Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (36 page)

I tug my bag over my shoulder and mimic her smile with a clenched-teeth version of my own. I step out of her office and she sends me away with one more condolence for my friend in the hospital, and I walk away, shaking my head and listening to the sound of her heels stamp along the floor in the other direction—all the way to the elevator on the other end.

I leave my sleeve rolled up as I take the stairs down two flights to the ground, and I look at the marks on my arm, renewed strength finding me that I’m right—that I owe nothing to anybody. I push through the main doors, out onto the campus mall, and move my own fingers to the marks on my arms, my hands not able to spread wide enough to meet every mark, and I think to myself how my bruises are like fingerprints—there’s really only one, singular match.

I stop at the advocacy center first. I remember learning about it during orientation, thinking I would never need it. I’m so grateful for it now. It’s after five in the afternoon, but there are people here at the front, waiting—with open arms. From the moment I step inside and utter the words “I was attacked,” I’m surrounded by support. My advocate’s name is Jane, and even her eyes on me while I’m talking let me know she’s on my side. She believes me, and Jane and I—we’ve got this.

The forms with the advocacy center take an hour to complete, but I insist on filing my report with the police tonight. I don’t want to wait—I’m afraid I’ll change my mind, and I’m also afraid of closing my eyes at night. This act I’m doing right now, it feels like a much-needed antidote to the poison Graham left behind.

The officer who greets us at the campus police station is kind. Her last name is Rodriguez. She told me her first name, and I know it’s on the card she handed me, but I can’t take my eyes off of her tag. I’ll remember her last name for now. I don’t think she likes that I insist Jane comes with me. But I can’t do this alone, and reluctantly the officer agrees, ushering me to a private room where I document every single moment of that night—what happened, and the people I know were there to see it. I give them Graham’s phone number, and his friend Brody’s name, the only friend of his I really spoke to. I’m sure his friends will stand up for him—
I’m sure they’ve seen a scene like mine before.
But I remembered other things from that night. The club’s security guy was named Jax, and he helped me into a cab. I describe a few others, including the cab driver…he saw things, too.

I’m racking my brain, trying to dig out more details, things I can give Officer Rodriguez that will help even more. The longer I speak, the angrier I get, and eventually, the emotion builds up to a boiling point and my hand forms a fist, punching hard against the table.

“It’s okay, Miss Burke. What you gave us, it’s enough for now,” the officer says, her hands still from writing in her notepad and her head cocked to one side. She’s almost being kind, but yet the whole thing feels sterile at the same time—emotionless. My breathing is a little rapid, and it takes me a few seconds to let the heat dissipate from my face.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t really…I haven’t really gone through
anger
yet,” I say, grabbing the bottle of water she brought for me, twisting the top off and drinking nearly half of it down.

“It’s all okay,” Jane says, her hand moving forward to mine, which is once again balled in a fist on the table. She pats it once, causing me to look up, my lungs finally taking a deep breath. “What you feel—whatever you feel, whenever you feel it—it’s okay.”

I take in Jane’s words, and I unfurl my fingers, flexing my hand and sliding it along the surface of the table outward from me, laying forward and stretching before pulling my body back in.

“It’s okay,” I repeat in a whisper.

“Yes,” she says.

After two hours of rehashing, probing questions into my background, and conversation that almost makes me feel as if
I’m
the one being investigated, Officer Rodriguez pulls all of the paperwork into a file, then makes some notes on the top cover before stacking it on top of several other folders. I wonder how many of those are cases just like mine?

Jane walks out from the back offices with me, and I can’t help myself—I hug her. She hands me a few of her cards, encouraging me to share them with others I think might need help, and she also urges me to call—whenever. I’m going to. A lot. Then she guides me back out to the front lobby where a homeless man is passed out across four seats. All of his earthly possessions are tucked in a black plastic bag clutched in his hand while he slumbers.

Jane and I part ways when I leave the police station. The air is crisp and cold. I stop at the steps and pull on Andrew’s sweatshirt, then lift my bag over my back and make my way to the train stop near the edge of campus. My fingers are tingling and my feet feel heavy, and in the middle of my walk I have to pause and hold my arms over my head, reminding myself to breathe so I don’t fall over. My stomach kicks in its two cents, and I bend forward and throw up the little contents that are in my stomach. The panic attack comes and goes, but it leaves me feeling even more exhausted.

