Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (14 page)

I look down at my plate, admonished. I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of shame, but it’s more than that, too. I’m hurt, and I’m jealous, and I don’t understand what any of this is about. Why are we keeping our history a secret? Why am I allowing it?

“So, Lindsey says you two have lived together for three years now. And you’re both…med students?” he asks.

I find myself spending too much time studying him, trying to find the next double meaning so I can be prepared for it. But he doesn’t look up again, instead, going back to his dinner plate.

“She’s my best friend,” I say, smiling at her quickly, genuinely, but returning my attention back to the table in front of me. I don’t know why those are the words I say. There’s a part of me that wants to make sure he realizes what he’s messing with, I guess—that he’s being personal. Lindsey is personal.

“Med school is so hard, and it takes so long. It’s just kind of nice to have someone by your side who gets it,” Lindsey says. I smile at her again, catching Andrew’s eyes as I look away. It’s like he never really stops watching me.

“You two should open your own practice when you’re done,” he says, pushing his plate a few inches forward. He’s done eating, I guess, though his plate is still full.

“I wish,” Lindsey says, picking up a tomato from her salad with her fingers and popping it in her mouth. “But Emma here is all about cardiothoracic. She was hand-picked by the goddess of surgery herself.”

“Linds,” I say, my eyes begging her to stop from saying too much. Why I got into Tech, why I’m studying here with Miranda Wheaton, is a story I don’t really want getting around. My being here looks like pity to the outsider—a lot of things in my life look like pity and charity. But it’s not. I earned my spot here just like every other student.

But Andrew won’t see it that way. He’ll see it as selfish. He’ll see it as selfish because he’ll put it all together, see how it fits with that night and what I let him do for me. And then, quite possibly, he’ll hate me even more.

Andrew grows quiet, his eyes studying both of us as we have our silent exchange. I can tell he’s unsatisfied. To punctuate things, he pulls his hand—the one holding Lindsey’s—up to rest on the tabletop, putting on a show of his fingers caressing against hers, his thumb teasing along the top of her hand and then around her wrist. I hate that I’m looking at it, but I can’t look away.

I’m weak.

“So you’re gonna be a surgeon, huh?”

The way he says it, it’s both innocent and dripping with contempt all at once. I smile despite him, and nod
yes
. But my lips can’t hold their form for long. I feel his leg slide forward, and I wish for it to be a coincidence, hoping he just doesn’t realize how close he is to me. I say it isn’t so over and over in my head until his foot comes to rest against the outside of mine, his shoe perfectly matched against my bare foot, my toes recoiling as he taps against them twice, a gentle reminder—a threat.

I back away from the table abruptly, my hands gripping the front of the table hard. Realizing how crazy I look, I tap the tabletop twice and grin at my friend before forcing a pleasant look to remain on my face as I answer Andrew’s question.

“I am,” I say, standing and pulling my plate into my arms. The food is delicious, but I wasn’t hungry when I walked in; I’m certainly not hungry now.

“Is that so you can cut people’s hearts out?”

My back is to him when he speaks, and I’m so glad, because I wouldn’t be able to hide my reaction to his words. Lindsey has already interrupted, telling him he’s being gross. She’s laughing, and he laughs with her, apologizing for being graphic. He’s playing along with her, like the words he said were just for morbid shock value. And they were—just not for the reason Lindsey thinks. I keep moving forward, one foot in front of the next as the tear falls down my cheek, thinning as it reaches my chin. I lean my head to the side, rubbing it dry along my shoulder.

“I’m still not feeling well, Linds. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to lie down for a while,” I say from the kitchen, pulling a sheet of foil from a drawer and covering my plate with no intention of eating it later. Two of my favorite things now ruined—pasta and oatmeal cookies.

“Okay,” she says between flirtatious whispers and laughter.

I tuck my dish inside the fridge and walk to my room, closing the door behind me, and letting my hand rest on the handle—feeling like I need to hold it to keep the bad stuff out like they do in those zombie movies. After a few seconds, I loosen my grip and backpedal until my legs hit the edge of my bed, forcing me to sit.

I pull my sleeves low into my palm with my thumbs looped on the inside and bring my fists to my face, inhaling the fabric, searching for any trace of a scent from years ago. I know it’s futile. I know it’s gone; he’s gone. I sent him away.

Another tear is threatening to come, so I run my sleeve along my eyes, wiping what’s left away with my thumb. I move my thumb over my skin twice, imagining it’s Andrew’s thumb the second time. I bring my hands to my lap, and lock my fingers together, imagining one is his, before closing my eyes with a single laugh of pain. My hands look nothing like his and Lindsey’s, and I’m being foolish.

