Heartsick (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I wake up to a call from the president of Poe. This is not an everyday kind of event, but given all the other non-everyday-events occurring, I barely muster a “thank you” when he offers condolences concerning Danny. He continues, “I know you didn’t know him long, but given that you were his mentor in the art department, would you be willing to speak at his vigil tonight?”

Of course. It’s not a decision. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.

I get the details. After we hang up, I tap a pen against my lips several times thinking about what I might say. But mostly I’m avoiding something else.

I put down the pen and toss the phone back and forth like it’s a Koosh ball, or something else that’s much more innocuous than a communication device that’s supposed to help me apologize to a nice man I hurt.

I don’t like that I hurt Luke. The thought of being with him, just him, still makes me feel stuck, like sandbags are weighing my muscles down. But I don’t need to be a bitch. He doesn’t need that. He doesn’t need me.

But, despite the sandbags, I just might, a tiny bit, need him.

Last night I stared at the collage on my ceiling as real-life shadows danced across the shadows in the collage. Instead of feeling safe in the shadows, like my uncle had told me, I felt like I was falling deeper and deeper into my mattress every time I thought of what I had said. And it wasn’t just what I said, it was why I had said it. It was a verbal kick.
Get away you scroungy man. I don’t want you.

I still have some subconscious shit to work out, but that doesn’t mean I don’t owe the man an apology.

But I’m not ready yet. Coffee. I need coffee.

I pull on a black cotton dress and a red cardigan. I slip into flip-flops. It may be mid fall, but I like the way my bare toes feel free. I flap my flops across the bricks and mortar as I propel toward the Sterling Diner on the corner of Main and Sullivan. It has Elvis posters, antique Coke bottles, miniature classic cars and pictures of Virginia politicians giving thumbs up to the cornbread. It also has the best coffee in Allan.

A fake canary tweets as I open the door, announcing my presence. I had the foresight to wear sunglasses, so as the local women with curler-infused hair peek over their mugs at me, they see nothing strange. They return to their chitchat as I breathe in the bacon smell and the splattering of grease on the griddle. Today’s
Allan Crier
is lying on the counter. There’s a big picture of Peachy standing behind a podium looking all important and serious. The headline Authorities Urge Infected Students to Come Forward makes it sound like we’re trying to hide or something. I start reading about how they still don’t have many answers but they’re trying to figure out the connections between cases and...

“Miss?” The cashier leans toward me.

I look up and shake myself out of my thoughts. “Um, yes, large coffee, black, please,” I say, my fingernails clicking against the counter.

As the cashier nods and shuffles toward the pots of coffee, I can’t help but overhear the women’s conversation in the booth behind me. Their so-called whispers are very loud. “I heard you get it through sexual relations. Of course those Poe kids would bring VD to our town.”

I turn around, curious to see what a person who still calls an STD
VD
looks like. Her eyes peer over her thick glasses and she twitches her mouth as she glances at my Coach purse. I call to the cashier, “And make that to go, please.”

Another woman behind me clacks her mug against the counter. “Well, I’ve always told my Sara to be careful around those college boys, but she’s twenty-one now and thinks she knows everything.”

“They always do.” The third woman sighs and hunches over. “I’ve even heard something about Luke Peterson taking up with a Poe student.”

“No,” the second woman gasps as I turn back to the counter, willing the cashier to stop smiling at another customer as she fumbles with the paper cups. She hasn’t even poured my drink yet. I’m stuck.

“That Luke, he always had such a good head on his shoulders. I couldn’t believe it when he up and left us.” There are agreeing murmurs and at-least-he’s-back-now’s.

“He should know that them college girls are nothing but trouble,” the frowny woman with the glasses snaps.

“Well,” the third woman starts, “he went to college in Richmond, it’s not like—”

“I don’t have anything against schoolin’ in general,” the snappy woman cuts in. “I’ve just got something against Poe. They aren’t like regular college students. They feel they own everything, taking advantage of our kids, walking around like they own the town, passing around their liberal propaganda and their socialist ideas. Driving about without a care in the world, hitting and killing poor, innocent girls. They took Lynn away from us, just like that, and brushed it off like it wasn’t nothing. And poor Natalie, she hasn’t been the same since.” More murmurs and nods and sips of coffee as my fingernails pound against the counter. She gears up for what seems like a finale. “Poe ain’t no good for us.”

The cashier pours my coffee like it’s molasses, until she spills it, sets the cup down and shakes her head. She goes to the back. My half-filled coffee cup calls to me from across the diner as my hands jam into my pockets and I rock back and forth, heel to toe. I stare at a poster of a crowd in front of Town Hall, taken circa 1947, when it was renovated. The people are smiling and happy.

