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.
Chapter 16
Andrew
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.