Текст книги "Fall Into Forever"

Автор книги: Beth Hyland

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

chapter eighteen

dream [noun]: a cherished hope; ambition; aspiration

Jon

The next few weeks fly by with midterms, study sessions, work and the occasional party. Why is it that when you’re doing something boring, time slows to a crawl and every passing minute is an eternity, but when you’re enjoying yourself and having a good time, it feels like it’s over before it really even starts?

As much as I love having Ivy here in the White House, I know she can’t stay here indefinitely. Cassidy’s already moved back to the dorm and Ivy’s stayed there a few times. But almost every day, I’m dreaming up some new excuse why she needs to spend the night with me, and they’re getting more and more ridiculous.

The other day, it was because I needed her help on a photography assignment. I’d already finished it, but I didn’t tell her that.

And today—don’t laugh—I got her to stay because of a bee sting. Although I really did get stung on my forearm this afternoon, it didn’t hurt that much. I just said it did to get her sympathy. And it worked. She applied a paste of baking soda and water, then kept me well supplied with ice packs so it didn’t swell. I probably didn’t have to use the bee sting excuse, because we’ve got people coming over to watch a movie tonight, so she’d be here late anyway.

“How’s the swelling, babe?” Ivy comes out of the kitchen holding a bowl of popcorn and another ice pack.

“Better, I think.”

“Oh good.”

The front door bangs open and footsteps pound through the entryway to where we’re gathered in the family room. Tate and James are holding two cases of beer and several bags of chips.

“What’s that fucking awesome smell?” James asks.

Cassidy comes out of the kitchen holding a heaping plate of brownies. “Is this what you’re smelling?”

“Fuck, yeah.” He grabs one and stuffs it in his mouth, then he grabs another. “Do you think someone’s started a Fuck Yeah Brownies Tumblr yet? Or maybe just Fuck Yeah Chocolate. Because if not, you totally should. These are that good.”

She laughs. “Thanks.”

The doorbell rings. It’s one of those sing-song chimes that you hear at old people’s houses. No one uses it much, but when they do, it strikes me as funny because a bunch of college guys live here now.

“Come in,” Rick yells, and a moment later Kelly and Reese step into the room.

I remove the ice pack from my arm. It’s easier being a wimp in front of my girlfriend than my buddies.

Reese grabs a beer. “So we’re watching Terminator? Which one?”

I grab a handful of popcorn. “The second one. It’s still playing on PSU Net and Ivy has never seen it.”

Reese holds his hand out to Kelly. “Come with me if you want to live,” he says, quoting a line from the movie.

“Wait, wait,” she says laughing. She lies on the floor and dons a panicked expression as she looks up at him. “Okay, say it again.”

He repeats the line and reaches down.

Warily, she takes his hand, and he pulls her to her feet. Everyone claps.

“Shut up, asshole,” Tate says in a monotone voice.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“What?” he says, eyes wide. “It’s a line from the movie. Don’t you remember?”

“Are you sure?” Rick glares at him.

“Yes, it’s when Arnold—” Tate throws up his hands. “No one ever believes me around here. Just wait. You’ll see.”

Ivy and I are cuddled up on the recliner together. James, Cassidy, and Tate are on the couch. Rick is in the other chair, while Kelly and Reese are in the giant beanbag with a blanket.

As the opening credits roll, Ivy shifts slightly. “I’m not really an Arnold fan. Not since he cheated on his wife.”

“Yeah, that sucked, but aren’t you supposed to separate the art from the artist?”

“Some things you just don’t screw up. If we were talking about my next-door neighbor, I’d say the same thing.”

“He’s an actor. All celebrities have fucked-up lives.” Trust me.

“I don’t care. It still makes me mad.”

I read once that some men are hard-wired to be cheaters. That it’s in our DNA. I know that’s probably a bunch of crap dreamed up by guys who cheat to help them justify their behavior, but what if it’s not? What if it is a legitimate Darwinian tendency, passed down from father to son?

