Chapter Thirty-Nine

Walker

By the time I arrive on campus, there’s already a crowd gathered around the building where Emmet lives. Crap, this thing must be snowballing and fast. When Ryan Bilquist called me twenty minutes ago, he said he thought maybe someone had contacted the police—but he wasn’t sure. Poor guy was in a panic when he wasn’t able to get in touch with Mason via text or cell. He called me asking if I had their parents’ number. But I knew it would take them close to an hour to get to the U from their house. And I knew that I could be there in less than half that time.

When I push my way into the dorm lobby, it’s clear they’re not allowing anyone else to enter.

Crap. What now? I’m not family. No one knows me. Except…

I crane my neck and spot the young woman with the glasses and the long black ponytail. What was her name? Tanya? Tamara? Tara!

“Excuse me,” I mutter, elbowing my way through the crowd. For a moment, I consider going back to the Jeep for my baseball bat. But that might make things worse, actually. So, I paste on a happy face and approach the girl I met with Mason all those weeks ago, hoping she’ll remember me.

“Hi…Tara?”

She squints behind the thick-framed lenses as if she needs to get me into better focus. I guess it works, because I see a light of recognition in her eyes.

“Mason’s girlfriend,” she says.

“Well, ex…but, listen, any chance you can get me in? It’s going to take the family a while to get here…” She’s looking skeptical. Actually, she’s in the process of forming the oval-mouthed N of the word “no” when I cut her off. “Emmet knows me. He likes me. I think I can help.”

She pauses, mouth still set to deny my request but then she looks around, to see if anyone else is paying attention, and leans forward over her counter.

“Take this. And hurry, the police will be here any second.”

Her hand pushes something across at me. I take it without looking down but know what it is the instant it’s in my grasp. A key.

“Thank you!” I whisper so only she can hear me.

Then she steps back, clears her throat, and ratchets up her volume for the benefit of the others around us.

“Okay, you can go to your room for the laptop, but go right there and come right back out. Understood?”

“Uhh…yeah—yes, Tara, I’ll do that. Thanks!” I respond and bolt around the desk and down the hall before anyone can object.

Even as I’m worried about Emmet, every inch of every step comes with the memory of Mason. The way my hand felt in his. The warm blush that came to my face when he first introduced me as his girlfriend. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell him—that soapy, clean, and distinctly masculine smell. But I can’t afford to close my eyes. I have to keep them open and put my very confusing feelings for Mason aside so I can be there for Emmet.

When I get closer, I recognize the two as Mason’s buddies. We’d hung out with them a few times, and I’ve found them to be really decent guys, despite the fact that they abandoned Mason that night. And, clearly, they’re as concerned about Emmet as I am.

“Hey! Walker,” says Ryan Bilquist when he spots me coming toward them. “Jeez. God, thank you so much for coming so fast!”

“Did you get in touch with Mason?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, he’s on his way but he’s stuck in traffic. His folks are still about a half hour out.”

I realize, with growing discomfort, that I’m about to come face-to-face with Mason Stevens for the first time in weeks. My first impulse is to be happy. My second impulse is to quash that happiness. There’s no room for it in my life. Just like there’s no room for him in my life. And his parents? Jeez, I need to get in there, help Emmet, and get out as fast as I can.

“Emmet?” I ask, nodding toward the door, as if it might be some rogue trespasser who’s broken in and is thumping around in the room.

“Yeah,” Pete says, “but he’s locked himself in. We can hear him kind of moaning and crying. Every once in a while, something smashes…”

“It was that jackhat reporter!” Ryan pipes up. “I mean, we try to keep an eye on things when Mason isn’t around, but you know, we can’t be with him every second. And that creep from Startrust Press is such a complete tool!”

“Has he said anything?”

Pete shakes his head. “Nah. Nothing intelligible, anyway. We keep knocking and asking him to open the door…”

“Okay, okay…” I mutter and think about the things Mason has told me about Emmet. Then I scoot as close to the door as I can. “Hey, Emmet? It’s Walker. Remember me?” My voice is as calm and soft as I can make it and still be heard. “Would it be okay if I came in?”

No reply.

“Emmet, I’ve got a key and I’d like to let myself in. But only if you’re okay with that…”

Still nothing.

From behind me, there’s the squawk of a walkie-talkie and the sound of several footsteps thumping in our direction.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I know what’s about to happen, and I’ve got to stop it. Like right now. So I sprint down the hallway and intercept the two police officers before they can get anywhere near the room.

“Excuse me, miss, you need to step aside, please,” the man says. He’s in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a tight mouth.

His partner is a woman—considerably younger with honey blond hair that reminds me of Henny’s. Her expression is much softer than his, as are her eyes.

“Officers, I’m here to try to help. The young man is autistic—”

“Ma’am, I’m not going to ask you again—” 

He tries to push past me, but I’m not budging.

“Hey!” I say loudly. “Listen to me, will you? Or are you such an expert in autism that you know exactly how to handle this and not make the situation worse?”

I can tell I’m pushing my luck with Mr. Hardass, but the woman…

“Tell us what’s going on,” she says.

I explain the situation. Who Emmet is. What sent him into this state. How I propose to intervene. Why I’m afraid that they’ll scare the crap out of him if they start pounding on the door or, God forbid, break it down. They listen with surprising attention and, when I’ve finished speaking, they look at each other. She shrugs the question, he nods the answer.

“Okay, we’re going to hang back here. But if things get out of hand…”

“I’ll be the first one to ask for your help if they do,” I assure them. I’m already running back as I yell over my shoulder. “Thank you!”

