Wrecked(54)

He doesn’t respond.

“Really mad.”

Still no reaction from him.

“Okay: annoyed. Deeply, profoundly annoyed.”

“I’ll take it,” he says. She realizes he’s shifted closer to her. Their shoulders brush.

“Jenny meets with the investigator tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow! I’m supposed to be there. What do I do?”

“Go with her,” he says. “If the investigator keeps you after, like he did me, just answer his questions. Keep it simple. When you tell him the same story I did, he’ll know it’s the truth and move on. He’s investigating Jordan, not us.”

“So that’s the truth?” Haley wonders out loud. “The same story?” She doesn’t see, but can feel, Richard’s shrug.

“The story told the same way,” he amends.

She sighs. “I suck at stories.”

He laughs. “Something else we have in common.”

She doesn’t get why he thinks that’s funny.

It’s late. She should go. She moves as if to stand, but Richard speaks again.

“You know what I really want?” he says. “A do--over.”

“What sort of do--over?” she asks. “Like, your whole life? Lunch yesterday? The choices are endless.”

“You,” he says firmly. “I wish we could start over. I wish we were meeting for the first time. Clean slate.”

Haley considers this. It’s such a little--kid term. “Do--over!” they’d shriek on the four--square court. The kickball field. Back when there was no mistake you couldn’t fix, no hurt you couldn’t heal with Band--Aids, hugs, and snacks. She’d love a do--over as well.

Which makes her a little sad.

“I think we’re too old for do--overs,” she says.

Richard holds out his hand.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Richard Brandt.” When Haley hesitates, he places her hand in his and squeezes. “And you are?”

“Haley Dougherty.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Haley Dougherty.”

Their faces are so close, she can feel his breath on her cheeks and make out the way his lashes curl.

“I promise to never, ever not tell you something again,” he says softly.

“Okay.”

“We’re never too old for do--overs,” he whispers. His eyes, in the dark, are colorless but bright with moonlight. Neither of them move.

“Okay,” she says again.





. . .


Someone—not Marliese—realizes.

“Wait. Where’s Jenny?”

They pause, consider. Conundrum . . . too crowded, too dark, too loud, now only a persistent thudding beyond the dark trees. It feels, like Jenny, too distant. They are on their way to the next party.

“I think she left.”

“Text her and check.”

“Anyone have her number?”

“We should go back.”

“There’s a line!”

“We’re freshmen. They’ll let us back in.”

“She’s fine. She knows Exley. Let’s go.” Marliese. The girl you follow. She knows the way through the woods, and she leads them now, away from Conundrum, on to the next light, bright thing. She pulls them. Like magnets. Like moths. Airy, powder--dusted. As if they had no will of their own.

As if.

. . .





26





Richard


Pool shots is well underway in the basement when Richard returns to the house; he can hear the hilarity through the floorboards. Smell it, too. Sugary whiskey. Those cheap flavored vodkas. Entering Taylor these days is like stepping into an aged bourbon cask. The ban on hosting parties has only increased the underground, in--house drinking.

Richard is heading for the stairs when he hears his name. Someone in the common room.

Joe. His friend he hasn’t spoken to in what feels like ages. Even though Conundrum and Taylor are next door, he and Joe have been orbiting in different circles this semester. It’s too bad, really. Joe’s a good guy.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Richard says.

Joe sits in an armchair. In the dimly lit room, Joe reminds Richard of an illustration he’d once seen of that character Ichabod Crane: he’s that tall and scarecrow--thin.

“Got a minute?” Joe asks.

Richard glances at his watch. “A minute, man. I’m shattered.”

He’d lost track of time with Haley. At some point, he realized his feet were numb but he decided to ignore them. Only when the chapel bells struck one and her eyes grew wide and she exclaimed that seriously, she had to go, she had an eight a.m. class, could he drag himself from the steps.

Adrenaline spent, he feels every bit of his long day now. He wants sleep. Bed. He’d prefer to catch up with Joe some other night.

Even so, Richard flops into a corner of the couch. Wills his eyes to widen, focus.

Joe doesn’t look so great.

“I hear you and Bockus met with the investigator today,” Joe begins.

Richard lowers his head into his hands and groans. “No, not that. Anything but that!” When he looks up, Joe seems startled. “Can’t talk about it. Sorry, dude.”