Nathan lets go instead of pulling me in. I’m Morgan, his brother’s girlfriend. I must’ve imagined that moment.
“Sorry. I know she was your best friend for way longer than I dated her.”
“Yeah,” I say huskily. Then I cut away from this conversation because it’s like chewing glass. Somehow I manage to get to Morgan’s first class.
After the encounter with Nathan, my hands are cold and shaky. As I settle at my desk, I remember the text from last night, and suddenly, the phone feels like it’s burning a hole in my bag, but I don’t take it out. I can’t afford to let the teacher confiscate my electronics. It appears that Morgan had problems she didn’t share with me … or anyone, maybe. As soon as I get back, I’m searching her room for clues.
The school is small enough that there’s only one lunch, four classes before, and three after. We start at eight; lessons run for fifty minutes with a five-minute passing period between them. Morgan’s schedule is way different from mine. Since I’m interested in genetic engineering, I’ve been taking hardcore science and math since freshman year. But now I have American Literature, Graphic Design 2, Visual Arts, Sociology, a break for lunch, then afterward French, World Government, and study hall, which will eventually turn into PE.
I’m so screwed. While I can memorize for Government and Sociology, Morgan is in her third year of French, and I don’t know more than three phrases: s’il vous plaît, omelet du fromage, and merci beaucoup. So in France, I can politely order a cheese omelet, then thank the waiter afterward. That won’t cut it in French 3. American Lit will be okay; that was the one class we would’ve had together. I’ll probably crash and burn in Graphic Design and Visual Arts, too.
As predicted, I’m every bit as lost as I guessed in second and third period. First and fourth are okay, then I’m cut loose for lunch. Belatedly I recall that I can’t eat anything here and that Morgan usually packed a lunch. I hover outside because I’m not sure where to sit, plus the prospect of watching people eat when I’m starving doesn’t thrill me. Morgan and I ate together, but I never wondered what she did on my rare sick days. As Liv, I’d go sit with the science types, but that won’t work now.
“Forgot your lunch?” Nathan’s standing behind me, brow cocked.
I’m too conscious of him and that makes it hard to think. “Yeah.”
“Did you bring your car? I’ll go with you to the store, if you want.”
Ruefully, I shake my head. “I’m on lockdown for a while. M-my dad is being overprotective.” That was a close one; I almost said Mr. Frost.
“Then I guess you’ll have to hold out until you get home.” But he’s making no move to go join his buddies.
Nathan hangs with the young GQ set, normally. By which I mean well-dressed, smart, academic overachievers who prefer clubs to athletics; they also masquerade as clean cut when in fact, they’re the ones who throw the best parties. Nathan’s on the swim team, too, but they don’t have the same mentality as the football players. Confession: I’ve had his activity schedule memorized for way longer than we’ve been dating. Morgan used to tease me about how I’d position myself throughout the day, dropping into his line of sight until he started talking to me. Over the course of sophomore year, we progressed from casual greetings to banter, and eventually, as I was hoping, he asked me out.
Standing here with Nathan is keeping me from obsessing over that ominous text message, but he won’t stay forever. Yet he tilts his head toward the side doors. “Want to go sit in the courtyard? I’m not hungry anyway.”
“Sure.” As we walk, I’m wondering if this is prudent.
I suspect he feels sorry for Morgan and that he regrets his attitude this morning. But it’s not like there are tons of people clamoring to hang out. While people idolize Morgan, they don’t feel comfortable offering sympathy or support. So while I’ve gotten a lot of concerned looks, nobody’s approached. Morgan didn’t go out of her way to dispel that mystique, either.
The sun is bright but it feels good. This space used to be wasted; the school is designed in a square O, and they recently greened it up to make use of this area. Which means a few picnic tables, benches, and plants have been added. It’s an ongoing project for the agriculture students, actually, and a few of them are planting a tree as Nathan sprawls in the shade before a trellis where someone’s trying to get jasmine to grow. There’s a small flower garden and a patch of sweet-smelling herbs. Most students prefer air-con and safety from bee stings, so there are only five people out here, including the ones who are working.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yeah.” But why do you care?
“Clay asked me to watch out for you,” he says then, crushing my nascent dream that he senses who I am, what we meant to each other.
“You don’t have to. I’m dealing.” My tone is icy, pure Morgan. I’ve heard her deploy it when someone crosses the line.
“You’re doing me a favor. The guys are so awkward, they don’t know how to treat me. One asshole is talking about all the condolence pussy I’ll get, like that’s a bright spot.”
“Seriously? Let me guess, Braden Wilkes.”
Nathan flashes me a surprised look. “How’d you know?”
“It’s the Young Republicans you have to watch out for. They seem so responsible and then they come out with the most revolting shit.”
“True. But I didn’t think you knew my friends that well.”
“Liv and I did talk, you know. I paid attention.” At least I hope that’s true.
He flinches slightly when I say her name. My name. God, this sucks. He shakes it off, running a hand through dark hair that’s already practically standing on end. With a sigh, he tries to smile, like I didn’t see how much he’s hurting. It only exacerbates how I feel.
“You don’t have to pretend with me. Don’t act like everything’s okay.”
“Thanks,” he says softly. “That … helps.”
For, like, ten minutes, we just sit there soaking up the sun, and I’m nearly asleep when he whispers, “You never told her, right?”
What the hell? Does this have anything to do with the text? And why does Nathan know, if I don’t?
“What do you think?” That’s not a great response, but it’s the best I can do on the fly. I’m starting to wish I’d pretended to have amnesia. Then nobody would expect me to know anything.
“I’m guessing not. Liv wasn’t the type to hide it if she was mad.”
That answer doesn’t clarify anything. This is going to drive me crazy. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap, pushing to my feet.
Great exit line, but I can’t shake the questions this conversation has planted. Doubts spring up like weeds, and I already have more of those than I can handle.