“You have the right to change your mind.” I slide off the bed and take two steps toward the door. “But I’m not a prize you can bestow on Nathan. Just because you don’t want to be with me, it doesn’t mean I’ll go back to him.”
“It’s not about what I want, it almost never is.” Bitterness rings like a poorly tuned piano in Clay’s voice.
Though I’ve admired how he sacrificed for Nathan, it never occurred to me to wonder if he minded. But it’s human nature to imagine how things might be different if you made other choices. Maybe he’d already be apprenticed somewhere if he wasn’t tied to Renton, keeping a roof over Nathan’s head.
“Can I ask one favor? Don’t tell Nathan. If I wanted him to know, I would’ve told him.”
Clay clenches his jaw, speaking through his teeth. “Not revealing something this major is almost as bad as keeping you for myself.”
“If you could stop talking about me like I’m property, that’d be awesome.” I pop my neck, trying to check my temper. Anger provides welcome relief from the pain and sadness tapping away at my fragile composure. “Can you promise or not?”
“Fine. That’s all I can do for you now. Just understand, I think this is a mistake.”
No, you leaving me is the mistake. More words bubble up, and I’m so tempted to argue with him. Yet I understand why he feels this way and can’t fault his loyalty to his brother. But then I remember how Nathan was on the roof. He didn’t care that I was dating Clay; he just wanted what he wanted, and the pain feels like it’ll split me in two because Clay is used to giving things up for Nathan, and I doubt he’s ever gotten the same in return. In a moment of crystalline clarity, I realize that even if I did tell Nathan, it would just be me comforting him. He wouldn’t help me solve this, which is what I was hoping I’d get with Clay. A partner.
But I can’t ask him to go against his conscience, especially when this is hurting him—and that’s my fault. Because I was so worried about being found out that I pretended my way into his heart, and he can’t live with the reality. So I swallow my instinctive protests.
“Then there’s nothing else to say. If you could give me a ride home, I would appreciate it.” My tone is clipped, formal, but it’s the only way to keep from crying.
Honesty doesn’t matter. I marshaled my courage, and in the end, I’m still alone in this.
“What about your car? Your phone? You need to file a police report.”
I choose my words carefully. “While I appreciate your concern, it’s not your business. Just take me home, please.”
“Don’t be like this. I can’t stop caring with the flick of a switch.”
“I’m not your girlfriend, fake or otherwise, and I just want to get out of here before I break down in front of you. Is that okay?”
You got to tell me how you feel at least. I can’t, it’ll only make things worse.
In answer he unlocks the door leading to the front room. We go out that way, quietly, in case Nathan came home while we were talking. I definitely don’t want to see him tonight. In fact, I’m ready to strike both brothers from the ledger of my life. The drive seems endless with only pop music on the radio to fill the silence. Finally he parks across from the gate that leads to the Frost estate. Funny how I shift back and forth; sometimes it’s home and sometimes it’s Morgan’s house, which perfectly encapsulates the bizarre betwixt feeling that currently defines my entire existence.
Clay looks like he wants to say something but I’m already opening the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
I limp across the road to key in the code manually. The gates swing wide and I slip in, hitting the button on the other side to lock up. Don’t look back, I order myself. And somehow I manage not to, despite glimpsing the bright sweep of his headlights in my peripheral vision.
This is for the best. I don’t have the time or mental energy for a relationship anyway. Shit is already complicated enough.
This pep talk lasts for a hundred feet, but then I’m distracted by my blue Bug parked beside the winding driveway. I approach with my heart in my throat, half expecting Creepy Jack to be waiting, but that’s a considerable risk even for him. How would he explain lurking in my car to my father? Still, I’m nervous as I open the door. I find the keys and my phone in the cup holder between the seats. The car starts with no trouble, though I’m wary as I drive up to the house. But there’s no sign of Creepy Jack … and my dad’s car is still missing from the garage.
Not surprising, I guess, if he’s with his girlfriend. It’s only half past ten. For me the day feels a lot longer. Slipping in the back lets me dodge into my room unnoticed, not exactly a tough feat since Mrs. Rhodes is the only other person in the house, and she must either be asleep or watching TV in her room by now.
Poor little rich girl. It’s easier to mock myself than to acknowledge the profound and bone-chilling loneliness. I remind myself that there are millions of people with problems much worse than mine. I head into the sparkling private bath and slowly strip off all the gauze Clay taped in place. The primary reason is that I can’t shower with the bandages on, but the deeper significance is voluntarily peeling off all connection with him. If I’m alone, then I am, and I don’t need any reminders that he cared until he found out the truth.
After turning on the water to let it warm up, I strip and jump in, vowing not to think about it anymore. The hot water stings skin and scratches equally, so I’m in a bit of pain when I climb out ten minutes later. I still have some meds left since I went light on my prescription after the accident. The pill bottle is in the cabinet but I’m probably not in the right frame of mind to take any. Better to stay clearheaded and hurt a little.
Now the only things on my mind will be solving a decade-old mystery—no problem, she said ironically—and passing the advanced science courses I want to pursue. On the minus side, I have zero allies in this fight, but since that’s where I was before I spilled everything to Clay, I shouldn’t get depressed over it. Considering how many impossible things I’ve already survived, I won’t be the girl who collapses over a boy.