When I get back to the door, there are twice as many people standing around, hoping to get a gander at what’s happening with the weird guy in room twenty-six.

“Would you try and get these people to go away?” I ask, positioning myself to go into the room.

The two nod and start to make their way down the hallway, quietly asking people to go back into their rooms.

“Hey, Emmet?” I say at the door. “Emmet, I’m going to let myself in now, okay?”

When he doesn’t answer, I unlock the door and open it slowly, inch by inch, sliding inside the second I can fit through the opening and shutting the door behind me. The room is in some serious disarray. Books are strewn everywhere. There’s a laptop upside down and half under one of the two twin beds—both of which have had the covers ripped off and balled up. It takes a few seconds for me to spot the top of Emmet’s head. He’s sitting on the floor, back against one of the beds, facing away from me. He’s rocking back and forth, muttering under his breath.

“Hey, Emmet,” I say in as soothing a tone as I can manage. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

I take a few steps in his direction.

“Emmet, I’m going to come closer but I won’t touch you, okay? I just want to get a look at you and make sure you’re okay.”

Still no response, so I continue to inch closer and closer, until I’ve worked my way around to his side of the bed. That’s when I drop down onto the floor so that we’re eye level. I fold my legs under me and take a deep breath.

“So, I heard what happened. I’m really sorry about that, Emmet. You must have been scared when that reporter was waiting for you—”

“He wouldn’t go away,” Emmet says faintly, finally looking up at me with red, puffy eyes. He looks exhausted.

“I know. He was wrong to do that.”

“He kept asking me about my mother! And about Mason. And Cassandra!”

“Did he? That’s terrible. Emmet, are you thirsty? Can I get you a bottle of water?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he nods. So I open the small refrigerator that happens to be within arm’s length, and pull out a bottle. I start to unscrew the top but remember what Mason said, using my shirt to dry the condensation off the bottle and then setting it on the carpet before slowly pushing it in his direction. The bottle sits there for a long moment and, just when I think he’s going to ignore it, his arm, which he’s had wrapped around his midriff, snakes out and grabs it, cracking the lid and guzzling the contents.

“I’m hungry,” he says when he’s done.

I’m actually glancing around the room, looking for something to give him, when realize I still have the bakery box that Janet Lahti gave me back in Mayhem. I get up and grab it from his desk where I must’ve set it down when I came in.

“Oh, huh, hang on,” I murmur, slipping the red-and-white-striped twine off and prying up the lid to reveal a perfectly flaky, brown-crusted chicken potpie. “Emmet, I’ve got your favorite here. Can you smell what it is?”

His expression perks up with his curiosity. “Chicken potpie? Crust on the bottom or just on top?” he quizzes me.

I poke and prod a little until I can assess the crust situation.

“Mmmm, appears to be a full crust—top and bottom,” I report.

He manages a smile. “That’s my favorite,” he tells me.

“I know! I remember.”

“Mom used to make the frozen ones when I was little.”

“Oh, well, this is perfect then! Can I come sit by you?”

He nods and scoots over so I can plant myself next to him, side by side against the bed. I open the box, which just happens to have a pair of plastic forks wedged in alongside the pie tin, and hold the still-warm box up between us.

“I like to mush up the crust first—then mix it in,” I tell him, attacking the steaming pie.

“Me, too,” he agrees, doing the same.

We sit like this for a minute or so, the only noise between us the sound of our potpie consumption. God bless Janet Lahti!

“Walker?” he asks huskily.

“Yes, Emmet?”

“My mom isn’t a mean person.”

“I’m sure she’s not!” I exclaim, a little surprised by the statement.

“She just worries about Mason.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“And Mason worries about Cassandra.”

I pause for a second before replying.

“Does he?”

Emmet nods.

“Yes. She’s sick. She drinks too much. But nobody knows, so you can’t tell anyone.”

I hear Mason’s words echoing in my memory.

“She was drunk, Walker. I was trying to help her sober up so she could go to rehab.”

“I won’t,” I say quietly. “I promise, I won’t, Emmet.”

“I know,” he says matter-of-factly. “I trust you. And I like you, Walker.”

“I like you, too, Emmet. Very much.”

I see the makings of a tentative smile on his face.

“I like the way Mason is when he’s with you. You make him happy.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I like Mason, too. But I think Mason still likes Cassandra too much to be with me or anyone else.”

Emmet’s entire demeanor changes. He sits up straight, shaking his head as he looks me square in the eye. “Cassandra is mean. She got drunk and said mean things about me, and Mason didn’t want to see her anymore after that.”

“What? He never told me that…”

“Mason doesn’t like to gossip about people.”

“Still…” I murmur more to myself than to Emmet.

“Will you go out with him again?”

“Oh…I, I don’t know about that, Emmet… I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to explain, Emmet. Your brother needs someone different than me. Someone who isn’t afraid of the reporters and the cameras…”

“I’m afraid of the reporters and the cameras. But I wouldn’t stop being Mason’s brother,” he points out.

“No, of course you wouldn’t. But Emmet, I think he needs someone who’s comfortable with the spotlight. Someone like that will be good for him.”

“No,” he says flatly, then glances back over his shoulder, catching sight of something behind us. “Mom, I think Walker is good for Mason.”

I twist around to see Lydia Larkin and Edward Stevens—Mason and Emmet’s parents—staring at us from the doorway. I don’t know how long they’ve been standing there. I don’t know how I missed the sound of the door opening, or the light from the hallway spilling in. But there they are.

Lydia walks to her son, drops down onto her haunches, and pulls him into her arms. But it’s me she’s looking at as she does so.

“I think maybe you’re right, honey,” she murmurs. “I think maybe you’re right.”