I buy a ticket to take me back to Mercy and climb aboard the next train to arrive, hugging my bag in my lap—clutching something personal, just like the homeless man from the police lobby. It’s late. Hours have disappeared while I’ve told my story. Time well spent. Empowering, though emotionally draining. No matter how tired I may feel, I don’t dare shut my eyes. I left my half-full coffee mug in Miranda’s office, and as much as I could use the caffeine, I smirk at the thought of how irritated she’s going to be with the smell of stale coffee and the reminder of me, and my visit, there to greet her in the morning. In the midst of so much that’s awful, at least I have this one small win.

I
t’s been sixty hours
.

Six. Zero.

The doctors told us not even to consider worrying about things until we start to hit that seventy-two-hour mark.

Those numbers are arbitrary. I know they are, because they aren’t in any of my books. Nothing is for certain, and throwing out hours is just a way for doctors to buy time to find consciousness. The cases run the gamut—some people waking up immediately, others taking weeks. Science points to medians, but medians are just clusters of numbers—they don’t mean anything when the person you love is all that counts.

But I also know Andrew Harper, and I know if there is a number to beat, he’s going to. I spent most of this morning talking to him. He doesn’t talk back, which I jokingly told him was refreshing. Owen was in the room, and he just moved his phone low enough to raise a brow at me, then went back to texting his girlfriend.

When Owen stepped outside for a while, I whispered in Andrew’s ear that I reported Graham. I needed to say it out loud, even in a whisper. I needed Andrew to hear it. I finally let myself exhale a little—the weight lifting for just a moment.

With every hour that’s passed, I’ve watched him like a hawk, waiting…knowing any second I’d hear him. It’s why I’ve ignored the raging growl building in my belly. The floor at my feet is lined with emptied cups, and my breath tastes foul, and the growling—it’s getting harder to ignore, until finally one lingers so long I can actually feel the pang work around my intestines and climb up my esophagus.

“Okay, either you’re shifting into a vampire and the sun coming in through that window is secretly melting away your skin, or you need to feed that monster in your gut,” Owen says, his phone flat against his leg again.

“What?” I ask. My stomach betrays me, growling again—with a vengeance.

“It’s gross. You sound like my grandfather. Seriously, go eat,” Owen chuckles. I shrug and roll my eyes, standing, but stopping at the door. He raises a hand, never looking away from his phone screen. “I know, I know…text you the second something happens.”

“The. Second,” I point at him.

I’ve been very positive this morning. It’s the first time I’ve felt this full of hope since my parents pulled me out of high school to head to the hospital for my surgery. Things feel brighter, and breathing feels easier.

Andrew is going to wake up today.

I have zero doubts.

I head down to the break room on the first floor where a few kids are lined up, all dressed in various costumes—ghosts, goblins, and superheroes with hospital gowns underneath. I’d lost track of time lately, and I realize it’s Halloween.

I notice a line of doctors and nurses, all with pockets full of candy, positioned at tables around the cafeteria, and the scene paints a smile on my face. The girl closest to me is wearing wings, her bald head painted with beautiful designs and glitter. I’m amongst real fighters.

Andrew is right where he belongs.

I rush through the line at the gift shop across the hall, grabbing a granola bar for myself, and a row full of candy—the big bars—for the line of trick-or-treaters waiting in the hallway. I ask a nurse if it’s okay if I help, too, and she smiles, nodding
yes
.

“The more we can do to remind them of life’s good parts, the better,” she grins.

I pause and watch as she moves to a table, placing her basket of small, crocheted angels in her lap, handing one along with a Hershey kiss to every kid that comes by.

“Hope and love,” she says to me, laughing lightly. “I’m sure they just see the chocolate. But a few of them…they see the hope and love, too.”

“I like that,” I say. “Mind if I…take one? I know someone who could use it.”

She nods, and pulls a blue angel from her stash, wrapping its soft arms around two kisses.

“You deserve something sweet, too,” she says, winking at me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking her gift and tucking it in the front pouch of Andrew’s sweatshirt. I pull a chair out from the next table over and pour my candy bars on the table, loving the light in each child’s eyes as they step up and whistle through missing teeth “trick-or-treat” and “thank you.”

This is most definitely a good part.

It’s Christmas, and I’m eight. My grandpa bought me a pedal car from the Goodwill, and Owen and he are in the garage fixing it so I can ride it. The pedals were bent, so they’re taking the ones from Owen’s bike and putting them on for me. Owen always gives me his things. I hope I have something for him one day.