“Well, I made sure to tell Luke that Jenny’s no longer with Ryan. With any luck, he’ll come to his senses soon,” the frowny woman says. I take the risk and turn around, taking her in again, safe behind my shades. Yep, she’s got the same mean edge to her eyes as the girl who’d whispered in Luke’s ear last night.

Then again, who is the mean one really? I’m the one who sent Luke away. I’m the one who hurt him. Maybe they have a point. I’m not good for him.

Finally, the cashier saunters back, warm coffee in hand. She slides it across the counter and I can’t swipe my credit card fast enough. I barrel through the glass door, the canary chirping my exit.

I walk quickly, taking deep breaths and telling myself to calm the fuck down. They’re just talking. Gossiping. What do they know?

I pull out my phone and bring up Luke’s number. My thumb hovers. Whatever happens next, it doesn’t matter. He can forgive me or not forgive me, but I have to apologize. I’m about to press Call when my phone rings. It makes me jump, which causes my drink to basically ejaculate all over my hand and wrist. I lick up some of the spilt coffee as I answer the call.

“Luke,” I say, before he can say anything, “I’m so sorry about last night. I was a complete douche and if you hang up on me—”

“I’m not going to hang up on you,” he says. “I called you.”

“I know but, um...” I say. “Thanks.”

He breathes, and even across the digital airwaves it seems visceral, animal. He’s waiting for me to say more. Even though he called me. Fortunately, I had rehearsed what I was going to say in the mirror, as though that would be helpful in a phone conversation. “Well, I’d like to make it up to you. Can I make you dinner or something?”

“Don’t play with me, Quinn.”

I stare at my toes as I walk. “I won’t,” I say. “Here’s the thing...I like you. A lot. But I don’t want anything serious right now. Things are crazy. I mean, I have some weird condition. You probably shouldn’t even be around me. I’m not good for you.”

“Are you protecting me from this purple eye shit, or are you hiding behind it?”

I turn a corner—only three blocks to my house—and take a big sip of coffee. Maybe it will help me think.

It doesn’t.

He coughs. “What if it wasn’t a factor?”

“But it is a factor,” I say.

“Point is, I can be around you.” His tone is dry, flat, parchment crackling in a desert.

“Okay, then, so you’ll let me make you dinner tomorrow night?” I ask. Almost home.

“No,” he says. Warm water oozes in my eyes and a dull pain slips about in my stomach. “I’ve got work then. But I’m free this morning. You could make me breakfast.”

I insult him and he wants breakfast. “Of course!” I say as enthusiastically as I can as the pain in my stomach dissolves. “It’s just, well, give me a second to pick up things. Right now it would be a feast of Pop-Tarts.”

“We’ll go shopping. I’m feeling like blueberry pancakes.” His voice is still cold, but I can hear the stirrings of a smile.

“I love it. I’ll be ready soon,” I say as I walk faster. I’m only two blocks from my house. “Pick me up whenever. Though sooner rather than later as I can only look nice and pure standing on a corner with sunglasses on for so long.”

He laughs. I love that he laughs. But the laugh ricochets, because there he is, outside my house, leaning against his car. He doesn’t see me, though, as I take in his smile and his crinkling, almost closed, laughing eyes. “Actually,” he says, digging a mini hole in the grass with the tip of his shoe, “I’m already outside. I wanted to see you.” He swallows and wipes his face. His lips fold in as he waits for my response on the phone.

“I know,” I say. He hears me and twists toward me. I hang up and bounce up to him. But I don’t bounce for long.

His eyes.

Shit.

“It’s not your fault.” He sticks his phone in his jeans pocket and takes my hand. “Quinn, you know this is not your fault, right?” But I just look at him. His eyes are still sharp, but they are no longer green.

I pull my free hand away from Luke so that I can bury my face in it. “I am the worst person ever. I wish you had never met me.”

He exhales and leans into me. “I can’t say I was thrilled this morning, but even if you gave it to me, you didn’t know. No one knew.”

Tears fall out of my eyes. My horrid, horrible, clearly contagious eyes. How the fuck has Peachy not figured out this thing is contagious!

Luke pulls me into him and kisses my closed eyelids. Then his lips brush mine. I pull away. Instinct? Fear. I forgot that it doesn’t matter. I’ve already ruined him.

“I thought a lot on the walk home last night. I get that you don’t want anything serious right now,” he says. “And there’s this other guy...”

He lets that linger. He dares me to protest. And I think to protest, but what is there to protest? There
is
Rashid. I nod and bury my head in Luke’s neck. He continues, “But I don’t want to lose you, either.”

