39
KEEGEN
“TELL ME SOMETHING about yourself,” Kyla says. She’s sprawled on my couch like she lives here and her feet are in my lap, and I wish it felt normal between us but there’s nothing remotely normal about it. We’re both just pretending, going through the motions.
“I’m not very interesting,” I say.
“That’s not true.” She wiggles closer. She’s wearing one of my shirts, a Metallica one that used to be my dad’s. She always puts on my clothes when she’s here, as if that will make us into something we’re not. “Tell me something about yourself that nobody else knows. That maybe you’re afraid to tell anyone else.”
It’s too hot in here. My shirt is sticking to my back and Kyla is smothering—not actually, but like there’s not enough air for both of us to breathe.
“I have no secrets, trust me,” I say. “I’m an open book.” Take the hint. Stop asking.
She flops back against the couch cushion and sighs. “I’m giving you the chance to talk to me, Keegan. I really think you should talk to me.”
Something inside me bristles up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She looks right at me. I have no idea what game she’s playing, and I don’t know the fucking rules.
“You know exactly what it means. I’m giving you tonight to—”
Then there’s a knock on the door, which is weird, because I’m not expecting anyone. I don’t really care, because I want out of this conversation by any means necessary.
I jump up and look through the peephole, hoping it’s not Stewart, with more questions I’ve already answered. Every time I see the guy lately I feel like he thinks of me as a goddamn criminal, like he knows every shitty thing I ever did. Stupid shit he couldn’t possibly know, like cutting this chick’s ponytail off in kindergarten. Like borrowing my stepdad’s car without asking and scratching it in a parking garage, then leaving it in our driveway like nothing happened. Like all the girls I’ve promised stuff to then ghosted or ditched after a one-night stand. Maybe he does know all that stuff. He probably has a file on me as gigantic as that Lord of the Rings book Mark tried to get me to read back in high school.
It’s not Stewart. It’s Lou, and she looks cold and pissed off. I open the door. She’s wearing this little skirt but she’s all wet, her hair kind of stuck to her head.
“What do you want?” I say. “I mean, sorry—I just didn’t expect you to show up.”
From the couch, Kyla turns her head around like an owl. “Who are you?” She stares from Lou to me. “You told me you weren’t seeing anyone else.”
“I’m not,” I say. “But I never said that anyway.”
She gets up and I’m afraid she’s going to throw something or start crying, and I don’t know which is worse, sad girls or angry girls. Usually sad girls turn into angry girls, and angry girls, well, they just eat you alive.
“You’re an asshole,” she says. “I gave you the chance to tell me. Just remember that you didn’t take it.” Then she grabs her purse and storms past us, slamming the door shut.
“What the hell was that all about?” says Lou.
“Nothing. She just gets jealous,” I say. “We’ll work everything out. We’ll be fine.” Maybe I’m saying it more to convince myself. Because part of me wants to run out of here after her and tell her all the things she wants to hear, even though I’m not feeling them, because I’m kind of afraid of what will happen if I don’t.
“Sorry to just barge in,” Lou says, stepping out of her boots. “Do you have a towel or something? I’m soaked.”
I rub my forehead. “Sure. Yeah. Just a minute.” My towels are all sitting on my bed, over a bunch of clothes. I remember when I told my mom I was moving out, she got me a bunch of cleaning shit, like a Dirt Devil and laundry detergent and even a feather duster, but I can’t keep on top of it. She said people wouldn’t want to come over if I lived in a pigsty, but it hasn’t stopped anyone.
I throw a towel to Lou. She stands over my kitchen sink, wringing out her hair. “So why are you here?” I say. “What do you want? I have no idea how you even found out where I live.”
She shrugs. “Instagram. It’s easy to find out just about anything.”
It’s such a Tabby thing to say that I almost want to shake her. She’s in my kitchen, soaking wet, wearing barely any clothes, talking like Tabby, and I have no idea what her whole agenda is, only that she has one.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Since we went into the woods. About the hike being Tabby’s idea. She had that map, right? The cops found it when they searched her house. But why would she be careless enough to leave it there? You’d think she would have found some way to get rid of it. There are, like, a thousand ways to destroy a piece of paper.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t know. She’s sloppy.”
“Did Mark ever print a copy of the map?” she says. “Did he ever do anything like that when you were hanging out?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, I doubt he even looked it up. Guys hate asking for directions.” She doesn’t laugh. “I only printed that copy out because I wanted to make sure you and I didn’t get lost.”
“So you printed it after I asked if you’d come.”
“Yeah.” There’s this awkward silence. “I mean, why else would I need it?”
“I guess you wouldn’t.” She rubs her arms. She’s shivering.
“I’ll get you a sweatshirt or something,” I say. She doesn’t stop me.
I don’t take long—like, maybe a few minutes, just long enough to find a shirt that’s actually clean. But when I get back out, she’s gone. Almost like something scared her away. Or someone.
