Amends: A Love Story (18 page)

Rage burns through me like a wildfire. "You
work for me, right?" I ask Clancy.

"Yes, but..."

"No buts. I want you to disperse the first
portion of my trust to Annabel Grant, and I want you to do it
through a blind corporate entity so she can't trace it back to
me."

Amity's grandmother doesn't know it yet, but
she's about to win the lottery.

/////////////////////////

When I arrive at Ember's apartment, the door
is unlocked. I shake my head. She's getting more and more reckless.
I lock the door behind me and follow a trail of silky underthings
to the bedroom. She's lying nude on the bed, all smooth peachy
curves. She arches her back like a contented cat and beckons to
me.

I go to her, but I don't feel good about
it.

/////////////////////////

Ember and I lie in bed tangled in her sheets.
We're each covered in a fine sheen of sweat. She snuggles into the
crook of my arm, and I think back to high school, when she was my
first girlfriend and then my first everything. It's hard to believe
how innocent we were. Those first fragile weeks with Ember before
Mom was diagnosed were the last time I felt happy and whole.

Through some sixth sense, Ember senses I'm
drifting and pulls me back to the present. "Laird," she says,
wriggling against me. "Earth to Laird."

"I'm here. I'm just thinking of high school.
When we first got together. Before my mom got sick."

I can hear the smile in her voice. "Yeah, we
had some great times. Before your mom died, the accident happened,
and everything got weird."

"I know," I say, stroking her fine, blonde
hair that feels so different from Amity's long, thick curls. "I
know."

Ember shifts position so she's lying across
from me. She rests her head on a pillow and looks into my eyes. "I
have something to ask you," she says softly. "Why are you messing
with that girl from the accident? You're writing on her Wall all
the time, almost like you're flirting with her. You know how sick
that is, right?"

"I agree. It is pretty sick, considering that
we basically killed her mother. But we actually have a lot in
common. Losing a parent in high school is really tough. She gets
it." I tell Ember about meeting Amity at the cemetery and later at
Adams, and about the touching conversations we've had since we
reconnected. Of course, I leave out our electric physical
connection.

Ember sighs. It's a girlish, musical sound.
"How do you think she'd react if you told her the truth?"

I've asked myself this question many times
over the past few days, and I already know the answer. "I don't
think she'd be very happy with me," I say in a small, tired voice.
"And the guilt—for the accident and now for not telling her what I
did—is already making me sick. It's always there, like a constant
whisper in the back of my mind. Sometimes I feel like I can't
breathe."

Ember rubs my shoulders, and a painful knot
begins to unravel. If Amity is the only one who understands my
loss, Ember is the only one who knows my guilt. As I feel more and
more relaxed, I find the words flowing out of me. Maybe Ember will
be glad to hear how I'm helping Amity.

I tell her about the arrangements I've made
to give away part of my trust fund, so Amity can start her life
after college unencumbered by debt—something Ember and I take for
granted. I tell her about my lawyer's concerns—that I will end up
broke and broken—and all the uncertainties that have taken root in
my mind since I signed the papers. I worry that Amity's grandmother
isn't as selfless as she sounds, and that Amity will somehow figure
out that her grandmother's lottery winnings are actually blood
money.

When I'm done, Ember is quiet, and her face
is a calm, placid mask. I wonder if she thinks I'm some kind of
obsessive, self-destructive freak. Then she squeezes my hand and
smiles, tears springing to her eyes. "You are such a good person,"
she says. "It just makes me want you even more."

Ember reaches for me, and I close my eyes. We
come together in equal parts passion and regret.

/////////////////////////

I sneak into Ab Psych late, just as the
professor is shooing everyone into their seats. It's been four days
since my night with Amity, and we haven't exchanged so much as a
one-line Facebook message. We've somehow become solidly
estranged.

I hurry up the stairs to the
back of the auditorium and take a seat on the aisle. I quickly set
up my computer to take notes and watch as Professor Carmichael
writes
Narcissistic Personality
Disorder
on the blackboard. In smaller
letters, he writes
God
Complex
. The words sting me, even though I
know they're just the topic for today's lecture. I ask myself if
I've just played God with Amity's life, not truly to make amends,
but because there's something deeply wrong with me.