I’ve dried off and put on pajamas when it hits me. Crap, my phone. Before, I was so worried about what Creepy Jack might do with it. The password works as before, but when the main screen appears, my background picture has been changed. It’s now a picture of Jack Patterson’s smiling face. Shit. Oh shit. I stare at my phone, loathing every pixel of Creepy Jack’s face. I change that, too, and erase that photo like it’s a personal statement.
But it gets worse. He’s deleted every male contact from my phone—Oscar, Ben, Eric, Clay, and Nathan are all gone, along with every message they’ve ever sent me. He’s also input his own info again. The only other dude in my phone now is my dad. Creepy Jack has also filled my phone with pictures of himself, like that’s something I want. Hands shaking, I delete them one by one, though they’re not obscene. They feel like a statement of ownership and he’s completely disinterested or disconnected from how I feel. There are other modifications too: deletion of certain apps, like he’s imposing control. That’s easily remedied, but the phone numbers I’ll have to ask for, unless the guys happen to text me. All of it leaves me feeling queasy.
And then it gets worse.
In my notes app I find a message from Creepy Jack.
Those pictures were a bad idea, precious. I’ll leave you these to replace the ones I’m taking. And I’ve warned you before about talking to other men. Don’t make me jealous. Don’t make me delete those contacts again. PS Your mother’s birthday isn’t a secure password.
That’s why Oscar’s number didn’t register as a known contact. This asshole has stolen Morgan’s phone before. My hands tremble so bad that I can hardly open the cloud storage app, and I dig through the directory, looking, looking, only to find the whole folder gone. I hope to God he just deleted the collection, but now I’m terrified that Creepy Jack has all those pictures. It’s a dumbass move for him to save them, as no site is fully secure, but he doesn’t seem to be operating as intended. What if my proposed extortion scenario with Oscar just flipped?
CJ might think he can use the pictures to control me, but that’s not on. I’m a minor in those shots, so no matter how bad the scandal, he’ll suffer more. I can always leave the state and go to college somewhere else, though I don’t relish carrying a shadow everywhere I go. It’s not even you in those pictures. Not really. That justification reverberates in my head because it sounds like the kind of thing a survivor might tell herself to stay strong.
Am I mentally ill? The question comes back like a boomerang. What if the shit with Creepy Jack, lingering issues from my mom’s death, and then the accident … what if everything broke me? There’s no shame in it; if that’s true, I really do need treatment, and there’s probably no mystery to solve.
But … the scientist in me quibbles. That explanation doesn’t cover my situation.
There’s no way I should know as much as I do about Liv’s life, especially if I’m Morgan suffering from a psychotic break. There’s no concrete answer to how the human brain stores memories, though there is fascinating work being done in neuroscience. Short-term and long-term memories are stored differently, and secondary memories are not supposed to be subject to the same decay. I could compare the brain to a hard drive, but that’s an imperfect metaphor, as neurons don’t have binary off/on settings.
Theoretically, it may be possible to retrieve memories from a dead person’s brain. If you extrapolate that there are two levels of consciousness, a spirit, a soul or whatever you want to call it, plus the biological matter that carries imprinted data, it could be argued that I’m half Morgan, half Liv. Instead of dying, I brought Liv’s life experiences with me in the form of energy, akin to a wireless transmission. But I’ve installed them on Morgan’s physical being. A reasonable analogy might be that I’m running Linux on a partitioned Windows computer, and while it’s functional, there’s bound to be some data corruption in the exchange, which is why I’m remembering things that Morgan knew.
Because it’s imprinted in my brain. Whether or not it was mine to start with, it is now.
These hypotheses settle my nerves in a way that more creative pursuits never could, which reinforces my conviction that I’m not mentally disturbed. I’m also willing to accept the premise that I’m neither Liv nor Morgan, more of a hybrid—Miv or Lorgan, which are terrible smush names. But maybe the designation doesn’t matter so much. I just need to make peace with my new life and figure out how to solve all of these problems, so I can move on.
I won’t be in Renton that much longer anyway.
Part of me wonders if this would make a difference to Clay, but I won’t ask. Even half of Liv is more than he wants. Which is ironic because he fell in love with enhanced Morgan, featuring special ingredient Liv.
I realize then; there’s a way to test this, and I love seeing how my theories pan out.
As Liv, I had little talent for drawing, whereas Morgan was skilled at capturing everything but her own face. The portrait I did for her was clumsy in comparison and only earned her a C+. I remember the art teacher was puzzled, but like I told Morgan, a C+ is better than a zero since she couldn’t finish the assignment. Crossing the room, I dig out one of her sketchbooks and flip through it. Most of these are clothing designs.
I close my eyes, trying to relax, and set the pencil to paper. My wrist is moving before I’ve even decided what to draw. The clean line of someone’s jaw takes shape, and I’m fascinated because I don’t remember learning how to shade this way. This is physical memory at work. It feels like someone else is creating this picture, though my hands are doing the work.
In the end, it’s a lovely portrait of Morgan’s mom, as she looked just before she died.