Amelia Anne Is Dead and Gone (14 page)

AMELIA

“L
uke.”

He looked up at her, as expectant as a puppy, and she felt her stomach begin to tie itself into hard, angry knots. This was so unfair. She hated to hurt him, of course, she’d never wanted to hurt him, but even as she pitied him, a cold wall of irritation rose up and enveloped her heart.

“Just say yes,” he begged. The skin around his eyes had drawn back and his mouth was curving into something between a smile and a grimace. Already, this wasn’t going as he’d hoped.

“Luke, please stand up. Let’s talk, okay? Let’s talk about it.”

They had
never
talked about it, she thought, as her anger began to grow teeth and she asked him again to
stand up
, dammit. They had barely even discussed moving in together—it was all Luke, Luke maneuvering, Luke deciding, Luke just assuming that whatever he wanted, she wanted, because that was how it worked. The future businessman, ruled by logic, pressed and polished and always knowing just how things ought to be.

All the happiness—the relaxed confidence of only a few hours before, the easy smile and gentle teasing—left his face. His features turned rigid, stony. He stood up, straightening his clothes, angrily smoothing away wrinkles and adjusting his glasses. His lips pressed together once, then closed hard and tight.

“Please,” she said, “let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. He brushed past her, brushed against her harder than he needed to, and began to crunch his way back toward the car.

She turned and cried after him, exasperated. “Don’t I get to have any say in this?”

He whirled around. “Yeah, you get a say. You can say yes, or you can say no. And obviously, you’re saying no. So, fine, let’s just go.”

He turned again and began to walk away. Anger flooded through her so quickly that red spots bloomed suddenly in her peripheral vision, then faded as she strode forward and grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Luke, there’s something I have to tell you.”

He drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at her. His mouth trembled and she thought,
This. This is how he looks when he doesn’t get what he wants.

“Come on,” she said, working hard to keep her voice level. She walked the last few steps to the car and perched on the hood, patting the spot next to her, inviting him to come sit. He didn’t move.

“Have it your way,” she sighed. “Just listen, okay? I love you.” He scoffed at this, but she ignored it and pushed on. “I love you, but I can’t marry you. I mean, not just you, anyone. I’m not ready to get married.”

He looked down at the ring in his hand, then back at her. The lost-puppy look was back.

“I just want to get engaged,” he said. “We don’t have to get married right away.”

She shook her head, firmly. “It’s too much, Luke. I’m flattered that you asked, I really am, but my life—” She broke off, realizing that she still had no idea how to tell him the truth.

His voice cut into her thoughts. “Oh, here we go. I was wondering when you’d do it.”

She gaped at him. “What?”

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me before?” he snapped. “I’m not stupid, you know. You’ve been biding your time, waiting to break up with me—right? Well, here you go. Perfect timing!”

He whirled and stalked back to the driver’s-side door, yanking it open and then staring at her over the top of the car. She sighed, turning back to look at the small lights, far away, warm and friendly. That sweet smell was still creeping around in the air, brushing up against her cheek and teasing her nose, disappearing and then reappearing stronger than before.

A memory came flooding back to her, sudden and surprising—her mother, stepping in from the garden with dirt on her knees and a flush in her cheeks, beaming with pride as she showed her oldest daughter the bounty she held in her hands, a spray of pink and white flowers with sunny, yellow centers and a fragrance so powerfully sweet that it nearly knocked her flat. Thoughts of her mom had always made her smile, but this one was different; tears pricked her eyes and her heart ached with longing. That smell . . .

“Wild roses,” she said, looking back at Luke with surprised eyes, as though he’d asked a question.

“What?” he said, bitterly.

She shook her head, but the scent lingered. It seemed to have worked its way into her clothes, had braided itself into her hair.

“Nothing. Look, Luke,” she called after him as be began to duck into the car, “I’m not breaking up with you.”

His head reappeared, the bitterness on his face replaced by a confused look.

“What? Then why—”

She patted the spot next to her again.

“Just let me talk, all right? Please?”

Reluctantly, he settled next to her, leaving two feet of angry space between them and then finally, unhappily, moving a few inches toward her when he began to slide off the hood.

She took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ve been accepted to an MFA program. In Boston.”

He stared at her. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s graduate school.” She paused. “For acting.”

