Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (26 page)

“So I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come by…around eight,” he says, backing away slowly. I notice he never leans in to kiss her cheek. He’s not cocky enough to do that. That’s probably a good thing, because my hand is flexed at my side, and I think if he did, I’d punch his fucking face in. Then I’d step on his shoes.

I keep my stare on Emma, and when she turns from watching Captain Douchebag saunter away, she meets my gaze, then immediately drops her focus to the ground.

“
Just some guy
, huh?” I laugh.

“His name’s Graham, Andrew,” she sighs. “And it’s not a thing with us, it’s just…it’s complicated to explain,” she shrugs, glancing around me. She can’t even make eye contact with me now.

“The dude’s named after a cracker, Emma. Seriously?” I look beyond her where I can still see him walking down the main path where he’s met up with two other guys that look just like him. He isn’t small. In fact, we’re probably roughly the same size. He’s just covered in so much…douchebaggery…it makes him look smaller. His pants are pink. What the fuck? “I thought we were past this…or that you wanted…shit, I don’t know…what I wanted? I thought we…”

“Lindsey’s here,” she cuts me off. The expression on her face is blank at first then it’s instantly replaced by the fakest of smiles. I can tell her expression is a lie, though—her eyes give her away. They’re full of regret and wishes. “Whatever you were about to say…don’t. Lindsey is here, walking toward us. She’s my best friend, Andrew. You started this, and I don’t think I can lose Lindsey because of it. She’s been through so much with me, and I can’t—”

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” Lindsey says from behind me. She slides her arm around me, her fingers running over my stomach and chest as she hugs me from behind. Emma turns away, but not before the look of pain flashes over her face. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply.

“Hi, yeah…sorry. I’ve been crazy busy with practice and classes.” Lie, lie, lie. I’ve been ignoring you, not dealing with the beast I created, running away from my consequences, while I pine after the love of my past and drown in the truth.

“It’s okay. I was just worried…you know, about your bruises. Your eye looks better,” she says, reaching to touch my cheekbone lightly. It takes all of my willpower not to turn away—not because it hurts, but because I don’t want Lindsey touching it. I don’t want Emma seeing Lindsey touch it.

“Yeah…I heal quickly,” I say, all of my attention on Emma. I’m not even sure I said that last part out loud.

My trance is broken when a yellow Velcro strap slides along the ground, sticking to my leg. I bend down to pick it up as some guy from our student government waves his hands emphatically on the nearby stage, the microphone in his hand.

“And we have our second team of players. You,” he shouts, pointing at me. I glance around and look back at him, pointing to myself as he nods. “It’s a hundred-dollar bookstore card if you win the three-legged race. Get on up here with your partner.”

“I’m good, dude,” I say, not wanting to be part of some stupid spirit week activity. But Lindsey changes my mind. Lindsey, of all people, changes everything.

“Oh my god, no…you have to do this. Trust me. You and Emma—she is the freaking master at this. Remember, Em? Last year, at the pre-med picnic? Seriously, it’s like she was born for this race. Everyone who was her partner won.” Lindsey waves her hand at the stage, buying us time while she urges her friend to join me. If Lindsey only knew.

“I don’t really feel up to it, Linds,” Emma starts.

“I really could use a hundred bucks credit,” I say just for guilt. Suddenly, I’m desperate for her to do this race with me, to come with me, to give me five more minutes of her time. Her eyes slide up to meet mine, and I say something entirely different to her with my look. I beg her.
Please, do this one stupid thing with me. I can’t explain it, but I feel like this might be the turn.

Emma glances back to her friend, who is literally jumping up and down while clapping. She sighs and reaches for the Velcro strap, taking it from me and walking toward the stage. I trail behind, ignoring Lindsey’s touch on my back, her encouragement and cheer for me. All I see is the wild strands of Emma’s hair twisting in the wind like the fingers of temptation calling me to them.

It’s going to storm tonight. I can smell it in the air.

I hate spirit week. Whose idea was it to have field day anyhow? I’m finding out, then I’m going to sink their campaign when they run for student government again. I might run against them. My platform will be to do away with forced audience participation.

