Amends: A Love Story (21 page)

I don't know if she's home
or not, so I keep my eyes trained on the dorm entrance. If she's
out, I'll see her coming in. If she's in, I'll see her coming out.
I feel like a stalker—Christ, now I am a stalker—but she's all I
can think about. I stare at my phone obsessively. An email comes
into my Inbox. The subject line is
A gift
from Annabel Grant
. Annabel Grant is
Amity's grandmother. My breath quickens as I read the note. Then
I'm gasping for air.

Amity's grandmother has donated two million
dollars in my name to the National Cancer Society. I can't believe
Amity has already told her who I am and where the money came from.
I am shocked that they gave away so much money so fast, just
because it came from me. They must have decided I'm tainted.
Untouchable. Unforgiveable.

I wonder if the donation can be undone. I've
got to convince Amity and her grandmother to keep the money. Even
if they hate me, that's no reason for Amity to struggle. I imagine
her going back to stripping, her sweet face growing hard under the
harsh lights of the club.

I have to make this right, and I can't sit
still any longer. I get off the bench and head into Amity's dorm,
praying I'll find her there.

/////////////////////////

I check the directory in the lobby. Amity's
room is on the first floor. As I approach her door, I hear a mellow
techno beat coming from inside. Damn it, I think, I don't even know
what kind of music she likes. I knock softly and then a little more
loudly.

After a moment, I hear footsteps. My heart
quickens. The door opens, and icy disappointment floods my chest.
The enormous redhead—the one Hoover thinks is so hilarious—looks at
me with reproachful eyes.

"I guess you're looking for Amity?"

"Yes," I say, trying to inject that single
syllable with all the passionate urgency I'm feeling.

The redhead—I think her name is Darcy—frowns
and shakes her head. "She's not here right now. I'll tell her you
came by." She moves to close the door.

"Wait!"

The redhead glares at me. "Why should I? I
hear you lied to her about some pretty major shit." She sounds
angry—almost as angry as I imagine Amity is.

"It's complicated. Really complicated. Can
you tell me where she is?" I beg. "Please?"

Darcy folds her meaty arms in front of her
chest and scowls at me. "Amity is somewhere in New York City with
her best friend from high school, no doubt getting drunk enough to
forget about you."

I should go, but I somehow feel like I should
explain myself. Darcy's hostility must be reflection of Amity's. If
I can sway Darcy, then maybe I'll be able to make Amity listen. "I
know you think I'm a horrible person. And I should have done things
differently with Amity, I know, but I really care about her,
and..."

Darcy cuts me off. "Stop it. Just stop it.
All that bullshit is between you and her. I don't want to hear it.
But I'll tell you one thing. She left her phone here with me
specifically because she doesn't want to hear from you. The best
thing you could do right now for everyone is to give her some
space, OK?"

She closes the door before I can say anything
else.

/////////////////////////

I'm driving down I95 North at ninety miles
per hour, threading my way through slower traffic. I'm a man with a
plan. I'm going to take the car into Manhattan and park it in the
garage under Dad's townhouse. Then I'm going to hit the Village—I
vaguely remember Amity saying her best friend goes to NYU—and
search every bar and student party until I find her.

I know it's a stupid plan. And probably a
useless plan. But I have to do something. I feel like if I don't
stay in constant motion, I'll explode. I don't care if she yells
and screams at me, or even hits and scratches me. Whatever she does
to me, I'm sure I deserve it. I hope, when her rage and sadness is
spent, I can take her in my arms and feel her wet tears on my
chest.

Actually, I should probably say fantasize,
not hope. I know I can't hope for anything from Amity but
forgiveness, and even that may be asking too much.

/////////////////////////

My first stop is Lum Bar. Its signpost is a
plaster cast of a human spine. I remember Dad telling me it's where
a lot of NYU students hang out. Dad's out tonight, too, trolling
for barely legal club kids. I guess it didn't work out with Darla.
I think she was actually too mature for him. I wonder what he'll do
if Ember tells him what I did with my trust fund, and I feel
vaguely sick.

