Oblivion (18 page)

“I’m tired of complicated. I want a clear head.” I want things to be the way they used to be—Elijah here to catch me when I fall, my mother reading Tarot at the Vagabond, Hannah Rynes skipping through the labyrinth.

“Your life is too big for you,” he says.

“Lately, yes.”

“You must be exhausted.”

I climb into bed, still in my dress.

I know I have to get John out of the house. I’ll have to walk him down and reset the alarm. But just for a moment …

I hear the click of the doorknob lock, then feel the length of John’s body sliding in next to me. “You really are a poet, Callie, you know that? If these words didn’t torment you, I’d beg you to foster this talent, turn your poems into song.”

“Perfect harmony,” I whisper.

He’s still wearing his clothes, and he isn’t touching more than my cheek. But I need more. I reach for him.

Our mouths meet.

He shifts, and I find myself atop him. My tears rain down over him.

“Shh.” He holds me close. “We can make it better.”

The sounds of seagulls reach my ears. Waves crash in the distance. The scent of hyacinth wafts in through a sunny window.

I know I’m not really there, in that white room on the rocky shore—and maybe I never was—but it feels real, and so right.

His hands hold me tight to his body. “Callie,” he says on a breath. “Don’t ever run away again.”

Judgment
.

When I awaken, the word relentlessly ricochets in my brain.

Judgment
.

It’s hard to focus on anything other than the word, but I train my eyes on my alarm clock. Neon green geo-cubes glare at me: 4:37 in the morning.

Judgment, judgment, judgment
.

Have to write it before it gets out of hand.

I move to slide out of bed, but I’m trapped. Shackled.

I gasp, fighting for liberty, attempting to wiggle my way free.

Judgment like the moon
.

Something long and hard presses against my back. Something unmistakably male. Masculine arms surround me.

“Elijah,” I whisper.

My hand travels up a warm arm, past a shoulder to a neck to a cheek. I flinch.

Not Elijah.

In a rush, the events of the night scream through my mind:

John’s asleep next to me.

In the Hutches’ house.

“Wake up,” I whisper, giving him a shake.

He murmurs a bit, but doesn’t budge.

Judgment
.

I jump out of bed, yank on a dresser drawer, look for something to wear. I dart into a Carmel Catholic sweatshirt and a pair of old sweats cut off at the calves. “Johnny!”

This time, he jolts. Gauges his surroundings. “Callie.”

“We fell asleep.” Finding his clothes proves more difficult. A sock here, his shirt there, his boxers bunched in a twisted ball of sheets …

“Sorry.” He shoves his arms through sleeves and pulls the shirt over his disheveled, blond head. “Just felt good to hold you.” He rubs an eye and gives me a tired, boyish smile.

I sink into the glory of the moment for a split second before my nerves kick in.
Judgment like the moon
. “You have to go.” I step over the puddle of mauve satin that is last night’s dress and hope the wrinkles will pull out if I hang it in a steamy bathroom.

My heart is racing as I stand at the doorway. Hair pricks on the back of my neck, as if someone’s watching me, as if
someone knows I’ve sinned. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m walking the labyrinth, the same feeling that disturbs me whenever I sneak out late at night to meet Elijah. But this time, it doesn’t make sense. I’m—we’re—surrounded by four walls. There’s no way Palmer could be watching me. I mentally give him the finger and place my hand on the doorknob. Here goes. I take a deep breath and listen hard.

Hold no judgment like the moon
.

No sounds stir in the hallway, so I slowly open the door.

Stealthily, we creep down the hall, to the back staircase. The third step creaks when my foot lands on it, but after a brief pause, I decide that none of the Hutches heard. We continue.

I key in the alarm code and open the door.

John gives me a hurried kiss on the lips. “Holy Promise,” he whispers. “Ten.”

“I’ll be there.” I close the door, reset the alarm, and let out a long breath of relief.

I watch as he unlocks his car door, opens it, and gets in. He starts the car. Gives me a wink and a smile. Puts the car in gear. Looks over his shoulder as he backs down the driveway.

Warmth spreads in my gut like butter on fresh-from-the-oven bread.

This is a new feeling for me, a new emotion, and while it’s confusing, it feels good. Fulfilling.

I begin to climb the stairs and rub sleep from my eyes. Must write. Must sleep.

Hold no judgment like the moon
.

Must hold John Fogel again. Must do lots of things with John Fogel again.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Oh, God!” I put my hand over my heart. Grasp the railing to steady myself. Stare into Lindsey’s eyes.

Mascara is caked on her lower lashes. She wipes at it with the cuff of the oversized shirt she’s been wearing since she demanded John remove it on the
Ikal del Mar
. “What. The. Fuck.”

I
shove a grape Tootsie Pop into my mouth. I spread the wrapper flat atop my notebook, and peruse the waxy, purple paper for the warrior shooting the star. When I was small, I used to think finding him on my wrapper meant good luck was about to come my way, and let’s face it; I need all the help I can get.

No such luck. No warrior today. I shove the wrapper into my backpack, which is propped against my hip.

We’re sitting in the shed, Lindsey and me, but while I’m seldom at ease here, never before has this place felt more like a courtroom. There’s a red felt-tip pen clipped to the collar of my sweatshirt, but seeing my sister at the top of the stairs scared the words off the tip of my
tongue, so I’ve yet to use it. But I know the words will come back eventually.

