As soon as I’m out of the bar, I take three long strides, and that’s when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and forces me to a stop.
“Jo-Jo,” he says, “I can’t believe it’s you.” His eyes are darting across my face almost manically, like he’s taking stock of every detail. I turn my chin to the side and push my shoulder up to try to loosen his grip. “Every time Caitlin complained about the Jolene at work, I never imagined it was the girl from high school who—”
“I have to go.” My voice sounds an octave higher, not my own.
“No, wait.” He says it like an order—or an accusation. “I’ve wondered about you. A lot of people have.” He tilts his head. “You look the same.”
My skin tightens and cools beneath his touch. I nudge my shoulder again. “I really need to—”
“Hey,” he says, finally releasing me so he can put both his palms up in a placating gesture. “I just wanted to—I don’t know what to say. It’s been a long time. But it looks like you’re doing okay for yourself.”
I pause, rocking on my heels. Am I doing okay? Maybe I am, if even he thinks so.
Maybe seeing him again doesn’t have to be what I’ve built it up to be in my head. It’s been so many years. I can handle it.
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yeah, I’m doing good.”
But something dark shifts across his face as I say this, curling his bottom lip. And I realize my mistake instantly. He doesn’t want me to be okay. Of course he doesn’t.
He laughs once, sharply. “Man, what are the odds?” He takes a step back, looking me over from head to toe. “I mean, if I’d known it was you, I would’ve warned Caity.” He makes a cross with his fingers, laughing again as he holds it up at me.
And it’s like time travel. I’m seventeen again, and I’m drunk, and we’re at the party at Stanley Park. And Kyle is tormenting Ellie, holding up his fingers in a cross and shouting, “Get away, loser.”
And Ellie is pulling on my wrist and saying we should go, but I shrug her off because he’s not saying it to me. And because for once, before Kyle came, it felt like I belonged. Because I thought we were actually enjoying drinking random liquor from Solo cups. So I take another drink as Ellie takes off into the forest. Before I notice she left.
I glance down at my wrist, turning it over to look at the faint blue veins showing through the thin skin. I can still feel the indentations of Ellie’s fingerprints there.
And I bolt. I think I hear Kyle say something behind me but don’t know what. All I can focus on is the sound of my feet pounding on the pavement. I don’t know where I’m going. Every step I take rattles through my chest, my heart constricting and expanding painfully against my ribs.
Eventually I stumble on a crack in the sidewalk and only just manage to keep myself from falling. I lower myself to sit on the curb. I take a ragged breath and pull out my phone and search for the Mountain Valley Herald, followed by Ellie’s name. My heart won’t stop pounding as my finger taps enter.
The article comes up, the very first hit. The one that’s been burned in my brain, even though I haven’t looked at it in fifteen years.
Has it changed?
I scan over the words. It talks about the senior party, but it doesn’t mention how I practically forced Ellie to come. How I told her we were invited. How her face dropped when she found out I lied.
I inhale.
Ellie’s underaged drinking is noted. But it doesn’t mention how we drank so much that it was unbelievable we were still standing. It makes zero note of the people who encouraged us, manipulated us, bullied us . . . for years.
It doesn’t mention that when a song started playing, Ellie started to sing along, but her voice was slurred and everyone started laughing at her.
And now that song stops me in my tracks.
The article says that she wandered off into the woods. It doesn’t say that it took me ten minutes before I realized and went searching for her.
It doesn’t say how raw my throat went as I screamed her name, looking for her, begging her to come back.
It doesn’t describe the sound of the snap. The sound I couldn’t quite place.
How Ellie slipped and hit her head on a rock and that was that.
The article says that a friend reported the incident.
It doesn’t talk about how impossible it was for me to leave her body, even to get help.
But I did. I left her.
When we returned to her, she was so cold. Her fingers weren’t even a person’s anymore. I can still feel them. And now touching people feels impossible sometimes.
The article says it was determined that she died instantly. But how can that be? How can everything that we are disappear so quickly?
The article ends there. But there’s more to the story, of course. All the whispers that followed my family, the accusatory looks. How I hid away in my room for months, thinking of all the things I could’ve done differently. How I felt like I had died that night too. How sometimes, when I’m drunk, I still get the urge to run for help.
I can feel the wetness gathering between my fingers. When did I start crying?
“Jolene?”
I go taut. His voice threatens to loosen the knot inside me, but I focus all my energy on holding it tight, willing myself to not completely fall apart as I lift my head to look at him.
Cliff stands under the yellow light of a streetlamp, cheeks flushed from the chilly air. His collared shirt is peeping out of the top of his zipped-up jacket.
He takes one look at my face and his eyes go wide. He rushes to close the few strides between us. “You—are you okay?”