The sound of the television comes on soon, and I pull my biology book into my lap as I scoot all the way to the back of my bed, sliding my laptop out to review our lab assignment in the morning. I read the same page for an hour, listening for clues on the other side of the door. I’ve kept the earbuds in my ears the entire time, never once playing any music. When Lindsey raps on my door and opens it, I fake startle, pulling them from my head as if I’ve been listening to music the entire time.

“Drew go home?” I ask quickly, realizing how anxious I sound about it, so I start to busy myself with papers and my backpack and my computer screen angle.

“Uhm…” Lindsey says.

I know.

I keep my eyes down so she can’t see the truth, but I let my sigh fall out in a heavy breath.

“I asked him to stay…but he’s such a gentleman, he wanted me to make sure it was okay with you,” she says.

My body jerks with a slight laugh. Shaking my head, I lift my gaze to her as I swallow.

“What’s that look for?” she asks.

I have a look. Of course I have a look. Why is he doing this?

“Emma Brooklyn Burke, I’m a grown woman; if I want to sleep with a guy after the second date, then I’m going to,” she says, stepping to my door, gripping the side of it as she turns to face me. “I’ll tell him you said it’s fine.”

She glares at me as she shuts it behind her hard.

Time stops for a full minute. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. There isn’t a sound to be heard, until the familiar click of her bedroom door across from mine.

I kick my things from my bed and let out a battle of grunts I try to keep quiet—my papers, computer, pens, and notecards all scattering around the foot of my bed into a mess below. The sensation doesn’t satisfy me, so I rip my blankets away too, crawling up on my knees as my fists grab at the sheets, pillows, and mattress pad, tearing the corner as I yank so hard it pulls up the corner of my mattress.

I wad everything into a ball and push it on top of my papers, leaving me in the center of my empty bed, breathing hard and numb, not knowing how to feel. I feel angry—angry with Andrew, and angry that I feel anything at all.

He left. He’s the one who left.

And now he’s here. And he’s gone. The boy he was…he’s gone.

I scramble to my feet, cramming my papers and computer back into my bag, shoving and kicking my pile of blankets out of the way. Stuffing my feet into my shoes, I pull the purple sweatshirt from my body, switching it out for a Tech one hanging on a hook behind my door. I grab my headphones, keys, and phone, then grab the purple sweatshirt and carry it with me out the door, pausing in the kitchen to step on the trash lever and throw the fucking sweatshirt away.

I let the main door slam closed behind me, locking up with a hard twist of my wrist as I bang my bag against the hallway wall on my way to the elevator. When I get outside, I look up and see a light still on in Lindsey’s window. After a few seconds, it goes out.

And all of my breath escapes me.

D
ear Emma
,

I’m losing myself. For the first two months, I swore that wouldn’t happen. I said it every night before sleep; I woke up reminding myself of who I was.

I haven’t done that in days now…maybe weeks.

I’m letting go, whether I want to or not. I don’t care, and that scares me a little. Not caring? It’s liberating. It’s lonely.

There’s a guy here; he’s 18. His name’s Kingston, but most of the “students” here call him King. They say he was in some gang or something; that he used to sell drugs. He has tats all over his fingers and the rumor is he drove a getaway car for his older brother during some armed robbery over in Rockford. I’m not sure if he was really all that tough before he showed up here, but he sort of took the lead. A lot of the other guys let him. They buy the stories—his self-made hype.

He doesn’t like me.

I don’t like him.

Apparently, he’s not used to people telling him no. I tell him no a lot. Last week, when I told him no, he snuck into my room at night and put a pillow over my face. He’s pulled shit with me before, tripping me at lunch and sucker punching me around corners. This time, though…I was ready. I stabbed him with a pen, dug it into his side and held it there. I thought that’d make him stop right away. But he just pushed the pillow into my face harder. The harder I fought, the stronger he was. And for a moment, I was losing.

I almost gave in. Just…let him take me. But something made me keep fighting.

I struggled enough to wake someone across the hall, and then the guard set the alarms off and another person pulled him from me. I lost my phone privileges for an extra month for stabbing him. I got extra therapy sessions too, to talk about my aggression. Fucker tried to kill me; pretty sure aggression was the only way to go with that.

King got a trip to the emergency room and an overnight at the hospital. Funny thing, it was phone day today, and I saw him making his calls. I guess a pen weighs more than a pillow in this fucked-up court of justice I’m stuck in.

