CHAPTER 53
“You knew me already—before?”
My voice wavers when I ask the unfathomable question again. My eyes lock with Evan’s. Though he hasn’t answered, he wears a guilty expression.
No. No. No. I shake my head. This can’t be true, but I can see the photographic proof for myself. Fingers release the frame as if it’s on fire. It falls, crashing to the floor. The glass cracks and shatters. I back up several paces, crunching the pieces beneath my heels.
I spin, my gaze bouncing between the smiling faces in the rest of the photos. They’re everywhere: the dresser, hanging on walls, and in a frame next to the bed. I find a younger version of Evan and myself in every single one.
My heart thunders in my chest and each limb turns jittery. This doesn’t make sense. I search to find the spirit of myself here, in the way the room is decorated, the artwork, the clothing, the computer, the books, and everything else. I’ve been searching for who I was for so long, I can’t comprehend this crucial slice of my past life has been sitting here behind a locked door all along.
Evan places the jug of milk down and approaches, but I skitter away to the far side of the room, using the bed as a barrier. He raises his hands and retreats, spacing us apart again. It doesn’t matter. I still might suffocate with the weight of the room and its contents closing in on me.
“I want to explain. There’s so much...” His voice is low and unsure. He stops and seems to reset. “There’s nothing I can say that will make this right. There’s no excuse. I made a lot of terrible decisions when it came to us.”
“Us?” My brows knit. My throat constricts and my chest tightens into knots. The room bobbles and tilts. I reach for the bookcase to steady myself.
“Yes. There was an us—before it happened.”
Questions swarm from every side. Chaos. Confusion. Conflict. I pinwheel, hunting for answers but the backlash of shock is too disorienting. I’m unable wrangle one complete thought before another spikes it away to make room for another. The room spins.
“Cait? Maybe you should sit down.” A blur of worry crosses his face. He steps close again.
“Don’t come near me.” I hold out my hand, forming a wall as rigid as my words.
What must I look like? I’m crazed, arms shaking, sweat coating my palms, my back and face. I wheeze and hold my chest. In these precarious cases with the onset of a panic attack, I always hid in my apartment. For months it’s been my place of solace and safety, but with Evan in the same building it’s too exposed. He’s too close. I look up and find he’s an arm’s length away.
“Cait. Are you okay? Breathe.” His voice carries concern.
When he touches my arm, I snap it away. I glance over his shoulder and see a way out. He’s left a void at the door, a getaway, and that’s exactly what I need to do—get away. I dodge around him and rush out of the bedroom, his apartment, through the lobby, and ram my shoulder into the front door, shoving it open. I burst into the cold air of the city, only pausing when I reach the sidewalk. My lack of air demands attention. I lift my chest, forcing ragged air in and out in silvery clouds. A chilled metal light post keeps me upright. People pass, looking at me with confusion. Their leashed dog barks. In a tug of war they drag it away.
“Cait.”
I whip my head to Evan’s voice. He stands at the top of the stoop, staring down at me. He digs his hands into the pockets and rocks back on his heels, his face stricken with remorse.
“Why?” I yell, overwhelmed with helpless rage. I fold when the deception of this entire year hits me all at once. I’m pacing, sobbing, and shaking my hands to burn the anger welling up through my stomach and shooting through my shattering heart.
“Just come inside so we can talk.”
“You lied to me!” I point out furiously. I can’t find another thing to say. He’s broken the trust I only handed over to him last night. I stumble in the direction of a safe place, which is anywhere but here.
This time Evan doesn’t follow. A few blocks away, when he’s out of sight, I huddle against a wall and slip my cell out of my pocket. With oscillating fingers, I speed-dial Aggie. She picks up on the first ring.
“Aggie,” I sob into the phone.
“Cait?”
I pinch my eyes shut, relieved to hear her voice.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Help. Me.” My words wobble. The trails of my tears burn in the cold breeze. With no coat, I burrow closer to the wall and wrap my stomach with my free arm. The clouds darken above me.
“I’ll be right there. Where are you?”
I look around. I know where I am, but I can’t articulate the words. They waver in a whisper. “I need you.”
“I’m coming, sweetie.” Through the phone I hear the sound of keys jangling, a door slamming, and footfalls on an echoing staircase.
She continues, “Focus on one thing. Are you home? Outside? Is there a restaurant near you? A road sign? Read it to me.”
Through blurred vision I make out one word and stutter, “Moons.”
“Mr. Moon’s. I’m on my way.”
I’m not sure how long it takes, but when Aggie pops out of a taxi to grab me, I’m sitting on a park bench huddled in a shivering ball. She hooks an arm beneath my elbow and guides me to my feet. I’m mumbling random words, trying to explain. “Room. Evan. Us. Before.” I’m numb with shock.