“I’m really great,” I say, forcing out the most chipper voice I can manage. I wipe at the wet tracks on my cheeks and push my lips up into a wobbly smile.
He crouches down beside me, his gaze searching mine. His hand lifts toward my face, and for a moment I think he might touch my cheek, but he catches himself and shoves it into his pocket. “You’re not great. Were you at the party?”
He sounds so concerned, and I’m so embarrassed. I hate that he’s seeing me like this, and I hate how glad I am that it’s him.
“Yes,” I practically sing. “It’s a really nice little group. You go enjoy.”
“Jolene” is all he says, looking at me through lowered eyelids. “Please, tell me.”
Again, I force a smile. “Okay, I know how this looks. I’m just a little . . . Maybe something I ate.”
His hand twitches in his pocket. “Then I can take you home.”
“No!” I say, leaning back to add another inch of space between us. Being alone in an enclosed car with him is the last thing I need right now. I’m about to unravel. “Please, go to the party,” I practically beg. “You were already on your way there, weren’t you?”
His gaze flicks toward the road, like he’s only just remembering where we are. “Actually, I’m pretty sure Garret invited me as a joke. It’s kind of obvious, like invite the HR guy to police the party.” His voice softens as he croaks, “I’d just kill the fun.”
Why is the world like this? It’s the clench in his fists as he tries to shrug it off—the cruelty of the invite. It’s like we’re all stuck in a loop. I stare at the sidewalk and blink and blink. “Yeah, sounds like Garret. Why were you going then?”
His gaze drops, a blush starting on his temples. “Don’t know.” He shrugs, the side of his arm brushing against mine at the motion. But I hear it in his voice.
“Why did you go?” he says.
I press my lips together. The answer is far too messy. The truth would mean confessing—the emails, Rhonda’s secret, the hole I’ve been digging deeper by the day. But for a moment it feels so tempting to just tell him everything. A part of me thinks he’d try to understand. I shake that wish away. After everything tonight, I’m not thinking straight.
We both sit together in silence. Here we are, two losers outside a party no one wanted us to come to. I’ve been here before. Maybe this time, we can just leave.
And now his car seems like the best place in the world.
“I’ve changed my mind. Can you give me a ride after all?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, pushing himself onto his feet. He holds out a hand and offers it to me.
I take it, letting him lift me to my feet. Heat radiates from between our palms, crawling up my neck. My mind rattles as opposing feelings swoop through me.
How long it’s been since I touched another person this way.
How much I’ve wondered about touching him.
How messed up both thoughts are.
Together, we head toward the Supershops parking garage. Our steps echo across the gravelly lot. My knees are on the verge of buckling, but it’s the soft place to land I focus on.
I slip into the passenger seat of his car and we set off. For the first few blocks, the only sounds are the hum of the car engine and the soft, melodic song playing on the radio.
We hit Seventeenth Avenue and pass a few restaurants and bars. I watch the people on the patios, talking and laughing and listening to live music. The sound drains inside, permeating our bubble.
Cliff says, “Will you tell me what happened?”
I keep my face turned toward the window. “I told you, something I ate.”
I can feel his eyes drift to the side of my face. They pull me in like a magnet. It’s dark outside, but the streetlights are reflecting through the windshield and casting a glow around the back of his head; the tips of his golden hair shine.
“You’re lying,” he says, gentle but adamant. “I know you.”
I swallow. I know he does.
How can someone saying he knows me feel like everything?
I close my eyes, pressing my temple against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. “I just ran into someone at the party from my old town.”
“Did they do something to upset you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I say. “I just got . . . I don’t know. Can we not talk about it?”
Cliff’s quiet for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally says.
I peek an eye open, and he’s driving steadily, staring out at the street. I watch the glare of the streetlights as they move across his face, casting him in light and shadow.
By the time we make it to my street and pull up in front of my building, the silence has become so thick and heavy. Cliff puts the car in park and his hand lingers on the gear shift awkwardly. His jaw is tight, like he’s physically holding himself back from saying something.
My insides flip. I’ve cut so many people out. Everyone. But I don’t want to do that with him.
The words tumble out all at once. “I used to have a friend, but something bad happened to her and she’s gone.”
Cliff’s eyes shoot toward mine. He waits.
I keep going, my voice shaking. “I used to be just like I am, but worse, but also so much better. I guess I just . . . After she died, I just never really figured out how to be a person again. That’s it. That’s the problem.”
I feel Cliff shift beside me. “Jolene—”
I shake my head, gasping. “I thought it would go away. I thought if I waited, one day it wouldn’t hurt anymore. But time has passed—it’s passed so much—and I’ve only become worse.”