I hate them all. They pretend like they’re teaching us lessons, reforming us to become better men. We go to these sermons, and there’s an old man who gives us these long stories that we’re supposed to identify with and recognize our weaknesses so we can improve. Nobody listens. I tried to last week, but the longer he spoke, the more I focused on the lack of passion in his voice, the way he really didn’t care if he made a difference, or if we changed—just as long as he got a paycheck.

I looked around at the room of these forgotten kids. That’s why we’re here, because we’re still kids according to the state. Worth saving. Our offenses forgivable. I was a better person three months ago, before I got here. Whatever I am now, I’m not so sure it’s good.

I’ve had a few fights. Nobody knows except my brother’s girlfriend. She knows. She visits. She convinced everyone that she’s family. She threw around stories about my grandfather. Everyone bought it. I like it when Kensi comes. Sometimes we just sit without talking. It’s nice. And when I have things I need to hide, like bruises or…other things…Kensi helps. She doesn’t like it; I can tell. But she understands.

I think she tells Owen. But I also don’t think she tells him exactly how bad it is. I begged her not to.

My family can’t see me this way. They won’t like what I am becoming.

At first, the fights came out of nowhere—guys who have been here for months, or almost a year for some, would just kick me and beat the shit out of me to prove they could. The longer I’ve been here, the less initiating I get.

Thing is, though…the fights…they give me something to do. I’ve started instigating. I don’t mean to, and every night, I tell myself I’m going to stop. But I can’t. I don’t do it without cause, really. Usually, someone newer than me is getting picked on, so I open my mouth and say shit to get people to stop. And when they turn their attention to me, every other thought and feeling I have goes away. It’s nothing but fighting for survival in this place.

I guess I’m surviving.

When I fight, I forget about you. I didn’t want to tell you that part, but now that I’ve written it…I think I’ll leave it.

I hope you’ll write back.

Andrew

“
A
re
you
sure
you can’t come…just for the first period. Look…see what I just did there? I called it a period. I’m learning my hockey lingo,” Lindsey says, holding her fist out for me to pound. I do it slowly, my lips in a tight smile as we touch. This faking and pretending thing…I’m not sure how long I can keep it up.

“Yeah, they should totally let you in the booth to call the game,” I tease, pushing myself to be light and funny despite how sick I really feel. She scrunches her face at me as she continues putting on her boots and wrapping her knit scarf around her neck. I haven’t been able to make eye contact with her for longer than a few seconds at a time. Lindsey and I have never been big on swapping stories about our intimate moments. She’s only slept with a few guys, and my list is still at
zero
, so I guess there isn’t much to share. I hope we don’t start with this one.

“Very funny,” she says with a grunt as she finally gets her boot snug on her foot. “Seriously, though…I’m going to be sitting there alone. Can’t you come for…like…just a little bit?”

I could come. I have some time before Miranda’s presentation. But I managed to hide myself in the library on campus until the morning, and I snuck in here at five, exhausted enough that I didn’t have to hear Andrew leave for his place. I know he was still here when I came home, because his wallet and keys were on the counter when I came in. I touched them. I wanted to flip his wallet open, look at it. But I didn’t. I can’t actively go see him play hockey—not now that I’ve done such a bang-up job of avoiding his face for almost a full afternoon. And seeing him on the ice? I just…I can’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

“I’m just really stressed. I’m introducing her, and they want the usual speech—you know…about
me?
Anyway, I really want to get there early. I’m so sorry; don’t hate me,” I say, biting my lip, my inner voice begging her not to guilt me anymore. I can’t handle any more guilt.

“I get it,” she sighs. I sigh in response when I turn away from her, about eleven hundred tons of pressure fleeing my shoulders all at once. “At least…tell me, how do I look?”

“You look nice,” I smile at her, taking her full outfit in. She’s dressed like she’s ready for a ski trip. It’s not
that
cold at the rink. But I don’t want to burst her bubble. And there’s probably also a part of me that likes that she won’t have to borrow something warm from Andrew.

When Andrew left, I sort of got into hockey—Blackhawks mostly. My dad had always been a fan and was thrilled, and we went to a lot of games. I learned the basics from watching, and my dad taught me the nuances. It was our thing, even though I went in the beginning because it reminded me of Andrew. When my mom got sick, we had to put a stop to our trips. Neither of us ever wanted to leave her home alone for long—her body was weak, and the chemo…it wasn’t working. I think we knew it wasn’t working long before a doctor told us. We didn’t want to miss any time with her, certainly not so we could sit in nosebleed seats at the United Center.

I haven’t been back to a game since. It just doesn’t feel right going without my dad. And I don’t think going anywhere but to work and home feels right to him. She’s been gone for two years, but it still feels like yesterday we put her in the ground and said
goodbye
.

