Seasons of Change (17 page)

I don’t know how long I stare at the photograph for, trying to make some kind of sense out of it, but I come up empty. Or at least I don’t want to admit to the possibilities that are circling round in my head. I go into my parents’ old room and pull out the stacks of albums that they had always kept in their wardrobe and I start going through them, working my way through years of memories slowly but surely.

I start off feeling sad when I see the pictures of my parents together and I see how in love they were, and it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that those two people don’t exist anymore—not in any recognizable way, anyhow.

I come across a couple of photos that show a group of young, attractive teenagers and I have to do a double-take before I realize that it’s my mom, my dad, Sally, and Scar smiling happily into the camera.

Can this be right?
I think to myself. Could Sally and Scar have been together at one point? My dad had told me that Travis had been in love with my mom, just like every other guy, but that my mom had fallen for my dad and that was that. But he’d never told me any more than that. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even know who Ryan’s mother was, and by all accounts, neither did Ryan.

I’m on the floor in my bedroom surrounded by dusty albums, delving into a history that is just a little too far out of reach for me to grab, when I hear a sound that makes me sit bolt upright. It’s a sound that I know as well as the sound of my own voice. It’s the creaky floorboard at the top of the stairs that only sounds like that when someone steps on it.

Someone is in the house.

I scramble up to my feet, sending the albums flying all over the place and the photographs spread out in a fan around me. I grab the first thing near hand: my dad’s old baseball bat that I keep by my bed. I hold it high, ready to swing it down with as much force as I can muster on whoever steps through my doorway.

I listen carefully, barely breathing, listening for steps along the landing. My heart is beating so quickly that I’m not sure if I feel ready to run a marathon or just collapse in a heap on the floor. The steps stop just before my door, and after a few moments’ pause they carry on and the shape of a man fills my doorway. Since I have been looking through the albums, night has fallen, and the only light in the room is being given off by the dim light of the lamp that I’ve dragged from my desk onto the floor.

I lift the bat higher and start to swing it down as hard as I can when a familiar voice comes out of the shape standing in my doorway.

“Jesus Aimee,” he says, and at the last moment before my bat is about to connect with his head I swing away as fast as I can and manage to succeed in skimming his shoulder. There’s a grunt as it connects and Jake grabs the bat and throws it across the room.

“What the fuck?” he asks angrily as he holds onto his shoulder where I hit him.

You would have thought that my breathing might slow down once I realize that I’m not actually in any immediate danger, that the fight or flight response would dissipate and I would return to normal.

But that’s not what happens. The breath that I had been holding inside to better hear the paces of the intruder explodes out of my chest and then it’s as if I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I start breathing harder and heavier, not able to get the oxygen I need. I feel hot, like I’m burning up, and my heart is going so quickly it feels like it could burst out of me. I’m having the worst panic attack I’ve ever had in my life.

“Aimee.” Jake’s voice immediately changes from anger to concern. He crosses the few paces between us and pushes me firmly down onto the bed.

“Breathe Aimee, breathe with me, you need to slow down your breathing,” he instructs, and rubs my back soothingly as I keep wheezing like I’ve spent the last few years smoking two packets a day. “Put your head between your legs,” he tells me, pushing my head down when I don’t move. “Just like we practiced, Aim,” he says slowly and deliberately, trying to calm me down.

I can’t speak, but after what feels like a few interminable minutes my breathing starts to slow and I feel less like my head is about to explode. Jake remains next to me, talking me through the stages that he’s helped me to work on since the panic attacks started. Eventually my breathing returns to normal and I lift my head up from between my knees to look at my best friend who I’d just hit with a baseball bat.

“Sorry about that,” I say lamely, not really knowing what else to say.

“Which part?” Jack rubs his shoulder. “Hitting me with a bat or getting out of it by having a monster panic attack?”

“Both, I guess.” I shrug and we lapse into silence again.

“Weren’t you sort of expecting me?” he asks, looking at me oddly, as if he’s starting to doubt the information he’d been given.

“No,” I say without even thinking about it, and then rush to correct myself as I see the confusion and embarrassment fall across Jake’s face. “I mean
yes
, I was expecting you,” I correct quickly. “I mean I asked you to come here, but I wasn’t expecting you right now,” I say, still not making the situation better. “You startled me is all,” I finish, sighing, suddenly feeling very tired.

“I can see that,” Jake gives me that devastating smile of his that makes the hairs on the back of my neck and my toes tingle.

I realize that I’m probably giving him a pathetically dreamy look, so I shake my head to get back to the reason why he’s sitting in my bedroom in the first place. “So what am I doing here, Aimee?” he asks eventually, standing up so that we’re separated by a few paces.
He really doesn’t want to be anywhere near you
, the little voice points out.
Told you so
.

“Right, well, I have some news,” I tell him slowly. “Suzie came to see me this morning,” I say, and I notice his head snaps up at this. “She told me that she’d overheard some of the Angels talking about… talking about you.”