I'm wondering if Dad's insatiable need for
the adoration of young women is also some kind of narcissism when I
see her. Amity is sitting across the auditorium, flanked by her
roommate and a tiny, bespectacled brunette. My heart slows and then
lurches into an uncontrolled acceleration. You can't do this, I
tell myself. You've made your decision. Stop playing with her
life.

I force myself to focus on my computer screen
and on the professor, and keep it up for the full forty-five-minute
class.

When I finally look up again, she's gone, and
I'm devastated.

Chapter 21: Amity

It's Saturday night. Everyone's at parties or
having fun with their friends. There's another beer bash at Laird's
frat. Darcy, Aliyah, and Esther are watching Sasha play the world's
most glamorous homeless woman ever in a student-written play. Even
Kendall has a date.

I'm here at the Adams Apple, working the
shift no one else wanted, cleaning the backup espresso maker, and
feeling really sorry for myself. Ever since that night with Laird,
there's been an empty space in my life. We could talk to each other
about our broken family trees without fear of judgment. He also
seemed to really like me, despite my minor factory defects. I wish
he was still my friend.

"Any questions about closing up?"

I turn and see Kendall looking surprisingly
human in a little black dress. "Nope. I'm supposed to steal all the
money from the register and flee the country, right?"

Kendall frowns, and I feel stupid. Something
about her stiff manner and devotion to rules makes me want to joke
around. The problem is that I'm not very funny.

"Sorry, Kendall. Closing up should be no
problem." I smile brightly, hoping to inspire her confidence, but
it seems to do the opposite.

"Don't forget to lock the cash drawer and
leave the key in my desk drawer. See you Monday!" Kendall flashes
me a tight, nervous smile and ducks out the door.

As I put the espresso maker back together, I
watch the Saturday night crowd sip coffee and pore through books.
Even these ostensible nerdlings are mostly coupled up. I recognize
a few people from my organic chemistry class and feel a stab of
guilt. I got a perfect score on the first quiz, but that won't
happen again if I don't spend more time studying and less time
obsessing over a guy who's obviously done with me.

I check the clock on the wall. It's nine p.m.
I've made it more than three hours without checking my phone. I'm
proud of myself. The compulsion is slowly losing its grip. I remind
myself that, between my course load and my endless shifts at the
Adams Apple, I don't have time for boy drama.

Since closing time isn't until eleven, I
decide that I might as well do some studying while I wait out the
rest of my shift. Kendall's already left, so I won't even be
risking a lecture on time theft and the perils of multitasking. I
walk briskly into the back room and go to my cubby. As I pull an
eight-pound chemistry textbook out my bag, I notice that my phone
is chirping. Finally, I have text messages!

A surge of wild
hope—
let it be Laird, let it be Laird, let
it be Laird
—rushes through me. Heart
pounding, I scan the texts. It's not Laird—I should know better by
now—but it's also pretty damned exciting. Gran just won two million
dollars in the lottery!

/////////////////////////

"Gran, are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"But that's a lot of money. What if you get
sick?"

"Your mother would have wanted me to pay for
your education. End of story. She was so happy when you were
accepted to that fancy-pants college."

"But..." Even after all this time, my throat
tightens when I think of Mom.

"No buts. I'm going to make an appointment
with Mr. Kost to go over the paperwork."

"Yes, Gran," I say, gratefully accepting
defeat. "And thank you."

We exchange I-love-yous, and I end the call.
Darcy is watching me expectantly. "OK, girlfriend," she says with a
grin. "Hand it over."

I pass my phone to Darcy. I'm going to a
party in the city with Maggie tonight. It's a film school
gathering, and it will be filled with pretty people hoping to act,
direct, and produce. A few C-list celebrities may even stop by.
According to Maggie, it's also going be a total Bacchanal with
booze, weed, and anything else my corrupt little heart desires.