When I get to the chair at the starting line, I sit down, moving my leg as far away from the edge as I can so I don’t have to feel him. I can’t feel him. Why doesn’t he get that? He started this—he’s the one who decided to get to me through Lindsey. And she can’t be hurt by whatever happens next. It doesn’t matter what his reasons were, or what happened in our past.

It’s hard to hold on to that promise to myself though when he’s right here. I don’t know what the scent is that he wears, but it’s hypnotic, and it messes with my good sense. I’m convinced that’s what makes me weak. It can’t be my heart—I can’t defeat it if that’s the case.

“Okay, contestants, time to strap yourself to your partners,” the guy orders through the microphone. Andrew chuckles from somewhere deep in his chest. I glance up and see Lindsey watching us from the other side of the main mall. She’s waving and smiling.

Andrew bends down, his hand running down my jeans along my calf as he wraps the Velcro strap around both of our legs. The heat from his body rushes through me instantly followed by more of his scent, and I feel my stomach drop in a free fall. I shut my eyes and breathe out slowly, just trying to survive this, to make the right decision.

“Please…please stop,” I breathe, my eyes closing as I slump back into my chair.

His hands freeze against me as his head falls forward.

“I haven’t slept with her,” he says, his hands moving again to fasten our strap. He remains leaning forward when he’s done, not ready to look me in the eye. That’s probably for the best because my eyes are wide—I was so
sure
they’d been intimate. Those thoughts, they’re the ones that tortured me. To find out that they haven’t been
as
intimate as I’d imagined…

“You have to know, Emma. If I’d only known you were in the dark…if you’d only known where I was. Things…they would have gone so differently. I won’t even say
could have,
because damn Emma…I know they
would
have. I’m going to talk to Lindsey. I’ll tell her everything. Just don’t go to that dinner. Please.”

His voice is broken. His spirit…broken. The sound of him is desperate, and I can’t say it isn’t anything different from the feelings within my own heart. But my best friend is staring at me, the smile on her face enormous. And it isn’t even the fact that she thinks Andrew is her
one,
or that she has deep feelings for him. It’s that she trusts this story we’ve given her, and if she finds out I was part of the lie, she will never smile at me like that again. And that smile—it’s the one that kept my heart beating after I buried my mom.

“If you tell Lindsey the truth, I will never forgive you,” I say, my chest burning as the words leave my mouth. How can the heart want two things that are so very far apart?

“Let’s go, racers,” the announcer calls.

Everyone stands but Andrew and me. I feel his stare burning the side of my face, but I keep my eyes fixed on my friend. I smile at her and raise my hand slowly, my fingers curling. She can’t know anything is wrong.

“You have no idea how important she’s been to me, Andrew. Do not betray me,” I say, feeling his breath shudder from his body. His head slings forward and his hand comes to cup the back of his neck as he nods slowly. My lips hang open, the words right there, waiting to come out. I want to tell him
never mind
. I want to tell him it will be okay and Lindsey will understand. I want to tell him I’m wrong, that he wouldn’t be betraying me at all. But I can’t. Our time was a few short weeks when we were sixteen. That time—it’s gone. And I have to let him go. He needs to let go too.

“Come on, let’s go win a goddamned gift card,” he says, placing his arm around my shoulder as we stand, our bodies tethered together, his fingers gentle along my shoulder.

We walk in sync to the starting line, and before the man blows the whistle to begin, Andrew’s fingers curl just enough to scratch against the fabric of my sweatshirt until his hand clutches the material into his fist before finally letting go.

He let go.

And I’ve never hurt more.

T
he truth is
I was waiting for the phone call. I’d been waiting for nearly three years. From the moment both of my parents sat me down and told me Mom had pancreatic cancer, I’d been waiting for this call.

She hadn’t been well for months. Her body just couldn’t fight anymore. The rounds of chemo, the trials, the naturopathy—the prayers; eventually, cancer wins. All we can ask for is comfort and time.

My mother got three years. I should take comfort in that. My father should, too. And maybe one day we will. But for now, I want to be angry with the world.