I’m waiting at the back door, my feet dangling outside over the stoop, but my body inside where it’s warm. Mom keeps yelling to shut the door. We have a fire going, and I’m letting out heat I guess. But I want to watch them work. My other brother, James, didn’t come to Christmas. We all woke up in the morning, and he wasn’t home.

Owen told me James is lost, but he seems to find his way home. I think he didn’t want to come here because we don’t make him very happy. There’s a lot of yelling when James is home. And my mom cries a lot, too. I feel terrible, but I’m sort of glad he wasn’t here for Christmas. It was a really nice day.

My grandfather just swore and threw that wrench thingy down on the ground. I giggle, and he and Owen both turn to look at me. I pull my feet inside and start to shut the door, hoping I didn’t make them mad, but Owen catches the door before I can close it.

“You think you can do better, hot shot? Come on out; let’s see you give it a try.” Owen hands me his work gloves and a screwdriver. I stare at them, and the box of tools spread around the garage floor, then look up at Owen’s face. He’s smirking, so I know he isn’t mad. And I
would
like to be in the garage—with the men, doing man things, like swearing and stuff.

I pull Owen’s gloves on, my fingers barely making it halfway down the finger slots, and I grip the screwdriver in my right hand. My grandfather holds a flashlight up and begins walking me through the way my car works.

“The chain has to loop through these gears, but it’s tricky, because those gears are bigger than the ones from Owen’s bike, so we have to somehow make his parts work with the car parts, and all of those things need to turn the front tires when you pedal. Make sense?” My grandpa’s hair tufts down in his eyes, and he reaches up, smoothing it back and pulling his glasses from his face, wiping away the smudges on his shirt before putting them back on.

“I think…I think I got it,” I say, letting my eyes run through the process, what my grandfather said, over and over.

Owen moves to a chair, pulling up a water bottle and guzzling down half of it before handing the rest to our grandpa. I hear them whispering in the background, something about how they’ll give me five minutes to play, then step back in and finish, but eventually their voices fade away, and all I hear is my own voice in my head.

My eyes lock in on individual parts, on grooves and patterns, and suddenly everything becomes clear. “I need both chains,” I say.

My grandpa laughs and continues to talk with Owen.

“No, Grandpa. The old chain. I need it,” I say, my voice serious. Owen stands up and moves over next to me, kneeling down and following the line of my sight, staring at the same gears and parts I am.

“He’s right,” he whispers, snapping to my grandpa to bring over the chain. Our grandpa does, and Owen hands it to me. I start snapping and unsnapping gears, blending both sizes into one, asking Owen for help when I’m not strong enough. My hands can’t work fast enough, and it’s like my mind is already riding the pedal car down the hill while my hands are still busy screwing and clipping metal pieces.

Within the hour, the three of us are rolling my new car down the driveway, already dusted with a fresh layer of snow. I don’t care, though, because I deserve a test drive.

“How did you do that?” Owen says as he buckles the helmet to my head. It’s an old motorcycle helmet that we bought from a garage sale, so one of Owen’s shirts is stuffed inside to make it fit.

“I don’t know. I just…I could
see
it. Is that…am I…weird?” I ask.

Owen presses on my head, making sure the helmet is snug enough.

“Yes,” he grins. “You’re very weird. But you might also be a genius. Now go kick some ass down that hill and don’t crash your present.”

The wind hits my face with Owen’s push, and soon I’m soaring down the roadway, pulling on levers and leaning to veer from the right to the left. The road is empty. In fact, there aren’t any houses near me anymore. I look up, and the sky is clear, and the sun is bright. When I look back, my house is gone, and so are Owen and my grandpa.

I’m going so fast, though, I can’t stop. I keep pulling on the brake, but nothing is working. I didn’t look at the brakes—I should have checked them!

“Andrew…Andrew, stop!”

I hear Owen. I can hear him, but he sounds different.

“Stop fighting, Andrew. Stop fighting!”

I’m not fighting. Why does he think I’m fighting? I’m scared. I’m lying down and the roadway is bumpy. I can’t stop. But I’m not fighting.

“Andrew!”

I see him.

A dream.

Where am I?

My body. My arms. My head, legs, chest.

Owen is holding my right arm down against a bed, and my eyes are fighting to stay open long enough to see him. I see him. He’s older. I’m older!

