Tears (12 page)

“Shhh. Ed.” She jerked a thumb at the door. “Someone might hear you.”

“Jesus!” Ed glared at her. “I'm standing, Heather!”

“I
see
that,” she hissed back. “Now, would you please sit down?”

All at once his legs gave out on him. He collapsed to his bed. Rage swept through his body, complementing the pain. “You don't want me to walk,” he growled, his throat burning. “Or maybe you just don't give a shit either way. As long as you get your money.”

Heather flinched as if she'd been struck. “How can you say that?” she shot back. “Of course I want you to walk again.”

“Well, you have a strange way of showing it.” Sickened, Ed buried his face in his pillows, his eyes glazing over with tears. He didn't want to look at Heather anymore. He couldn't stand the sight of her—
that corrupted beauty.


“Have you ever thought that maybe I'm containing my enthusiasm because I don't want you to get your hopes up?” Heather asked. Her voice was shaking. She must be crying, too. He heard her gathering her belongings. “The
doctors said that the success isn't guaranteed. Remember?”

Ed remembered. How could he not remember? But maybe she was just saying that because she didn't
want
the operation to be a success. Maybe it was true: All she cared about was getting that money. If Ed couldn't walk, she'd be a rich woman.

“I need to be cautious for you, Ed,” Heather continued, her voice choked with tears. “I thought one of us. . . oh, what's the use. Enjoy the movie, Ed. You know, maybe you should invite Gaia Moore over here to watch it with you. You always believe the best of her and the worst of me, anyway.”

Heather slammed the door, and Ed could hear her muffled sobs as she stomped down the hall.

Good.
He was glad she was upset. She deserved to have her own selfishness flung back in her face. No one ever gave Heather any shit, and maybe that's why she'd become so spoiled and self-absorbed. Ed had done the right thing.

Sure, you did.

“WE NEED TO TALK,” SAM STATED
bluntly.

Show Time

He stood in the doorway of Josh's room. Josh
lay on his bed—
Mike's bed
—looking as relaxed as ever, in that same sweat suit, that same smile on his face. Sam began to seriously consider the possibility that Josh wasn't human. He never changed. Never, no matter what time of day or night. He was always well rested. Smug. Confident. Maybe he was some kind of demon, or vampire, or robot—

“What's up?” Josh asked, plumping the pillow behind his head.

For about the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours, Sam had a vivid fantasy of killing him.
But that wouldn't solve anything.

“I'm not going to do it anymore,” Sam said. His extremities tingled with anxiety, but he kept his face blank.

“Do what?” Josh asked, almost sleepily.

“I swear to God, Josh, I'll—”

“You'll what?” Josh interrupted. His blue eyes clouded. “You've gotten a taste of what you're dealing with here, Sammy. Just a taste. So you know that you're in absolutely no position to make demands.” His voice softened. “Don't screw yourself
now.
Not when you're so close.”

Sam blinked, fighting to ignore the chill that enveloped his body. “Close to
what?
” he asked.

Josh laughed. “Oh, no. I am
not
going to spoil the surprise.”

Sam suddenly realized his fists were clenched so tightly that he was digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Never before had he felt so completely out of control, so powerless. He didn't know what he'd intended to accomplish by confronting Josh like this.
But he hadn't been thinking; his rage over the way Josh had acted around Gaia annihilated every rational impulse.
Still, he knew better than to do something rash. Someone could be watching them right now. Someone was probably snapping pictures of every gesture, recording every word.

“I'm not going to do it anymore,” Sam heard himself whisper. “I
can't.
Just tell me who you're working for, Josh. Let me talk to them.”

For a moment Josh just stared at him. “You're losing it, buddy.” He lay back down on his bed, then grabbed a bottle of spring water from his nightstand and tossed it to Sam. “Have some water. You look like you could use some. It's important to stay healthy, after all. It's almost show time.”

Show time?
The words snaked down Sam's spine. Another stupid joke...but there was cold finality in it. And of course, he didn't have a clue what Josh was talking about. It was just one more huge mystery that involved Sam's life—and for all he knew, his death. But as he hurled the bottle of water against the wall, he realized he didn't want to know what it meant.

Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do and die
....

To:
J


From:
L


Date:
February 16


File:
001


Subject:
Dinner party


Costume received. Confirm that guest will be attending. Please inform upon delivery of party favors.


To:
L


From:
J


Date:
February 16


File:
001


Subject:
Dinner party


Guest is confirmed. Impressive work. Truly uncanny. Party favor status to follow
.

Love
means implicit, unconditional trust in the person you're with. When they ask for space or tell you they need to sort something out by themselves, something they can't share with you, you oblige them. You don't second-guess.


Like hell, you don't.


I gave Sam the benefit of the doubt today, but I've spent every moment since then second guessing my decision. Part of me knows I need to support Sam. But the other part thinks I'm setting myself up for disaster. Let's face it, “asking for space” is just a euphemism for deception. Sam and I swore we would have an honest relationship after all the crap that preceded it. But we've barely even begun, and this is where we are.


Still, if I can't trust Sam to know when to spill and when to keep silent, what does that say about my ability to love him?


But I do love him. I want to help him.

Major dilemma.

So tonight, after driving myself insane for so long, I came up with the only rational solution: I took my biggie box of Good & Plenty and shook it up so that all the pinks and whites were mixed nicely. Then I decided white was the color of trust and love and all things good. And pink was the color of deception and danger and all things bad, like the plus sign on pregnancy tests. I've seen a lot of pink on the FOHs recently, so the designation of color significance was not arbitrary.


