Girl Lost (12 page)

"That fucking fast. Did you sleep with him last night? You spent the night with him, right?"

I flush, and he shakes his head, a disgusted twist to his lips. "He's not safe for you."

"But you aren't right for me," I whisper.

He goes still, and I want to run from this stupid conversation, I want to hide from the world in the comfort of my room. Instead, I force myself to continue. "You're a good guy, Lane. I really like you. And I don't like anyone. But you were good to me, and you treated me like I was normal. I needed that. I appreciate what you did—taking a chance on a girl you didn't know. But I'm not what you think I am. I'm crazy and unpredictable, and I have the bad habit of going off the deep end without warning. You don't want the baggage that comes with being involved with me."

"Isn't that my choice to make?"

I make a face. "No. They say shit like that in the movies, and in a perfect world, it might be. But this isn't a movie and it isn't a perfect world. In this reality? I know what I need and what I want, and I have to do what's best for me, even if sucks for you. I know it’s not fair and it's ten different kinds of wrong. I'm sorry."

He stares at me, his eyes wide and disbelieving. I could keep trying to explain it, but it's not going to do anything. So I turn away from him and finally, finally slip into my dorm room.

Aunt J is sitting alone in the lobby of her hotel. I hesitate, not sure I really want to deal with my aunt in a one-on-one situation, but her head tilts toward me and her lips twitch into a challenging smile. I sigh a little and make my way over to her, dropping into the chair across from her.

"Did you send Grayson back to the city?" I ask. It’s the question that is most pressing and demanding of an answer.

"No," she says, "you would be completely unreasonable if I did."

I lean back in my chair and study my aunt. She was too young, when Daddy died, to inherit two teenagers. She's still too young.

Especially when one of us is as challenging as I am.

"Do you think Micah would have been ok, if I had died with Daddy and Mama?" I ask abruptly.

Aunt J shrugs. "Micah was a good kid—and he's turned into a flawless young man. But no. Losing your parents shattered him—it was your fragility that kept him together. If he hadn't had you? I think he'd have been a mess. He would have spiraled completely out of control if he had been left alone.

"You've thought about this," I say, startled.

Aunt J's gaze swings to me. "Of course."

There is another question, on the tip of my tongue, begging to be asked. "What if I hadn't come home with tales of the island, and the Boy?"

"If you had been sane, you mean?"

I nod and she shrugs. "He wouldn't have been focused on you, and it would have been easier for him to lose himself in his grief. In a way, Gwen, you saved him. You gave him a problem that had to be dealt with, something he wanted to fix, even if he couldn't. For Micah, when he was floundering after the deaths? That was priceless."

"You sound almost grateful," I say, not bitterly.

Alarm crosses Aunt J's face. "Grateful might be a bit strong. I never wanted you to face the issues you did. If I could rewrite the past seven years, I would. In a heartbeat. But we can't—they are what they are, and we have to cope with them and adjust." She hesitates then says, "I am grateful that some good came from it, even if the price was too high."

I sit back in silence, and she lets me think, toying with everything she just said and the burning question of what we'll do now.

“I’m not going home, Jane,” I say. She stares at me. “It’s not what I need. I know this is difficult, and you are terrified I’m going to screw it up—I am too. But I need to try. I need you to let me try, and if I fail, I need you to let me do that, too.”

“I know,” she murmurs. I blink, startled, and she smiles, wryly. “Believe it or not, Gwen, I
want
you to get better. I want you to take Barrie Enterprises in two years. I don’t want you to be haunted by their deaths forever.”

It would be easier, if that was all it was. It would be survivable, I think. Tragic, of course. But I could grieve and move on.

“Did you ever consider that it was real?” I ask softly.

She doesn’t ask what. “I looked for it.”

I flinch. That’s the one thing I’ve never done—I’ve considered it, but I never hired anyone to go looking for the island. Because as much as I know it’s not real, I don’t know if I can tolerate having it proven.

“When?”

“The year you came home—while you were at Brecken Ridge.”

That year had been hell on all of us—Micah and Aunt Jane had been reeling from my reappearance and the deaths of Mother and Daddy, I had been lost in false memories and the trauma of everything. How had she taken the time to find the island?

“I needed to know. Everything told me you couldn’t possibly have been on an island for months, but I had to know. So I sent out a fleet. No one could find anything.” Pity and apology stir in her eyes.

It’s not unexpected. But it still stings.

“What do we do now?” I ask, changing the subject.

“You stay and put yourself back together—but you have to quit lying to us. We can’t help you if you don’t let us.”

I nod. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She stares hard at me and then nods. “Fine. Go make up with Micah. I want to know you two are alright before I go home.”

“Where is he?” I ask, standing.

“The gym.”

Not surprising. I give her a smile and start to walk away. She stops me with a quiet word. “You have to prove yourself to the Board as well, Gwen. They won’t hear about this—but you have to start participating in Board meetings and weighting in. They aren’t nervous because of your issues, they’re nervous because they don’t know you. We have two years to change that.”

“I will,” I say, and she nods.

And I go in search of Micah.

I can hear the steady pounding of Micah's feet on the treadmill before I reach the hotel's workout room—a steady, too fast pounding. He'll hurt himself if he keeps that pace up for too long. It annoys me that he's pushing himself too hard. For what? Because I'm upset? When am I not?

I pull open the door to the gym and stalk in. Micah's blue gaze flicks to me briefly and then drops back down to the machine, his pace never faltering. I turn the machine on next to him, and even though I'm not in clothes to work out, I start walking.

