“From what I understand,” Anand says, “Dane had some sort of fall from grace, and he and Charlie didn’t talk much after that. They both moved around a lot, you know. They weren’t always even in school on the same continent. Charlie stayed more often with their mother, Dane with their father. But they got back in touch, I know that.” Anand goes on, but his words seem to merge into a soft, lulling drone. I look across the table at Aubrey. She’s sipping her tea in this really relaxed manner, her shoulders slightly slumped.
“I’m so tired.” I force out the words but they sound jumbled up, and Aubrey nods dreamily.
“Maybe you ought to get to bed,” Anand suggests from somewhere far away. “We can continue our talk in the morning once you’ve had some rest. You girls have had a trying day.” Trying day. It turns into trying way, try to stay, hit the hay. My eyelids begin to droop. I struggle to stand and find myself collapsing backwards into Anand’s waiting arms. When did he stand up from the table? When did he move behind me?
“Aubrey?” I murmur. I try to lift my lids but they won’t cooperate. Instead, I peer out from beneath their narrow slits, but I don’t see Aubrey anywhere. I try to jerk my arm back, out of Anand’s grip, but it’s like I’m wading through water, or thick sludge. Nothing’s working the way it should.
“Shhh,” Anand whispers in my ear. His breath, hot against my skin, makes me recoil inwardly, but outwardly my limbs feel like wet clay. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “She already went to bed. Let me help you.” I have no choice. I let Anand lead me back to the bedroom, where Aubrey is sprawled across the bed, face-down and fully clothed, snoring loudly. Anand eases me onto the bed next to her and again I make efforts to move my body away from him. His hands leave my shoulders. He moves toward the door and reaches for the light switch. I try to watch him, but I feel myself drifting from consciousness. Aubrey’s snores intensify beside me.
“Sleep tight,” Anand whispers, and the light goes out.
16
Aubrey
Charlie reaches for the slim front pocket in my messenger bag; I slap his hand away. I’ve slapped his hand away from that very leather pocket half a dozen times now and each time he’s retreated, a scowl darkening his handsome features. This time, he pushes further. “What are you hiding?” he asks, his voice low.
“Nothing.” My face flushes. “Why is it so inconceivable to you that I might not be hiding something?” Still, my heart accelerates. I fight to steady my hands where they grip the magnetic clasp. My knuckles are white. I’m hiding far more than he suspects.
“You carry that thing with you all the time. You’re hiding something. This breakup, it’s . . . it’s out of nowhere.” Charlie’s face is hard, his eyes dark. I expected him to break down when I told him about Adam. I wasn’t expecting this denial.
“You know it’s not,” I whisper. I’ve given him so many reasons already, but still he’s fighting it. I can’t remember when I started waking up with a weight pressing on my chest. I don’t know whether it was before Adam or after, but it’s definitely not just about Adam. For months now, something about my relationship with Charlie hasn’t felt right. But all of that has nothing to do with what’s happening now—with what’s inside my bag.
“You’re hiding something.” He clutches the bag where I do, his hand resting partially on mine and partially on the frayed leather folds. “You pull it into bed with you. You don’t let it go. There’s something in there that matters. Fucking tell me, Aubrey. Tell me so I don’t have to force it out of you.” My face flushes again; my head begins to ache. I think about what I’m supposed to tell him. I come up blank. What is in the bag? For a second, I forget. For a second, I really don’t know. It happens sometimes like that, when I get angry or scared: I black out. I have a hard time remembering the most important things.
Then it floods back, and the pain of it makes me wince. My senses flood with the memory of what happened that night, three weeks ago: The wheels screeching, the smell of rubber on asphalt. The form of an old man, splayed and broken. Littered on the roadside like trash.
Reflexively, I move my hand to my brow. In that second he grabs my bag and yanks it toward him. Its contents spill across the floor: a lipstick, some receipts, a course catalogue for Georgetown. He rummages through the front pocket. The scene runs through my head on repeat:
Striking something large in the middle of the road—a deer, maybe. Dead already? It was just lying there.
The tires of my parents’ car squealing as I swerve after the impact. Tears coating my cheeks. Blood clotting on my forehead from where it hit the dash.
Pulling over, clutching the handle of the door, poised to climb out. Squinting at the large, motionless lump. Hesitating. Paralyzed by fear. What if it wasn’t a deer?