“Em? You have to eat something,” Lindsey says from the other side of my bedroom door. I’ve lived with her for a year. I’ve known her for only a little more. The way she’s held me up since my dad called three weeks ago with the news that my mother died feels like more years should have been shared between us. She never signed up for this, and I’ve kept most of it to myself. Until…until the phone call that opened up my heart, split my body in two and took away that feeling of safety that comes along with knowing both of your parents are alive and well.

“I did,” I lie, my throat sore and dry. I can’t cry any more—but my mouth hangs open, wanting to. I want to all of the time.

“Em, I have been out there on that sofa all day. I’m binge-watching hot superhero movies. I’m on my fourth one, and you haven’t left this room. I would have known. I’m four feet away from the refrigerator. I would have
seen
you eat,” she says.

“You missed it; you were in the bathroom when I came out and made a sandwich.” I’m smiling a little. It hurts. This is the first time I’ve smiled in a week. It feels…unnatural.

“I haven’t peed once,” she says.

“Now
you’re
the one who’s lying,” I laugh. The sound of that hurts my chest.

“Ha, see! I knew you were lying,” she says, pointing a finger at me as she opens my door. I let my smile remain so she can see it; she’s earned this one. Hers falls though when she sees me. I know I look bad. And I’m sure…oh man, I’m pretty sure I smell bad. I haven’t really
moved
a lot lately. I’ve gotten most of my homework through home study and got a medical withdrawal from my language class. I picked German. I think I’m switching to Spanish the next time around. There’s one silver lining to this cloud of shit—I was failing German. “And for the record, I
wasn’t
lying,” Lindsey continues. “I really haven’t peed in eight hours—two Chris Evans movies in a row. You know how I feel about Captain America.”

She sits on the bed next to me with a bounce. She’s let me wallow for the last couple weeks, but last night she gave me one hell of a speech.

“You can be sad,” she said. “You can carry that around somewhere inside all the time. It’s human, and you deserve to. But your mom would be mad to see you waste even a single day not living. She’d want to see you giving each day your best, even if you have to carry your sadness through it the whole damn way. Drag that sadness around; make it your bitch. But don’t waste the good ones.”

She was right. She’s still right. She doesn’t say anything when she sits next to me now, only stares at me, like a blinking contest. I lose. My eyes hurt from crying. Everything is so…dry.

“I’m getting up,” I say, dragging my arm up my body so my finger can cross my heart with a promise. This is a tactical error on my part, because Lindsey sees my hand and grabs it, pulling me from my bed, one leg sliding to the floor, the other following in desperate fashion to find my balance before she drags me on my ass. She would, too—she’s very strong for a petite thing.

“I’m hungry. And now I’m sad that there are no real superheroes in the world, so you, my friend, are getting in the shower. You have exactly seven minutes to get yourself presentable, and then we are going to my favorite restaurant and sitting by the window to watch hot frat boys walk by,” she orders.

“I don’t know, Linds. I’ll get up, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to go out,” I say, dragging my feet toward our bathroom. She shoves a folded towel at my chest.

“I told you last night—you’re done wasting days. We’re going out. I want a superhero,” she says, holding one hand on her hip, looking a little like one herself.

I sigh, then stick my tongue out at her, backing into the bathroom and kicking the door shut. I stare at the blankness of it for a second or two and I think of my mother.

“You know I love you, right?” I say to my friend, my best friend. Lindsey doesn’t know this, but she
is
a superhero. She’s also the second best friend I’ve had in my life. I’ve been close to exactly two people not related to me—and the first one disappeared without a trace.

Andrew Harper, where are you?

“I know. And I love you too. Now hurry your ass up; you’re down to six minutes, and you know all the cute ones come out when it gets dark outside,” she says. I grin at her words, stepping into the shower and turning the water on. I can tell she’s sitting by the door. I also know that if I don’t make it out of here in six minutes, she’ll come in after me.

For the first time since I answered the phone and heard my father cry, I breathe.

I
wonder
if Emma would think I’m betraying her now?