She takes a drink of her beer. “Does this mean I’m slipping on the movie slash likeability scale?”

“Good thing you have other redeeming qualities that make up for it.”

She pokes me in the ribs.

“Ouch. Remember my bee sting.”

“You got stung in the arm.”

“Yeah, I know, but you might jostle it.”

The movie starts and we all settle in. When we get to the part where the kid is being chased by the semi truck, there’s a knock at the door. Pounding, actually.

“I’ll get it.”

I untangle myself from Ivy’s legs, walk to the front of the house, and open the door.

On the covered porch is a young woman, her face streaming with blood.

* * *

Ivy

The girl’s name is Leesa. Cassidy and I are standing on either side of her, holding her up. We tried to get her to sit, but she refused. Jon and James are hovering over her boyfriend, Mark, who’s lying out on the lawn. A wrecked blue car is in the ditch. Kelly is on the phone with the 9-1-1 operator.

“It happened so fast,” Leesa sobs. “We got out and then he just collapsed.”

“An ambulance is on its way,” Kelly says, phone to her ear.

“Is there someone we can call?” I ask Leesa. “Your parents?”

“I’m visiting from out of town. They’re in Seattle.” She’s shaking so hard, I can hear her teeth rattling.

I run inside, grab a blanket from the couch, then run back out to the front porch and wrap it around Leesa’s shoulders.

“Someone get me a towel,” Jon yells in our direction.

I spin on my heel and dash back into the house. Please let there be clean towels in the downstairs bathroom. I open the first two drawers. Nothing. The bottom drawer has a few folded washcloths. Good enough. Ignoring the dull ache forming at the base of my skull, I grab them and sprint out to the front lawn. The guy lies there, motionless. I think Jon is talking to me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Like a robot, I hand him the towels and back away.

Cassidy is telling Leesa that her boyfriend is going to be okay, but I’m not so sure about that. It looks pretty bad to me. There’s blood everywhere, and a chunk of metal is sticking out of his chest. When you hit a tree going that fast, people die.

Hold on. I blink a few times and look around.

They didn’t hit a tree. They ran off the road into a ditch in front of Jon’s house. There’s blood, but not a lot.

About a dozen people have gathered out on the road. The siren is loud now.

“Over here,” Rick yells at the ambulance as it turns down the street.

Soon two EMTs are working on Mark, and Jon is explaining what happened to a third guy. He gestures with his hands and the man nods like he understands everything. I watch everything like it’s unfolding on a movie screen, as if it’s happening elsewhere, in another place and time.

After the ambulance takes Mark and Leesa to the hospital and the crowd disperses, everyone else turns to go back into the house. Jon and I are sitting on the porch steps, our arms around each other.

I hear the door open behind us, then someone puts a blanket around our shoulders.

“Thanks, bro,” Jon says, taking the bottle of water that James hands him.

Without a word, James turns and goes back inside.

Jon opens the bottle and hands it to me. I take a drink. Then another one. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I hand it back to him, pulling the blanket tighter around our shoulders.

Neither of us is saying anything. We’re just staring out at the wrecked car and the now-empty front lawn. I think we’re both still in shock.

“Do you think Mark is going to be okay?” I ask.

“I hope so,” he says, hugging me a little tighter. “How about you? Doing okay?”

I’m touched by his concern. With everything that just happened, he’s thinking about me. “I’m okay.” I don’t need to tell him about my headache. It’s a little better now, anyway. I think the water helped. “How about you?”

“I’m good.”

As I look at the wrecked car, uneasiness stirs inside me. “Her phone is in there. She needs her phone.”

She’ll want to call someone, hear a familiar voice, but she can’t. She can’t move. She’s scared and nothing she does seems to help. She’s a doll and strangers are moving her arms and legs.

“I’m sure the police will make sure she gets it,” Jon says. “A tow truck should be here soon.”

I blink, unsure of what just happened. Was that a memory from my accident?

“No,” I tell him. “They won’t. She needs her things. She’ll be lost without them.”