She guides me into the backseat. When the car door slams, she calls out her address. The driver presses the gas and the car launches forward. My head settles into the curve of Aggie’s neck where I quake with snot choking me.
More time is lost; my body moves from one point to another without memory. She’s settles me on her couch, but I’m detached and floating outside myself and looking down. I hug myself when new tremors threaten. With my back rigid, I’m sitting on the edge of the cushion, unable to relax. I’m undecided if I’ll need to run again. She places a heavy quilt over my shoulders, weighing me down. A box of tissues appears on the shelf of my shaking knees. She settles beside me, winding an arm tight around my back. She’s chaining me to her side so I can’t escape.
“You already know, don’t you?” I murmur with remoteness. This is why she kept urging me to talk to Evan.
She confirms with a nod.
“How long?” My lips strain at the edges.
“Since the day he came to the office. The pinhead spilled his guts while he was waiting for you to show up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I don’t want to believe I can’t trust Aggie too. She has to have a reason. I need her to have a reason.
She squeezes me tighter. “At first I was in shock. I thought about telling you everything but decided it wasn’t my place. When he told me everything from his side...” Her voice drifts, like she feels bad for him. “But I did give him a deadline, which he agreed to.”
She continues, “If I thought it was a bad thing, like he was a stalker, I would have been all over his ass. But Evan? He’s a dumb dummy in love with you. I mean, look at him. Think about it. It makes sense. Everything makes sense.”
My mind ricochets off a million unfolding images. The night we spent together. All his fake love swaddled me like cocoon. I even basked in it. Enjoyed it. I thought it was only pretend—a chance for us to connect to someone for a short amount of time. How could I know how much it meant to him? What it might have meant to me if I had known? But I know nothing of what we were before. Did we break up? How long did we date? Was he a good boyfriend? A bad one? Were we together when the shooting happened? If so, why wasn’t he there after? Where was he? Was he hurt too? Did my parents know? How come they never told me?
I shake my head, disregarding that first night and the barrage of questions. They don’t even matter, and I say the reason aloud, “I cannot believe someone could lie this way. It’s inconceivable.”
“Do you remember him at all?”
“No.” And that’s the worst part. I just have to accept it’s true. The stress of not knowing my past worms its way back into my thoughts. This darkness has followed me for years, streaming behind like a dark cape, like Aggie’s cape. But now it’s invisible and tied around my neck, choking me. My shoulders rise and fall with my returning tears. I drop my face into my cupped palms.
“It’s okay. Let it out.”
We sit like this all afternoon. All day? I can’t be sure. Aggie calls into work for me the following week. Linden allows my additional leave. He tells me to take my time.
Another realization. Linden knows too. He’s known all along. He recruited me from across the country himself. Interviewed me. Did he do it for Evan? Did Evan make him hire me? Do I even deserve the job I’m so proud of?
More betrayal.
My thoughts ping-pong from one question to the next, analyzing every situation and motive. In between, it flickers, recalling every interaction Evan and I had since I moved here. When my body can’t take any more of the puzzle, I sleep. But those moments come in shorts spurts, just enough to carry me to the next session of contemplation. Each time I awaken with a new nagging question or concern.
When the dreams do materialize, they come full force. The gate in my mind that swung open the day of the marathon releases more memories. Not of Evan but of everything else. Each memory serves as a blob of colorful paint filling in a shape on a canvas. The more shapes I fill, the clearer the image of my life becomes. Still, one annoying spot remains untouched—a few years bridging my before to my after.
A key turns in the front doorknob. Aggie steps inside with a brown bag of groceries in her arms. I haven’t moved from the couch in who knows how long. Weeks? I’m unsure.
“Did you miss me?” She places the bag on the kitchen table.
“How was work?” I’m weary. Linden has not given her the same free pass.
She jiggles her head neither committing to a positive or negative day. “Eh, been working on this charity auction thing with human resources that the company’s sponsoring. It’s nice to do something different, but it’s boring without you.”
She opens the fridge, placing items on the shelves. She lifts a wrapped package from the grocery bag and skips toward me.
“I’m not sure I’ll return,” I admit.
“Too bad because everyone misses you.”
I fall back into the cushion and cover my eyes with my hand to hide. I hadn’t yet considered what my coworkers know. I groan.
“Don’t worry, they think you’re on a much-needed vacation.”
“I guess that’s not technically a lie.”
“Yeah, they don’t need to know it’s a mental vacation.”
I give her a dirty look.
“What? It’s true.” She circles the couch and places the package on my lap before collapsing into the chair opposite me.
“What’s this?” I glance down. It sits heavy on my knees.
“A gift,” she pauses, “from Evan.”