Текст книги "Follow Me Back"

Автор книги: A. Meredith Walters

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

chapter

eight

aubrey

we ended up going to a bar downtown that was a regular hangout for the LU crowd. I hadn’t made a habit of frequenting the place, because I wasn’t much on socializing in general.

I had never been the type of student to play beer pong at frat parties or do keg stands until I passed out. When we were freshmen, Renee had dragged me to several parties, but I had typically spent my night hanging awkwardly by the door like the stereotypical wallflower.

I was on my third Sam Adams and was experiencing the fuzzy light-headedness that meant I was slightly inebriated. A little sloppy and very giggly drunk.

“God, they suck!” I yelled into Brooks’s ear as we watched a crappy band play their instruments really badly on the small stage at the back of the room. They were butchering Led Zeppelin’s “Tangerine” into something almost unintelligible.

Renee’s new “friend,” Iain, had shown up and they had gone off to play a game of pool. She hadn’t answered me when I had asked her whether she had called him. She played it coy, refusing to acknowledge that she was enjoying his company as much as it seemed that she was.

I knew that to acknowledge that she was opening herself to someone who wasn’t Devon seemed impossible right now. But I was happy to see that she was trying.

So maybe I should follow her example.

The suggestion to find a stranger seemed entirely too daunting. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy the company of the person I had come with. And right now, with more than a little bit of alcohol in my system, I found myself pulled in by the comfortable familiarity of the man who sat on the stool beside me.

Brooks bobbed his head up and down in time to the music. He had also had several mixed drinks, though he didn’t seem to be remotely drunk. It was clear that he was a lot more used to it than I was. Brooks looked over at me, his eyes twinkling. “They’re not so bad. At least they know who Led Zeppelin is,” he joked, referencing my lack of rock history knowledge when we had first started dating.

He had been horrified when he had played Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy album and I had asked who they were. As I was growing up, my parents had subjected me to all manner of country music. As a teenager I was more likely to listen to Top 40 than to the Rolling Stones. After that he had made it his mission to educate me on the finer points of rock and roll, forcing me to know every song by Jimi Hendrix and the names of every member of the Who.

And I could now consider myself properly schooled. I smacked his leg and then let my hand rest there, not moving it away. “Shut up. I know who they are now,” I slurred a bit. My hand felt clammy against the fabric of Brooks’s jeans. I thought I felt his muscles clench beneath my palm and I dug my fingers in slightly.

Leaning in toward Brooks, I reached over his arm, purposefully brushing my breast against his bare skin, and grabbed his Jack and Coke and took a drink. I made a face and handed it back. “That’s disgusting,” I sputtered, licking my lips in a slow, exaggerated gesture. I was being shameless. But I was committed to throwing myself into a good time with my very available friend if it killed me.

Brooks laughed, his face looking almost pained. He placed his hand on top of mine. For just a moment, he lingered, and it felt strange. I didn’t understand what I was doing or why I was doing it. But I did know that for right now, that horrible emptiness inside of me had disappeared.

I tried not to feel embarrassed when Brooks lifted my hand and placed it carefully on my own leg. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t touch me again, and I felt myself flush in silent mortification.

“Brooks—” I began, but he cut me off.

“You think they’d play ‘Cinnamon Girl’ if I asked them to?” Brooks had gone back to bobbing his head in time to the music.

I looked at him and knew exactly what he was doing. He was giving me my out so that I wouldn’t feel weird about whatever strange pickup move I had just attempted on him. I wanted to be ashamed, but there was something about Brooks that wouldn’t let me be.

“Maybe. But do you think your ears can handle the massacre of your favorite song? Because that dude up there ain’t no Neil Young,” I said, moving past my discomfort.

“Let’s go ask. Come on.” Brooks hopped down from his stool and headed toward the stage. He took my hand and tugged me through the crowd. We were able to convince the wannabe rockers to play “Cinnamon Girl,” and then we were dancing. Very, very badly. Because dancing and Neil Young ballads didn’t really work.

I remembered seeing Brooks dance with Courtney at Compulsion and thinking how horrible his moves were, even in a place where style and technique weren’t required. But I didn’t care. Because we were having fun.