He kept staring. Encouraged by his silence, she rushed forward, allowing herself to get caught up once more in the excitement, the possibilities, the feeling of joy and accomplishment she’d had ever since she realized what her future might hold.

“It’s one of the most prestigious programs in the country, Luke,” she said, her eyes shining. “I never would have even thought to try, but Jacob said I should think about applying—that I’m really gifted, that I could have an incredible career. So I did, I applied. And after I auditioned, and I found out that they were going to take me . . . I mean, God, I was just so excited and I didn’t know how to tell you, you know? I wasn’t sure what you’d say, and it never seemed like the right time. And then things got so strange at the end of the year—”

She broke off, abruptly. Luke’s eyes had grown narrower while she spoke, his face morphing into a mask of disgust. His lip curled up in a sneer.

“Luke, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Acting,” he said flatly. He stared at her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice faltering. The excitement of the previous moment seemed to evaporate from her body and disappear on the wind. She shifted uncomfortably and winced as her skin caught against the hood.

He stood, and to her utter shock, he spat into the dirt.

“Acting,” he said again, and shook his head. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The car door slammed. She sat, stunned, as she heard the ignition click, felt the engine turn over. Looking back, she saw Luke, sitting behind the wheel. In the spacious interior of the car, he looked very small and mean.

So this is how he looks,
she thought again,
when he doesn’t get his way.

This time, the thought made her shudder.

CHAPTER
17

I
n the days, months, years that followed, I would lie awake and drive myself crazy, wondering what might have been. I would imagine what things might look like now, if I had had more time to think. If I had worked my shift, all busy hands and racing mind, and allowed passing time to illuminate the possibility that I had made a terrible mistake. If, hearing those heavy footsteps behind me in the alley, I had turned and run without looking back.

In the aftermath, I would never stop wondering what could have happened, if I’d only had a little time.

But before I could do anything, before I could gain clarity or perspective or take a deep breath and think, it was over.

Craig Mitchell found me first.

I was alone in the alley that ran along the side of the restaurant, crouched in a shady place near the wall and disgustedly hosing down a line of wooden crates that reeked of spoiled produce—two full crates of tomatoes, quarts and pecks of peaches and strawberries, the sad outcome of a distracted summer where people were staying indoors. Hangover sweat soaked my underarms and my stomach lurched with every wave of stench; gray clouds were moving in, blotting away the sun, but the heat was still unbroken. In the still air, the scent of decay was everywhere. The fruits had grown slow mold in the cold room, their skins puckering as patches of blue-white fur bloomed on their surfaces.

Inside my head, my thoughts raced ahead and then doubled back, circling the place on the side of the road where a stranger’s blood had colored the dirt crimson. James had been stubborn, had refused to believe me when I told him my suspicions, had been so convinced of his friend’s inability to do harm that he had almost convinced me, too.

Almost.

But Craig had been there.

And James would have to listen.

The strawberries were going if not gone, enormous and red and heavy. I pressed my finger against one and watched it bleed, giving as though it might collapse in on itself.

Flesh could be crushed so easily.

At the end, nature made things so painfully, impossibly delicate.

With sudden fury, I closed my hand, hard. My nails bit and bruised, the berries squelched between my fingers, juice and pulp and seeds erupting, settling into the half-moon depressions where my fingernails grew.

I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to wait for James to come back, whatever my promises. I wanted it to rain, until the lake swelled and rushed again, and the streets turned slick, and the water had pounded away every last shred of the girl on the side of the road. And then, with everything dark and wet and smelling of earth, I wanted to start over.

“Hey,” said a voice to my left.

I yelped and jumped from my crouched position, turning, realizing as I did that my eyes were wet and my nose was running. I swiped at both with the hem of my sleeve.

Craig stood by the corner of the building, watching me with narrowed eyes. He had the look of someone who’d been standing a while unobserved: self-satisfied, sneering. Knowing what I did, even the sight of him gave me the creeps; I had abruptly stopped sweating, and the hairs on my neck were standing on end.

“What’s up?” I said, struggling to keep my tone even, unconsciously taking a step backward. “Do you . . . need something in the restaurant?”

“No,” he said.

Another step back. “Lindsay isn’t out here. She’s inside.”

“I know,” he said.

I stared at him. My body was prickling now, every nerve ending leaping and firing and ready to send me running. I was suddenly hyperaware of the drying, sticky mess in my palm. I lifted my hand and wiped it away against the wall.

