The engine starts, Shelly turns on the heat, and I close my eyes. Warmth skims over the gooseflesh puckering my skin. Shelly switches on the radio, and the grainy sound system crackles “Riptide” by the Chainsmokers. The bass pulses in my chest.
“So, what the hell happened at the beach house? The nurse said that guy you went away with is dead.” Shelly rarely minces words.
“Yes, he’s dead.” The word dead overwhelms the simple sentence. “We fell down the stairs.”
“How?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Shelly’s gaze narrows. “How do you not know? It’s been less than eight or nine hours.”
I stare into the darkness broken by the glare of overhead parking lot lights. “I remember right up until we reached the top of the stairs. I don’t know what triggered the fall. I guess my brain is rattled.”
Bracelets jangle on Shelly’s wrists as she turns up the heat. “That’s super weird. I didn’t think people really lose their memory.”
“It’s in there somewhere, and it’ll come back.” This conversation sounds like it belongs to someone else. Kyle and I still feel like an almost couple. My heart pinches.
A hard knock on the car door startles me. I look to my right and see a man standing inches away. I never saw or heard him coming, and it’s unnerving to realize my guard has dropped so low.
The man is tall with wide shoulders. Country boy strong, as one of my foster mothers used to say. His short hair shifts between black and silver depending on how the light hits it. Blue eyes are arrow sharp, his jaw is square, and his nose hooks as if it’s been broken a few times before.
He’s staring at me with a combination of intense curiosity and challenge. Quickly, a deliberate grin softens his features, but not his eyes. They’re dissecting me.
“Do you know that guy?” Shelly asks.
I turn my face away from him. “I’ve no idea who he is.”
“I bet he’s a reporter.” Shelly’s speaking in a stage whisper.
I don’t want to be in the news. I don’t want to be noticed. I’m the girl who lives between the cracks. “The accident can’t be that newsworthy.”
“Lane McCord, open up.” The stranger’s voice is deep, insistent. “We need to talk.”
“Anything?” Shelly asks. “Does the sound of his voice ring any bells?”
“Nothing.”
“Lane, we have to talk,” the man says. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”
The stranger’s voice stirs panic. “Let’s get out of here.”
“He’s probably a bill collector,” Shelly says.
“I’ve only been out of the hospital ten minutes.”
“Let’s face it, girl. Neither one of us looks like we’re good for the money.”
Shelly puts the car in reverse, backing up quickly and forcing the stranger to step back. I glance toward him, fearing she’s hit him, but he’s standing strong, staring at me with a mixture of frustration and interest. I feel like I should apologize, but I have no words.
Shelly guns the engine, cranks the radio, and we’re out of the lot and on the road headed east. She races toward a red light, ready to run it when a pickup truck in front of us stops. She slams on the brakes, stopping inches from the bumper. I grip my door. The light turns green, and she punches the accelerator, tailgating the truck for a couple of blocks before it turns. Thankfully, the town house is just a few miles away from the hospital.
Kyle was a smooth driver. Was. Kyle now lives in the past tense.
My kind-of-boyfriend was comfortable behind the wheel of a car. Sunglasses on, hand resting easily on the steering wheel, he was a picture of confidence. And when I sat in his polished black Range Rover, the plush leather seats and music gently wrapped around me. With him, my cares vanished. When we left for our beach weekend this morning, the moment was very Pretty Woman. Granted, I’m not a sex worker, and he wasn’t a billionaire, but he was richer than me and could afford some of the nice things. And I felt taken care of. A first. As he pulled out onto the highway toward North Carolina, I remember it felt so good not to worry.
Neither Kyle nor I saw each other over Christmas. He was on call, and because I’m between semesters, I picked up all the shifts I could at the coffee shop. I also took a few turns at the suicide hotline. Holidays and crisis can be as tough for the poor as the rich.
But New Year’s we were both off the clock, and it was going to be our time. Our holiday. I’d even fantasized that it might be a tradition. I’m surprised when I think about all the expectations I heaped on a not-quite boyfriend.
Shelly drives down tree-lined streets, past small shops, row houses butted close together, and an old brick schoolhouse now converted into condos. The drive from the hospital to the town house takes us fifteen minutes. Holidays, vacations, and half days have thinned Friday traffic down to nothing.
Shelly races to her parking space in the alley beside our town house and parks next to my Jeep. She slams on the brakes hard, and though my seat belt holds me in place, the pressure hurts places on my body that I didn’t realize were injured. It’s a miracle she hasn’t worn down the brake shoes.
As I climb out of the car, my left hip sends nerve pain jolting down my left side. Reaching too high. Should’ve stayed with your own kind. My foster mother’s smug voice extends from the past. It’s weird I’d remember that about Frances. She wasn’t a bad person, just overworked and afraid of poverty.
“Thanks again, Shelly,” I say.
She hands me my front door key but is careful not to touch me. She’s not a fan of personal contact. “No prob. Go inside and rest.”
That’s about all I can do. All my strength is gone. “Will do.”
“Hey, how’s your Wednesday night group? I saw you carrying the decorations.”
My Wednesday night crowd, which meets at the YMCA multipurpose room, is a collection of teens who are homeless, or who have one foot out the front door. I normally arrange orange plastic chairs in a circle, make a pot of coffee, and serve up a sleeve of grocery store doughnuts. Last week I was feeling more festive and draped silver garland from the walls, and I sprang for hazelnut roast coffee from my store. When I arrived at the meeting room, Kyle was there arranging carefully gift-wrapped boxes under an artificial tree. Inside each box was a collection of chocolates. Nothing fancy. But I was so touched. He left before group, but all seven girls seemed grateful for their gifts.
“It was good,” I say.
“We all have to look out for each other. If I can help sometime with your group,” she says, “let me know. I won’t go to a meeting, but I can do something.”
We’ve had this conversation before. So far, “something” hasn’t materialized. But I appreciate her good vibes. “Thanks.”
My apartment is the second floor of a town house split into four apartments. It’s a tall brick building with a slate, gabled roof and peeling gray paint. Shelly follows me past her first-floor apartment to the second level, where I live. I unlock the door. I’ve never been so glad to be home.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m home if you need me.”
“You’re the best.”