Renee and Iain joined us, and even though they danced with us in a group, I could see the way they turned toward each other. Iain was smitten, and it was obvious that Renee was losing the battle to not be smitten in return. Things were pretty freaking awesome.

And then it all went to shit.

My phone started buzzing in my pocket and I looked around at my friends, knowing they were the only people who ever called me. I pulled it out and looked down at the screen in the dim lighting and frowned at the unfamiliar number. It was local, but not one that I recognized. I hit ignore and shoved it back into my pocket, thinking it must be a wrong number.

“Who was it?” Brooks asked.

I shrugged. “No clue,” I said as he swung me around in a circle. I laughed, feeling the threads of something that felt distinctly like happiness curl around me.

Then my phone started buzzing again.

I pulled it out of my pocket and saw the same number flash across the screen.

“Maybe you should answer it. It might be important if they keep calling,” Brooks said.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll just go outside for a minute. See if they’ll play some Backstreet Boys when they’re finished,” I said, grinning, knowing Brooks’s aversion to all things pop.

“Never!” he yelled as I started to push my way through the crowd.

My phone stopped buzzing and I waited to see if whoever was trying to reach me would leave me a message. I paused by the back entrance to the bar, staring down at my phone, feeling strangely apprehensive. Then it lit up again as the number blazed across the screen. I walked out the back door and into the cool night air, feeling some of the alcohol haze clear.

“Hello?” I said, sounding a little out of breath. There was an endless moment in which no one said anything and I wondered whether I was right and it was a wrong number.

And then the person spoke and I wished like hell I had never picked up the damn phone in the first place. Followed by the inevitable self-loathing for thinking that at all.

“Hey, Aubrey,” Maxx said quietly, though I could hear him as clearly as if he were standing next to me.

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t say anything.

I wanted to ask him where he was. To demand answers to the questions that had been plaguing me. I wanted to yell at him, to know why he was ruining the first night in forever where I was actually feeling normal. A thousand uncontrollable emotions flashed their way through my mind, flittering in and out before I could figure out what I was actually feeling. Though I recognized homicidal rage and bone-deep desire mixed up with the rest.

“Are you there?” Maxx asked, sounding small and unsure. I leaned against the wall, needing it to hold me up before I fell.

“I’m here,” I answered. The weight of those words was not lost on me. Nor how much of a lie they really were.

“Oh, well, that’s cool. I thought you might have hung up. Not that I’d blame you,” Maxx said, clearly nervous. We fell into silence like we had so many times before. But there was nothing comfortable about this quiet. The heaviness of unspoken words pulled us both down. What did he want me to say to that? Did he want me to disagree with him? Because that wasn’t going to happen.

I had every right to hang up on him. Just as he had every right to be angry with me. We both had a right to be a twisted, complicated mess of angry, bitter, and hurt feelings. But instead I felt this sad sort of numbness, as though all of my emotions had been bled out of me.

I looked around the dingy alleyway behind the bar and thought of how much it looked like the place where Jayme had been found. What a strange time to think about that. But of course I thought about her as I heard Maxx’s voice for the first time in weeks. They had become intricately twined together in my mind. The loss of each merging together until it was hard to differentiate one from the other.

“What do you want, Maxx?” was all I could manage to say. I sank to the ground, my head falling back and connecting with the concrete behind me as I slumped against the wall. The sharp bite of gravel underneath my legs cleared the last of the alcohol from my head.

“I just needed to hear your voice. I wanted to know how you were doing. I hoped you’d want to know how I was. I’m in rehab, you know. I decided to check myself in. Just like you wanted me to.” The relief that I felt at his words was violent and almost painful. Maxx was in rehab. This is what I had hoped he’d do.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to shout out in jubilation. And I wanted to run far away from the momentary elation his admission brought me. Because while I was glad to find out the reason for his prolonged absence, I was also scared that this inopportune phone call would completely throw me.

“So how are you, Aubrey? I think about you every second of every day. I miss you,” he breathed out softly.

He missed me. Why were my traitorous lips smiling at his confession? I blanked my face and then sighed, feeling the prick of anger take the place of irrational pleasure at hearing his voice again. “Do you want me to lie and say I’ve been great? That I’ve taken up yoga and have finally finished that crossword puzzle I had been struggling with?” I spat out, my voice layered in bitter sarcasm.