It's weird, to walk next to him while he runs. I feel like I should be far behind him. Wonders of modern technology. Even when you run to get away from a fight, you stay in one place.

"How long we gonna do this?" I ask, pitching my voice loud to be heard over the pounding of his feet.

"What do you want, Gwen?" he demands, his voice pushing past the border of hostile and landing squarely in angry territory.

I frown at him. "I want you to turn that damn machine off and talk to me," I snap, reaching for his controls. He swats at me gently, pushing my hand aside.

"I don't want to talk," he pants. "I know the script.
You’re angry. Hurt. I was out of line. How could I betray you? I had my reasons. Nothing is good enough."
He pauses, and then, "I'll apologize because that's what you need, and you'll believe the lies, because that's also what you need. And we'll pretend it never happened and doesn't matter. Why don't we just skip to that, and call it a day?"

He arches his eyebrows at me, and I scowl. "Because it's not the truth," I say precisely.

Micah curses and turns off his machine, stopping dead. I worry for a second that he'll hurt himself, and then, he's talking. "Do you really think the truth fucking matters? It doesn't. The truth is that you’re not healthy, and the truth is we're all ignoring it, and the truth is that I'm tired. I'm tired of pretending everything is okay, when it's not. I'm tired of hearing from random strangers that you’re putting yourself at risk. That you were dancing with strangers in a club and kissed your roommate's boyfriend. Do you really think I won't hear about that, Gwendolyn?"

I flinch, because he's not tired. He's furious. And it's my fault. All of it—everything that he's feeling, all of the anger and exhaustion and hopelessness—it's all on me. And I have no idea how to make it better.

"Micah, I'm trying," I say. "What more do you want from me?"

His eyes go wide. "I want to take it back. I want Mother and Daddy. I want you to have never gotten on that fucking boat. That the last seven years are just a horrible, horrible dream. I want that to be our reality, instead of this."

"Me too," I whisper. Tears are in my eyes—I can barely see him through the shimmer of tears. I blink, and they well up, spilling over. "Don't you think I wish I
could
take it all back? Don't you think it would be easier that way? You would be happy and I would be sane. They would still be alive. I want that so bad I can taste it. Sometimes I can convince myself that this isn't our reality, that they'll come in through the front door, if we just keep waiting."

"And when it doesn't?"

"I'm reminded that it's not true. That's the fantasy, and this is our reality, no matter how ugly it is. And that hurts worse than facing this every day, because it gives me hope for something that isn’t possible.”

His jaw is tight, a hard line. The comforting brother I adore is missing, and I don’t know why or how to bring him back.

“I think you should go back to the city with Aunt J.”

A sick feeling settles in my stomach. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“
I can’t take care of you here!”
he yells, his temper snapping. “I don’t
want
to.”

“You don’t have to,” I tell him, shifting off the treadmill. I turn and grab a couple of water bottles from a bucket of ice, tossing him one. He stares at me, his gaze tortured. “You’ve taken care of me for a long time, Micah. Now it’s time I figure it out for myself. I’m staying here.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head. “Don’t,” I say. “I get you’re upset and you’re tired. But just stop. I didn’t ask for this, not any more than you did.”

He looks sick, but he manages to say, “I didn’t willfully live in a delusion for four years, though. That was your choice.”

I want to scream and slap him and cry. And I refuse to let him see any of it. Micah has always been my protector, the one who keeps me safe from the world and, when it was most needed, from my own mind.

He’s not protecting me now.

Orchid is in our room when I come back, wearing a pantsuit of all things. She’s staring at her phone, a blank look on her face. I hesitate in the door. “What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, she passes me the phone. It’s a video, playing on a loop. James is kissing a brunette, his hand under her shirt.

“Oh fuck.” I breathe. I look away from the video as it loops back, and the girl moans again. Each time she does that, Orchid’s face tightens a little more. “Where did you get this?”

“The number is blocked. There are more, though. Four other girls.” She stands and strips out of her suit, her motions rapid and jerk. “I’m a fucking idiot, to think he would be faithful. He told me himself, when we first started talking, that he wasn’t good at it.”

“But you wanted him to be.”

Her eyes are blank when she looks at me. “Yes.”

I take a deep breath. “He kissed me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and I see anger flicker in her gaze for a second, before it’s locked down. “When?” she demands.

“A couple weeks ago. Before I started seeing Lane. He found me at the beach after I was rowing and he kissed me before I realized that’s what he was doing. I stopped it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“Because you were happy and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin that.”

She laughs, a short, humorless noise, and nods at the phone. “Guess whoever sent this didn’t really give a fuck about that.”

“Orchid, I’m—”

“Don’t. He kissed you. You don’t have anything to apologize for,” she says tonelessly.

“I should have told you,” I protest.

She shrugs and pulls on a black tank top and yoga pants. She sits down on her bed, pulling her headphones on.

“Are your parents still here?” I ask.

She pauses, her gaze flicking to me. “I really appreciate you wanting to help, Gwen. But right now I just want to be left alone. Okay?”

No. It’s not ok. But I’m in no position to push her, so I don’t say anything as she turns her iPod on and curls in a tight ball. I sit at my desk and look over the homework I’ve been ignoring. I focus on that and pretend I don’t hear Orchid softly sobbing on her bed.

The pounding on the door can only be one person. I shift from where I’m sitting on my bed reading and pad to the door, cracking it open and stepping out quickly.

“What do you want, James?”

“You aren’t doing this,” he says, his voice flat. “You won’t keep me from her.”

“She doesn’t want to see you,” I say.

“I want to see the video.”

“There’s no way to deny that this was you. Four girls, James. How
could
you?”