The house still looks the same, only the yard is dead, weeds taking up most of the space along the stone walkway that leads to the door. The compact sedan out front is the same one her family owned when we were in high school. That was my only confirmation that her family still lived here.

Her family. It’s…smaller now.

I didn’t know her parents well, if at all. I never got the chance. For those first few weeks in Lake Crest, I daydreamed about getting to know them. I had these fantasies that her parents would surprise me with a visit while I was there. Once, I even thought I saw a couple that looked like them in the waiting room—at least, it looked like them from the back. I walked through, postured a little straighter, shirt tucked in so I would make a good impression. The couple turned out to be there to pick up their son.

Now I get to meet her father, to acquaint myself with him, like this. I turn off the engine and sit in my car for a few minutes, looking over the house, psyching myself up for this probably-horrible idea. I look down at my forearms and my eyes lock in on the burn mark on my right arm. It’s five years old, but it burns just as it did when Nick Meyers pressed his cigar into me. It was also the hardest mark to hide from my mom. I roll the long sleeves of my plaid shirt down as I exit my car, wanting to hide my scars from Emma’s dad. The bruising from my fight is fading, but he’ll still notice. Not much I can do about that.

My heart thumps wildly as I step up her walkway, little doses of the familiar attacking me the closer I get to the door. I recognize the smell of the bushes that line her yard, even though many of them are dead. I’m overcome with the curve around her house, the way to her window, and the pebbles in the yard across the street that I used to get her attention. I can almost see
her
walking toward me.

I press the button before I can chicken out, and a small dog scurries toward the front door from the inside. The side window gives me a view of its paws against the windowsill on the other side. A light flicks
on
in the hallway, and I can see the shadow of a person walking toward the door.

I think I’m going to be sick. This…this was a bad idea.

“Can I help you?”

A boy stands in the now-open doorway in front of me. This must be Emma’s brother, Cole. He’s awkward and his face looks caught somewhere between youth and his teen years. Maybe he’s ten?

“Hi,” I say, allowing myself a deep breath and a pause before speaking. It’s part of my new rule to think before I talk. I bring my hand up to scratch my face as the boy scrunches his eyes and closes his lips tight. He’s thinking he just opened the door to a stranger. He kinda did—dumb shit.

“I’m a friend of your sister’s,” I say to relax him. It doesn’t seem to help, though, and now he crosses his arms. “I was looking for your dad?” I’m not quite
ready
for his dad, but I think any more time alone with little brother, and he’ll slam the door on my face.

“Hang on,” he says, pursing his lips at me, and squinting for a second more. “Dad! Some guy’s here. He’s not selling anything!”

I chuckle to myself, but stay still at the doorway while Cole walks away leaving the door wide open. A few seconds later, his father steps around the corner. He recognizes me instantly—his feet almost skidding to a stop. His hair has grayed, and thinned. He has glasses on, pulled to the edge of his nose, and his body is thinner than I remember.

“Mr. Burke,” I say. I work hard to keep my voice even, to keep my mouth in an almost smile, to keep my eyes non-threatening. He has to know why I’m here. And he has to think I’m pissed. I am pissed. But I also think the man in front of me has been through hell and back—he’s wearing his depression like a coat.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his question more of a grumble really as he fumbles his glasses from his face, pushing them in his pocket. He steps outside, closing the door behind him, then guides me to an open chair next to a bench on the end of their wooden porch.

He picks up a pillow and slides it across the wood, clearing it of dirt and debris, then motions for me to sit. I’d rather stand. I feel stronger, more in charge when I stand. Nick Meyers always made me sit when I was called to his office. I give in to Emma’s father, though, and he quickly sits across from me, his body heaving out a breath.

He’s afraid.

“I’m sorry to just show up. Really…I…hmmmm,” I pause, running my hand along my face with a small chuckle. “Look…Mr. Burke.”

“You can call me Carl, Andrew,” he says. His eyes are tired, maybe a little sad, too.