Maxx chuckled nervously. “No, I want you to tell me the truth,” he said, sounding less and less like the confident man I had known before. I thought back to that day months ago when I had first seen him. He had been a force of nature. Magnetic and irresistible. A man who was self-assured and in control.

And while I had been drawn to his confidence, it was his vulnerability that had made me fall in love with him. That very same vulnerability that was now coming through the phone.

I should hang up.

I shouldn’t sit here on the dirty ground listening to his sad voice and feeling the way my heart flipped over in my chest.

But I couldn’t get over the fact that I felt as though I owed him something. That after everything he had been through, he needed some sort of compassion from me after I had refused to stay by his side.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t give him a taste of exactly what he had put me through.

“The truth is, Maxx, things suck. Does that make you feel better?” I asked coldly.

“No, it doesn’t, Aubrey,” Maxx said quietly, and the sound of my name on his tongue made me shudder involuntarily. “I hate that I’ve made things worse for you. I hate that you wouldn’t give me the chance to prove to you that I can make things better.” He didn’t sound angry or upset. He just sounded resigned, and that was almost worse.

I swallowed back the tears that I wouldn’t allow to fall. I stared up at the streetlight until my eyes burned. I bit my lip so it wouldn’t tremble and I wouldn’t speak until I was sure I could do so without wobbling.

“I can’t do this, Maxx. I told you before that I can’t. I’m not sure what you’re looking for from me, by calling after all this time, but I can tell you I can’t give it. I won’t.” I sounded so sure. So steady. It was all a goddamned lie.

“Is this some sort of ‘making amends’ assignment? Because I can assure you it’s not necessary.” I sounded hard and unforgiving. Which I knew was the last thing he needed, given what he was undoubtedly experiencing. But I also knew that if I opened myself up to him, that if I showed him a moment’s kindness, that it would be a quick and ferocious fall right back to where I was a few short weeks ago. And I just couldn’t do that to myself.

The back door of the bar opened and Brooks poked his head out. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me sitting on the cold ground, my phone pressed to my ear. I could only imagine what my face looked like.

“You okay?” he mouthed. I forced myself to smile and nod my head. I covered the phone with my hand.

“I’ll be back inside in a minute. Order me another beer, would ya?” I said, trying to act normal and unaffected.

Brooks, of course, wasn’t fooled. He took a step out into the alleyway. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, a little louder this time.

“Aubrey, are you still there?” Maxx’s voice danced into my ear, bouncing around in my head.

I removed my hand from the receiver. “Yeah, just hang on a sec,” I told him a bit tersely before turning back to Brooks.

“Just my mom,” I whispered to my friend, rolling my eyes and affecting a grimace.

Brooks pulled a face. “Ugh, sorry. I’ll order you two beers,” he said with a smile that I really appreciated right then.

I gave him a thumbs-up as Brooks left me alone.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” I said, returning to Maxx, who had waited silently on the other end.

“Who was that?” he asked quietly, and I recognized the tone clearly. He was jealous. And hurt. And there was a hint of betrayal as well. Which pissed me off.

“That was Brooks, all right? Not that I should have to explain that to you,” I replied grumpily.

“Oh, your friend. Right,” Maxx said, sounding relieved.

“Well, if you’re finished asking about my social life, I really need to go,” I said, wanting to get off the phone. And also not wanting to get off the phone. I wanted to run away and I wanted to stay exactly where I was.

Which had always been the strange dichotomy of my feelings for Maxx. He instigated a swirling, manic sort of confusion that consumed me.

I was trying really hard to be a woman who could learn from her mistakes. Not dive headfirst back into them.

I had also hoped that three weeks would harden my heart a bit more than they had.

“Aubrey, please. I know this will sound incredibly selfish, and I know you will probably say no, but I want to see you. I want to look at you and tell you how sorry I am. I need to see you and know that I didn’t ruin everything.” His words were a plea that was incredibly hard to resist.

His request both shocked and thrilled me.

I couldn’t see him. It would undo everything I was fighting so hard to rebuild.

What would be the point of reopening wounds that were only just now starting to heal? I was walking on this path with a clear and distinct destination. And as things stood, there was no place for Maxx Demelo in Aubrey Duncan’s new world order.

