“Thanks, Mom.” I pause. “What were you and Dad talking about?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I can feel her choosing her words. “They need him in the Manhattan office. He’s going to look into a place to rent, seeing as he’s going to be there a lot.”
“I thought he said he’d never do that.” His partners have been trying to get him to move for years, but it was too big a risk to my mom’s agency, and it’s always been a rule for Carter Reynolds that he stays with his family.
I guess things have changed.
Chapter 8
Dec 31, 2008
“Hey, buddy! Glad you came.” I throw a hand up in time to catch Fitz’s friendly slap. “Beer?”
“Nah, I’m good. I can’t stay long.” My eyes survey the sea of familiar faces from high school. A lot of them I saw back in April at the funeral. That was eight months ago. They all look the same. With a full beard covering my face and at least twenty pounds less muscle, I’m sure they wouldn’t say the same about me.
I’d still be sitting in my boxer shorts and T-shirt had my mom not run into Fitz’s mom at the supermarket, who told her about the New Year’s party that Fitz was throwing. My mom guilt-tripped me into coming.
I obliged, with the plan to show my face and then bolt.
“So . . . What have you been up to? I hear you’re back in the neighborhood.” I don’t miss the way he shifts on his feet. He’s probably as uncomfortable as I am right now.
“Uh . . . you know. Just work and stuff.” It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to carry on a normal conversation. I just don’t know what to say to anyone anymore. That’s why I rarely leave home. The rec room has become my lair. I’ve even moved my bed down. It’s odd—I was always such an extrovert before, and rarely alone. But I can honestly say that I’ve come to appreciate the peace that solitude can provide. At least I can judge myself in privacy.
“All right, well . . .” Poor Fitz just wants to get away from me. “We’ve got burgers on the grill and the hockey game on in the living room. Help yourself to the stock in the fridge if you change your mind.”
Another hand slap and then Fitz is out, his steps fast and heading in the opposite direction of me.
I glance at my watch, giving myself five minutes before the front door sees my back. Five long minutes to kill. Luckily, the place is crammed with people and the music is loud. It’s easy to squeeze through the crowd with a nod and a smile without actually being forced to talk to anyone.
So, that’s what I do, weaving through room after room. It’s a big house, and Fitz’s parents have always been cool about him throwing parties here. Even in high school, they’d take off for New York City, five hours and change away, and let him do whatever he wanted, as long as the house was spotless by the time they came back the next day.
I pass through the kitchen. And smile, remembering the beer bong showdown between Sasha and me at that very table in the corner. He won, of course, but it was—
Fuck. Just fucking stop, Cole.
Stop thinking about him.
Sasha’s dead.
Gritting my teeth, I keep moving, into the living room where the Red Wings game is on.
And Madison is sitting on Henry’s lap.
She stopped texting back in October, after I ignored countless attempts to reconnect and then sent her one single message, asking her to please stop. I figured it was best to just let her wounds heal, undisturbed by me. I guess they have. The Madison I know wouldn’t be sitting on a guy’s lap unless she was really into him.
She doesn’t see me right away, giving me a chance to watch her for a moment, leaning into his chest, a cute smile touching her lips as he whispers something in her ear. Her head falls back and that boisterous laugh of hers that I always loved—way too big to fit into that tiny body—bursts out.
I’m beyond feeling pain over loss anymore, or I’m sure this would feel like a kick to the gut. Instead, a tiny smile touches my lips, such a foreign sensation to me now. She’s moved on. Exactly what I told her to do.
I wish I could keep that smile for just a while longer, But when those whiskey-colored eyes—Sasha’s eyes—suddenly land on me, and her face pales, the smile drops away.
I’m sure it’s been five minutes by now. And if not? I don’t really care anymore.
I’m out the door and halfway down the walkway when I hear her shout my name. She’s running out in socked feet, her arms curled around her chest against the blistering cold. “I didn’t think you’d be here. I’m . . . sorry.”
She’s apologizing to me. It’s almost laughable. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
She searches my face for a long moment. “Still.”
I attempt to lighten the awkwardness. “Henry always did have a thing for you.”
A sheepish smile passes her lips. “Yeah, that’s what he told me. I had no idea.” Of course she didn’t. Madison has no clue how beautiful and sweet she is. “How are you? My mom said you moved home?”
“Yup.”
Her smile falls as she swallows hard and asks in a soft, sad voice, “How could you just cut me off like that?”
“I didn’t want you to hold on to hope.”
She nods, bowing her head until she can control the tears threatening. “Well . . . Happy birthday. I wanted to come by and drop a card or something off, but . . .” Her voice drifts. Madison has been there to celebrate my birthday for as long as I can remember, before she can even remember. First as friends, then as more.
Now as something lost.
I’ll never be that guy again, and what we had is really and truly gone. The simple fact that she is able to move on creates an impassable rift between us, the connection we once shared growing more distant with each day.
“Have a happy new year, Mads.” I turn and continue down the path, struggling to draw a breath, my lungs heavy.
It’s suddenly so clear. The guy Madison loved died in a terrible car crash last April.
She deserves to be happy, and it’ll never be with what was left behind.
Chapter 9
February 2009
I wake up to my dad’s bellowing voice from the kitchen. “Why am I hearing about this from a goddamn newspaper!”
I knew this was going to happen.
I can picture him sitting, leg crossed, mug of coffee steaming, the kitchen table covered with a myriad of papers. That’s how he’s always spent his Saturday mornings. I’m glad to see that at least one thing hasn’t changed.
He’s seen the notice that the courts made me publish in the local paper, after I filed my petition for my name change. Because now that I’ve realized that Cole Reynolds is dead, there’s no need to keep answering for him anymore.
I roll out of bed, pulling on a pair of track pants on my way out the door. I guess I could have warned him. But what’s the point? I knew he wouldn’t agree to it. My mom knows. It took less convincing than I expected. Maybe that’s because I’m using my middle name and her maiden name. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know how to handle me.
I can’t hear my mom’s response but whatever it is, my dad’s not happy about it. “Supporting him with this isn’t helping him, Bonnie! He needs to deal with what happened and move on!” my dad yells as I round the corner.
“I am. Dealing with it, I mean.”
They both stop to turn and look at me. My dad’s wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt, as if he’s heading out somewhere. He hasn’t been home in weeks, and yet I see his bags sitting in the corner. He’s ready to leave again. I’m starting to wonder if it’s more about the office expansion or about the bits of conversations I’ve overheard, comments about the lawsuit from the family of that guy, Billy, and the partners not being happy with all the billing hours they’re burning, and how they’re worried that this case will look bad for the firm if clients catch wind.
I don’t know how true that is, but just the possibility weighs on me.
“By becoming Trent Emerson?” My dad throws the paper to the floor.