chapter 3
A s I push open the heavy wood door to my fifth-floor walk-up apartment, Mercy is there—her black hair knotted tight near her neck, her pale blue scrubs crisp from too much starch.
“And where were you?” she asks in her thick Puerto Rican accent. Even though she sounds brusque, I know she’s just being protective. Sometimes that involves dragging Alex out of a rave on a Friday night, or picking me up at Harlin’s when I’m there too late. But recently her schedule at the ER became more demanding, giving us opportunities to sneak out. Not that we take advantage of it. Much.
I drop my backpack on the floor by the couch and untie the belt of my jacket. “Sorry. Sarah had to get a dress for some fancy dinner she’s going to tonight.”
“You can’t call me?” She pauses and touches the green sleeve of my coat. “This is lovely, by the way.”
“Thanks. And you’re right, I should have called. I will next time.”
“Mm-hmm,” she huffs. “And I’m assuming you’re in for the night now that you’ve gotten Sarah’s shopping out of the way?” She’s not hinting. She’s telling me.
“Of course.”
“Good. You know I don’t like you riding the bus when it gets late. I told Alex that too, but I know his little fifteen-year-old butt was out after twelve.” She raises her voice so that it carries toward his bedroom. “He’s lucky he’s not grounded.”
I smile, knowing that Mercy would never ground us. Scold us endlessly, yes. But never punish us. It just isn’t her way.
I’ve been with Mercy for over ten years, longer than Alex or Georgia. She used to tell me about the day she first saw me in the hospital, a six-year-old with a pale pink dress and ribbons in my hair, sitting all alone in the waiting room. No one knew who dropped me off, or whom I belonged to.
Mercy had just gotten her license to foster, so when no one claimed me, she put in a request to take me home with her. After nearly a year of searching, my parents were never found, so Mercy filed to become my legal guardian. She likes to say that I found her.
It used to haunt me, not having natural parents. I’ve tried so many times to remember my early childhood, but nothing comes to me. Like I didn’t exist until the moment I sat down in the hospital waiting room. Mercy and Monroe both think my memory loss is post-traumatic stress. They say it sometimes erases painful experiences.
But I gave up dwelling about my past a long time ago. There’s no reason to. Mercy treats me like her own, and with Alex here with us, it’s like we’re a real family. We’ve each found the place where we belong.
I’ve never told them about the Need. As far as Mercy knows, I have terrible menstrual cramps and severe asthma. The Need usually knocks the air out of me, so it wasn’t really hard to fake not being able to breathe. When I was a kid, I was too scared to ever tell Mercy about my episodes, afraid that if she found out she’d realize I wasn’t normal, and then she’d give me back.
And now it’s been so long that I’m not sure how to bring it up. I don’t know, maybe I’m still scared of losing my only home.
A door closes and Alex comes from the hall, his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth as he runs his hand through his still-wet, shoulder-length black hair. When he sees me, he waves.
“Hey, Charlotte,” he mumbles through clenched teeth. “Nice coat.”
“Thanks. Going out?”
Alex takes the toothbrush out of his mouth. “Nope. Staying in. You?”
“All night.”
We smile at each other and I slip off my jacket, laying it over the back of the tweed sofa. Like me, Alex sneaks out to see his boyfriend during the week. It’s just so much easier than asking for permission, which we’d never get.
Mercy mumbles something in Spanish to Alex as she walks past him into the kitchen, obviously still mad about his late-night bus ride. He rolls his eyes at me while Mercy takes a Tupperware filled with leftovers from the fridge.
The house is quiet, and I wonder why loud rap music isn’t coming from the back bedroom as usual. “Hey,” I ask Alex. “Where’s Georgia?”
“Hell if I care,” he says, shrugging and sitting on the stool at the counter.
Mercy walks by and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. “Be nice to your sister.”
I laugh because Georgia and Alex fight like actual brother and sister, even though Georgia has only been here about six months. She’s totally secretive and often bitchy, but then again, most fosters who come through start off like that. Alex and I were the only ones who became permanent. Neither of us ever had anywhere else to go.
“She’s not my sister, Ma,” Alex replies. “Not unless you’re going to adopt her, too.”
“Georgia has a family down south,” Mercy says, putting the Tupperware in her insulated lunch bag. “And if it weren’t a temporary situation, maybe I would.” She raises her chin defiantly and I can see in her eyes that she feels guilty. Sometimes I think that Mercy would adopt the whole world if she could.
“Charlotte,” Alex says. “Back me up here. Georgia sucks, right?”
I laugh. “I’m not saying a word.”
“Good girl,” Mercy calls out as she crosses the room to pause in front of me, purse and lunch bag in her hands. “I have to go,” she says, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry, I know I said I’d try to be around more.”