And then I fumbled in the box precisely three times, three being the number of sugars I take in my coffee.


I drew three candies. If it turned out that there were more whites than pinks, then I'd trust Sam and stick to my promise not to pry. If pink came out on top, then I'd do some snooping.


Three whites.


Love means implicit, unconditional trust in. . . yeah, well, whatever.


Best just not to think about Sam. But Ed is a different story, and I don't need candy to help me out with my game plan there. True friendship is unconditional, and Ed and I have always been honest with each other. But now he's just straight pissing me off. It's like he wants me to drop him and quit trying.


This reminds me of Mary Moss and of how close I came to losing her friendship before it even began. I even walked away. But luckily Mary just forced herself back into my life, and for that I will always be grateful. I can't let Ed slip away like that. And if that means forcing myself back in, then so be it. It's not like I've ever been averse to using force where necessary.


How
can a person know when it's the right time to give up on something or someone? Where is the cutoff point, the moment you finally realize there's too much water under the bridge and the bridge itself is officially being burned?


Here's a better question: How much is love worth?


A guy can really go crazy on that one. I'm of the opinion that it's impossible to assign a monetary value to love, but it seems like I might be alone there. So I've been trying to work it out. There's no material difference between $999,999 and $1 million, or between $26 million and $25,999,999. Yet everyone has to have a limit, that figure where they would trade money for the person they love. “I'd do it for a billion, but not a dollar less.” Sure, a cutoff point in this game of numbers always has to be random and artificial. But that's the nature of the game.


And when you really think about it, in the end, what you basically have is someone willing to sell out the person they love for one measly buck.


I wonder if Heather has played this game.


I know I shouldn't cast her as some mercenary. The situation is complicated. But I can't ignore the fact that she just isn't there for me now. Not in the way that counts. I need encouragement, not negativity, and even if—best-case scenario—she's holding back her support because she doesn't want to get my hopes up, she's still holding back.


Gaia would be elated for me if she knew, no matter what her problems. But Heather's too caught up in her own world. Instead she's forcing my hand, forcing me to lie and stay squarely in the wheelchair. Which begs another question: If Heather is with me for the money, then what does that say about me if
I'm willing to give it to her?


Am I buying her love? Am I just as low?


Either way, there's a lot wrong with this picture.


You know, the wheelchair has always been a hindrance, limiting my mobility. But it's never felt like a trap. Until now. Literally and figuratively stuck, that's where I am. And here's the final irony: I could just walk away, probably in more ways than one. So why don't I? Because I can't help hearing Heather's words: that I always think the worst of her.


Heather, give me a reason to think the best of you. I'm waiting to hear it. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere.


Sam went cold. He was over the edge now, well and truly. He was hearing voices, coming out of the wall.

“SORRY!” GAIA PANTED, SPRINTING
down the sidewalk. She'd almost flattened a tiny, bespectacled old crone in a polka-dotted blouse. The woman had appeared out of nowhere. Like a thousand other people. The streets of Greenwich Village were just too damn crowded in the morning.

Right-of-way

“Jesus! Watch where you're going, bitch!”

Gaia laughed as she flew toward the drab red pile of bricks that was the Village School, amazed at the words falling from such prim and wizened lips. Amazed, yet not. That was New York. Nobody—not even little blue-haired ladies—stood on ceremony for anyone.
And just when I was beginning to feel bad for almost knocking down a sweet little old lady
. . . lesson two about New York: What you saw was never what you got.

In spite of all her problems and woes, Gaia actually felt halfway decent today. Sure, she'd overslept. But that was par for the course. At least she was going to school. Maybe she was just optimistic because it was Friday. Tonight was the dinner with Sam and her dad.
Tonight she would set things straight, get to the bottom of whatever it was that was torturing her boyfriend.
Tonight all would be made well.

They had reservations at Le Jardin. She had even
found a half-decent dress to wear, a slim-fitting black number that her father had bought for her in Paris and that she could just tolerate seeing herself in. On second thought, maybe she should just wear jeans, be her usual mangy self. After all, the ratty girl was the one Sam had fallen for....

She drew in a deep breath as she clattered up the school stairs and burst through the big double doors. The only problem, of course, was that Ed wouldn't be there. She hadn't even had a chance to talk to him about it. But maybe she should just tackle one problem at a time. After she'd settled with Sam, she would settle with Ed. Things were almost back to normal with them, anyway.
Almost
being the key word—

Speak of the devil.

There was a flash of metal at her side, followed by the sound of skidding. Ed's wheelchair swerved in front of her, momentarily cutting her off. She had to laugh. She was having major pedestrian traffic problems today.

“Goddamn paraplegics think they got the right-of-way,” she quipped.

Ed screeched to a stop. He whirled and glared at her. “You know, I'm really looking forward to the day when I don't have to put up with shit like that anymore,” he spat.

Time seemed to freeze.

Gaia gaped at him.
Wait a second.
Had she just
been beamed into some alternate universe? Jokes about wheelchairs were kosher. Calling a spade a spade was how Gaia and Ed had always operated. That was part of the reason they'd become friends in the first place.
It was the no-bullshit, no-euphemism fulcrum around which their entire friendship turned.
She'd meant the remark as an icebreaker, as a way of saying that everything was still cool between them.