I acknowledge his attempt to be civil with a tight smile before I lean forward, my hands clasped in front of me as my elbows rest on my knees. I tried not to look like a punk today. Normal jeans, a gray shirt, plaid button-down and my black hat—I debated on the gauges, but I ultimately decided the big holes sagging in my ears would put him off more. He keeps glancing at them, though, so I’m not sure I was right.

“I came for some answers. Well…one answer, mainly,” I say, my hands wringing in front of me. I twist the silver ring around my thumb nervously, and eventually it falls off, rolling along the crooked planks of wood between us, coming to rest against his work boot. He reaches down to pick it up, clasping it in his fist as he closes his eyes.

“You want to know why we lied,” he says.

My lungs collapse, and I struggle to fill them again. I expected confrontation. I expected denial.

I didn’t expect this!

I don’t speak, but nod slowly, my eyes waiting for his to open. When they do, they seem even more lost than they were when he first spotted me at his doorway.

“Katherine, Emma’s mother, had pancreatic cancer,” he says. His eyes fall even more, but their color—the same gray in Emma’s—begins to grow darker.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I heard,” I say, bowing my head. It’s hard to see his pain—it feels too familiar.

“Thank you. It’s been a couple years, but losing Kate was hard,” he says.

“I understand,” I say back quickly. We both stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, and I can tell he respects the connection we both share—for loss.

“I’m sorry about what you’ve been through, Andrew. With your father…and with James,” he says. I can tell he means it.

“Thank you,” I say.

Carl leans back, the wood of the bench creaking with his weight. He folds his hands at his chest as he studies me. I remain frozen, my thumbs locked together, folded over my clasped hands. I’m willing him to give me answers—I’m hoping it gives me some sort of clue.

“Come with me,” he says, suddenly leaning forward and getting to his feet. I stand in response and follow him into his house, the screen door slamming closed behind us.

We wind through a formal living room and dining area that I doubt has been used since Emma’s mother died. I doubt it’s been cleaned since then, either, the rings of dust deep around coasters and lamps. I trail Carl to a small space in the back of the house that looks like a den, an old desk taking up the center, and boxes piled around the walls. The small dog comes into the room behind us, and when Carl sits in the chair, bending down to pull out a low drawer in the desk, the dog rushes over to him, jumping on his lap.

“Teddy, not now,” he says, scooping him and dropping him on the floor. He glances up at me. “Hazard of the job,” he smirks. I had forgotten—Emma’s father is a dogcatcher.

I bend down, and Teddy scurries up to me, putting his front paws on my knees. I scratch at his chin.

“I always wanted a dog,” I say, chuckling slightly.

“You want this one?” Carl says, I think only
half
kidding.

I rub my thumbs behind Teddy’s ears, watching his tail wag, until Carl leans back again in his chair, a file folder in his hands. He lays it on the desk, flipping it open, nodding for me to look.

I move to his side as he rolls his chair out a little to make room for me. When I begin to slide out the clippings and photos, my stomach lurches. The first thing I notice is a photo that appears to have been printed out at home—Emma in a hospital gown. Her hair is just as it was the last time I saw her before Lake Crest, her eyes look happy—hopeful even—though maybe a little sunken in, and her mom is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with her.

“Did Emma…donate bone marrow or something?” I feel insensitive asking the question, but I don’t understand what I’m looking at, and the potential of what it might mean terrifies me to the point that I have to kneel next to the desk, no longer able to stand.

“No,” Carl chuckles softly, picking the photo up and pulling his glasses out to study it closer. “No…this was the day Emma got her heart.”

“Her…I’m sorry…” I stumble with my words.

“I didn’t think she told you. She was funny like that. I think it was her age, wanting to prove how normal she was, what she could do. I get it…she just wanted people to treat her normal,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Carl. I’m…I’m not following. Emma…she needed a heart? Was it the accident? Did something happen?” My mind is racing with dozens of questions. I understand getting cut and bleeding; I understand how burns and bruises heal. If this were mechanics, I would be able to get what Emma’s father was saying, but this is Emma’s world—medicine and biology and a broken body. I don’t understand, and I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault, and that’s why her parents never told her where I was.