The fight. I didn’t fight. I didn’t fight! That’s what this is. They think I was fighting, but I wasn’t. I left, and then there was a crash. And Nick. The devil was there, and—

He shot me.

“I need Emma,” I try to say, but when I hear my words, they’re mumbles, nonsensical—something is stopping them, choking me. I try to speak again, but it’s impossible, and it makes me start to cry in frustration. Owen’s hands are on me again, and I flail just wanting to yell, to scream. He needs to understand me.

“Andrew. Stop fighting me,” Owen says, his head close to mine.

Stop fighting.

Yes, that’s it. I breathe deep, everything hurts, the sensation of wires and tubes intubating me and poking me everywhere, but I keep my arms still. I will my legs to lay still. And soon my eyes focus—I see Owen. He’s smiling, and he’s talking to doctors, my mom’s voice coming from somewhere behind me.

I jerk with my arms, wanting to see, but so many people are over me now. My eyes find Owen, and grow wide. A man with glasses and a white coat is hovering over me, and my throat burns as I try to speak. He’s telling me to stop, and I finally feel it—the tube in my throat.

I hold Owen in my sight while the man removes the tube, and everything hurts. The doctor is telling me not to speak yet, but I ignore him.

“You flew here from Germany,” I say, my voice gravely and my throat raw. Owen laughs, sliding his hand down my arm to my hand, holding it like he did when I was a kid.

“Yeah, you shit head. I flew here from Germany,” he says, running his sleeve over his eyes to blot away tears.

“Where…is…is Emma here?” I ask, my voice still barely audible.

Owen smiles, though, hearing me clearly. He nods.

“Yeah, she’s here. She’s barely left this room, and man is she going to be pissed at me when she finds out I told her to go eat and that’s when you wake up. I’ll go get her,” he says, and I close my eyes, nodding
yes
.

Yes. Emma. I need Emma.

I hand the last kid in line three candy bars, because that’s all I had left.

“You should get a reward for being so patient,” I wink. He smiles, reaching into his pillowcase to inspect the three chocolates I gave him.

I thank the nurse closest to me for letting me participate, then I tear a corner away from my granola bar, pushing part of it through and biting into the salty end. My stomach rolls in appreciation.

“Emma!”

Owen’s voice startles me, and I jump, turning to see him racing toward me, his phone clutched in his hand.

“Andrew?” I ask, shoving the rest of my bar in my mouth, chewing manically. Owen nods, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I was going to text you, but I run faster than I type. Just now. He asked for you!”

I’m chasing behind him, trying to keep pace with his long strides as he takes the stairs three at a time.

“He asked for me,” I repeat his words, smiling and pounding my feet as fast as they’ll go. I toss my wrapper into a trash that we pass on our way down Andrew’s hall after Owen buzzes us in through the large double doors. I see doctors and nurses all moving in and out of his room as I get closer, but I ignore them, weaving through and under until I’m at his bedside.

The instant I see his open eyes, I know—this is one of life’s good parts, too, the kind of moment I will hold on to forever. My eyes swell with tears, and I lunge to his side, grabbing his hand and laying my torso across him, wanting to hug tighter but knowing he had so many open wounds underneath.

I feel his hand squeeze mine, his strength weak, but his movement very much alive and well.

“Oh my god I’m so happy to see you,” I say, stepping back for a nurse to take vitals. I move around every person who needs him, but I never let go of my touch on him. His mom is sitting on the other side, her hands wrapped around his arm.

“How was your lunch?” he teases. His voice is scratchy, but I hear
him
underneath it all.

“You ass. I leave your room for five minutes, and
that’s
when you decide to wake up?” I move my head to his shoulder, laying my face against his arm, feeling the beat of his heart with my hand. This entire time, his heart—it’s been strong.

“You know me—flair for the dramatic,” he says, swallowing hard.

“Andrew, I’m going to work on removing the tube in your nose, and it should make it a little easier to talk. But I’m going to need you to lie still and just be patient for a few minutes, okay?” the doctor says.

Andrew nods, and I squeeze his hand again, threading my fingers tightly with his. I roll his hand over in mine, opening his palm, and with the tip of my finger, I write
I love you
again and again. Andrew keeps his promise to the doctor, and we don’t talk for almost an hour while they work around him, eventually removing many of the monitors and tubes attached to his body. My eyes never leave his the entire time, and even though he can’t speak, I see the love in his eyes for me.