“Hello?” It’s as hollow as ever, but it’s her voice.
I hit the “end” button and feel relief wash over me. Kacey’s still here. She’s still hanging on. That’s all I can hope for right now. I can feel the folded note in my back pocket, the one that maybe I’ll be able to give her one day. Maybe. But Stayner’s right; it’s not fair that I seek her out for my own healing.
So I’ll stay away from her.
For now.
Chapter 16
September 2010
Her hands rub the transfer onto my back with slow, smooth swipes. “What language is this?”
“Latin.”
“Huh . . . Sit up straight. Is this good?”
I follow her instructions and use the mirror in front to see the reflection in the one she’s holding up to my shirtless back. The heavy black lettering stretches from blade to blade. “Perfect.”
“Okay, Trent. Ready for your first tattoo?” I see the sparkle in her gaze, the sensual curve of her smile, as she holds the tattoo gun in one hand. I wonder if she’d still be giving me those fuck-me eyes if she knew I was in an inpatient rehab for attempted suicide only a few months ago.
Not that it matters. My attention is on one girl now and I won’t let it get divided.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
■ ■ ■
“Hello?” Impatience fills her voice.
And I immediately break out in a sweat. “Is James there?”
“James? No. There is no James at this number. Learn how to dial!” Full irritation now. But she’s sober. I’ve called on three different Saturday nights and she’s been coherent each time. That says something. Maybe her spiral has stopped. Maybe she’s getting better.
I need to know.
She hangs up on me, as she has the last two times I phoned and asked for James.
The next call I make is to Rich. “Hey! Cole! How’s it going?”
I grit my teeth but say nothing. Rich knows me as Cole. That’s never going to change and I can’t expect him to just start calling me by something different. Stayner helped me rationalize that. Holding onto some ties to my past, as much as I’m not really that guy anymore, will keep me grounded. “I’m good.”
“I tried calling a couple times.” Did he hear what happened? I figure my mom might have told Derek’s mom. They still talk, occasionally.
“Sorry, man. I’ve been busy.” That’s not a lie. When Stayner’s clinic doors closed behind me, I stepped out, running. Within days I had located and attended my first PTSD support group. I go to it weekly. Through that, I’ve made connections with a local-area high school and two elementary schools. I’m in discussion to give presentations to some of the classes about the dangers of drinking and driving. I’ll probably shit my pants, but it’s something I need to do. Stayner was one hundred percent on the mark. I can’t change what happened, but I have a story to tell, one that could make an impact on other people’s lives. What better way to start making my amends?
“You’ve gotta come down again, soon.”
“Maybe in a few months?” It’s taken me everything not to jump in my car and head straight for a certain brick house just outside of Grand Rapids. But it’s too risky. I don’t know what seeing me would do to Kacey. Or what it might do to me.
“I’m still in the apartment. Decided to do my PhD.”
I chuckle. “Derek always said you didn’t want to join the real world.” It feels good, being able to share a laugh about my friend again, without my insides burning. “Listen, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Shoot. Whatever I can do to help.”
I hesitate. This idea of mine may be crazy—in fact, I know it is. I can’t recall exactly when I came up with it. Probably around the same time that I realized keeping tabs on her would be impossible from five hours away. “Do you still have that hacker friend of yours?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Why?”
“What does it cost to get into someone’s email account?”
Chapter 17
June 2011
“I’m glad I caught you.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“How’s condo hunting? Did you check out that neighborhood I was telling you about?”
I can hear the hopefulness in her voice. That neighborhood is a seven-minute drive from her house. When I first told her that I felt it was time to invest in a place of my own, she struggled to hide the panic. As well as I’m doing—genuinely; it’s not an act this time around—she still rushes to get home for dinner every night. She still calls me every afternoon if I haven’t called or texted her yet; I wake up to a door creak almost every night, sensing her hovering over my bed, listening to me breathe.
She never used to be like this. Stayner warned me to expect it. From both her and my dad. I’d get a lot of questions and concerned looks and general overprotectiveness, for a long time. They almost lost me, after all. Twice.
“Uh . . . yeah. We’ll see, Mom. Listen, I may stay over at a friend’s house tonight.”
“Oh? Which friend?”
“Mom.”
She sighs. “Right. Sorry. Okay, just text me so I don’t worry. I miss you.”
Between the courses I’m taking at a local college and all the work I’m doing—both for my mom and some freelance stuff for small businesses who can’t afford to run print ads but might need a logo or marketing pamphlet design—plus the weekly group sessions and M.A.D.D. stuff I’m involved in, and a healthy gym schedule, I’m barely home.
“I will. Love you.” The truth is, I’m getting to the point when I need more space, more freedom to come and go without explanation.
Without having to lie.
Like today, when I strolled out the door at six a.m., I had to tell her I was heading to the gym. I was lucky she didn’t ask why I had bothered showering. And now, here I am, almost six hours away in this Caledonia Starbucks, having lied to her. I’ve been here since noon, making myself comfortable in a back corner, with a steady stream of caffeine to keep me going, my laptop open in front of me.
Kacey Cleary’s private email in-box staring at me.
I should feel guilty about invading her privacy—a small part of me does—but I’m not doing it to hurt her. And, I have my limits. When Rich’s hacker connection offered to hack into the webcam that’s connected to her family’s home computer for an extra grand, I told him I’d hunt him down and beat the shit out of him if he did that.
What it’s given me is a small glimpse into Kacey Cleary. A small window. Not one that I could actually fit through, but at least now I know just a tiny bit about Kacey Cleary. Information that I jot down in a little notebook. Things I can’t possibly forget.
Like, that Kacey has no friends.
Well, maybe that’s not fair for me to say, but in the eight months since I’ve been keying the password “douchebags” into her Hotmail account, I haven’t seen a single email from a friend. Maybe they just don’t email each other.
To be honest, there isn’t much in her in-box for me to work with. Mostly spam, including all the counseling newsletters and support group information blasts I signed her up for. That she hasn’t bothered to even delete, let alone open.
I know that she finished her senior year of high school, even if it was a year late. Based on a few old emails from her counselor, requesting meetings to discuss her grades and what options she has for improving on them, she didn’t do it with flying colors. I have to commend her for not quitting, though. Not like I did.
I also know that she started working at Starbucks last summer. It sounds like she’s here almost every day now, picking up extra shifts every time this manager guy, Jake, emails her. They were only occasional emails at first, with just her schedule. But over the months, he’s begun tagging cheesy and borderline inappropriate jokes onto each request. It’s obvious to anyone that he’s flirting with her. At least, I see it.
That’s why I finally broke the rule I made on the day I was released and drove out here today. Because when I read this last message, I decided that I needed to know once and for all.
To: Kacey Cleary
From: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
Date: June 11, 2011