Jon doesn’t argue with me, just nods his head and retrieves Leesa’s purse from the car.

The double doors at College View Memorial Hospital whoosh open and we step into the emergency room waiting area. Even though it’s a Sunday night, the place is busy. Patients who are waiting to be seen, along with their friends and families, take up almost all the empty seats. People in blue scrubs are everywhere, manning the check-in desks, walking down the halls, carrying clipboards, pushing patients in wheelchairs. Announcements blare over the intercom. We scan the waiting area for Leesa but don’t see her.

We head to the only open check-in desk, and a young man in scrubs looks up. He can’t be much older than Jon. He’s got short black hair, stylish glasses, and a nice smile. After Jon explains why we’re here, the man promises to get the purse to Leesa.

“How’s he doing? The boyfriend?” Jon asks.

“I’m afraid I can’t give out that kind of information,” the man says. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

We stop in the hallway, where Jon takes a drink from the water fountain. I lean against the wall and close my eyes. My exhaustion has finally caught up to me. It feels like I just ran a marathon. My headache is still there, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. I just feel numb and spent.

“Hey,” a deep voice says. “Did you two come to see how your patient is doing?”

I open my eyes to see one of the EMTs coming out of the nearby men’s restroom. He’s got red hair, a short goatee, and an earring in each ear.

“We brought Leesa’s purse from the car and wanted to make sure she had it,” Jon says. “How’s she doing? How’s Mark?”

“Leesa’s fine. Her parents are on their way. And Mark—” The man pauses to put his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “—is probably alive because of you and your friend. You kept that boy breathing, his heart pumping, until we got there. He’s not out of the woods yet, but the docs are hopeful.”

Jon slowly nods his head.

“How did you learn CPR, anyway? Honestly, that kind of calm under those circumstances is a quality not many people have.”

“I got certified at a vocational school I went to a few years ago. I—I thought about doing what you do one day. I’m just glad I remembered it.”

Vocational school? Was that when he was serving time in juvenile detention? I didn’t know he thought about becoming an EMT. But now that I think about it, when he was trying to talk me down off the roof, didn’t I accuse him of being a fireman wannabe?

“And what are you doing now?” the man asks.

“I’m a chem major at PSU.”

“Ah, chemistry. Nice. Must have a good head on your shoulders. Going into medicine, I hope.”

“I…uh…uh—”

The man claps him on the back. “Well, I hope you do, because you definitely have what it takes.” He glances around to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in close. “I’ll tell you one thing. You’ll never regret it. Saving lives is one of the best fucking jobs on the planet.”

chapter nineteen

When midnight mists are creeping, and all the land is sleeping,

Around me tread the mighty dead, and slowly pass away.

~ Lewis Carroll

Ivy

The light streaming in Jon’s bedroom window becomes a thousand tiny daggers when it reaches my eyes. I fling an arm over my face, but it doesn’t help. The knives are still there, along with a thousand soldiers and their drums, too, banging, banging, banging inside my head. It seriously feels as though something’s trying to push my eyes out from the inside. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, but that only makes it worse. No matter what position I’m in, nothing brings any relief.

Even though I don’t remember the specifics of my own accident, what happened yesterday has triggered something.

Maybe if I sit up, the change in gravity will lessen the pain. With my eyes pinched shut, I push myself up and let my legs dangle off the edge of the bed. Almost immediately, a wave of nausea grips my insides. I throw off the covers, rush to the bathroom, and make it there just in time.

Jon left before I woke. Monday is his busiest day of the week with station work, class and tutoring. But he’s going to wonder why I’m not in class, so I’ll have to think up some excuse. If he knows about the headache, he’ll just bring up going to the doctor again.

I will myself to stand, somehow managing to brush my teeth and pull on my sweats. I don’t dare glance in the mirror because I know I look like hell. I grab my phone from where it’s been charging on his desk and send Cassidy a text. Thank God, she answers right away. She doesn’t have class for another hour, so she can come pick me up. A few minutes later, I’m in her car and we’re heading back to the dorm.

