Trust(9)

We got home without incident. I wasn’t at the level of notoriety that the hospital had journalists camped outside it or anything. The living room couch had never felt so good. I slumped back into it. Home was everything.

Home was safe.

“That boy the police took away,” started Mom, “how did you know he was innocent?”

“He tried to save my life.”

“According to the detectives, he’s been detained on suspicion of dealing drugs before,” she said. “Among other things.”

I shook my head, immediately regretting moving. Again. Talk about never learning. “Ouch. You’re as judgy as Georgia. Doesn’t matter what he’s done before. There was only one psycho criminal there that night and it wasn’t him. Heck, Mom, if it wasn’t for John and Isaac, you’d be standing beside my coffin.”

Mom’s lips tightened in disapproval at my words, but she stopped bugging me about the topic.

Tired and bored, I sagged back against the pillows with the remote in my hand, flipping through channels. Normally I could channel-surf the day away without too many complaints. But today was different. Everything on TV seemed far off and trivial. An old black-and-white film, people arguing politics, a documentary on frogs, and some woman selling a face cream guaranteed to help you recapture your youthful glow. The model she was slapping it on looked about fourteen.

Then there was a music video featuring a girl shaking her ass in front of the camera like it was double-jointed. Her ass, not the camera. A replay of a college basketball game came next, and then there was Georgia.

Georgia?

She sat on a white lounge wearing a scary amount of makeup, her short, dark hair all teased up. It barely even looked like her. If they hadn’t kept stopping to flash pictures of her and me together, at camp, a selfie at the movies, and another goofing around in her room, I never would have bothered to look. Oh fuck no. She’d even given them the one of us sitting by her pool last summer with me in a bikini. It was a cool retro style and I loved it, but still. That photo had no business being on the TV without my permission.

“. . . she acts tough, but Edie is actually really sensitive and easily hurt,” she said.

“You must be very worried about her.” The interviewer, a middle-aged man with cool hair, shook his head sadly.

“Yes, I am.” Her voice dripped with syrupy concern. “I don’t know how she’s going to get over this.”

“I understand your friend confided in you about what happened inside the store?”

Georgia looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Yes.”

“And about eighteen-year-old local John Cole’s involvement in the events?”

“He definitely knew the robber; Edie told me.”

“There’ve been rumors Mr. Cole has a history dealing drugs in the area.”

She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know about that. But apparently he was stealing beers and cigarettes inside the store. Like they were having a party. He was winking at Edie and everything. It seems really wrong to me that the police let him go.”

The interviewer frowned thoughtfully.

“I just, I don’t want him hurting her anymore,” she said, voice rising. “He’s out there somewhere, doing who knows what.”

“You’re a good friend,” said the man. “Georgia Schwartz, everybody. Best friend of hostage victim Edie Millen. Thank you very much, Georgia.”

“Thank you.” She even managed to squeeze out a tear. All of those drama classes her parents put her through were really paying off.

Cool-hair man started talking about an upcoming local dog show and I switched the TV off. The rage inside me grew, wanting out, pushing at my sore ribs. Yet I just stared at the blank screen in stunned silence. How many people would see this? How much similar shit was already out there? People showing pictures of me, saying my name, talking about what happened like they had a clue. Talking about John. God, I wanted to hurl.

Mom was quiet.

“Georgia hasn’t tried to visit again?” I asked. “Hasn’t called?”

Her mouth opened, eyes softening as if she might try and peddle some excuse. But in the end, she didn’t. “No, she hasn’t.”

“No,” I agreed, closing my eyes. “She didn’t say anything about doing this, talking to them.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I told her that stuff in private, Mom. I trusted her.”

Mom shifted in her seat, a little line between her brows. “She said she was concerned about you.”

“So she goes and gives some interviews?” My headache was back, better than ever. “No, she had to know I didn’t want this, not that she bothered to ask. And she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about. God, John’s going to think I believe that crap.”

Nothing from Mom.

“How could she have done this?”

Even if I’d wanted to cry, I couldn’t. It might be cathartic, a release. But the wall between me and my feelings allowed only the worst of the worst to get out. Terror and angst and all of their friends were just waiting to party hard in my head. Best to keep on aiming for numb. Who knew? Eventually, it might work.

A day later when Georgia finally did call, I didn’t answer. I tried not to miss her, but it was hard. Next she texted me and I ignored those messages too; after reading them, of course. It was all such bullshit. Any media outlet who’d give her the time of day, she’d talked to, sharing her insights on me and the situation. Giving them pictures of us together and all sorts of personal information I’d entrusted her with. True or not, she’d already said it all. There was nothing left for me to say.