I move to the kitchen while Lindsey finishes getting ready. There’s a dinner being served at the presentation tonight. It’s fish—salmon—which I guess most people think is delicious. It makes me gag. I pull the peanut butter from our cupboard, scraping it empty so I can overload a slice of bread to tide me over until the presentation’s done. I flip open the trash lid to throw the jar away, then go back to spreading the peanut butter when a flash hits me; I flip the lid up again with my pinky finger. No purple. The trash is halfway full. I know it hasn’t been taken out.

No purple.

I drop the knife and wipe my hands on a towel, then completely lift the lid, kicking the side of the can to move debris around just enough that I can see if my sweatshirt is buried.

It’s not.

“Hey…uhm…Linds?” I call for my friend, prepping myself to ask her if she’s seen my sweatshirt—if she’s the one who saved it from the county dump or if
someone else
did—when I march by the front door and do a double take at the clothes hanging from the hooks nearby. Her jacket. My jacket from last night, which I know I hung there without seeing anything else. But this afternoon…there
is
something else. My sweatshirt is hung on the last hook.

I pull it free and smell it, noticing it doesn’t smell like it’s spent the night in the trash. It also doesn’t smell like Andrew.

“Yeah?” Lindsey answers behind me. I grip my sweatshirt and take a quick breath before I turn to face her.

“My sweatshirt…” I start, waiting to see if she has a reaction to it, like an
oh yeah, I saved it for you
kind of reaction. She doesn’t, which means…

“You know, I heard Andrew say he liked purple. He mentioned it—that it’s a nice color—when I wore this. You should wear it,” I say, the words just coming out one after the next before that little gatekeeper in my head has time to tell me to stop it, because this is a really bad idea. And it’s mean. I’m using Lindsey.

She smiles and takes my sweatshirt into her hands, and my insides rush with conflict. She’s taken it, though, so I walk the line on the other side—the one that’s not being nice—and keep going.

“You know, I always loved this one. You should wear it more,” she says, carrying it back to her room.

I love it too. That’s why I wore it the first time I went out with Andrew. It’s Roxy, and has little diamonds on the front that are both tough and feminine at the same time. That’s what I wanted to be—tough and feminine. Not broken and frail and unable to do things like run, or skate, or date a boy. I should wear it more, especially now that my new go-to sweatshirt is forever ruined with wine stains. Except now, it reminds me of
this
Andrew—
Drew—
which makes me love it less.

I hover in the kitchen, nibbling at my sandwich while Lindsey changes, and when she comes out in my shirt, I compliment her, ignoring the loud voice kicking me from the inside and telling me I shouldn’t do this. I’m not being fair to Lindsey, and I’m stooping to Andrew’s level. But I let her walk out the door anyway, and I sit quietly in my chair and finish my sandwich, playing out the scene that’s about to happen in my head—she’ll show up, he’ll see her, and he’ll think of me.

P
art of being
the prized student is being available to shine the spotlight on your benefactor at a moment’s notice. Miranda Wheaton is winning an award, and she called me two days ago to ask if I would introduce her before her presentation and speech. She’s kind—but there’s also a very rigid thread that runs through her that’s not to be messed with. When she asks, you say
yes
. That’s the unspoken rule, and I learned it quickly when I backed out of something freshman year and found myself fighting to get back into her circle.

I’m special, and I still had to fight. There is no gray with Miranda Wheaton—everything is black and white. You are either
in
or you’re
out
.

I need to stay
in
.

I also need to get the projector working. I’m sweating. I sweat when I panic. I’m panicking, too. Even though I’m not the one really getting an award, I
am
the one sitting up here on my knees in front of the small table, unplugging and replugging the same cord to the computer—expecting the screen to just randomly appear one of these times—despite the fact that I’m not doing anything different.

Come on. One, two, three…work!

I lean forward and rub my head. I should have worn my hair up. Right now, my heavy locks are only making me hotter. I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, jabbing a pencil through the middle of the bun to secure it in place. I go back to the stubborn computer and punch a few buttons. Here I want to cut into people’s bodies for a living—and I can’t even get a PowerPoint to show up.

“Hey, mind if I maybe…just…”

A pair of very large, very masculine hands reaches in front of me, and when I look up I’m greeted with startling-blue eyes on a chiseled face and just enough of a beard to make me want to touch it…just once.

No, no…don’t touch it, Emma!

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, but I was in the back…over there?” He nods over his shoulder, to the doorway where two other equally handsome men are leaning, watching me flail. I’ve been flailing in front of them for nearly an hour. On my knees. I think maybe I swore a few times, too.
Oh my god!
“You’re…kind of struggling, huh?” he says. I blink at him, twisting my lips before I look back at the computer in front of us both. I pull the cord out and plug it in again.