“It’s okay.” And it is, because if Mercy were around more I’d have fewer chances to sneak out and see Harlin. “Maybe this weekend?”
“We’re going to church on Sunday,” she says like it’s a warning. “Sister Catherine has been all over me about missing Mass.” As a family we consider ourselves part-time Catholics. We reserve church for holidays, baptisms, and funerals. It’s not that we aren’t religious; we just prefer to say our prayers before bed instead of in a cathedral full of people. But every so often one of the nuns at St. Vincent’s reminds Mercy that a scholarship is a “gift from God” and that we should give back by attending Mass. Basically they guilt us into going.
“Charlotte,” Mercy says, “are you feeling okay? You look sort of pale.” She reaches out to touch my forehead.
I nod, but now that she mentions it, anxiety begins to turn in my stomach. I’m resisting the Need by waiting, but I have to, even if it makes me a little sick. There’s not a lot of time and I still want to see Harlin.
“I’m just tired,” I say.
Mercy purses her red lips, lines of worry creasing her forehead. “You call me if you feel sick tonight. Monroe told me your asthma attacks have been kicking up.” Mercy and Monroe have been friends for years, ever since she brought me to his clinic when I was seven with a broken arm. And luckily Monroe buys my asthma story, at least for now. If he didn’t keep Mercy updated on it, I’m not sure my acting skills would be enough for Mercy to keep believing the story. How many asthma attacks can one person have?
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Good. Now go rest.” She leans forward to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll see you after school. Tomorrow we’re having a family dinner. Tell Georgia if you see her.”
“Su-ucks,” Alex sings from the kitchen, but we both ignore him.
“I’ll tell her,” I say to Mercy. “Night.” I turn to walk toward my small bedroom in the back of the apartment, but stop in the hallway to wait. The minute I hear the click of the front door shutting, I smile and go to change out of my uniform.
“Looking snazzy, Miss Cassidy,” Harlin says when he opens his apartment door. His vintage T-shirt and loose jeans hang on him just right, and his hair is messy in that I-don’t-care sort of way. As he smiles, his dimples deepen and I get butterflies all over, like I always do when he’s watching me like that. Like he wants me.
“Thank you,” I say, holding his stare, tingles racing up and down my body.
Harlin bites his bottom lip as he looks me over. “Where’d you get the jacket? It’s hot.”
“Sarah.” I spin around slowly, showing it off. “Cute, right?”
“So cute. Now come here.” He reaches out, putting his hands on either side of my hips to pull me toward him. When we’re against each other, he pauses just as his lips touch mine. “Don’t kill me,” he whispers, “but my brothers are home.”
Disappointment fills me, and I pout a little, moving back from him. “Both of them?”
“Yep.”
I sigh. Harlin’s brothers are both in their twenties, and even though they’re pretty cool, they aren’t exactly fine with us spending the entire time in Harlin’s bedroom. I glance around the empty hallway of his apartment building. Well, at least out here we’re alone.
I push him hard against the yellowed wall before pressing my mouth to his. He reacts immediately, pulling me into him, against him. I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair. He tastes like cinnamon, just like always. Just like he did that first time he kissed me nearly two years ago.
Before then we’d never spoken, only saw each other in the halls of St. Vincent’s. I would watch him, half-fascinated, half-intimidated. Because while all the other guys were acting like idiots—punching one another in the halls, pinching girl’s asses—Harlin kept to himself, always seeming lost in his thoughts. But when he looked at me, I got a rush. I felt alive.
Then Portland had this huge winter storm, the entire city blanketed in ice and snow. And when the power in the school went out, I found myself in the hallway of St. Vincent’s, rushing to class from the bathroom. The old hallways were dark and creepy. The usual humming of the lights silent. Dead.
I was nearly back to economics class when I felt someone touch my arm as I passed the art rooms. I spun, startled, and saw him. Green paint was smeared across his hands and now on the white sleeve of my shirt. When I looked into his hazel eyes, my heart started beating wildly, as if electricity was coursing through me.
Neither of us spoke as we watched the other. But in that moment I took in a long breath and it felt like my lungs were filling for the first time. As if I’d never truly breathed before.
Across from me Harlin shook his head quickly, his dark hair falling in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m Harlin.” His voice was soft and raspy and I realized that it was the first time I’d heard him speak.
“Charlotte Cassidy,” I answered, letting him take my hand. But he didn’t shake it. He just held it.
His mouth twitched with a smile and his dimples deepened. “Where were you running to, Miss Cassidy?”
My stomach fluttered as I stood there, forgetting where I was going. Where I was supposed to be. Instead, like it wasn’t even my choice, I moved forward to stand incredibly close to him.
“I was running here,” I said, sounding confident. I’d never wanted to talk to any other guy before. Not like this.