With finals coming up, I really can’t afford to miss anything, but I don’t want to get sick in front of anyone. Hopefully, I’ll feel better tomorrow.

When we get back to Kefner Hall, I put my phone on vibrate and climb into bed. Before she left, Cassidy told me she’d write Do Not Disturb on our whiteboard to keep people from knocking on our door.

I wake up a few hours later, feeling a little better. Not perfect, but well enough to see what homework I missed. I log in to my student account and go through my classes. Nothing too pressing. Good.

When I check my student email, there’s a message from an email address I don’t recognize. My head starts to pound again. Three words are in the subject line: Nice boyfriend, bitch.

I delete it without opening. It’s Aaron. He knows I’m at PSU. But…how did he find me?

* * *

Jon

I have just enough time to pick up my mail at the post office and get some work done at the station before I have to be in class. I’d like to get tomorrow’s music schedule programmed to give Harrison a chance to insert the ads and PSAs. He gets cranky if I wait until the day of and I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to come back this afternoon because I’m working in the tutoring center the rest of the day.

Tossing my mail on the desk I share with a few of the other hosts, I sit down and get to work. At least ten indie tracks have been emailed to the station since I last checked. I listen to all of them and end up selecting three of my favorites. I drag those media files to the hard drive, move them into the scheduler, and make a note that I need to do look up the bands’ bios before tomorrow’s show.

Anna, part-time receptionist and host of KREX’s call-in advice show, looks in the open door. “I forgot to give this to you when you came in.” She hands me a demo CD from Shoo, Gretchen. “It came in the mail the other day.”

Gretchen must’ve gotten my Facebook message. “Old school. I like it.” Most new music comes via WAV files online, but some bands still send CDs.

I open the case, put the CD into the player behind me, and press Play. Their odd hip-hop slash folk sound fills the room.

“Interesting,” Anna says, then leaves.

It’s a song about following your passion, no matter how crazy it is, and not giving up. The best fucking job in the world. The EMT’s words echo in my head. Ivy didn’t seem to think it was strange that I once dreamed of becoming a doctor.

I run my hand through my hair. If I got accepted into medical school, I’d be leveraged up the ass for years in student loans. I just don’t know if it’s worth it.

As I listen to the next track, I go through my snail mail. Some catalogs, a few ad flyers. Nothing exciting. But then an envelope near the bottom catches my attention. It’s from the Ames-Wickey Foundation. I tear it open and read the letter.

My application for a college grant has been denied.

I ball the paper in my fist. That extra four thousand dollars would’ve really helped next year. I had hoped to quit tutoring in my senior year since my class schedule will be so demanding. Guess that’s not happening. I’ll have to think of some other way to pay for my final year.

chapter twenty

despair [noun]: someone or something that causes hopelessness

Ivy

After several false starts, I call home. My fingers are still shaking. Mom answers on the second ring.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. You calling us for a change.”

I waste no time and jump right in. “Mom, how did Aaron Marquette get my email address? How did he know I was going to school here? Did you or Dad say anything?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “What did the email say?” I can hear the tension in her voice.

“I don’t know. I didn’t read it.”

“Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “Ignore him, Ivy. He’s just being an immature little kid.”

“Mom, he’s eighteen. He graduates from high school in June. That hardly constitutes being an immature little kid.” She’s always trying to paint Aaron as harmless. She thinks that if she can get me to believe it, I’ll ignore his taunts and his threats.

“Ivy, listen. Your father’s construction company is on the short list to get that contract with the city. This could be the break we’ve been praying for. Please don’t screw it up for him. If Ace Marquette hears about any of this, it could reflect poorly on your father’s bid. The city could drop his company from the list. We can’t afford that, Ivy. We’ve got everything riding on this.”

I don’t understand what she’s getting at. “But Mom, I’m…afraid. My headaches are starting up again.”

