In This Moment (9 page)

  
Cole slides in next to me and I rest my head on his shoulder
. He feels so nice.

   
A car door slams and someone new says my name. I pry my heavy eyelids open and see Daniel Kearns looking at me from the front seat. His hair is darker than Jilly’s and his face is rounder, but he’s got his sister’s caramel eyes and his sister’s oversized nose.

   
“Daniel? Are you? Is that…” My voice is so hoarse. Unhinged thoughts swirl around in my head like a strong wind. “D-did you know that Jillian always wanted to get a nose job?”

   
Daniel looks perplexed, like he doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. I think that I feel the same way.
It’ll be fine.
Cole’s arm wraps around my shoulders. I feel the pressure of his fingers on my bare skin.

   
“Aimee, are you okay?” Daniel asks me from a million zillion trillion miles away.

   
Warm tears prick the backs of my eyes as the familiar surge of sadness pulls me under. Suddenly the question is screaming in my head—the one I’ve wanted someone to answer for over a year. My voice is faint—made of air and hot, steamy breath. “Daniel, do you think that she hates me?”

   
And maybe I’m dreaming him. Maybe I’ll stay asleep so I can hear his voice in my head, like gentle waves lapping at my toes.

   
No, Aimee. Never. She’ll always love you.

Aimee

I moved to Portland because I wanted to live in a world where Jillian Kearns had never existed. I wanted the air in my lungs to be air that had never touched her lips. It sounds cruel, but I wanted to stop remembering. The goal was to get lost so I ran.

   
Running, it turns out is the easy part.

   
It’s the not getting found where things get complicated.

   
My grandparents, both older than their actual ages and hard of hearing, let me be by myself for the most part. No one at school bothered me. I spent my senior year as the quiet, slightly off transfer student who ate lunch alone and never looked anyone directly in the eye.

    I
n Portland it’s the norm for people to march to their own beat so no one thought it was particularly odd that I didn’t go to football games, or join the drama club, or hang out at the Depot after school. No one asked me questions about my past. No one cared enough to try.

   
By the fifth month of my self-imposed exile from Florida, I was speaking but I wasn’t
talking
. There really is a difference.

   
Even my therapist ran out of letters and words that made sense so we fell into a pattern of obligatory conversation and empty promises handed over on my end. She reported to my parents that I was getting better and I stayed quiet and nodded my head when I was supposed to.

   
I started to forget. I stopped dreaming about Jillian. I stopped talking to her while I got ready for school. Weeks passed by without incident. Life moved along.

   
I discovered that normalcy can be like an extra layer of clothing that you put on in the morning. Underwear—check. Pants—check. Sweater—check. Normalness—check. No one worries as long as they can’t actually see that you’re naked.

   
And then, all of a sudden, it was a year. A
year
since Jillian Kearns had made a stupid joke. Or called me up just to tell me that I was her bitch. Or twisted her hair into a spiky bun on top of her head. Or laughed. Or brushed her teeth. Or squinted into the sun.

   
A year since her mother had screamed at me in the hospital. A year since I’d clawed my way out of that car and left my best friend behind to die.

   
One year.

   
That’s three hundred and sixty five sleeps. Fifty-two weeks. Eight thousand seven hundred sixty-five hours.

   
I didn’t go to school that day. I left the house at my usual time in the morning, but instead of heading to first period Language Arts, I just walked. I walked past my turn and down to the park and then I just kept going. I thought about walking to another city, or to Washington, or maybe Canada, or right into the Pacific Ocean.

   
I don’t remember much of what came after that. I don’t remember getting home or looking for the pills or swallowing them or getting into my grandparent’s car.

    
Later, my parents and the doctors wanted me to tell them what happened—they wanted me to purge my thoughts. They wanted a clean slate. I think that they’d decided that it would be easier to build a new person from mishmash spilled on the floor than from me.

   
I can still see my mother’s face—eyebrows perpetually pulled inward, mouth pinched tight.

   
Did you mean to do it?

   
Just tell us.

   
We don’t want to lose you.

   
That’s what she kept saying…
We don’t want to lose you.

   
Didn’t she realize that I was already gone?

***

The sound starts from far away. Just a buzz on the peripheral of sleep.

   
Then it gets closer… louder, brassier. The noise makes its way inside my head, pushing me over, sifting through my gauzy dreams and needling at the backs of my eyes.

   
I open my mouth, but my tongue feels swollen and dry. I lift my arm, but it crashes back to the earth. I try to blink, but it’s like my eyelashes have been pasted to my cheeks with rubber cement.

   
Oh. My. God.

   
What is wrong with me? My head is throbbing painfully like it’s been bashed into my headboard by a giant’s fist. My legs feel rubbery like—

   
“Wake up, Little Miss Sunshine!”

   
The high-pitched squeal snaps the membrane of grogginess and forces my eyes open. My bedroom is nothing but screaming brightness and sharp noises. Mewling loudly, I roll over and tunnel down deep under the safety of my covers.

    “Rise and shine
!”

    
Mara. What is wrong with her?

   
Mara bounces herself onto my mattress and grabs my arm. Leaning closer, she pushes the knotty hair away from my face and sticks her wet finger in my ear. I swallow and screw my face up. I want to tell her to leave, but nothing is working properly and the sound that comes out of my mouth seem closer to a grunt than an actual word. “Laaahf!”

   
Mara laughs. “Get up, young lady. Yesterday you told me that you were planning to meet Jodi in an hour.”

   
Dazed, I try to swat her hand away, but my older sister isn’t having it. With a loud huff she pulls on my legs until my lower half is dangling off the edge of the bed.

   
“I’m meeting Jodi at three in the afternoon,” I say roughly into the puffy pillow still clutched in my hands.