I tell myself to stop thinking about Dad and
focus on finding Amity. I enter the door under the plastic spine
and flash my ID. The bouncer stamps my hand with an image of a
grinning fool. I inspect the symbol and cringe. I feel like the
world's biggest fool for letting things with Amity get so far out
of control.

The bar is a narrow, L-shaped space. It's
crowded and full of pretty, heavily perfumed people. I push my way
through, searching for Amity's distinctive silhouette in the dim
light.

I find a small dance floor at the end of the
L and watch the supple, flickering figures, hoping one of them will
be familiar. I remember Amity telling me how her limp goes away
whenever she moves to music and I flash to her supple, athletic
moves from the strip club.

One of the girls on the dance floor—a
top-heavy brunette with two full sleeves of ink—beckons to me with
a wave and a wink. I shake my head and turn away.

Amity isn't here. It's time to move on.

/////////////////////////

"What'll you have?"

"A double vodka tonic."

I've been to ten bars, and I'm finally
ordering a drink. I'm giving up the search. The whole idea was
hopeless, anyway. Amity doesn't want to be found. I suppose I
should grateful I didn't run into my father on his so-called
hunting trip.

I check my phone. Nothing from Ember, thank
God, but I did get a few texts from the football coach who, despite
his touching concern for my well being, is pretty fucking
pissed.

I have a new plan now. Sit right here in this
dingy sports bar, watch reruns of college ball games, and drink
until I'm numb. Then I can crash at Dad's place and figure out what
I'm going to do tomorrow.

Chapter 25: Amity

The bar is huge and cavernous, with high
ceilings and massive walls painted black. Flat screens dot the
walls like giant eyes. Maggie looks at me with big eyes of her own
that radiate kindness and concern. "That guy really messed with
your head, didn't he?"

I blink away tears and steady my voice. "I
guess I could have understood if he told me who he was right up
front. I mean, it was an accident, right? It was no one's fault. My
mom may have even been a little to blame herself. Remember how that
report said she was on benzos—Xanax or something—the night she
died?"

I gulp down half my rum and Coke. Maggie
frowns. "Pace yourself. We've got all night."

"I know. It's just that I can't believe we
got so close, and he still didn't say anything. And then he sent
that money to Gran. The whole thing is so weird and fucked up."

Maggie sighs. "It sounds like he feels
horribly guilty about the accident. Even if he didn't do anything
wrong, someone died. Well, two someones, if you figure your mom's
death basically killed your father. That's got to be tough to live
with. And then, on top of it all, he has feelings for you, the girl
whose life he destroyed. I'm not saying what he did was OK at all.
It's just that he may not have been thinking very rationally under
the circumstances."

"But what about the girl? The one who said
she was his girlfriend?"

Maggie takes a sip of wine and appears to be
thinking hard. "I agree. The girl is troubling. But do you have any
other evidence that she really is his girlfriend? I mean, what kind
of person drops a bomb like that on a total stranger?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. I found her
in his room, and she said she was his girlfriend. She was pretty
convincing."

Maggie touches my hand lightly, like she used
to when we were in high school. "I know you're having a rough time.
But try not to reach any conclusions until you have all the facts.
Don't do anything, er, impulsive."

"Too late for that. Gran and I already gave
the money to charity."

Maggie's eyes widen. "About how much money
are we talking about here?"

I pause and down the rest of my drink "Two
million dollars."

Maggie snorts in surprise and inhales a
snootful of wine. When she's done coughing, she says, "I don't know
if that makes you a saint or just the stupidest person I know."

I shrug. I don't think I'm either; I'm just a
girl who can't put a dollar figure on her parents' lives. I lift my
empty glass to my lips and swallow the melted ice water. I know
that Maggie is trying to give me a different perspective, one that
isn't quite as dark as mine. I appreciate what she's doing, but I
don't feel like empathizing with Laird right now. I feel used and
betrayed, and I want to snuggle up to my warm, safe rage, if only
for one night. I can worry about complex feelings and guilt and the
limits of forgiveness tomorrow.

Maggie squeezes my hand and smiles. "I'll get
us a refill," she says.