I'm not going to add drugs to my list of
vices, but I'll probably have a drink or two, which is why I'm
leaving my phone with Darcy. I've stopped obsessively checking for
texts and messages, but I'm not totally sure I trust myself not to
text or post or—God forbid!—call under the influence.

Darcy puts my phone in a place of honor on
her desk. She looks at me curiously. "How are you going to find the
party without GPS?"

I pull a folded piece of paper from my bag.
"Darcy, it's called a map."

She chuckles. "I hear the Pilgrims used those
things."

"And the Ancient Egyptians," I add.

I slip my feet into some old stripper heels
to liven up my plain T-shirt and jeans combo. I also try to access
some of my old stripper attitude. I'm sick and tired of feeling
like the girl who isn't good enough for Laird Conroy.

Fuck him. I'm going to have some fun.

/////////////////////////

Maggie's party is like an upscale version of
the dance clubs I went to with Ethan. I consciously move to the
music as I make my way through the club, searching for Maggie.
Because I'm feeling the beat, my limp practically disappears, just
like it does when I'm dancing.

I remember how much I enjoyed that part of
stripping. I loved being able to move normally and fluidly—even if
it was only for a pack of creepy men. I realize that men are
looking at me now as I weave around fixtures and couches. One of
them is a tall blond with an angular face who looks like a gaunt,
older version of Laird. I wink at him and, panicked by my daring,
disappear up the stairs.

When I finally locate Maggie—yeah, that would
have been about ten thousand times easier with my phone—she's not
alone. She's seated at a tiny corner table with a small girl who's
beautiful in a strangely plain way. Her features are perfectly
even, and her blonde hair is thick, straight, and smooth. Her eyes
are pink, as if she's been crying.

Then I notice the table is covered in shot
glasses, some full and some empty. The blonde shoots one down while
Maggie looks on, her face creased with concern. I wonder what's
going on.

When Maggie sees me, she stands and gives me
a quick, distracted hug. "Amity, this is Darla."

I nod and smile at Darla. "Hi, how are you?"
I ask, although I'm pretty sure know the answer. I don't think
Darla's doing well at all.

Darla stares through me, while Maggie brings
me a chair from another table. We both sit down, while Darla
continues to gaze at some invisible point in the distance.

"Oh, don't mind her. She's traumatized,"
explains Maggie. "She's just broken up with her boyfriend.
He's..."

"Don't say who he is!" cries Darla, cutting
Maggie off. "I signed a non disclosure agreement." Then Darla
breaks into ugly, heaving sobs.

Maggie and I exchange worried glances. Darla
sounds dangerously drunk and depressed—a bad combination indeed. We
try to make sympathetic eye contact while Darla gets herself under
control. Finally, her sobs wind down, and she blows her nose with a
cocktail napkin. She turns to Maggie, who takes her hand. "I can't
believe that asshole dumped me. Now he's trolling downstairs for
fresh meat as if what we had together meant nothing."

Darla looks down at the shot glasses, picks
one filled with clear liquid, and tosses it back. Then she hides
her face with perfectly manicured hands and begins sobbing in
earnest.

I have to look away. She isn't my friend, and
I don't want to watch her fall apart. It feels like I'm somehow
invading her privacy. I tell Maggie I'm going to get them mixers
for their armada of shots. She says that's a great idea, and we
head to the bar. When we're about halfway there, she whispers in my
ear.

"I'm so sorry about that. Darla's kind of my
friend and, well, she's kind of a mess. Do you think you can
entertain yourself for a while? I'm going to let Darla drink a
little more and then pour her into a cab."

"Sure," I say. "When do you want to meet
up?"

"Maybe around midnight? I'll find you here by
the bar. I can't believe you didn't bring your phone, you crazy
bitch. I want to hear what that's all about. You've been off the
grid forever."

I feel a twinge of guilt. I haven't even told
Maggie about Laird. "We'll catch up later. I promise."

"See you soon," says Maggie, giving me
another hug and glancing back at her friend, who's downing yet
another shot.

/////////////////////////