Lock and Key(61)

Suddenly, something clicked in my brain, and I had a flash of her that night, in the foyer with Roscoe and Jamie, then of Marshall handing me back my key that last time I’d seen him. You told me you lived in Wildflower Ridge, she’d said, but I was sure I hadn’t. I was right. He had.

“That’s why you came over?” I asked. “To tell me you were sleeping with my boyfriend?”

“You never called him that!” she shot back, pointing at me. “Not even once. You just said you had a thing, an arrangement . I thought I was being nice, wanting to tell you.”

“I don’t need you to be nice to me,” I snapped.

“Of course you don’t,” she replied. At the top of the stairs, I could see Rogerson just past the open door, looking down at us. We were making a scene, the last thing he wanted. “You don’t need anything. Not a boyfriend, not a friend. You were always so clear about that. And that’s what you got. So why are you surprised now?”

I just stood there, looking at her. My head was spinning, my mouth dry, and all I could think about was that I wanted to go someplace safe, someplace I could be alone and okay, and that this was impossible. My old life had changed and my new one was still in progress, altering by the second. There was nothing, nothing to depend on. And why was I surprised?

I walked away from her, back to the path, but as I entered the woods I was having trouble keeping on it, roots catching my feet, branches scratching me from all sides. I was so tired—of this day, of everything—even as it all came rushing back: Cora’s face in the foyer that morning, Olivia’s prism glinting in the sun, stepping into the familiar dimness of the apartment, so sure of what I was there for.

As I stumbled again, I started to catch myself, then stopped, instead just letting my body go limp, hitting knees first, then elbows, in the leaves. Up ahead, I could see the edge of the clearing, and Aaron looking at me, but it suddenly felt right, even perfect, to be alone. So as I lay back on the ground, the sky already spinning above me, I tried to focus again on the idea of that wave I’d thought of earlier, wiping everything clean, blue and big and wide enough to suck me in. Maybe it was a wish, or a dream. Either way, it was so real that at some point, I could actually feel it. Like a presence coming closer, with arms that closed around me, lifting me up with a scent that filled my senses: clean and pure, a touch of chlorine. The smell of water.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Roscoe.

He was sitting on the empty seat beside me, right in front of the steering wheel, facing forward, panting. As I tried to focus, I suddenly smelled dog breath—ugh—and my stomach twisted. Shit, I thought, bolting forward, my hand fumbling for the door handle. Just in time, though, I saw the Double Burger bag positioned between my feet. I’d only barely grabbed it and put it to my lips before I was puking up something hot and burning that I could feel all the way to my ears.

My hands were shaking as I eased the bag onto the floor, then sat back, my heart thumping in my chest. I was freezing, even though I was now wearing a USWIM sweatshirt that looked awfully familiar. Looking outside, I saw we were parked in some kind of strip mall—I could see a dry-cleaner and a video store—and I had no idea how I’d gotten here. In fact the only thing familiar, other than the dog, was the air freshener hanging from the rearview, which said: WE WORRY SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO.

Oh my God, I thought as these things all suddenly collided. I looked down at the sweatshirt again, breathing in that water smell, distant and close all at once. Nate.

Suddenly, Roscoe let out a yap, which was amplified by the small space around us. He leaped up on the driver’s-side window, nails tap-tapping, his nub of a tail wriggling around wildly. I was wondering whether I was going to puke again when I heard a pop and felt a rush of fresh air from behind me.

Immediately, Roscoe bounded into the backseat, his tags jingling. It took me considerably longer to turn myself around—God, my head was pounding—and focus enough to see Nate, at the back of his car, easing in a pile of dry-cleaning. When he looked up and saw me, he said, “Hey, you’re conscious. Good.”

Good? I thought, but then he was slamming the back door shut (ouch) before walking around to pull open the driver’s-side door and get in behind the wheel. As he slid his keys into the ignition, he glanced over at the bag at my feet. “How you doing there? Need another one yet?”

“Another one?” I said. My voice was dry, almost cracking on the words. “This . . . this isn’t the first?”

He shot me a sympathetic look. “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

As if to punctuate this, my stomach rolled threateningly as he began to back out of the space. I tried to calm it, as Roscoe climbed up between our two seats, sticking his head forward and closing his eyes while Nate rolled down his window, letting in some fresh air.

“What time is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level, if only to control the nausea.

“Almost five,” Nate replied.

“Are you serious?”

“What time did you think it was?”

Honestly, I didn’t even know. I’d lost track of time on the walk back to the clearing when everything went fluid. "What—? ” I said, then stopped, realizing I wasn’t even sure what I was about to ask. Or even where to begin. “What is Roscoe doing here?”

Nate glanced back at the dog, who was still riding high, his ears blowing back in the wind. “He had a four o’clock vet appointment,” he said. “Cora and Jamie both had to work, so they hired me to take him. When I went to pick him up and you weren’t at home, I figured I’d better go looking for you.”