“He’s just a kid,” she says, like she didn’t hear what I just said. “And he’s not even there. I saw him and his mom in the grocery store yesterday. Honey, listen. If your father doesn’t get that contract, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We’re stretched so thin financially as it is. We…we might have to declare bankruptcy, which means we’ll lose the house. Getting this contract means everything, so please don’t screw it up this time.”

There’s a loud roaring in my ears and I grip the phone tighter. “This time? What do you mean?”

“Never mind. That’s not the point.”

“Mom, would you fucking tell me?”

“Watch your language, young lady.”

I mumble an apology and hear her exhale through the phone.

“I didn’t want to tell you this—you’ve been through so much—but your father lost a big contract with the city shortly after your accident. I think you were still in the hospital, actually. That’s why this is so important now.”

There’s an edge to her voice. Is there a connection between my accident and my father losing that contract?

“What are you saying?” I choke. No answer. “Mom,” I repeat, louder this time.

I can tell she’s still on the other end of the line. She doesn’t hear me or choose to hear me, but then, when has she ever? It’s like I’m a ghost, trying to communicate with her sometimes, but my words don’t quite register.

“Can’t you just ignore him?” she says finally. “The bids go before the city council next month. We need to put our best foot forward, and you claiming the police chief’s dead son was a jerk isn’t going to help.”

Claiming?

It feels as though she just reached through the phone and slapped me across the face. Does she think I’m making all this up? When did she drink the Lincoln Falls Kool-Aid and decide that Chase was a good guy? A few times, she even said I should break up with him, or am I remembering that wrong, too?

Then she changes the subject and starts talking about some book her book club is reading. As I sit there, the phone frozen to my ear, one thing becomes perfectly clear. My parents’ financial situation means more to my mother than I do.

* * *

Jon

I’m in the tutoring center with a Chem 121 study group, reviewing how to calculate the theoretical yield of a reaction. Finals are coming up and some of them are still having a hard time.

As they work on the problem I just gave them, I glance at my phone to see if Ivy answered my earlier text, but she hasn’t. Concern gnaws at my gut. God, maybe I should’ve cancelled my tutoring appointments and gone back to check on her.

Last night when we got home from the hospital, she was really quiet. Like she was in shock.

When I asked how she was doing, she kept saying she was fine, but I seriously doubted it. I mean, how could seeing that shit not affect her given everything she’s been through? Even though she has no conscious memory of her own car accident, the events of yesterday had to have struck a chord. I’m almost positive her headaches are back. Though she denied it when I asked.

When we went to bed, I spooned her and held her close. Not in a sexual way or anything. I just wanted to reassure her that she was all right. That she was safe with me. But she tossed and turned all night. At least she was sleeping when I had to leave this morning.

After the study group is over, I look around for my next appointment. It’s a couple of freshmen guys on the football team who are always late. Normally, I hang out for a while and wait for them, but not today. I tell Kelly, who is tutoring a couple of accounting students, that my next appointment is a no-show and that I’m leaving.

“Is Ivy okay?” she asks, frowning. “She didn’t look so good yesterday.”

At least I’m not over-reacting and imagining things. “It hit her pretty hard. I’m going to go check on her.”

I’m halfway back to the White House when I realize Ivy might have gone home. I pull my motorcycle to the curb, strip off my gloves and text James.

He answers right away. Nope. She’s not here.

I turn the bike around. A few minutes later, after waving to the RA manning the front desk, I’m standing in the hall outside Ivy’s dorm room.

I knock, but no one answers.

The white board says Back at 6, but it’s Cassidy’s handwriting, not Ivy’s. Only one room on the floor has its door open. I stride down there and knock. The two twin beds are elevated, and there’s a disco ball and a bunch of pillows under one of them.

A tall, lanky guy looks up from his desk near the window. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m looking for Ivy,” I say, pointing down the hall.

“I haven’t seen her, but then a bunch of people went to dinner a few minutes ago. Maybe she’s with that group.”

“At the dining hall?”

“Yep. The one across the street.”

“Thanks.”