“So if you wanted to see her . . .” I trailed off, looking at him. Another step back.

His lips curled, teeth in an even row beneath. They were surprisingly white.

“No,
Rebecca
,” he said, pronouncing it with a sneer. He mocked me, hands on hips, his voice high and haughty: “I don’t need to see her.”

My pulse throbbed in my ears. Why was he here?

He won’t hurt you,
I thought.
There are people here. He won’t hurt you.

“Okay,” I replied, raising my voice a little, hoping that someone—Tom—would hear me and come to investigate. “Then why are you here?”

I looked over his shoulder, to the safety of the door, my escape blocked by the sheer bulk of him, then turned cautiously to look behind me. The alley ran behind the building and connected with another, smaller one that led to the street. He was ungainly, out of shape. I could outrun him, if I had to.

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” I turned again, alarmed at how close his voice was. He had moved toward me while my back was turned. “Why can’t you ever just be polite, huh?”

I stared at him, suddenly gripped by anger, flight instincts replaced by fight, my logical fear drowning the desire to let him have it. To say what I’d always wanted. What could he do? It was as good as done; they knew. They were coming. I lifted my chin and stared him down.

“Craig, it’s over.”

“What?”

I rushed in. “It’s
over
. They know you were there. Whatever happened, whatever you did . . . they know, and you’re running out of time.”

For just a minute, the hateful gleam of his narrow eyes flickered with something else.

Uncertainty. Maybe even fear.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘whatever I did’?”

I took a deep breath.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

I thought of James, saying,
He didn’t mean it.

It was only a joke.

You don’t understand.

“Look,” I said, allowing my voice to grow softer, willing myself to meet his eyes, “it doesn’t have to be like this. If you leave right now and just tell them the truth about everything—”

He growled and advanced on me. “You think you know everything, don’t you.”

I gulped and tried to look unafraid. “I know enough.”

He moved more quickly than I could have imagined, his hand reaching out to snake across the exposed small of my back and around my waist. I screamed and spun, my heart thudding in my chest, squirming desperately against his grasp. Sour breath filled my nostrils. His face was inches from mine. His thumb dug into my ribs.

In that moment, I knew that I had been wrong. That Craig
would
hurt me, would hurt me no matter who might see him do it, would hurt me because he liked it and because hurting people was what he did.

The hand around my waist tightened. I struggled, but he held tight to me, dipping his face even closer, close enough to kiss me.

“And why do you care so much? Is it because you’ve got so much in common? Because that dead bitch was just another nosy whore who fucks everything up, just like you?”

“Let go!” I screamed, squirming again—and incredibly, he did, shoving me away from him so abruptly that my shoulder rang painfully against the brick wall. He stared down at me, breathing hard. His fists were clenched into tight balls at his sides, the collar of his shirt soaked through with sweat.

“We were tight until you came along, you know that?” His voice was shot through with bitterness, growing louder. “Everything was great, and then you decided he wasn’t good enough!”

“Listen,” I said. My mouth moved, forming words, while my eyes registered the now-empty space between me and the door. We had gotten turned around in the scuffle, I had ricocheted off the wall and found myself suddenly closer to safety.

My left foot found purchase against the wall. My right followed it. One slow step back, and another.

“Listen—”

“Like hell, I’ll listen!” he shouted. “You’ve been keeping him at your stupid house all summer long! It’s like you’ve goddamn brainwashed him! Every time I call, it’s all, sorry, I’m going to Becca’s! Sorry, Becca doesn’t feel like coming up tonight! Sorry, I’m going out of town with Becca and her parents! So if you’re so fucking great, why don’t you tell me something?”

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t matter. I could get away. Another step.

Flecks of spit had appeared at the corners of Craig’s mouth. His face was contorted with anger, eyes narrowed into slits, lips curled up in a sneering snarl.

“Why don’t you tell ME something, you fucking bitch—if you know so much about everything? Why don’t you tell me something?”

Another step.

“If you’re so much better than me, why are you still hanging around this town?”

I stopped. In his anger, he didn’t even notice, only balled his fists tighter with rage and howled, blasting me with the question that someone, anyone should have asked.

“If you’re so much better, why the fuck are you still here?!”

I turned.

I ran.

They were the last words he ever said to me.