Maggie picks at her own plate and frowns. “Maybe none of it really means anything. I don’t understand why you’re trying t-to make sense of it, Chlo.”
“Because she doesn’t make sense. Schizophrenia doesn’t come on like that. It comes on slowly, like over months or even years. It doesn’t just crop up at the end of one summer.” I push away my plate, my appetite lost. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s another reason they left.”
“Or maybe this is a d-dead end, like I said. Julien has problems, Chlo. And I don’t know that we need to be d-digging around in her messed-up family d-dynamics anymore.”
The rest of our train ride passes in silence. Maggie listens to her music, and I watch the skyline, one interesting building after the next slipping past my window. I try not to think of Adam. And fail miserably.
I want to call him. I mean, I really want to. But all I can think about is our last phone call. And his extracurricular visit to the local pharmacy.
What a mess.
I want to hear his side of the story. Because I know he’s not a bad guy. His room, those college applications, that freaking wall of architecture? That has to mean something.
But there’s another part of me that knows an explanation isn’t going to fix this. My parents already think I’m crazy. And now I’m going to date the criminal my mom sewed up in the emergency room? They’ll ship me off to a boarding school for troubled children.
God, I just wish it didn’t feel so right—so easy with him. If it could just be hard, I’d walk away. But it’s not hard. It’s as simple as my own damn instinct, and that means more than whatever stupid thing he did two years ago.
I’ll have to worry about the fallout with my parents later. I have to call him.
As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I spring out of my seat and into the narrow aisle, waving at Maggie to let her know I’m stepping away. I answer it without even looking, positive it’s him.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Chloe. It’s Blake.”
“Oh.” I sound every bit as disappointed as I am. I try again, clearing my throat. “Oh, hey.”
It’s not much better, but I don’t care. I’m not ready for this call today. Or ever, really. I reach for the wall beside me, bracing myself as the train rocks over the tracks. I’m pretty sure he’ll hear the background noise, so I can’t just hang up.
“So how’ve you been?” he asks.
His tone seems casual enough, but I feel like tiny invisible bugs are crawling up and down my arms.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Is something wrong?”
He laughs a little. “No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about you and thought I’d give you a call. Day before Thanksgiving and all.”
“Right,” I say, shaking my head a little. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you. Though yours will probably be more interesting than mine since you’re spending it in San Diego of all places.”
My heart stops beating. I’m sure of it. My mouth drops open, but I can’t form a single word right now because I’m completely paralyzed.
“I’m sorry?” I finally manage, because I had to have misheard him. I’m paranoid or tired or something.
He laughs as if it’s all very funny. “Your mom told me when I called this morning. I asked if I could bring by a pie, and she told me you were in San Diego.”
No, she didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said that because she has no idea I’m in San Diego. According to my mother, I’m in the Ritz-Carlton in Los Angeles and we told Maggie’s mother that we were heading out to some botanical garden for the day. Not once, did the words San or Diego exit either of our mouths.
“So how’s the weather?” he asks.
“Warm,” I say, croaking it out despite my now-roiling stomach.
I will not throw up. I will not throw up or pass out, and I will not start screaming. My hand feels slick with sweat on my phone. Someone’s coming toward me in the narrow little corridor, so I have to get out of the way.
“Sounds great. I’ve never been lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving in California.”
I force a laugh, but it’s worse than the canned stuff they play on sitcoms. His is as flat and as stale as mine and all I can think is how? How does he know where I am?
“So what are you doing all the way down there?”
My self-preservation kicks in, and the lies come pouring out of me. “Oh, this and that. Checking out the bay. I’ll probably come back with a killer tan.”
He murmurs something agreeable, and it’s horrible and awkward and I can’t believe either of us are acting like this isn’t completely transparent.
“Well, I really should go,” I say. “We’re about to grab lunch.”
“Sure,” he says, and I know full well he doesn’t believe me. “Oh, and happy Thanksgiving, Chloe. You’ve got a lot to be grateful for this year, don’t you?”
“This year?”
“Well, everything is different for you now, isn’t it?”
There’s something to his tone I don’t like. Hell, there isn’t a thing about this phone call I do like, but this little preachy undertone grates me like a brick of cheese.
I guess he thinks last year was just too tragic. What with my second-rate social and academic rankings, I probably should have just stabbed myself with the wishbone and done the world a favor.
“Oh, I’m grateful all right,” I say. My voice is so sickly sweet, I could pass for a flight attendant. I keep it up, like poisoned honey, as we exchange our good-byes.
I stare at the screen on my phone for a long time after he disconnects. One of the attendants asks me to take my seat. I point at the restroom like a mute and stumble toward it on legs that feel like cooked noodles.
The bathroom is cramped and loud, and I know I can’t hide here the rest of the way back. But I can’t tell Maggie. Our lunch made it pretty clear what she thinks of my conspiracy theories.
I palm my phone, knowing who I want to call. I can’t push the idea out of my head.
It takes me two minutes to gather the courage. I half expect myself to dial the number and immediately hang up, but that’s never been my style. Once I dial, I press the phone to my ear and square my shoulders.
Adam’s phone rings to voice mail after four rings. I wait a minute and call back again. This time, it goes straight to voice mail. And I’m not too stupid to know what that means. Call rejected. Chloe rejected.
I think this must be what it feels like to be slapped.
I return to my seat feeling like there’s a gaping hole where my important parts should be. Mags looks up briefly, returning to her notes without noticing my expression or even asking where I’ve been.
It wouldn’t matter if she asks. She’d only think I was crazy if I tried to explain it.
And maybe I am. Maybe I’m every bit as lost as Julien now.
Chapter Twenty-four
After eating for what feels like twelve straight hours on Thanksgiving Day, we take the red-eye home. We land at oh-dark-thirty Friday morning. Instead of getting sleep like a sane person, I change my clothes and brush my teeth and spend an hour reciting fun-filled antics of our trip to my parents.
And then I head out the door on the pretense of celebrating my early ungrounding with some Black Friday shopping.
Of course, I’m not going shopping. Unless I plan to buy a pack of gum from the convenience store across the street from Adam’s apartment.
Mrs. Corwin’s cat has probably barfed up things that look better than I do right now, but vanity will have to wait. And so will my wishy-washy pros and cons list about what I’m doing with Adam. This isn’t about that. It’s about Julien.
She needs help and she asked me. Which means I need to remember. And other than that brief moment holding hands with Julien in California, the only person who’s made me remember anything is sitting inside this apartment.
I knock and wait at least a minute before knocking again. Adam answers maybe a half second before I lose my nerve and bolt. If I was worried about my looks, I needn’t have bothered. He’s sporting four or five days of stubble at least and eyes so red I wonder if he’s slept since I’ve been gone.