While Maggie is at the bar, I watch the other
patrons smiling and laughing. At one table, six or seven young
women are clustered around a dangerously handsome blond man with
cheekbones like daggers. I watch him for a few moments—he looks
somehow familiar. I curse myself for gawking when he winks at
me.

"Here you go. Another rum and Coke on me."
Maggie sets the drink in front of me and slides back into her
seat.

She takes her phone from her bag, taps on the
blinking screen, and frowns. "I have, like, twelve messages from a
Darcy Monahan trying desperately to reach you. Do you know what's
that about?"

"Darcy's my roommate. I left my phone with
her when I went out tonight, so I wouldn't get drunk and call
Laird. I asked her to check my text messages a couple of times and
let me know if anything urgent came in. I gave her your
number."

Maggie smiles wryly and takes a more
substantial sip of wine. "I know you think going out without your
phone is a neat trick, but you really should stop doing it. What if
something happens, and you need to call 911? What if your
grandmother needs to reach you?"

I nod slowly. I suppose she's right. "I
know," I say. "From now on, I'll be inseparably connected to that
chunk of shitty, overpriced plastic."

Maggie giggles and hands me her phone.
"Here's my shitty chunk of overpriced plastic. Call your roommate
and see what's going on. Maybe she just wants to borrow your heels,
or something."

I call Darcy, and she gives me a number in
Triple Marsh. I send Maggie to borrow a pen from the good-looking
blond so I can write it down on a cocktail napkin.

I dial the number, and the bottom falls out
of my world. It's the Triple Marsh police department, and I'm
talking to Officer Nan Jacobs, the woman who first told me my
mother had died. This time she tells me Gran was found dead in her
apartment at Sunset Estates.

/////////////////////////

Tears are streaming down Maggie's face,
tattooing her cheeks with uneven tracks of mascara. I feel dizzy,
like I've had either too much oxygen or not enough.

"It's OK," I tell Maggie, stroking her hand.
"It's alright. You had no idea that Gran had a heart attack."

"I know," she sobs. "It's just that I feel
like such an ass, scolding you about being available for your
grandmother when she was dead all along."

"Mags, you're not making any sense. Gran
loved you, and she would have been glad to know you were with me
when I got this news. Drink up and try to breathe."

Maggie sniffles and then blows her nose on a
cocktail napkin. We share a short, teary giggle and then, as
instructed, she swallows the rest of her wine. "I'm going to get
another," she says.

"Pace yourself," I whisper as she goes.

I find it beyond strange that she's crying
like a normal human being, while all I can feel is nothingness. I
loved Gran. She was my only family in the world, and she gave away
two million dollars simply because I asked her to. I should be
devastated. Instead, I'm locked away inside a thick glass bubble,
separate even from my own feelings.

I barely notice when Cheekbones drops into
Maggie's seat.

"Sorry to be a bother, but are you just about
done with my pen?"

Up close, the handsome-yet-worn face is
unmistakable. I'm shocked that I didn't recognize him before. It's
Joe, the older guy with the fabulous brownstone and the ice-cold
bedroom technique. Still, I shouldn't have run away from him
without a word. Sitting across from him like this, I am instantly
mortified. I hand him the pen.

He must notice the stricken look on my face,
because he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. "So, Cinderella,
how are you doing?"

In an instant, the glass breaks, and I burst
into tears.

/////////////////////////

Joe takes charge of me and Maggie, hustling
us out the door and into the back of his limo. We are so shell
shocked from Gran's death that we ask only the most cursory
questions. I light a cigarette—Mom's homey old vice—and take a
drag. I offer it to Maggie. She takes it and throws it out the
window.

"Bitch!" I yelp.

"You shouldn't smoke in someone's car without
asking," she scolds, truly scandalized. Then we both break into
hysterical laughter.

"Hey," she whispers. "Do you know this guy?
Are we safe with him?"

"I don't know him that well," I say
cautiously. "But he's not an axe murderer or anything."

Maggie closes her swollen eyes and sinks into
the leather seat. "At least it's a free ride home. I'm done
drinking. I just want to go to sleep. I can't believe your
grandmother is gone."