Maggie’s house is probably not the best idea. But where else can I go? My parents are busy grieving the mental decline of their briefly perfect daughter. I could call my boyfriend, except that I barely know him. And since I’m associating the word love with an entirely different guy, I’m pretty sure I’m not as close to my boyfriend as I should be.
I ring the doorbell and plunge my hands back into the pockets of my coat. Footsteps echo in the entry inside just before Mrs. Campbell’s face shows in the sidelight window. She looks surprised and delighted in equal parts.
“Chloe,” she says as she swings the door wide. She squeezes me in a hug that smells like the bakery she owns. “It’s been so long. Come on in, honey.”
I swallow hard. “That’s okay. I know it’s kind of late. Is Maggie home?”
“Of course, sweetie. Come in out of the cold.” I step inside and stand on the rug while she heads for the stairs. She seems to think better of it, stalling halfway to the steps and tilting her head at me. “Why don’t you just go on up?”
“I’m not sure—”
Mrs. Campbell ghosts a hand over her reddish hair and smiles at me. “You know, whatever this is, it’s long past time for you two to work it out. Go on, Chloe.”
I nod and take the stairs slowly while Maggie’s mom disappears into the kitchen. Even with her words bolstering me, I feel like I’m climbing my own gallows.
I should have waited another day. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so wound up by my memory of Adam. But why? Why would I picture him with love? I mean, just how messed up am I?
I turn left at the top of the stairs and see the collection of bumper stickers on Maggie’s door. Too late for second-guessing now.
She tells me to come in before I even knock. There’s a squeaky board right outside her door so she always knows when someone’s close. We used to call it the parental alert system.
I open the door and stand there, looking over Maggie’s pillow-strewn bed and the posters of obscure punk bands hung above it. Her enormous white dresser looks as buried as it always does, lost under a sea of silk scarves and discarded earrings. She’s flopped sideways across the bed with her laptop open in front of her.
She looks up, and the shock of me being the visitor registers quickly in her face. “Why are you h-here?”
I shrug. “You didn’t return my call.”
“That usually means someone d-doesn’t want to t-t-talk to you.”
I frown and look at my feet. She’s stuttering. She doesn’t stutter this much. Not with me. I bite my lip, feeling bruised all over.
Maggie shifts on the bed, sitting up. “I think you s-said plenty the last t-time we talked.”
I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what came over me then,” I say, which is totally true. “But I want to talk to you, Mags. I miss you.”
“No, you d-don’t,” she says. “What do you really want, Chloe, b-because I’m not going to be your p-pet project?”
I can’t believe this. I can’t process that this cold, mean girl is Maggie. “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”
She laughs then. It’s usually one of the friendliest sounds on earth. Today it burns like acid.
“Maybe I’m not smart enough t-to explain it,” she says. “Why don’t you go ask one of your study b-buddies, like Julien…Oh, wait, you c-can’t ask Julien anything anymore, can you?”
Her words punch at my gut like a cold fist. My mouth goes dry with fear. “I think something happened to Julien, Maggie. That’s what I was trying to tell you in my voice mail.”
She crosses her arms, obviously not affected. “Yeah, Chloe, I g-got your voice mail. About three months t-too late.”
“Why are you acting like this? What if she’s in trouble, Maggie?”
“Why are you acting like you c-care? I told you all of this, Chloe. I t-told you months ago.”
“I was confused,” I hesitate, desperate to know what she knows before I say too much. “Confused and distracted, okay? But I’m trying to be better, and I want to talk about it.”
She folds her arms over her chest and glares up at me, her face closed off like a wall. “Well, tough shit. I d-don’t.”
Eight years. That’s how long I’ve known Maggie. We fight like sisters, but she has never shut me out like this. Not ever.
“You should go,” she says.
I open my mouth, ready to plead my case, but then she leans forward.
“I want you t-t-to go.”
Tears blur my vision, but I shake my head, feeling my chin tremble. “Maggie—”
“Just go, Chloe!”
And I do.
I fly down the stairs and right past her mom. I’m desperate to be out of this warm, familiar house and all of its memories. Away from Maggie’s hard words and hate-filled eyes. Mrs. Campbell calls after me, but I ignore her. I fling the door wide, rushing into the cold darkness beyond it.
I thunder down their porch steps, wiping tears as I run for the sidewalk. Sobbing and half-blind, I run until I slam blindly into someone’s back. Whoever he is, he’s tall and broad and he barely shifts at the impact.
“What the hell?” he says, and I leap back because I know that voice.
Adam turns around, shaking his hair out of his eyes and rubbing the back of his arm where I plowed into him. I stumble back in fear, and he catches me, fingers curling around my arms.
“God, Chlo, what is going on with you?”
I jerk myself free, feeling my eyes go wide. “How did you know I was here? Why are you following me?”
“Following you? I live here,” Adam says, narrowing his eyes.
I shake my head, panting hard and feeling like a trapped animal. “No, you don’t. I’d know if you lived here.”
“You do know,” he says, frowning. “I live in the apartments on the other side of the middle school.”
He looks like this is all very obvious. But it’s not. Nothing’s obvious except that I’m crazy. I’m totally crazy and I’m not getting better.
I’m supposed to be better. I did everything they told me to do a year ago. I went to therapy, and I wrote insanely long journal entries. God, I even did yoga! And it had worked. Dr. Kirkpatrick had said my results were so good that I didn’t have to come anymore.
And now this. How in the hell am I going to fix this? When will she ever say I don’t have to come again?
Pain rises up my chest, right into a little ball in my throat. Adam is just standing there, watching me closely while I choke all over my own breath.
I shake my head. “Stop looking at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m supposed to know things I couldn’t possibly know. Or like you know me, which you don’t, okay? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hey, hey,” he says, dropping his backpack and rubbing his hands briskly up and down my arms. “Calm down. Just breathe.”
I glance at Adam’s hands on my arms. I don’t have that feeling of someone invading my personal space. Adam’s touch feels good. No, it’s better than good. His touch feels like home.
He steps in even closer and slides his hands down to the cuffs of my coat. He tells me again to breathe.
This time I listen. I inhale, long and deep. And something smells…familiar.
“I smell something,” I say. Something sweet and spicy that prickles at the back of my mind. I can almost remember it.
Adam laughs. “All right.”
Just like that, I get it. This clean mix of soap and leather and cinnamon—it’s him. This is Adam’s smell. And it’s curling in my mind like a memory.
“Just wait,” I say, and for some crazy reason, I take his hand.
His skin is warm and rough, though it can’t be thirty degrees out here. But he’s not cold. His strong fingers wrap around mine without a bit of hesitation. This time, I don’t think about how insane it is to touch him. All I can think about is that image I saw today. The one that sent me running to Maggie’s house in the first place.
I close my eyes and grip Adam’s hand tighter, trying to focus.
The picture forms in my mind again, and I exhale slowly, willing it to move.
Nothing.
“Chloe—”
“Please,” I whisper. “Just give me a second.”
He doesn’t owe me a second, or anything else, and I feel my cheeks going hot. I know I’m being weird, but he sighs and stays still. His fingers go soft, sliding until they interlace with mine. Our palms close together, and I shiver though I don’t feel cold at all.