But . . .

Ugh! There it was . . . the doubt. The second-guessing. The brief hesitation and unwillingness to say no.

He’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do. How can you punish him for that? the obnoxiously romantic girlie voice inside of me trilled loudly.

You’re making a life for yourself without him. Don’t let Maxx derail you now that you’ve finally made peace with your disastrous choices! the stern, rational voice yelled, drowning out my other arguments.

“I know you made your decision . . . but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. It doesn’t change the fact that I have a hole in my heart where you belong. I miss you. I just . . . I want to see you. Just to say a proper good-bye, I guess.”

My jaded bitterness cackled in disbelief. He was so full of shit. His words smacked of emotional manipulation. But my heart could only remember the way he made my pulse race when he touched me.

“I don’t know, Maxx.” I heard the wavering.

“Please. Visiting hours are on Sunday afternoons, one to three. It really would mean a lot to me.”

I chewed on my lip and rubbed at the sore spot in my chest. “Where are you?” I asked tiredly, wanting a few more answers before I ended the call.

“I’m at Barton House. Do you know where that is?” he asked, and I nodded, though I realized he couldn’t see me.

“Yeah, it’s that place outside of the city. On the farm, right?”

“Yeah, on the farm,” Maxx confirmed.

“So do they have you raising chickens and herding cows or something?” I asked, and tried really hard not to smile at the sound of Maxx’s deep, rich laugh.

“Thank God, no! Can you imagine me in shit kickers growing wheat or something? I’m not cut out for that crap.” I started to laugh, too, and it felt good.

Too good.

And I realized that was something we hadn’t done much of during our short yet intense relationship. We had been together for only a few months, but in some ways it had felt like years. We hadn’t had a whole lot of time for laughing and joking and just being two people enjoying each other. We had been consumed by things far darker.

“I don’t think I can, Maxx. I’m working really hard to move on. And this phone call, going to see you, that would be the worst thing for both of us,” I said finally, breaking the moment of easy familiarity we had been dangerously close to slipping into.

“The worst thing for me? Or the worst thing for you?” he asked, sounding a little angry but as if he was trying hard not to be.

“For both of us. I don’t see how seeing me can help you right now. We did nothing but hurt each other. That isn’t a place you need to revisit when it seems like you’re trying to get yourself together,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to put voice to that painful truth.

But it needed to be said. Even if stating the obvious hurt just as badly as the first time I had left him. “I can’t save you, Maxx. I never could.”

“I’m not asking you to save me, Aubrey. I’m just asking you to come and see me. To give me something—” He cut himself off and there was a brief moment of silence, and in that quiet I regretted ever answering the phone. “I’m sorry. This isn’t fair. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll let you go. Forget I called,” he murmured.

I snorted in disbelief. Unfortunately for me, forgetting was something I’d never be able to do. Then, because I couldn’t stand the thought of Maxx berating himself, I had to say something. “Maxx, it’s okay. I understand . . . I’m just not ready . . . I just think—” I was making excuses when I shouldn’t. I was trying to justify things that shouldn’t need justification.

“No, it’s fine. Take care of yourself, Aubrey. And I’m sorry. For everything.” His voice broke. “I love you, Aubrey. Always,” he whispered, and then I heard the soft click and the line went dead.

I dropped the phone on the ground and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t cry, but I couldn’t stop shaking. And I felt the loss of him all over again.

chapter

nine

maxx

“is your brother coming today?” Pete asked, and I had to stop myself from groaning out loud. Why did he ask me that every single Sunday, when the answer was always the same? Today was visiting day. My most dreaded day of the week. And the need to flee was there¸ prickling my insides.

I didn’t bother to answer him. I swallowed my annoyed hurt and continued to focus on the notebook in my lap. My hands were coated in oil pastels. Having the time and focus to immerse myself in my art was one of the most positive things to come out of this experience. It had never been a habit I spent a lot of time developing. I wasn’t the tortured artist who slaved over a picture to hang on my wall or something. The whole street art thing had happened purely by accident.