I turn to go, but then he says, “Hey, you’re Jon Priestly, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. I recognized your voice. When I have a kickback, we sometimes listen to your show.” He indicates the space under the bed.

“Sweet, bro. I appreciate that.”

When I get to the dining hall, I scan the tables. A few people say hi, including a couple of Parishioners in pink shirts, but I don’t stop and talk to them. Unless there’s a section I can’t see, Ivy isn’t here. And I don’t see any of her friends either. Maybe they went to a different dining hall instead. Or somewhere off-campus.

Once I’m back outside, I lean against a nearby pillar and check my phone. Still no text. Shit. I have Cassidy’s number saved in my phone from when Ivy called her once, but I don’t want to involve her yet.

I head back to Ivy’s room to leave a message on her white board, letting her know that I stopped by. When I reach for the dry erase pen hanging from a string, a shadow moves in the small gap between the door and the floor. Someone’s inside.

Did we just miss each other?

I knock. No answer.

“Ivy? Are you there?” I knock again.

I hear shuffling.

“Jon?”

Relief washes over me at the sound of her voice. I didn’t realize I was so tense. “Yeah, it’s me.”

The door swings open. Ivy’s standing there in a t-shirt and pajamas as if she just rolled out of bed. She wasn’t out to dinner. She was here the whole time.

“Are you okay?” I step in and let the door close behind me.

She’s got dark circles under her eyes and looks like crap. God, is she sick? I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her back to bed.

“I’m…I’m fine. Was that…you earlier, knocking?”

“You don’t look fine.” I help her in and pull up the covers.

“Just a little headache, that’s all.”

Goddamn it. She needs to go to the doctor and get a refill of her migraine medicine. I don’t want to push her and yet I may have to.

“What’s going on? Talk to me.” I brush a piece of hair from her face. “Did the accident bring back some bad memories?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says, but I sense there’s more.

Spotting that threadbare lemur under the pillow, I pull it out and tuck it in with her.

Her eyes meet mine as she hugs the stuffed animal close.

“You can talk to me, Ivy,” I repeat. “Please, I want to know what’s bothering you?”

With a gasping sob, she squeezes me tight. “Someone’s been...stalking me online.”

“What the fuck? Who? How? Since when?” My brain literally swirls with a million other questions.

“Almost two years.”

Two fucking years? Oh my God. “Why…why didn’t you tell me?”

Her breath hiccups against me. “I was sick of it dominating my life, and I’d hoped it was behind me. So I was like, why say anything if it’s in the past now?”

Which means that it’s not. “Do you know who it is?”

“A guy from my high school. Remember when you found me on the roof?”

How could I forget?

“Well, he was at the party, checking out the school. He didn’t know I go here, so I kind of freaked out when I saw him. He didn’t see me then, but he knows I’m here now.”

A surge of adrenaline hits me like a gunshot, and my whole body tenses. “The fucker was in my house?”

“Yeah, but he’s back in Lincoln Falls now.”

“How do you know?”

“My little sister goes to the same high school and texts me. And my mom saw him in the grocery store the other day.”

I stand and pace around the room. There’s a guy who’s been tormenting Ivy for two goddamn years, and he was in my house? I want to punch my fist through something right now.

She tells me about the email she received at her PSU student email address and about all the things he did when she had social media accounts. I cannot fucking believe someone is doing all this to her. And that I didn’t know. I’m so pissed off at myself that I didn’t figure out something like this was going on.

“Have you told anyone?”

“You mean like the police?”

“The police. Your parents. Anyone who can help you. It’s not like he’s some anonymous troll. You know who he is.”

“His dad is the police chief of Lincoln Falls, and it’s not like he threatened me or anything. Besides, he’s never used his name. I just know it’s him.”

“I don’t fucking care if his dad is the President. What he’s doing is wrong, Ivy, not to mention illegal. What did your parents say?”

“My parents?” She sniffs and tells me about the conversation with her mom today. “So I wouldn’t exactly call them supportive.”

I don’t know where to start or what I should do to help her. But what I do know is that I’m sure as hell going to do something.