My head is sweating, and I tug my hat off and run my hand through my hair, huffing for air. I fall back on my heels and land on my ass, bending my knees up and staring straight ahead.

“Andrew, it’s okay. She’s okay now, and no…this wasn’t from the accident,” he says. I barely register him, but nod in response.

“What…what was wrong with her?” I ask.

He sighs, sliding some photos around in the folder before pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to me. I read a few words along the top, something about New Hampshire Hospital, left ventricles, medications. It’s dated the year before I met Emma.

“Emma was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Basically, half of her heart worked, and the other half was broken. She had three surgeries before we turned to the transplant. That’s when you met her—when she was waiting on the list. We moved here for a doctor. Dogcatchers and phone-bank workers—we’re not exactly rolling in the dough,” he says, his lip inching up on one side in a half smile. I reflect it with one of my own. I don’t say it out loud, but turns out young men with juvenile records don’t make a lot of dough either. I’m hopeful that will change, though.

“This doctor, Dr. Wheaton, she performed Emma’s surgery for free. But we still had to wait for her to come up on the list,” he says, his eyes wandering back to the folder. I slide the diagnosis sheet up, and he folds it in with the other papers. “Her heart finally came…about a month after that accident you two had.”

He doesn’t try to mask the disapproval in his voice, and I cower a little under it. I lower my gaze, but I don’t acknowledge it any more. That accident has taken up too much of my life.

“While I was at Lake Crest,” I say instead, wanting to talk about where
I
was, and why Emma couldn’t know.

“Yes,” he says, not even flinching.

His conviction causes me to look up, and our eyes lock again. We keep coming to the same civil standoff.

“I would have supported her…through that…her surgery? If I had known,” I say, swallowing hard. “I wrote her letters. I would have written her every day, tried to call…”

I stop when I see his face fall, his lips pursed, a hint of regret perhaps shadowing his expression.

“You know I wrote her letters. You…you never gave them to her,” I say, that sick feeling from when I stepped out of my car coming over me again in a wave. It’s quiet for almost a full minute, the only sound the papers shuffling back into the folder, the drawer being pulled open and Carl’s chair sliding back from the desk as he stands. I pull myself up to stand with him, following him back from the den toward the front of the house. He stops in the kitchen.

“Can I get you a water? I don’t have much, but…I have water,” he says.

I laugh once under my breath and look back to the room on one end of the hallway and the doorway to my car on the other. All of this—and I still don’t have the answers I needed, the closure I needed—I’m still the fuck-up from that family everybody talks about.

“Sure, I’ll take a water,” I sigh. He reaches in and pulls out a small bottle, wiping the condensation away with a towel on the counter before handing it to me. I hold it up, clutched in my hand, and smile tightly before whispering a sarcastic “Thanks.”

Carl pulls the top from his and guzzles about half down before setting the bottle on the counter behind him. I twist my cap off and move my bottle to my lips, my eyes meeting Carl’s in between drinks. I shuffle my feet, readying myself for Carl to show me out.

“I couldn’t lose them both,” he says. I startle a little, not expecting any more answers from him. I lower my brow, but wait for him to give me more. “I knew Kate was sick when we moved here. We were hoping for a better prognosis, and had been seeing new doctors in the city. But their answers were all the same.”

He relaxes into the counter behind him, his hands finding the edge and squeezing as he looks up to the ceiling. When his eyes fall back down to mine, they’re red and glassy. “I couldn’t lose them both, Andrew. And I was afraid if Emma stayed with you—”

“You were afraid I’d ruin her,” I finish for him. My eyes shut with the realization, with my delivery of the sentence and final act of what went wrong between me and Emma Burke.

“It’s not about your family, Andrew. I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. It isn’t about that—it never was,” he says.

My gut tells me he’s lying.

“When we got the call to pick her up that night at the police station, our world was rocked. She was this close…
this close…
to having a fresh start, to having a chance,” he says, his lips a hard line, the rest of what he wants to say only a breath away. I stare into his eyes and dare him. “You were drunk, and you were high, Andrew. Drunk…and high!”