His hands come around me. This time when his lips touch mine, our tongues meet. I’m still crying, but kissing is a kind of cure. He pulls back, our foreheads touching. “I know I don’t know you really well, but I want to. I have enjoyed every minute with you.”

“Except for that delightful version of me last night,” I say.

He touches my hair. “I even sort of liked last night.”

“I hated last night, I’m so sorry. I’m such a snob and—”

“No,” he says. “You think you’re a snob and you’re hiding behind that. But really, you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” His gun is thankfully not his companion right now.

Luke’s confident grin emerges. “You’re afraid because you’re starting to be sweet on me too.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Once we’re tucked into his car, seatbelts fastened, he revs the engine and we’re off. I’m having trouble as I use the cosmetic mirror to clean my runny mascara. My purple eyes stare back at me. Luke’s right. They do look fearful.

Luke says before we go to the grocery store, we should get our blueberries at a little market off the highway. I rarely leave campus or Allan. I’m in this little bubble of adorable shops and hiking trails and solitary ravines and lecture halls. It’s strange how a few weeks absorbed in one environment makes other ones, even formerly familiar ones, seem exotic. Cars rush around us. We speed along at a decent clip, but Luke loosely holds the wheel.

There’s no rush.

Just as I’m starting to feel free and enjoy the whips of wind that come through the slightly open window, the traffic stops. It’s like a clogged artery. We pulse on slowly. As we get closer, we expect to see an accident, we expect to be annoyed at all the rubberneckers who held up traffic exactly as we slow in order to scrutinize the situation ourselves. But there’s no accident. Instead, there are official-looking people. With badges. With guns.

“Friends of yours?” I look at his dashboard. I don’t want to think about the guns.

Luke peers through the windshield. “No. They’re state troopers.”

The state troopers are turning people around. Cars that were in front of us drive by in the opposite direction. And they are the only cars moving the opposite direction. No one else is being let through the blockades they’ve set up.

As we roll up, Luke rolls down his window.

“Sir.” The guy in the light blue uniform stands a few feet back from us. I don’t know if it’s because he sees Luke’s purple eyes or if it’s because he would do that for anyone coming from Allan. The infected area. “We need you to turn around. Allan has been put under quarantine by Governor Marshal.”

Luke’s mouth dips open as the man talks. He turns to me, our purple eyes meeting. He swallows.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re turning around now.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man says.

Luke shifts the car into reverse. My mind is still reeling and buzzing and processing and spinning and I press my fingers to my temples. But I don’t have the luxury of freaking out, because someone is shouting.

“You need to turn around now!” The state trooper is gruff, but he’s also scared. It drips from his tone. He’s yelling at a truck with six Hispanics in it. I’m not trying to be judgmental, but it’s pretty obvious they’re migrant workers and from the looks of confusion and fear on their faces, they don’t know English. A language barrier. A physical barrier. A quarantine.

“Luke.” I put my hand on the door handle. “Stop.”

He slows, though his forehead wrinkles. When he sees I’m about to open the door, he tries to catch my arm. “Quinn, don’t.”

I’m too fast.

I dart out of the car at first but my quick movements are just exacerbating the situation. So I walk slowly. Gingerly. I breathe as though my meditative inhales will sprinkle their relaxing qualities onto the state trooper who’s holding his gun, pointed. His hands are straight, elbows locked. I try to focus on his face, his humanity. Not the gun. The gun makes me sweat. His hands are red with exertion. A young boy curls his fingers around the ridge of the open window.

My Spanish is by no means fabulous, but it will do. It will have to do.

“
Ustedes no están en problemas,
” I say. I tell them they’re not in trouble. “
No se les permite a nadie salir de la ciudad
.” No one is allowed to leave town. I explain we all must head back to Allan.

The mother hugs her kid, stuffing one girl’s face in her armpit. It would be gross if it wasn’t so beautiful.

State troopers surround us. An older trooper says, “Rodgers, lower your weapon.” The original state trooper takes a breath. Slowly, carefully, he brings the gun down, but he still grasps it with both hands. The older state trooper sidles up to me. “Tell them they need to turn around.”

I do. Luke is next to me as the father of the family puts the truck in reverse and turns around. They’re safe, for now.

The original state trooper finally replaces his gun. It belongs in the holster if it belongs anywhere. But even in the holster, it makes me want to run away.

“Thanks,” the older state trooper says to me, before they move on to the next car.

My body is still tense as Luke’s hand holds my shoulder. I’m still digesting that I ran toward someone holding a gun, ready to shoot.

“You shouldn’t have run out there like that,” he says, but there’s something in his eyes, his purple eyes. They convey it before he says it.

“But I’m glad you did.”