“This is my only move,” I say with a shrug, looking back up at him again. “That’s all I’ve got.” Yep, those are definitely blue eyes. Not blue-gray like mine. His are a better blue, like…sky maybe?

His laugh comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, under the tight silvery gray shirt and slightly darker gray tie that he’s wearing on his chest like a superhero emblem. I laugh internally at my observation: my hero in a suit and tie.

“I think you just need to put it in…display mode…which is right…” His speech comes out in pieces while he crouches down next to me and opens a few windows, punches a few buttons, and
holy shit, Miranda’s presentation is on the screen!

“You’re amazing,” I say, standing on my feet and staring at the screen with wide eyes and an open mouth, working every second to avoid looking back at him with the same awe and amazement. I can tell from my periphery that he’s smiling. I can also tell that his smile—it’s
really
nice.

He chuckles, and I give in. I look, and my body flushes instantly.

“No, I just do a lot of presentations. It’s more of a matter of knowing how to push the right buttons, not really being amazing,” he smirks, taking a few steps back until he reaches the edge of the stage I’m on—we’re on. This sexy, sexy man is talking about pushing buttons and I’m blushing in front of professors and doctors while on a stage.

“Oh…yeah, right,” I say. My heart is beating the way it does when I chug uphill in a rollercoaster. I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and this hot guy with a beard just winked at me.

When he leaves the stage, I move my attention back to the computer—sorting through the slides to make sure they’re in order and on the right one to start. I tug my purse out from under the table and pull the small note cards I’ve made out next. I sit against the back wall, in a seat in a line of chairs left there for the presenters for the night.

Dr. Miranda Wheaton saved my life.

Dr. Wheaton is more than a visionary.

It’s an honor to study with her.

I mumble to myself the start of my few short paragraphs. I’m uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but speaking about
this…
it amps up my anxiety about seven-thousand levels.

I understand why I need to, though. Or maybe not
need
to, but why people want to hear it. It’s compelling. My story is the perfect illustration on why Dr. Wheaton is the best, why she deserves this award tonight, and why she’ll continue to win hundreds more just as prestigious.

The crowd filters in, and after several minutes, the background is filled with nothing but non-stop chatter and the clanking of wine glasses. When I look up from my notes, I’m almost dizzied by the number of important people—sitting in chairs around tables with linens—looking at me.

I’ve never been nervous about the idea of cutting into someone. I’m not worried about the MCAT, and I’m actually looking forward to my first rotation through trauma. The idea of working in the moment—to save someone’s life—it’s the entire reason I made this my dream. But speaking to this room full of people?

I’m terrified.

“You look a little pale there, Emma. You feeling okay?” Miranda Wheaton’s voice is somewhere between an angel and a sergeant in the military. Her tone is friendly and non-threatening, but there’s a confidence underneath that is intimidating as hell. I wish more than anything I could mimic it. I’d like that ability in about six minutes when I step up to the mike.

“A lot of people here, huh?” I admit with a swallow as I look up at her and flip through the cards anxiously in my lap. She smiles and sits in the seat next to me, pulling her small pocketbook into her lap and flipping it open to check her lipstick in the mirror on the underside.

“They’re all afraid they’ll need me someday, so they figured they better show up,” she jokes. I laugh lightly, mostly because she’s probably right.

“I practiced a few times at home, and it’s under a minute,” I say, holding the cards up, hoping she doesn’t want to see them. Christ, what would I do if she started editing them now?

She leans into me, her shoulder draped in a silk blouse, pressing against mine wrapped in polyester.

“You are going to do just fine. Honestly, you can get up there and tell four knock-knock jokes for all I care,” she says. I smirk, but look back down at my cards, knowing the story on them is important to her, despite what she says. She claims she doesn’t want the attention, but her office is immaculate, and the entire back wall is covered in awards, framed letters, and tokens from important people recognizing everything she gives.

Miranda does amazing things for people, and I was just one of them. But I’m the one…the one who has
the
story, and I’ve been urged by her, gently, enough times to share the story on her behalf to know she likes the credit that goes along with it. It’s fine—she deserves it. I’m here because of her, and if it costs me a few uncomfortable minutes on a stage in front of Chicago’s best doctors, then I can handle that.

As prepared as I am, I suddenly feel taken off guard when the dean of Tech’s medical school begins to speak at the microphone. He doesn’t share many details about me, just a teaser that I have a compelling story to tell—the whoosh of my pulse through my head drowning out the rest of what he says. I know it’s my turn when he turns to face me, clapping, and I notice the rest of the crowd clapping as well.