We Were Never Here(74)

    Guilt pulsed through me, hot shame infusing the cold fear. “I’m sorry.”

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, then heaved a sigh. “I’m gonna get going.”

Preteen Kristen scribbling out her best friend’s face. Checking into a facility for help with the squall of grief. She’d put forth such a convincing argument, such a consistent account. My head was spinning too quickly to decide if I even bought it. For the moment, I was still scuba diving—treading water until I could figure out what to do next.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said. Her gaze jerked my way. “About Chile or Cambodia. I swear. We’re in this together, and I don’t want either of us kissing our lives goodbye.” I rolled my legs off the bed and rose. “I’m serious. I just want to move on. So don’t worry, okay?”

I crossed to her and she flinched as I neared. I stood awkwardly, my hands hanging in front of my chest, and finally she shrugged.

“Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” I watched as she grew smaller and smaller in the hallway and disappeared into the foyer. She closed the door with a thunk.

I lay corpselike on the bed for a long time, watching light from passing cars streak sideways along the wall. I thought about the photo of Sebastian and me. Why had she saved it, led me to it? Her explanation made sense at first glance, but it didn’t hold up to scrutiny. It was like a star so dim that it disappears when you look right at it. She’d called the picture a reminder. But if she sent it to South African authorities—even if she included my name—I could toss Kristen under suspicion too. She’d been to Westmoor; she was the one with a record. Would she really be that self-destructive, blowing up both of our lives like an extremist with a bomb strapped to her torso?

My mind vaulted back to that night in Phnom Penh. All those times I’d replayed it, the flash in Kristen’s eyes, her lunging her leg back and then swinging it into his body…but no, now that she’d pointed it out, another voice was calling bullshit on that account. That wasn’t the real memory, just one I’d inexpertly pasted on top. Brains can do that, rewrite an ending—funny organs obsessed with self-preservation, with making oneself right. Now I could flick back and forth between the two scenarios, fake and real, the kick coming from her foot, from mine. Like a picture search in a children’s magazine. Scenario A and Scenario B: Spot the difference.

    Right? Or was Kristen manipulating me? Maybe she knew if she said it confidently enough, if she looked at me hard like I’d lost my mind, I’d believe her. I’d convince myself I’d done it.

So much power. So much confidence. Confidence—that was another item on the list of traits the modern woman is supposed to exude. Not vanity, not Kardashian bluster, but a deep fearlessness, Lizzo Vibes, Beyoncé Power. Big Dick Energy. It was another trap: They want us fearless but also fearful, our swagger faltering when a passerby tells us what he’d like to do to dat ass. When a man pins you against the wall like a butterfly on a board. I’d felt so scared, and then, just as suddenly, so angry. I’d wanted to make Sebastian afraid. I wanted him to hurt like he’d hurt me.

Now the best thing I could do was act on a thought I’d had earlier: Get away. Put as many miles between myself and Kristen as possible so that I could think, dammit, without the constant fear of her popping into the frame. And I’d bring Aaron with me, lest she have any ideas about eliminating the inconvenient obstacle between her and me.

So I called him. Told him I needed to get away for the weekend, begged him to find someone to cover his shifts at Café Mona. I looked up travel deals as we spoke and one city called out to me, needled at my sense of déjà vu, though I wasn’t sure why. All the sunshine, maybe. No shadows in which to hide.

Aaron promised to see if he could get off work, and we hung up. Panic stretched inside me: What if he couldn’t? What if he backed out now? Would I book a solo trip, grab my things and run so that…what? I could sit in a hotel room and fixate over that murky night with Sebastian, alone?

    Stop. Stop. Stop. An hour ago, I’d felt so sure it was in my voice. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, pressing until a spray of lime shot out against the black of my eyelids. Like the Northern Lights.

Finally, finally, my phone vibrated on the coffee table. All of my cells jumped a millimeter toward the sky.

But it wasn’t Aaron. It was Kristen, of course it was Kristen, always Kristen, Kristen, Kristen.

She’d texted, “I’ve been sobbing in my room all night. I can’t believe you.”

Shame swooped through me and I unlocked my phone to reply.

And then I paused. A commercial on the TV was blaring, an annoying jingle about the best wireless network.

Get away. It had been echoing in my head all evening. And yet I was about to engage, knee-jerk, and start the cycle all over again.

I set my phone back on the table. Picked up the remote next to it, cranked up the volume, and settled into the soft sofa behind me.



* * *



—

Aaron texted as soon as I stopped thinking about him: “Wen can cover for me. LET’S DO IT.” Several celebratory emojis, confetti and champagne. I closed my eyes and grinned, pulled the phone against my heart. Thank God.

But as I opened the booking site, doubts crept in. I’d have to pretend to be normal—not just normal, excited—twenty-four hours a day, as Aaron and I wandered the reddish streets and watched the sun dip over distant mountains and ate meals together, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.