   
Mara snorts and slaps me playfully on my butt. “Yeah, Aimee. That’s in an hour.”

   
This is what finally gets me to turn over and sit up. The bedroom tilts precariously to one side and the walls swing in, causing my stomach to recoil.

   
“Ahhhhh!” Dropping my head and rubbing my hands up and down my face, I ask, “Is it really the afternoon already?”

   
“Yep. Sure is.” She stands up. “I would have let you sleep longer but I have to go over to the sorority house to help the girls get ready for the football game. We’re hosting Sig Ep after the game tonight. You should come! I could send one of the younger girls to come pick you up…”

   
I look at my window. I can see slivers of blue through the slats in the blinds. “Oh God. Too much information!” I rub my eyes. “How in the world are you so cheery right now?”

   
“I have epic hangover recovery powers honed during my two previous years of college.” Mara laughs. “And it helps that I wasn’t passed out when we got home so I was able to wash down some aspirin with about thirty gallons of water.”

   
Water.
Something new flickers in my brain. “Ugh. What the hell happened last night?”

   
“Let’s see…” She pauses like she needs to think about my question. “Tequila, vodka and Cole Everly.”

   
Scrambled bits and pieces of memory start to flicker in my brain, but it’s still an incoherent hodgepodge of images. Cole’s face comes into focus and then the feel of his arm wrapped around me, and the scent of him, and the car and… I cringe and fall back to my mattress. “Holy crap. Last night was…” I wince. “Mara, it’s possible that I told Cole that I wanted to bite him.”

   
Mara snorts.

    I groan
and look at my sister. “Was Daniel Kearns really in the car with us?”

   
Mara nods her head slowly. “He and Cole both carried you in and tucked you into your bed. It was actually pretty cute.” She takes a few steps backward and gestures to the table next to my bed. “Oh, and Cole left you a note.”

  
I reach out, fumbling over a stack of books and my alarm clock until my fingers find the small slip of paper. Written below a phone number that I assume is his, are just three words:
Lots of water.

Cole

Six days.

   
She doesn’t call or put up a smoke signal or any of that shit. Not even a text.

   
Six fucking days.

   
At first, I’m worried.

   
When day three rolls around, I’m pissed.

   
By day four, I’m resigned. What does it matter to me anyway?

   
I run harder than usual. I push myself on the weights. I tell myself to forget about Aimee and, for the most part, it works.

   
But at night, I end up staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, watching the fan blades cycle round and round. I think about her face and her wide saltwater blue eyes and that freckle on her cheek. And I think about her mouth.

   
Fuck. I spend a lot of time thinking about her mouth. I wonder about the secrets that live between her lips and I wonder about the taste of her. After I get that far, it’s a short leap to remembering the way that her breath felt against the skin on my neck. Or how my hand sunk into the curve of her waist as I lowered her into her bed.

   
Damn it.

    It’s brutal
.

   
On Thursday afternoon I’m walking out of the Union with Daniel and there she is. She’s in almost the exact same spot where I first saw her, only this time she’s not falling over her feet into my lap.

   
She’s with that blue-haired girl, Jodi, and she’s got her legs kicked out and her head tipped back to catch the sun. Her long brown hair is spilling over the skin of her neck and pooling on the grass beneath her. Everything about the moment is so golden and glowy that my heart does an erratic flip and my feet stop moving.

   
“… that if I can keep my shoulder blade rotated down, I can throw a lot farther.” Daniel’s voice comes back to me.

    “Huh
?” What did he say?

   
He stops and spins around. “Practice. Throwing the discus. Track and field. Earth to Cole.” He snaps his fingers sharply in front of my face.

   
“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry, man.” I blink and jerk my head but it’s too late. Daniel follows my gaze and spots Aimee.

   
“You’re into her.”

   
I clench my jaw tight.

   
He laughs. “I mean… You’re hardcore into her
.
”

   
There’s no use denying it. I
am
into her.

   
“What of it?” I ask, my voice low and abrasive.

   
Daniel’s smile turns crooked and his eyes travel back to where Aimee is sprawled out on the grass. “I’m just amazed that you’ve turned googly-eyed over a girl. It’s not your style at all.”

   
I bring my hands up and grip the back of my head. I bite the inside of my cheek. “Man, I’m not
googly-eyed
. Who even says that? I’m just…”

   
“Trust me. You’re googly-eyed,” Daniel says, cocking his head back and laughing at me. “So why don’t you grow a pair and ask her out already?”

   
“For your information, I did ask her out,” I snap.

   
“And she said no?” He chokes, disbelieving. “Aimee turned you down?”

   
“Well, not exactly...” I drop my arms and exhale through my nose. “It’s complicated.”

   
Daniel flaps his hand like he’s not buying any of my shit. “Look, Cole. If you’re going to go after a girl like Aimee, things are going to get complicated. She’s not going to fall for any of your normal tactics or throw herself at your feet and spread her legs like the sluts that you’re used to dealing with. She’s different.” He takes a visible breath and there’s this look on his face like he’s carefully editing himself. “And bear in mind that she’s been through a lot. She doesn’t need to be a part of one of your games.”

   
“I’m not playing a game with her,” I say firmly. “I don’t know what I’m doing but it’s not a game…”

   
Daniel says something about being late to practice, but I’m barely listening. I’m already halfway over to that sunny patch of grass—to the girl with the long, dark hair and the freckle on her cheek.

   
When I reach her, Aimee’s eyes are closed and I hear her say, “This is a nightmare.”

   
At first I think that she means me and my stomach lurches. But then Jodi answers, barely glancing up from her phone. “No, a nightmare is running from a deranged serial killer who wants to cut your ears off and eat your intestines with a plastic spork. This is just an assignment for class, Aimee.”