Jake’s expression doesn’t change, and I wish that the room isn't so dark that it’s next to impossible to make out the look in his eyes. I could always read his emotions so well just by looking in his eyes, but that feels like a lifetime ago now.

“What did she hear?” he finally asks, his voice level.

“Suzie heard them talking about when they’re going to take you to get you patched,” I tell him. “They’re going to take you tomorrow night, the night of your birthday,” I explain, trying to keep my voice as calm as I can.

“But that can’t be right,” Jake says after a moment, unconsciously touching his shoulder like it’s bothering him. “You know that she must have got that wrong. Everyone knows they give you that night with your family because it’s the last time you’ll be with them for a while. It’s their little ‘look, we’re nice, caring guys really’ bit,” he snorts.

“I know, those are the rules. That’s how it’s always been,” I agree. “I thought the same as you until she told me why they’re doing it. They… they know,” I say, looking at him, not wanting to have to say the words.

“They know what, Aimee? What do they know? That I have no intention of becoming one of their monkeys? That I’m not interested in their stupid little power-play games?” Jake asks, his voice harsh and loud in the quietness of the house.

“Don’t make me say it, Jake, you know what I’m talking about,” I plead with him, but he just crosses his arms and watches me, waiting for me to say the words that he knows I don’t want to. “They know about the gun, Jake,” I say finally, sighing. “They know you’ve got a gun.”

A look of surprise passes across his face, and it’s gone as quickly as it came as his expression hardens. “So?” he asks, sounding like an adolescent.

“So?” I ask, not believing that he’s choosing to be so obtuse. “So they know that you’re not exactly going to go quietly with them, and so they’re going to catch you off guard to take you.”

“And you asked me to come here to tell me this because…?” he asks, voice hard and detached and not at all like the Jake that I know, the man that I’ve known for years and years, the man that I’m willing to give up everything for.

“Are you being serious right now?” I cry at him, unable to keep my cool. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“Right,
I’m
the asshole,” Jake is running his hands through his dark hair again. “I’m the asshole because
you
snuck out of my bed in the middle of the night and then proceeded to act as if I didn’t even exist. But sure,
I’m
the asshole.”

“I’m sorry I left without saying anything,” I admit. “I know that I shouldn’t have done it, but I panicked, I didn’t know what was going to happen when you woke up and I didn’t want to be another one of those goofy girls that you have to call a cab for in the morning to get them out of your house.”

My words all come out in an angry rush. But I’m not angry with him. I’m angry at myself. Angry and embarrassed at behaving like such a frightened little girl.

“Is that why you didn't call? Didn't text? Nothing?” Jake shakes his head, pacing up and down, not bothering to avoid the photos littering the floor. “All because you're afraid of becoming one of those girls?"

“No, you
jerk
,” I respond in kind. “And if you shut your pie-hole for five seconds and let me explain then I could tell you why I haven’t called!” I take a deep breath to level my volume.

“After that night, Ryan came to see me at the diner,” I tell him, and his whole body stills. Even in the dim light, I can see his dark eyes staring at me intensely. “He told me that they weren’t going to let you run; he seemed to know all about what we’d been talking about, what we’d been planning. I don’t know how,” I say, shaking my head.

“Come on Aimee, you know better than that,” he cajoles in that hard tone I never would have imagined be directed at me. “Who is the
only
person that they could have heard it from? The only other person that was in on the plan?” he asks, folding his arms and tapping his feet impatiently.

It’s only when he asks me the question that I wonder how I hadn’t seen it to begin with. “It must have been Suzie,” I breathe out, feeling suddenly sick that she would betray me that way. “She was the only one that could have told them,” I say, fitting the pieces together.

“Got it in one. Congrats.”.

“What’s
happened
to you?” I ask him, trying to see the person that I know underneath the facade of indifference that he’s putting on.
Or maybe it’s not a facade at all
, the little voice suggests but I try not to pay her any mind.

“I’ll tell you what happened to me,” Jake starts, taking a few steps towards me until our faces are so close we could kiss. “I woke up after one of the best nights of my life—sorry correction,
the
best night of my life—to an empty bed. No note, no nothing.

There are tears in his eyes, shimmering as he tries to blink them back. "I waited, Aimee. I waited for you, like a schmuck, I waited thinking that you would be back. But you didn’t come back, did you, Aimee?

"You left me alone right when I needed you most. Do you know how hard these last few days have been without you? Building up to my birthday, knowing what’s going to happen and not having you to talk to about it?” His voice breaks as his emotions get the better of him and I feel the sting in my nose.

“I’m sorry.” The tears come into my eyes. “I’m sorry I left and I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I couldn’t."

“Couldn’t or
wouldn’t,
Aimee?” he asks. “Do you even care about me at all anymore? Even a little?”

“Of course I do,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady despite the feelings racing around my brain. “I care about you so much, Jake. I always have and I always will. You’re like a part of me; there’s no way that I could ever not care about you,” I tell him. “And I couldn’t talk to you because Ryan threatened my mother,” I say finally, trying not to choke on the words.

“What?” Jake asks, all hostility draining out of him in a moment.