Harlin looked me over, and then he dropped my hand to put his palms on either side of my face before leaning down to press his lips to mine. Barely touching me at all.
He tasted like cinnamon.
Just like he does now, pulling me against him in his apartment hallway and keeping me close. “Missed you,” he murmurs between my lips, still kissing me.
And I take what I can, every minute I can. Because I know that tonight there’s somewhere else I have to be.
“Hey, Charlotte,” Harlin’s brother Jeremy calls from the living room when we finally make it into the apartment. He’s sitting on the cracked leather sofa, watching ESPN in his pajama bottoms.
“I see today is business casual?” I motion toward his pants as I set my coat on the dining table.
“Only the best for you.”
I laugh and look around the place. Sneakers are piled near the door and last night’s pizza box is still on the kitchen counter. Three guys living in a two-bedroom apartment can get kind of cramped. Especially when I’m here.
But on the nights when both of Harlin’s brothers are at work, we just lie shoulder to shoulder on his bed, talking about our future. How our apartment in the Pearl District will have a spot for a studio so Harlin can paint. How I’m hoping to figure out what I want to do once I’m at Portland State. And most of all, we talk about how we’ll take a trip to California because it’s where he grew up. It was a time when he had his dad. On those nights Harlin promises to take me everywhere.
The other nights we just watch SportsCenter.
Jeremy slides over, making room for me on the couch. I drop down next to him and the anxiety begins. It feels like little vines are twisting in my stomach, making their way through my body, trying to pull me out to the street. I swallow hard and resist.
“Charlotte, you want a soda?” Harlin asks from the kitchen. I turn toward him, my head feeling heavy.
“Please,” I answer.
Jeremy picks up the remote and starts clicking through the stations. “So Charlotte, you still planning on Portland State?”
“Yep.” I can feel sweat beginning to gather above my lip as Jeremy looks over at me.
“Good girl.” He lowers his voice, glancing toward the kitchen. “You know he’s been studying for his GED, right?”
I smile. “I know.”
Jeremy nods to himself and goes back to flipping through the stations. “You’re a positive influence on him,” he says. Then louder, “No idea how an idiot like him got a girl like you.”
“Bite me, Jeremy,” Harlin says with a laugh as he comes back into the room, holding two cans of soda—one diet and one regular. I take the diet soda thankfully because anxiety is making my mouth dry. I just want to stay here. I don’t want to leave yet.
“Where’s Henry?” I ask Jeremy. Henry is the oldest brother—nearly twenty-seven. He looks a lot like Harlin, only taller and with blue eyes. But Henry is the muscle around here. He works long hours and sets the rules. I sometimes wonder where Harlin would be without him. If he’d be on the street somewhere, anywhere to be away from his mother.
Jeremy smacks the back of the remote to get it working again, and then points it at the TV. “Henry’s in his room, on the phone.”
“Girl from the restaurant?” Harlin asks.
“No. Mom,” Jeremy says quietly, looking over. Harlin shifts next to me, but doesn’t say anything. I lower my eyes and stare into my lap.
When Harlin was sixteen, his father—a policeman—was killed on duty. It was shortly after they’d moved to Oregon, and his dad had been overseeing a drug bust at an abandoned house on the west side. Then someone pulled out a gun and shot him. He bled to death before the ambulance arrived, and the shooter was never found.
Harlin doesn’t like to talk about it, but his mother does. All the time. She thinks by reliving it over and over that she’s paying homage or something. She even built a shrine to him in her bedroom. It’s completely unhealthy.
But Harlin, he’s never dealt with his grief. Last year he started falling behind in his classes, getting in trouble for skipping. He completely withdrew. Everyone thought he was a slacker, but I knew he just missed his dad. And his mother was making it worse by not letting him forget, calling all the time, begging him to move back in. Eventually Harlin just dropped out of St. Vincent’s and got a job working at a garage on Alder Street a few afternoons a week. But now he’s studying for his GED and I think it’s kind of awesome. He’s kind of awesome.
When the apartment stays silent too long, Jeremy exhales and puts the TV back on ESPN. Just then Henry stalks out of the bedroom, phone still in his hand.
“Hey,” he says to us, pushing Harlin playfully on the side of the head. “Mom says to call her later.”
“Okay,” he answers, taking his arm from around me. But I know he won’t.
“You’d better,” Henry says. “Hi, Charlotte,” he adds before turning around.
Jeremy sets the remote on the coffee table and stands up to stretch. “I’m going to run and pick up some Chinese food. You guys want?”
I shake my head, knowing I won’t be able to stay long. My temples are already starting to throb.
“Yeah,” Harlin says, fishing in his jeans pocket and pulling out a ten. He gives his order and I stare at the TV, not really able to hear it. My ears are plugged. I’m running out of time, but I don’t want Harlin to notice. I want to be with him.
