Thorn Abbey (5 page)

She opens the box with the key and touches whatever’s inside gingerly, the way she touched the gauze on my cheek. The box seems special and romantic, like the sort of box I would keep love letters in. If anybody ever wrote me love letters, that is.

She pulls out a photograph and brings it over to me. “Here. That’s her.”

I hesitate for a second before taking the photo from Devon. Earlier, I was anxious to see what Becca looked like. But now, I’m not so sure.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Devon prompts me. “Grace Kelly, right?”

I force myself to look. A tall, slim girl poses in front of a sailboat, smiling and waving at the camera. She’s wearing a tiny white bikini, and her pale blond hair is blowing in the wind.

My chest tightens. Becca isn’t just pretty. She’s radiantly, gloriously beautiful. Grace Kelly beautiful. And she has this air of innocent sweetness that makes you not want to hate her for it.

But at the moment, I do. Hate her. Because how can I compete with that? She is obviously perfect inside
and
out.

Was
, I mean.

“We were all so worried about Max after she died,” Devon says, gazing wistfully at the photo. “He kind of stopped living. Like he had no reason to go on. He still seems that way, doesn’t he? But I guess you don’t know him that well.”

I gnaw on my thumbnail. I thought Max was starting to warm up to me. Like Devon. So much for that.

“You should stay away from him. Becca and I used to be roommates; now
you’re
my roommate, and you’d just remind him of her. You know what I mean?”

I don’t answer. This conversation makes me want to cry.

“Tess? Are you listening to me?”

“Y-yes. I heard you.”

Devon smiles and kisses the top of my head. “Good girl. How’s your cheek? Does it still hurt? You should take a couple of Advil or Tylenol before you go to sleep. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I’ve got some stuff that’ll really take the pain away.”

I think about Max, about how quickly our non-relationship bloomed and then died. Is this what a broken heart feels like? I doubt there are any pills for that. Besides, I have no right to a broken heart. I never had a chance to get that far with Max.

I can’t sleep.

For a while I lie staring at the ceiling, counting Mondays. Around two a.m. I switch to Tuesdays, then to Wednesdays, but that doesn’t work either. I eventually give up and drink warm Coke and read some American History chapters with my penlight.

Around four a.m., I decide to get up and go for a walk. I can’t stand being in the room anymore. I put on a hoodie over my pajamas and pull on my fake Uggs over my SpongeBob socks. I grab my keys and slip out the door, being careful not to wake Devon, who is crazy-talking in her sleep again. Something about a dress.

The halls of Kerrith are deathly quiet. I’m extra careful going down the stairs, holding the railing the whole way. In the lobby, the security guard isn’t at his post. It’s too late, or early, even for him.

Outside, I breathe in the chilly, foggy air. It’s only September, but it’s super-cold. The grass under my feet is soft with dew. The sky is dark, moonless, and overcast. There is no Big Dipper, no Orion’s Belt—no constellations or asterisms or stars whatsoever.

And then, for some reason I can’t quite explain, I begin walking toward the beach. Whitwater Beach. I quickly cross the deserted quad, passing the fountain with the stone pillar. At the
edge of the woods, I find the trailhead that Devon pointed out when she was showing me around on Sunday.

I hurry along the narrow dirt path, crossing my arms over my chest to try to get warm, and it occurs to me that maybe this isn’t the smartest idea: hiking down to the beach, alone, in the dark. In my pajamas. I didn’t even leave a note telling Devon where I was going or think to bring a flashlight or my phone.

Still, I don’t stop and go back. Something drives me onward.
It’s where she died
, I tell myself.
It’s the last place where she was alive.
But why do I care about Becca Winters? Is it because I have a stupid, hopeless crush on her ex-boyfriend?

I feel so dumb, like I’m in eighth grade againpining over Will Weikart. When he didn’t return my texts, I went over to my friend Kayleigh’s house and we polished off an entire half-gallon of Philly Vanilla ice cream plus a bag of potato chips. The next day I had the worst stomachache along with a gigantic new zit on my forehead. And at lunch, Will was making out with that slutty Danielle Gump in the cafetorium.

My love life definitely sucks. Then, now, forever.

When I reach the crest of the path, I can make out a sliver of ocean. I have to figure out how to get down to the water. I haven’t been to the beach—any beach—in ages, not since my mom and I drove to Cape Cod when I was in third grade. We were visiting her friend Noreen, who worked at a motel there
and got us a room for cheap. I remember the massive waves on the Atlantic and the screaming, happy kids on their boogie boards . . . and the calmer waters of the bay with toddlers splashing in tide pools and couples reading the Sunday paper. I remember peachy sunsets and eating fried clams and soft serve with my mom while we strolled around the pier, checking out the fancy yachts. She would talk about the big boats with a mixture of pleasure and envy that I didn’t understand back then.

But these woods, this path, and the beach beyond bear little resemblance to Cape Cod. Everything about this place is cold and uninviting. Of course, it’s probably the early hour of the day and my foul mood. Or the fact that a girl I didn’t even know, a girl who’s been on my mind way too much since yesterday, drowned in these waters.

I stop in my tracks. There’s no good reason for me to be here. I have zero business chasing ghosts or chasing Max De Villiers, which is basically what I’m doing. I’m tired and freezing, and I’d be better off back in Kerrith Hall with a cup of vending-machine hot chocolate and my comforter.

That’s when I see him. He is standing on a rocky cliff, holding a bottle in his hand, his feet precariously close to the edge.

Oh my God, he’s going to jump.

“Max!
No!
” I scream.

M
AX DOESN’T TURN
. I
BREAK INTO A RUN, SHOUTING HIS NAME.