She didn’t bring her iPod, so the place is deathly quiet, save the far-off sounds of Canadian geese squabbling. They’re probably in a V formation, on their way to some southern paradise.

I’d like to be a goose right now, and not just because I can’t seem to get warm. If I could, I’d fly away—far from here, far from Elijah Breshock and John Fogel, far from the Hutches. However good they’ve been to me, I know it’s all about to change.

The crackle of burning leaves accompanies the hiss of Lindsey’s inhale. What I wouldn’t give to be able to numb my mind with mary jane, to be able to mask the truth of my thoughts. But I’ll need a clear head later.

I scribble words onto the cover of my notebook:

Hold no judgment like the moon
.

“You wanna tell me what the hell happened last night?” Lindsey’s irises practically glow, and her lashes are still matted with old mascara. The blue-green shines from the center of the raccoon rings like jewels among coal.

I pull the candy from my mouth—“You were making out with Marta”—and shove it back into the hollow of my cheek.

“I know.” She shrugs. “Was he mad?”

My brows come together. “I don’t think so.”

“But he didn’t like it.”

“I don’t think he did. No.”

“Okay.” She brings her bowl to her lips and lights the grass again, holds her smoke.

The suspense is killing me. I can’t sit here and wait for her to ask for meticulous details until something trips me up. “Elijah cheated on me last night.”

At this, her glance darts to mine.

“Publicly,” I add.

A puff of smoke escapes her lips, followed by a full-blown cloud. “Asshole.”

“Yeah.”

“With who?”

“I don’t think she goes to our school.”

“He sleep with her?”

“I didn’t stick around to see.” I bite into the sucker, crack it in half with my molars. “I um … I ran.” Crunch, crunch, crunch. “To the Vagabond.”

“Why didn’t you come get me? Dude, I would’ve …” Her eyes soften. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

“Is that why …” She licks her lips and refuses to break eye contact. “Is that why you spent the night with Jon? You needed someone to talk to, and I was out of it?”

Her eyes are pleading with me to give her an explanation she can buy.

I don’t want to lie to her. I know a lie is only going to delay the inevitable, and when the truth eventually comes
out, the consequence will be far worse if I lie now. But I can’t heap more onto my already overflowing plate. Double, delayed insult is better at the moment than being tossed out of the Hutches’ home. I’ll deal with the fallout of a half-truth later.

“I didn’t spend the night with him,” I say. “I spent the night with you. In your bed. Ask your dad. He came in, saw us there.” I tell her about John’s carrying her inside, about her parents coming home in the middle of it. I explain that I was trying to protect her. She was drunk, I remind her, and half clothed. There was a boy in her room, and his car was in the driveway. What choice did I have?

“So when you and Jon came out of your room this morning, it was only because you just woke him up to get him out of the house.”

“Yes.” But flashes of hooking up with him play like a movie in my mind.

“Did you kiss him?”

“I’m in love with Elijah.”

“He cheated on you.”

“Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.” I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “Doesn’t matter. I love him.”

“Do you?” I see it in her eyes: she wants to believe me. Still, she baits me: “You like sex, you said so yourself. Maybe you like it too much.”

“Maybe I’m comfortable with it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve—”

“Maybe you’re a whore.”

My heart bottoms out in my stomach. Maybe I am. Last night, I slept with John, and earlier this week, I slept with Elijah. Tears well in my eyes. What kind of a girl am I?

“Yasmin got crabs.” Lindsey shrugs. “Maybe you get to be a whore. Don’t fucking cross me. Not with Jon.”

My jaw descends a fraction of an inch before I pull myself together. “I wouldn’t.”

“Correction: you shouldn’t. There’s nothing wrong with a retaliatory fuck, I suppose. The rat’s ass deserves it. But there’s a matter of choice involved. Don’t do this with Jon.”

All is silent for a few dreadful moments.

I focus on Lindsey’s bowl, which is resting easily in her grasp.

“I saw the way he looked at you, you know.” She clears her throat. “At the dance, when you were writing.”

“He was worried about me.”

“I worry about you, too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And he had a pen. The kind of pen you use! He knew what you were looking for.”

“Coincidence,” I hedge. “You said so yourself.”

“No one believes that was a coincidence.” She slithers off her beanbag chair and crawls a few paces to mine. She rests her head on my lap. “Dude, I’m so stoned.”

I rake through her hair. “I know.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

“Snuggle.” She tightens her arms around my waist.

I brush hair from her face.

“Don’t let him come between us.” If she weren’t high, she wouldn’t be this honest with me. She wouldn’t be this needy. This vulnerable.

I want to assure her nothing is more important to me than our sisterhood, to wrap her in strength and security, to tell her I’d never hurt her. So I do the only thing I can do. I lie: “I won’t.”

My phone, stashed in my backpack, buzzes. Someone sent me a text message.

Lindsey digs into my bag and hands me the phone.

The message glares at me:
we need 2 talk
.

Yes, Elijah. We do.

I
t’s a little after nine in the morning, and while service doesn’t begin for nearly an hour, the nave below me is already filling with members of the congregation. It’s the one-year anniversary of Hannah Rynes’s disappearance. There’s a poster-sized print of her, looking much like I remember, resting on an easel near the meditation nook. Candles blaze in her memory. There is no reference to the man who might’ve kidnapped her, probably out of courtesy to Hannah’s family, although some of the parishioners were so snowed by Palmer’s word that they assume my father is as much a victim of foul play as Hannah, that he followed whoever took her to save her.