When I was young and fucked up, I had been hanging out with a bunch of dudes who thought tagging buildings downtown was a fun use of our time. They had handed me a can of spray paint and had left me to my vandalism. They had been busy writing dumb shit like Born in East LA and pathetic versions of gang signs. I painted a dead tree with fire for leaves. It wasn’t great by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a hell of a lot cooler than the stuff my so-called friends were spraying on the walls.

We had been chased away by a store owner who threatened to call the cops. The next week we had been walking by and I noticed all of the tagging had been erased—except for my tree. The store owner had never painted over it. In fact, it stayed there for years, until it had finally faded away.

I remember feeling a huge sense of pride in that. Even though, to most people, it would have been vandalism, that shop owner had seen something in my crude, amateurish drawing that he had liked. And that guy had made me feel, without ever saying a word to me, like maybe what I had created was worth something. To a fifteen-year-old boy who had recently lost his parents and was struggling with his sudden responsibility of caring for and worrying about a younger brother, that sort of confidence boost was a big deal.

But for some reason, I could never let myself get lost in painting on a canvas or drawing on a piece of paper. I had actually failed art class in high school. My teacher had called me uninspired and lacking focus.

It was the story of my fucking life.

But then enter Gash and the club, and that strange talent for graffiti took hold once again and it allowed me to express myself in a way I had never been able to before. And again, people took notice. Gash had loved the visibility it gave the club and the increase in revenue my little scavenger hunt produced. It had become the one bright spot in that whole ugly, sordid world.

A few gallery owners had even put the word out that they were looking for X. My secret identity. My alter ego. The man who had drawn the women on fire and the hands of God that were strewn about the city. Street art was edgy and dark and oh so hip. And these guys wanted a piece of that culturally relevant pie. I had even called one of them once, just to hear what he had to say.

The guy was with a local gallery. He had tracked me down through the club, and because I was a greedy bastard, I had jumped at the chance to make some serious scratch. He wanted me to bring a sampling of my art. I had thrown together a pathetic mess of crappy canvases that barely represented what I was capable of, high on my own ego and confident that my talent was unparalleled.

I remember taking a handful of pills before hopping into the taxi. I stumbled my way into the gallery, barely aware of what was going on. The guy, Tatum Randall, had been displeased when I had thrown my shitty work down on a table and slurred, “What’ll you give me for these?”

I had to give Mr. Randall some credit. He didn’t laugh at me or throw my sad ass out on the street. He picked up each canvas and looked at it. I was so fucked up I barely recognized the look of disappointment on his face. And more important, I really didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, X, I’m not interested in these,” Mr. Randall had said, putting the canvases back on the table.

I had scoffed and pointed to some of the paintings on the wall. “I could shit on a piece of paper and it would look a hell of a lot better than this stuff.” I remember having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

Mr. Randall had frowned at me. “Are you all right?”

I waved off his question. “So are you going to pay me or what?”

Mr. Randall had shaken his head. “I contacted you because when I saw your street art, I knew there was something special there. But this—” He indicated the pile of half-assed work I had produced. “This is not something I could promote. And clearly you aren’t prepared to take this seriously.”

I had tried to sit up straighter, but my bones were like liquid. I remember feeling as though I could sink into the chair. I was having a hard time focusing on Mr. Randall or the fact that I was flushing this perfectly wonderful opportunity straight down the toilet.

Mr. Randall had sighed. “I’ll call you a cab.”

And right before I left, using Mr. Randall as support because my legs had stopped functioning at some point, the middle-aged gallery owner had looked at me with mild disgust. “If you ever get yourself together, maybe we could have a conversation.” He had practically shoved me into the back of the cab.

“But I can’t invest in someone who won’t invest in themselves. Good luck, X, or whatever your name is.” And that had been the last I had heard from Mr. Tatum Randall.

I hadn’t thought much at the time about how monumental that rejection was. I was fixated on the drugs. And the club. And being the god of the dark and seedy. But now I cringed as I remembered what an ignorant fool I had been.

After that, my art had returned to being that thing I did to get noticed. It was firmly entrenched in the world of Compulsion.

But then Aubrey came along and I found that my art could mean something else.

It could be about something else.

Confining my art to paper had never been something I was particularly good at. It had always looked like shit. And I wasn’t really accustomed to creating anything without being stoned. I couldn’t remember the last time I had picked up a brush when things weren’t fuzzy.

