, we’re both grieving. It’s bad, I’m awful, but … I have to try. Just look at him.
“So … do you want a hug or something?” I ask with enough edge that I can claim I was joking if he reacts like it’s weird.
Nathan huffs out a laugh. “From you? Not really.”
That hurts more than I expected. “Screw trying to be nice, I guess. So you know, I’m not exactly okay, either.”
As I shove past him, I stumble in these cute, stupid shoes and a shooting pain tears through my side. Nathan catches me, holds me; it’s strange being on eye level with him, but it doesn’t distract me from how good, how sweet and familiar it is when he touches me. And I swear, for a crazy second, he feels it. His gaze locks on mine, and I try to tell him silently.
It’s me, I’m here. I didn’t leave you.