Six Months Later Part 16

I finally find my voice. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

She doesn't say a thing, just blinks up at me like she can't even imagine what I want. Or maybe like she doesn't understand a word I'm saying. Which is possible if the smell of booze coming off her is any indication of how she's spent her evening.

"Is Adam here?"

He slides into view then, still tugging a shirt down over his torso. I catch a sliver of damp, golden flesh above his jeans and force my eyes to his face.

His hair is still wet from the shower, his feet bare on the carpet.

"I've got it, Grandma," he says.

"Gloria?" she says, looking up at Adam with an expression that's much sweeter than the one she offered me.

"No, Grandma, it's me. Adam."

"Adam," she says, touching his arm.

"Yes," he says, turning her gently back toward the house. "You should go in. It's cold."

Her face puckers up, lines folding in on lines until she looks like a raisin leached of its color. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h! Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

My mouth drops at her sudden hostility. Her shouts dissolve into a coughing fit, and then she walks away, still swearing as she hobbles deeper into the apartment. Adam watches her for a moment, and then turns to me, looking wholly unaffected.

I must look desperate because Adam holds up a hand and grabs his jacket from a hook by the door. I watch him jam his bare feet into his half-laced boots, and then he's following me into the night, his breath steaming in the darkness.

"You can't be here," Adam says, and G.o.d, I thought I was paranoid, but he's redefining it tonight. He's searching the parking lot, pacing back and forth on the tiny slab of cement outside his door. "Have you ever heard of a phone?"

Is he looking for a girl? Oh G.o.d, he just got out of the shower. He could be getting ready for a date, and I just showed up here.

I feel sick to my stomach. Sick just about everywhere, really.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I couldn't-I needed-" I can't even make words anymore. I'm looking around too, dreading the arrival of a girl I never even considered existed. But I should have.

"Just tell me why you're here. And make it fast, Chloe. It's not..." He doesn't finish, just sighs and looks at me expectantly.

I don't know how to condense all the things that brought me to his door tonight. My call with Maggie? What I overheard Dr. Kirkpatrick say? The fact that I think somehow whatever happened to me wasn't an accident or a sickness and the fact that I think Blake's dad, maybe even Blake himself, is in on it?

I have a million reasons to be here tonight.

"I think I broke up with Blake," I say. Moronically. Because that fact isn't anywhere on the list of relevant c.r.a.p I need to say to him.

Except that it obviously is, because Adam stops with the looking around. He looks right at me, until I know beyond a single doubt there isn't a girl coming. There isn't a girl at all. Not one that isn't standing right in front of him.

The air between us feels hot and cold together. Charged the way I'd imagine it would be before lightning strikes.

"You said that'd be a huge mistake," he says, taking a step toward me.

His eyes flick down to my lips, and G.o.d help me, but I feel that look in my knees. Maybe right down into my bones. "I did?"

My voice is breathy, and I'm moving in too. Adam nods, those gorgeous kaleidoscope eyes of his drinking me in like he's been starved to do it.

It's wrong. Every part of me knows that you don't slide into a new guy's arms a pitiful three hours after breaking up with your boyfriend.

Still, I can't help this. Or maybe I just don't want to.

My hands flutter up to his chest, and he's leaning in so close I can feel the dampness from his hair against my forehead. He closes his eyes, and I curl my fingers in his shirt.

"You have to go," he says, and there's this broken twist to his words, like he's forcing them out.

"I don't want to go. And I don't think you want me to either."

"You have to," he says, and the words sound like torture, but he pulls back from me. My fingers drop away from his shirt, and he starts looking around again. Checks his phone.

My chest feels too tight, my heart too big. Whatever I'm feeling for him is too much. I hate it. It eclipses everything I've ever felt before, and I don't think I'm ready for that. I don't know how I got to this place with him.

Probably because someone stole the memory of it from me.

Tears spill hot and slick down my cheeks, but there's nothing I can do to stop them. "Someone did this to me, Adam. Someone made me forget things, and I know it had something to do with the study group. And with Dr. Kirkpatrick-"

"Chloe, I can't do this," he says. I can see the pain in his eyes, but he's shaking his head and taking a step back. He looks bound and tied. He stands mute, checking the street with a furtive glance.

"Fine, then don't. But give me something, Adam! At least tell me what happened between us."

"Nothing," he says, but the look of anguish on his face tells me otherwise.

"Liar," I say, and then I rush him, taking both of his hands and pulling him closer to me.

I can smell clean water and soap and cinnamon, and I can see his body go tense beneath my touch. "Not one of the moments I've remembered is nothing, and I think you know it."

His eyes drift closed and he swallows hard. I have never, ever wanted to kiss someone so much in my life. Except it's more than that.