At first it had been a major trigger. The counselors here were big into art therapy and so we were made to spend a lot of time drawing our feelings. I had hated it. It felt wrong.

And every time I had tried, I felt the shadows of withdrawal. I never flipped out. I never lost my head. But I couldn’t draw anything.

Until I thought of Aubrey. And then words alone weren’t enough to express how I was feeling.

I remembered the time I had taken gallons of paint and drew the broken mirror on the sidewalk out in front of her apartment building. I remembered how pathetic and desperate I had felt. I had needed her to see how much I loved her. How much I needed her. How essential she was to my very existence. I also remembered how fucking high I had been.

But now, being stone cold sober, drawing her released the stuff pent up inside of me. All of the anger and disappointment and longing that I couldn’t give voice to. I had been conditioned over my short lifetime to keep it all bottled up and tucked away. Feelings were messy and I didn’t have time for all of that.

But then I had met a woman who had made it impossible for me to hold anything back. And now, here at rehab, struggling to make things work, all I wanted to do was draw it. To put out there all the things I couldn’t say. For the first time in my life, my art evolved. It was about me getting my head together. About focusing on what I was going to do with my life. How I could change for the better.

And I became sort of addicted to my art, like a placeholder for the drugs or something.

I smoothed the shadowed edge of the round cheek I had just drawn. My fingers caressed the lengths of long blond hair on the page. The picture was so accurate I could almost imagine Aubrey was here. In the flesh. It filled me with warmth to draw her. To paint her. To see her in my mind and to let my fingers create her. I could hold her close like this.

Forever.

I continued to smudge the line of Aubrey’s jaw I had just put on paper. If I closed my eyes, maybe I could pretend it was her. Delusions were my new best friend.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” Pete asked, clearly not getting the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for company. I was trying really hard to keep my mind off the fact that I had asked Aubrey to come today and she had said no.

I closed the notebook and tucked it under my pillow.

“Nothing,” I remarked, getting to my feet.

“Where are you going? The garden is off-limits; that’s where visiting hours are being held today,” Pete told me, putting some authority in his voice.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” I walked past Pete, ignoring his continued attempts at conversation. The common room was empty. Either everyone had visitors, or those who didn’t were holed up, depressed, in their rooms. It sucked being one of the few people without anyone to see them. But I refused to feel sorry for myself. I had lived most of my life alone. What else was new?

Unfortunately for me, I had been given a taste of what it felt like to share your life with someone who loved you. And I had gravitated toward it. I had held on to it, crushing it in my hands. And ultimately I had destroyed it.

Now I was left with the memory of what might have been. And that was so much worse than not knowing it at all. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was already 2:00. Only one more hour and I could pretend that visiting day had never happened. At least until next week, when I was reminded once again that no one would be coming to see me.

“Maxx, there you are.”

I looked up to find Stacey standing in the doorway.

“You looking for me?” I asked, flipping the channels on the television, already cursing myself for choosing such an obvious place to hide out for the next hour.

“Yes! You have a visitor. She’s waiting out in the garden,” she said, waving a hand for me to follow her.

I sat there, staring at her like an idiot.

She’s waiting.

“What?” I asked, not quite believing her. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what she was saying. When I had been admitted to Barton House, I had put only two names on my allowed visitors list.

Aubrey Duncan and Landon Demelo.

That was it.

“Who is it?” I asked, almost scared of the answer I would be given.

“She said her name was Aubrey. We checked your file and she’s an allowed visitor. Is that okay? Are you all right with that?” Stacey looked at me with concern.

My heart thudded in my chest and for a moment I thought I might pass out.

Fucking hell, she came. I looked at Stacey, who was watching me closely. I knew she was waiting for me to freak the fuck out.

And she had every right to be worried, because I was feeling mildly hysterical. On the inside, of course.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said, not sure I was telling the truth.

Aubrey had come.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I followed Stacey down the hall and out to the garden. I squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight and shivered in my thin T-shirt. Damn, I should have grabbed a coat. It was cold out here. And then I forgot about the cold. I forgot about the counselor who still stood beside me analyzing with her squinty eyes. Because there she was.