“Max!
Don’t!
”

He flings the bottle toward the sea, yelling something. It sounds like
die
, but it’s hard to hear over the wind and the waves crashing below. Plus my heart is pounding, practically bursting out of my chest. I won’t get to him in time.

He wants to be with Becca.

I force myself to run faster, faster—and somehow, by some miracle, I manage to reach him before he goes over. I’m so freaked out I can barely think. I grab fistfuls of his navy school sweater and try to yank him back from the ledge. But he’s way bigger than I am, and he barely budges. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m there.

I catch sight of the precipice below: a sheer cliff wall ending in a churning black abyss. My stomach twists. I’m afraid of heights. And here I am, teetering on the edge of the world with a suicidal boy, and we’re
both
going to die.

I burst into tears, still clutching Max’s sweater. I’ve never been so terrified. He finally regards me with a blank look. His eyes are red, as if he’s been crying too. He doesn’t seem to know who I am.

“Max, it’s
me
!” I sob.

Still nothing. It’s like he’s in a trance.

“Please, please! You don’t want to die.
I
don’t want to die. You need to step away from there, okay? Here, take my hand.”

He blinks and slips his hand into mine, and I coax him back from the ledge. He’s obviously wasted; he reeks of whiskey. Alcohol and grief, great combination.

Once we’re on safer ground, away from the cliff, I lead him toward the woods with quicker steps. Just then, a gray seagull swoops by, so close that I flinch. It circles us once and flies away, its screech falling on us like broken glass.

For a split second, the seagull glows bright white against the predawn sky. But the sun isn’t up yet. I must be hallucinating. Max frowns at the bird but says nothing.

We reach the trail leading back to campus. I let go of Max’s hand and lean against a tree to catch my breath. Off to the side
of the path is a sign that I didn’t notice before:
DANGER: NO HIKING BEYOND THIS POINT
. Somewhere in the woods, I must have taken a wrong turn. And yet it led me to Max.

I swipe at my tears with my sleeve. “What the fuck?” I say finally.

Max’s gaze flicks toward me.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” I repeat, raising my voice. I’ve never spoken to anyone like that before, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but honestly, what were you
thinking
?”

Max closes his eyes and rubs his temples. Maybe I’m getting through to him.

“Are you completely selfish?” I continue. “Do you want to destroy the lives of everyone who’s ever cared about you? Is that what
she
would have wanted? Becca?”

Her name escapes my lips before I can stop myself. I didn’t mean to say it. Devon warned me not to upset him.

Now he is completely alert. He glares at me, squeezing his fists as though he wants to punch something. “
What
did you say?”

I step back out of his reach. I don’t think he’d hit me, but you never know with a drunk person. “I—I’m sorry she’s gone. “I really, really am. But she’s not worth dying for. No one is.”

His expression darkens. He looks tormented. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Yes, I do! This boy from my old school, Paulie, jumped off a bridge last winter because he found out his girlfriend was cheating on him. He’s still in a coma.”

Max shakes his head and starts down the path. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

“No! You need help!” I plant myself in front of him.

But he’s moving too fast and I stumble backward, hitting the ground.
“Ow!”

Suddenly, Max is kneeling beside me, flustered, full of apologies. “I’m sorry! Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

I do a quick mental scan. “I’m fine,” I mutter angrily.

“Here, take my hand.”

He carefully lifts me to my feet. For a moment, we’re standing so close that our bodies are practically touching. I was so furious with him a moment ago. Now all I can think about is how beautiful and sad his eyes are and how warm his hand feels in mine.

My friend Kayleigh always told me that I should learn to “seize the day.” Is this one of those days? Should I just forget about what almost happened on the cliff and give in to the here and now? If I pretend to be dizzy, I could swoon against Max’s big, strong chest and he could press his mouth against my hair and—

“Are you all right?” he repeats.

I nod mutely. I don’t trust myself to speak.

“Wait, did I do that?” He touches the bandage on my cheek.

I laugh. “I had a little accident earlier. On the stairs, in my dorm.”

“Oh.” He sounds relieved. “Do you do that often?”

“No. You really
are
drunk, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Do you do that often?”

He hesitates and looks away. “It was a bad night.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him gently.

“Not at the moment, no.”

I bite my lip. I wish he would confide in me. I want so much to comfort him and take his sadness away.

Or do I want more than that? To be honest, I still like him.
Really
like him. Even though he’s so not over Becca that he almost jumped off a cliff.

What is wrong with me?

He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick this way and that. Even rumpled and wasted and in the throes of whatever madness he is experiencing, Max is incredibly handsome. I, on the other hand, must look ridiculous in my mud-splattered pajamas.

We stand there for a while, staring out at the predawn sky, which has morphed into a bruise-like palette of purples and yellows. Herons, egrets, and other large, primeval-looking birds
arc through the air. I feel as though we are the only people on the planet. Max’s breathing quiets, and I instinctively match the rhythm of my breath with his. The moment is so surreal and, in its own way, perfect.

He gazes into my eyes and leans in until his face is just inches away from mine.

Oh my God. He’s going to kiss me . . . .

“We should get back,” he says abruptly.

 . . . or not.
I turn away, trying to hide my disappointment. “Do you want me to take you to the school nurse? Or call your parents?” I ask him.

“I’m fine. Really. But thanks for your concern.” He glances at my hoodie and pajamas. “You must be freezing.”

“A little.”

“Come on.”

He drapes his arm around me, and we start down the wooded path toward campus. Giant tree branches lace over our heads like a cathedral ceiling. Okay, so he didn’t kiss me. But he
is
sort of holding me in a romantic way.