Jeremy takes the money and heads toward the back bedroom to get dressed.
“Chinese? I’ll come with,” Henry calls, but then pauses to look at us, one eyebrow raised.
Harlin laughs and puts his arm around me. “Don’t even say it,” he warns. “You’ll embarrass her.” But he always says it.
“Charlotte,” Henry begins in a mock parental tone, “when two people love each other, they may have certain urges. Protection is an important—”
“Oh my God!” I cover my ears and laugh. I wait until his lips have stopped moving before I drop my arms.
“Now, behave,” he adds, glaring at us before leaving to go down the hall.
Even though both Henry and Jeremy have given us the talk, they act like we’re a couple of uncontrollable animals. It’s humiliating.
The minute Henry’s gone, Harlin pulls me to him so he can whisper in my ear. “I didn’t think they’d ever leave.”
I smile. “Me either.”
Harlin eases across the bed, resting his face close to mine before he kisses me. His soft, full lips fit to mine perfectly, and he pauses before kissing me again.
I love him.
His hand slips past my ear and into my hair, drawing me closer. He turns on his back, rolling me on top of him and we kiss. I don’t ever want to not be with him, because when I am, I feel normal. I sit up and look down at him, my hands resting on his chest.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching to unbutton the silver tabs of my shirt. “You’re so damn beautiful.” His eyes are searching me as he slides the fabric off my shoulder and sits up to kiss the skin there.
Heat is pulsating through me. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want—
“Baby?” he says, touching my shoulder gingerly. “What happened?”
“What?” I ask, my voice raspy. “What’s wrong?” My head is spinning from desire and for a second, I’m still swaying. I look sideways over to where his finger is gently rubbing. It’s the same spot that hurt earlier in the church.
“Looks like a burn,” he murmurs, adjusting his position so that he can sit up and examine it better.
When Harlin moves his hand, I can finally see the patch of skin—red, slightly raised. It’s about the size of a quarter, but it looks like it should really hurt. Only it doesn’t. At least, right now it doesn’t.
Harlin touches my chin and turns me to him. “Did something happen?” His hazel eyes are wide with protectiveness. I shake my head and press my lips together to assure him.
“I must have hit it on something,” I say, somehow knowing it’s not true. “Maybe at Plato’s.”
Harlin’s face softens as he balances me on his thighs, facing him. “You gotta be more careful,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss the spot. “You know it makes me a murderous psycho to think of you getting hurt.”
I laugh. He’s exaggerating. The closest he’s ever come to murderous psycho was the time he told Mercy’s old landlord to drop dead for locking us out. But other than that, he’s even-tempered. Harlin is a gentle soul. Always has been.
His mouth touches my neck, and I put my hands in his hair, blinking slowly. But as soon as I close my eyes, feeling Harlin’s hand sliding to my waist, I see it. It’s all I can see: 5918 W. Broadway.
I straighten, trying to heave in a breath, but it feels caught. I wheeze and Harlin takes me by the upper arms and moves me over on the bed.
“Charlotte,” he says loudly, putting a hand on my cheek. “Are you having an attack?”
Not now! Not now! But I shake my head yes, making high-pitched noises as I touch at my chest, trying to stay calm. I knew this would happen. I waited too long.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, scrambling off the bed. “Stay here.” He moves quickly toward the bathroom down the hall. Harlin makes me keep an inhaler in his medicine cabinet. I have one at Sarah’s, too. But I can feel that my cover story is beginning to wear thin. Who has asthma like this?
My body is convulsing, lurching forward with each gasp. I should be there by now. I’m late. When I wait too long, the Need gets more powerful. More . . . painful.
The minute I hear Harlin’s bare feet on the wood in the hallway, I clutch my shirt closed and climb off his bed, slipping my feet into my shoes. My head is beating a steady pace with my heart and I wish I could just stay here, in Harlin’s room.
But I know I can’t. This won’t stop until I do what I have to—whatever is needed at 5918 W. Broadway. I stare out into the hallway, hearing Harlin open the medicine cabinet.
Turning away, I stumble toward his bedroom window, gripping the frame. Pushing it up takes nearly all of the strength I have left, but it’s the only way out. I can’t risk walking past the bathroom and having him stop me.
I put one leg at a time over the sill and step out onto the steel grid of the fire escape. I snake my body through the window until I’m out in the dark night, standing above an alleyway. I quickly move down the stairs, buttoning my shirt as I go. I pause once to feel the odd patch of skin on my shoulder, but I’ll have to look it over later. When I’m done.
My breathing improves now that I’m moving. My bones begin to warm a little. Just enough to tell me that I’m going the right way.