RILEY

My throbbing head wakes me. I struggle to open my eyes, and the light shining through my window forces them to close again. I shift to my side and feel my bra strap digging into my skin. I’m still in my clothes and have no idea how I got into bed.

I slip out of my bra, pulling it through the sleeve of my shirt and throwing it on the floor. Then I unbutton my jeans and look around my room, trying to put the pieces of last night’s puzzle together.

The clock says ten a.m.

That means I’ve lost about twelve hours.

On my bedside table, a large tumbler of water calls for me—as well as the bottle of ibuprofen sitting next to it. I take both of them and make an oath that if my head stops pounding, I’ll never drink again.

I lay my head back on the pillow and pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger, putting pressure on the web of flesh. We had an acupuncturist come to the community center one night to talk about the power of pressure points. I try to imagine the pain subsiding, breathing in good feelings and breathing out the bad. Then I try to go back to sleep.

It’s no use.

I’m up and I’m miserable.

My mouth starts to water, so I get out of bed and run. On my way into the bathroom, I trip over a small trash can. That’s when recollection begins to drip into my brain, drop by drop.

“Rye, I have a bucket by the edge of your bed in case you get sick,” Dez said when he tucked me in last night. “It’s right here.” He took my hand and ran it across the rim of the can, like you would with a blind person. “There’s water and aspirin on your table.”

My face flushes at the memory. What a child I am. A few drinks and I have to be put to bed. I lean over the toilet but nothing happens. So I move to a sitting position to pee. I sit there awhile, holding my head in my palms.

I slowly get vertical, holding the wall for balance, and shuffle over to the sink.

Drip.

Another memory surfaces.

“Don’t go, Dez. Stay with me.” I actually said that to him last night. How freaking embarrassing.

The water runs into my hands and I splash my face and scoop the rest into my mouth. I swish it around like mouthwash—I don’t think my stomach could take the real thing—and try to get rid of the rancid taste.

Drip.

I remember more.

The. Kiss. With. Dez.

I was all over him.

This time, he pulled away. I can see his face.

I bang my head on the wall, trying to shake the image.

When I lean over the toilet this time, I really do throw up.

I crawl back to my bedroom and see a note on the floor. It must have fallen in my rush to get out of bed.

I have to squint to read the scrawl.

It’s from Dez.

Riley,

Hope you’re feeling better. I wanted to be there when you woke but I didn’t think Joan and Ken would appreciate finding me in your bed.

I know this weekend didn’t turn out as planned but please don’t second guess this. I mean, please don’t second guess us.

I promise you, it will be worth the wait.
Yours,
—D

I hug the note to my chest and pull the covers over my head.

The day continues with slow drips of memories. I try to bury them with me under the covers but my phone keeps ringing. Dez and Libby tag-team all morning with interruptions. I manage to put Dez off, but Libby is relentless.

I decide to get it over with and meet up with her at Java.

The bite in the air helps clear my head as I wait for the bus. Libby wanted to pick me up, but I thought it’d be better if we met on neutral ground.

Inside, Libby sits there at our favorite table and I’m shocked; she’s always running late and I’m the one who’s always waiting on her. I stand in the doorway for a moment, trying to drum up the energy to deal with this latest drama.

Libby looks incredible—as usual—her hair smooth and shiny, her makeup flawless. But something is different. She’s staring into space, tapping her fingers on the table, stopping to check her phone every few minutes.

Finally, I move to her and sit.

“Thanks for coming,” she says. It’s weird. No smart-ass comment, no sarcasm.

“No problem,” I tell her, scanning the room for Emma.

“Don’t worry, she’s not working. I checked.”

“Thanks,” I say, releasing my breath.

Libby’s eyes run across my wrecked body. “Are you sick? You don’t look right.”

“No, just hung over.” I rub my temples.

“Really?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay, I won’t,” she snaps.

Thank you.

Libby shifts in her seat. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me. And I’m not trying to be a jerk. But there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Fine,” I say, just wanting to get it over with. “Shoot.”

“Well, it’s about Dez.”

I drop my head. “Not this again.”

“And Emma.”

I stop and listen. “Go on,” I tell her.

She swallows and then angles toward me. “I found Dez’s phone number in Emma’s phone. He’s been calling her.”

“And?”

“Like I tried to tell you yesterday, something is seriously up with them.”

Here we go.

“What were you doing with Emma’s phone?”

“I saw it at work.”

It just keeps getting better.

“You stalked her phone without asking?”

“Well, she won’t talk either,” Libby huffs, like that makes it okay for her to steal Emma’s phone.

“Maybe because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Riley, she seems scared and nervous. And it’s not just that.”

“What else?” My hands wave her forward, telling her to give me all she’s got.

“I was with Reed the other day,” Libby says, tearing her napkins into tiny pieces.

“Reed? My Reed?”

Or, her Reed.

She nods.

“Where did you find him?” I ask.

“He hangs out at a café downtown.”

“This isn’t sounding like a chance encounter.” I count to ten in my head, trying to keep my cool.

“It wasn’t. I tracked him down, Riley.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a theory,” she says.

“And what’s that?”

“Somebody is messing with your love life. Somebody who would have something to gain.”

“Okay, no, stop it. You’re freaking me out. What do you think this is, some creepy Fatal Attraction movie or something?”

“Reed says it was you who dumped him.”

“Well, that’s B.S. And you should know, since you went after him. Do you really want to rehash all of this?”

“That’s not what happened, I swear,” Libby says.

“It’s been a while, maybe he forgot how it went down. Or maybe he feels bad for breaking it off like he did. Point is, this doesn’t matter.”

“I talked to Georgia, too.”

Georgia? That tryst was shorter than the one I had with Reed. “Jesus, Libby, this is nuts.”

“She told me Dez threatened her.”

“Get out.”

“I’m serious, Riley.”

“No, stop right now. I’m not listening to this anymore. Dez has been my best friend for years—he’d never do anything to hurt me. He’s not the one with secrets, Libby. You are.”

That catches her totally off-guard.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know. Or should I bring Will into the conversation?” I tighten my arms around my body. I’ve waited too long to bring this up.

“How’d you find out?” she finally asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you were selling drugs for Will?”

“Sold.” She corrects. “Once.”

“Then why were you with him, going through Ms. Dunn’s desk the day she was killed?”

“How do you know that?” She looks stunned.

“We were taping that day, and you’re on the video.”

“It’s a long story, and Ms. Dunn knew all about it. It was bad judgment, Rye. Much like you’re having with Dez right now. I wish Ms. Dunn was here to straighten you out, like she did with me.”

“You’re going to compare selling drugs to dating Desmond. Really?”

Before I can storm off, some girls from school stop by our table. “Riley, you were awesome the other night in the film. Seriously awesome.”

“Thanks,” I tell them. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I’m taking my boyfriend to the festival next Saturday.”

The festival. The Guthrie scouts—they’ll be here in six days. Six. Days.

The girls leave me to Libby. “Ya know, with everything going on, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me now,” I tell her. “I don’t need the stress.”

Libby hangs there for a moment with her mouth hanging open until Stella comes over.

“Hi … there,” Stella says, sensing the tension.

“Hi, Stella.”

Libby’s silent.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” I say. “Libby was just getting ready to leave.”