A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(36)

Not coming today, I text back.

I’m about to go back to the journal when my bedroom door swings open, scaring the hell out of me.

“Hey,” Alex says, standing there and buttoning his wool coat. “Mercy’s looking for you. You’re going to be late.”

“But . . .” My phone vibrates. I don’t look at it because I know Sarah’s going to cuss me out, or worse, be nice. Sarah uses sweetness as a weapon. The journal is in my lap and I look at Alex.

“That dinner was intense last night, right?” he asks. “I thought Georgia was going to cut you.”

“Thanks for having my back,” I murmur.

He laughs. “I would have gladly backed you up, but I had no idea what you were talking about. I didn’t know you got hit by a car. Not until the next day when I came in here to steal your moisturizer. You need to lay off the weed, sister.”

He’s forgotten seeing me that night. What if he forgets everything? I’m suddenly scared of losing him. “Alex?” I ask, needing some assurance. “Remember that time when we were kids and I accidentally tripped you and you fell down the stairs? You needed like eight stitches in your arm?”

“Yeah, Charlotte. Still have the scar.”

I laugh out loud, thankful. So thankful that he can remember. “Sorry about that.”

“Sure you are. Now are you getting up or not? Mercy made you breakfast.”

Then I realize that if I stay in this room, I won’t be building new memories. I’ll let myself fade away. I can’t fight the Need yet, but I can fight against being forgotten. Maybe that’s what Onika did. Monroe did write that she started going to classes again.

And if I go through the motions—school, going out—I’ll be reinforcing my existence. They can’t forget me if I never leave.

“I’m getting up right now,” I say seriously to Alex. He furrows his brow, possibly confused by the Terminator tone in my voice.

But at least it’s something for him to remember.

I grab my robe off the back of my desk chair and wander out into the hallway after Alex leaves. My stomach growls from the smell of eggs and bacon. When I get to the kitchen, I see Mercy, setting a plate on the counter and scooping eggs out of a pan when she looks up to see me.

“Morning, honey,” she says with a sad smile. “Are you feeling better today? Monroe called earlier and said you might be a little confused because of your head injury.” She tsks, and comes to check on my stitches again.

“He called here?” Somehow it bothers me that he’s checking on me. As if he’s trying to control me. I don’t like it.

“What else did he say?” I ask, putting a forkful of food into my mouth.

“That you were very upset last time he saw you. He didn’t say why. . . .” She pauses. “Are you having problems with Harlin, honey?”

“No.” I resent that Monroe would even put that idea into Mercy’s mind, which I’m sure he did. What better way to explain my depression than a breakup? I want to call him right now and tell him to drop dead, but I know I don’t have time for that. I don’t have time for Monroe, he’ll remember me no matter what. Right now I just have to have a normal day. Reaffirm my existence. I have to live if I want to be remembered.

“Harlin and I are perfect,” I say, even though that may not be exactly true. But I plan to fix that. I plan to be the best girlfriend ever.

“I’m glad. He’s sweet.” Mercy sits down across from me and sips from her coffee. I watch her, pain aching inside me. Mercy is the only mother I’ve ever known. What if she forgets me? What will I do without my mother?

“By the way,” she says, putting another piece of bacon on my plate, “I thought we could go shopping later. Maybe for shoes? I’m tired of seeing you in those scuffed-up thrift-store finds.”

“Oh no. I’m not walking around in chunky heels or strapless leg breakers.”

“Fashion is your friend, Charlotte.”

“You sound like Sarah.”

Mercy playfully rolls her eyes. “Then God help me.” We sit quietly, both smiling as we share a meal but then suddenly, I’m struck with loss.

“I love you, Ma,” I say.

She puts down her coffee cup and beams at me, looking completely surprised. “I love you, too.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “You’re still my little girl, no matter how old you get.” She smiles and wipes quickly to keep from smudging her black eyeliner.

And I try to smile back, but I’m crying too. Because unless I can stop this, I won’t be her little girl anymore. I’ll be no one.

Sarah is waiting for me on the stairs of St. Vincent’s Academy, tapping her black leather shoe. It’s nice seeing her like that, annoyed. It means things are still the same.

“Morning,” I say, jogging up to meet her.

“Morning? What the hell is with the cheerful? And where’s my latte?” She glances at her watch because I’m close to twenty minutes late, which is why I didn’t make the usual coffee stop.

“At least I’m here today, right?” I bat my eyelashes as she grabs me by the elbow and walks me into school.

The halls of St. Vincent’s smell like furniture polish and incense. The ceilings are tall, and dark wood floors stretch ahead of us.