46

Aster

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Aidan doesn’t call.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I said everything I needed to say—everything I could say—five nights ago. I threw him every lifeline I could, I told him about my fucking brother, but he wouldn’t grab on. Wouldn’t save himself. I know I’m right, but knowing I’m right is cold consolation.

I know from personal experience that saving someone is not in my repertoire. I tried for a full year to get my brother help, but Ramsay wouldn’t take it. The drugs were an easier reality than our circumstances. Even after he turned me in, even after I was charged and sentenced, I tried. I thought maybe seeing me in prison beige would spark something in him, but it didn’t. He visited me once and never again.

Then he died.

It’s not easy, but I make myself get on with my life, even as I swear with each step that I can hear the shattered pieces of my heart rattling around in my chest. It hurts, but I’ve started over before, and I’ll keep doing it until I get it right.

Shamus invited me to come watch the Frisbee baseball tournament today and tomorrow, but I made my excuses, blaming exams, work, whatever. I have to admire the guy’s spirit; he never loses hope, even when there’s none on the horizon. But there’s no way I can go to that tournament and see Aidan, be near Aidan, and not break down.

I thought I was devastated when I ended things with Jerry, but that was nothing. That was an illusion, a mirage, an idea. It wasn’t real.

Aidan was real. And I was real when I was with him.

But I was real that night at his house, too, and I’m not throwing away my shot at a better life for a guy who’s too mired in the past to see what’s right in front of him.

I’m due in Chester at ten o’clock tomorrow morning for the walkthrough of my dad’s house. I’ve already cancelled on Goldman three times, and as much as I want to cancel again, I know I have to do this. It’s time to pull off the bandage once and for all.

I fall asleep, the kind of rest that’s not restful at all, waking up even more exhausted than I started. I recoil when I see my reflection in the mirror, unwashed hair and dark circles under my eyes, even less ready for this trip than I was all the other times I postponed it.

A nagging voice whispers that I can still cancel.

Mitch Goldman’s probably on a golf course, waiting for my call. He’d been kind and patient the others times I’d bailed on the visit, telling me there’s no rush, the house isn’t going anywhere.

But that’s exactly the problem. If I don’t deal with this, it will continue to loom there, the last vestige of the life I left behind, a shackle around my ankle, holding me back. I force myself into the shower, into clean clothes and sneakers, and out the door. The bus leaves from the campus depot in half an hour, and today I’m going to be on it.

My phone rings as I step out of the elevator, and I sigh when I see Shamus’s name on the display. I could let it go to voice mail, but I know from experience that Shamus calls three times before giving up. Better to shoot him down on the first try.

“Hey, Shamus,” I say tiredly.

“Aster,” he replies. His normally upbeat lilt is gone, replaced by stress. “Is, uh, Aidan with you, by any chance?”

My heart lurches. “No. Why?”

“Ah, well, he’s not here, and Missy said he might...be with you?”

Missy. I’ve been dodging her since the fight, too, so she has no idea we’ve broken up.

I check the time. I know their games started at nine-thirty because Aidan complained about the early starts. It’s nine-forty now.

“He’s not here,” I say, stepping into the blazing morning sun and wincing, everything too bright. Too clear.

Shamus heaves an overburdened sigh. “Right. Do you happen to know where he is, then?”

“No,” I tell him, recalling Aidan’s lie about his mother’s birthday being on Monday, which is tomorrow. “Was he there yesterday?”

“Yeah, he was here, but barely. Really distracted with exams and everything. Kept checking his phone and stuff. Anyway, I guess I’ll keep calling him. Thanks, Aster.”

I hang up and stand frozen in place for several long minutes, letting the implications sink in. As much as Aidan grumbles about Frisbee baseball, he’s never missed a game. Never let his team down. Being there for people is something he does, even when it’s not mandated by the PPP.

If Aidan’s not at the tournament, it’s because he’s in Vickers.

And if he’s in Vickers, it’s because he made his choice.

He chose them.

Not me.

Deep down, I already knew it, but the confirmation knocks the breath from my lungs. I cling to the stair rail to steady myself, trying not to sob.

“Aster?” comes a familiar voice.

I swipe tears from my eyes and look around, searching for Aidan’s strong build, T-shirt, jeans, boots, scowl, guilty face. Everything. Anything. I’ll take anything.

But it’s not Aidan approaching.

It’s Jerry.