My words crush through me as I dare a look at him. His eyes catch me and hold me. All my skin burns. How can people look at each other in the eyes so easily? I can never look at him again.
“I know I’m not supposed to think like this. It just feels like everyone else is moving forward with their lives, but I’m trapped behind this glass dome that no one can see through.”
Cliff’s voice is so soft. “I can see through. I see you.”
His hand lifts off the gear shift and grabs mine from my lap, pulling it down onto the console between us. The warmth of his palm cupping mine thaws my stiff muscles, and I fall slack against the car seat. This feels like I can be okay for now. Something, a word or a thought, catches in my throat.
“Jolene,” Cliff begins haltingly. “You can’t see it now, but I hope soon you do. You’re understandable—I understand . . .”
He pauses, looking at me thoughtfully as he rubs his chin with his free hand. The scraping of his fingers against his stubble is the only sound in the world.
“Since the day you walked into the boardroom for that first meeting . . .” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. “Your email that was both horrible and perfect. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve wanted to be in on the joke with you since the start.”
I glance up and there’s something behind his eyes; it’s been there forever yet feels brand new. His hand tightens around mine, and for once—for the first time in years—my brain turns off. There’s only feeling—a charge fluttering through me, pulsing from where his skin meets mine. It feels so good to be known by someone, to be seen, to be touched. And I want more of it.
I lean toward him, and it’s so simple. His face is already angled toward me, and I slot my lips against his. Dimly I’m aware that he’s not exactly moving against me, but he’s not leaning away either. He’s soft and warm, and I nudge a little closer. It’s been a really long time since I’ve done this. My lips part against his slightly, and an embarrassing little sound escapes my mouth.
And then he lets out a tiny groan, and it’s like a dam breaks. His hands wrap around my shoulders and pull me toward him, his face pressing harder against mine. It’s hungry, and he’s everywhere, hands on my back and in my hair and on my waist.
It’s so good, but somehow not enough. I scramble for my seat belt and hear the satisfying click as it goes loose, so I can lean more across the console.
At the sound, Cliff suddenly goes tense, his lips freezing against mine. My whole body stiffens against my will.
He pulls away suddenly, pushing himself back against the driver’s-side door. “Wait. Jolene, I’m so sorry. You’re upset and I . . .”
I reach for his hand again, but he pulls it back against his side. I cringe at the rejection, my stomach bottoming. I can’t even kiss someone properly.
“We can’t do this,” he says, sighing. “Not in our positions. It can be perceived as . . . one of us using the other.”
I shake my head. Everyone in Supershops is using each other. But this wasn’t about our jobs. For once, I wasn’t thinking about emails or paychecks or layoffs or anything except how it felt. How I felt.
This was real. I want it to be real.
“I really like you” is what I manage to say, my voice tiny.
He drops his forehead into his hands and shakes his head against them. “This is my fault. You need to pass the course and I can’t fuck that up for you.”
My whole chest tightens. Every pocket of silence in the world pulls into the car with us.
It’s too much. I turn and scramble for the passenger-door handle, but his hand suddenly touches my arm. Not grabbing me, just a gentle press—a silent plea for me to stop. I hold myself still and wait.
“Can we . . .” he begins awkwardly, then cuts himself off and starts again. “I’m hoping we can write this off as a momentary lapse.”
Another anvil. Guilt seeps into me as I nod. “Right,” I whisper. “I get it. It’s okay.”
“Jolene,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
The softness in his eyes hollows me out. I want to curl back into his chest. I want to live there.
“No, Cliff. It’s not you.” I need the right words. Before it can end, I need to at least try to salvage some of whatever this was. “I was upset, and I wasn’t thinking. Let’s forget it happened. Please.”
His hand drops from my arm, and the emptiness from where it was drains through me.
I open the door, catching a glimpse of his face as I turn to close it. He looks wrecked, guilt etched across his face. He shouldn’t be the one to feel guilty. He doesn’t know all the bad in me.
I get inside my apartment and go straight for the kitchen, grabbing one of the two Supershops mugs I own. There’s a bottle of gin in the back of the cabinet, and my stomach gurgles at the sight of it. The first sip flows down my throat, hot and welcoming. My hands loosen, as do my thoughts.
Next week I’ll quit drinking. It’s becoming a problem, I know. But it’s not my biggest problem right now.
Kyle probably went straight back into that bar and told Caitlin who I am. And if Caitlin knows, she’ll tell everyone. Even if I still manage to keep my job, all my coworkers will see is the very worst version of me.
My phone lights up on the kitchen counter beside the gin bottle.
Cliff: I’m sorry.
I take another sip, and the thought pushes in, cruel and from deep inside my head since he found me sitting on the curb: Cliff’s going to see through me one day. And he’ll look at me just like the last time Ellie did.