"Go home, Chloe," he says, gritting each word out like it's physically painful. "Please just...go."

I stare at the pictures on the fridge across from me and push the oatmeal around in my bowl. Mom offers me a mug of something steaming, and I shake my head.

She sighs and slouches into the seat across from me. "Did you work it out with Blake last night?"

Work what out? Oh. Right. My ruse for getting out of the house was rushing after my devastated boyfriend.

I shake my head again. It's about the only move I've got this morning.

"Maybe he just needs some time," she says, a.s.suming Blake was the initiator of the breakup.

The whole thing with Adam last night has me totally on edge, so her comment p.i.s.ses me off endlessly. My head snaps up like a c.o.c.king pistol. "Blake isn't the one who needed time off. I do."

"You?" she says, looking faintly horrified. "You broke up with him?"

I scrub my hands over my face because the whole thing is ridiculous. How am I even having this conversation? How can I break up with someone I don't even remember dating? "I don't know. I said I needed s.p.a.ce. We're taking some time."

"Time? From Blake? Honey, have you thought this through?"

"Yes."

"But you've loved him since you were a freshman."

"Well, I'm not a freshman anymore!"

Her face goes tight and hard. "Watch your tone, young lady. I'm perfectly aware that you're not a freshman. It's just a little shocking. The two of you have been so happy."

"Have we, Mom? What do we do together that makes me so happy?"

She pushes back from the table, looking startled.

"I grabbed some pictures from your sc.r.a.pbook room," I tell her. "The ones by the book you're working on for this year."

"That was supposed to be a surprise," she says weakly.

"Mom, you give me one every Christmas. You leave them on the table in the bas.e.m.e.nt for months leading up to it."

Her face twitches a little, her gaze drifting to the table.

"I love them," I tell her. It's a stretch, but she seems to need to hear it. "It's sweet and thoughtful, but it's not really a surprise, okay?"

She shrugs. "Fine, but what does it has to do with Blake and you?"

"I don't see how I was happy with Blake," I tell her. "Every picture showed me at places I never liked to be. Most are at school. Some are at games. There was a bowling alley page."

"You had a double date that night," she says defensively. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that I hate bowling, Mom. I don't really like school, and I've never, not once, been to a baseball game."

"Well, Blake's an alternate on the team, isn't he? It's different when you're dating an athlete."

"Yeah? Well, who is he dating? Because the girl in those pictures isn't me, Mom. It just isn't."

I can tell this is too much for her to process. She collects my untouched bowl and the mug of tea she'd offered and rinses them in the sink.

"Your supportive silence is touching," I say.

"What do you want me to say, Chloe? You think leaving Blake will make you happy? I'll believe that when I see it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Some people choose unhappiness, you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Somehow, right around the time you turned sixteen, you decided your life was just too miserable."

"When I was-"

When I was sixteen. When the panic attacks started. I feel my face blanch. My hands go into fists as I force myself to silence.

"I don't know what to do with you. You've been in therapy. We've bought every book, tried every strategy. We've given you freedom, and then we've pulled in the reins, but nothing works. Sometimes I'm just not sure you want to be happy."

I stand up, a bitter laugh rising out of me. "Forget I ever said anything. I was happier with Blake. Gee, maybe I'll call him this afternoon so that we can go Putt-Putting. Or, hey, maybe he can take me to the batting cages."

I shove my chair in too hard, and Mom whirls on me, eyes cold. "Keep it up and I'll take your car."

I cross my arms and stare right back until she looks away, drying her hands on a dish towel. "I'm not the enemy, Chloe. I want to help you, but at this point, I have no idea what it is you need."

Yeah? Well, she can join the club.

The doorbell rings, and I head for it without another word, grateful for the distraction.

I swing it wide and suck in a tight breath, shocked at the slim, strawberry blond I find on the other side of the door.

"Maggie?"

Chapter Fifteen.

I don't ask her why she came. I honestly don't care.

I just yank her inside before she changes her mind and pull her into a hug.

"Your timing is impeccable," I whisper into her hair, momentarily forgetting that things are different between us.

I don't forget for long. The stiffness in her shoulders and the way she pulls back reminds me that Maggie and I are not like we were before.

"It's been a long time, Maggie," my mom says.

"Good to see you, Mrs. Spinnaker," Maggie replies.

"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up." Mom leans down to peck my cheek as if we're the perfect little family and have not just been holding verbal Armageddon over the dining table.

She slips out the front door, and Maggie takes a step away from me.

"I j-just came to bring you this," she says, handing me a sweatshirt she borrowed at least a year ago. I can't think of a single reason she'd return it now, unless she's here to talk. My hope is short-lived when she scowls and turns toward the door.