Made for You (9 page)

“
Piper
talked to you?”

“In public? Not likely. She watches me—kind of like you do—at parties and when she doesn’t think anyone notices, but she hasn’t spoken to me in public in years. None of them do anymore.” He shrugs like it doesn’t hurt, but I know better. “I still hear people talking, and Piper’s never exactly been known for being
quiet
.”

Talking to Nate is different from talking to most people. Almost everyone keeps to the rules about Unspoken Things. It’s a longstanding tradition in the South. Unpleasantness is best not discussed; delicate matters are hinted at, but not spoken. Nate and Grace are the only people I know who ignore those rules.

“She’s a good person.”

“Who thinks that you can’t have visitors,” he reiterates.

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“She has feelings? This is the same Piper I know, right? Gossipy, perfect Piper?”

I frown at him. “We’ve been friends my whole life. Unlike
some
people, she’s never turned her back on me.”

“You’re the rightful wearer of the crown she thinks sits on her obnoxious head. You don’t want her here when you need people. Why do you even hang out with her?”

“She’s my
friend
, Nate. I just didn’t want her to see . . . I’m not ready for people to know how much I . . .”

Nate shakes his head as he peels a sticker off his apple. “You’re still gorgeous, Eva.”

I stare at him, blinking away tears, and in as steady a voice as I can manage say, “Don’t lie.”

“Jesus, Eva, you think you stopped being gorgeous because of a few cuts? Are you mental?”

“It’s more than a few cuts, Nate.”

He shakes his head, stands, and leans close to me. The apple he’s holding drops onto the bed. “You’re gorgeous. Trust me: I’m
not
going to start lying to you. I never lied to you—not when we were kids and definitely not now.”

I’m looking at him, our faces inches apart, and I don’t see a single hint of deceit. I don’t get it. I’ve
seen
a mirror. I know that there are more than a “few cuts” on my face. “Are you kidding?”

“No. I think you’re beautiful. You always have been, even when you were sopping wet from falling into the creek.” He’s still face-to-face with me, and he leans in and kisses my forehead. “Sorry I upset you, but I’m not taking it back. You’re smart and beautiful, and only a fool wouldn’t notice that.”

“We may need to get you glasses,” I murmur after he straightens.

He snorts and picks his apple up again. “My vision’s just fine.”

“So you’re calling
me
a fool?”

“If the dunce hat fits . . .” He shrugs and sits back down.

I smile at him. Being complimented by Nate does good things for my mood.

It also makes me feel less crazy about what I’m about to do. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

I know the things I saw about him dying—that vision was just a hallucination, but I’ll still feel better if I say something. “Just promise me that you won’t drive on Old Salem without first checking that you have your phone.”

“Okay.” He drags the word out a little and looks at me like his agreement is also a question.

It’s silly, and I’m sure it’s a combination of my brain injury and the things the detective got me thinking. “The person that hit me that night might have seen me. It might not have been an accident.”

Nate stiffens. “So you think it was on purpose?”

“Maybe. The detective wasn’t sure, and I know it sounds crazy, but so does getting run over.” I try to shrug like I’m not obsessing on the whole thing. “I just want you to be careful too.”

He shrugs. “No problem. I’ll promise you not to go to Old Salem without checking for my phone if you promise
me
that you won’t walk home in the dark again.”

“I’m not going to be walking anywhere. I’m on crutches,” I point out.

“Not forever.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number. I’ll call you so you can add me to your contacts. Then, if you ever need a ride again, you can reach me.”

When I don’t reply, he adds, “I’ll always have my phone with me since I just promised you could call me.”

I grab my phone. “What’s your number?”

I tap it in as he tells me, and then send him a quick text that says only, “Hi.”

“Call or text if you need me,” he replies.

I nod, and maybe it’s silly, but I don’t want him to think I’m foolish. “I did call Robert, you know. I didn’t want to bother Grace, and my parents were away, but it wasn’t that I
planned
to walk home in the dark. It was still dusk.”

Nate goes so still that it’s unnerving. “Baucom stranded you?”

I wish I could retract my statement. “He was busy or forgot. It’s not like we’re connected at the hip.”

“Did he say that?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I haven’t really brought it up. He forgot or whatever, and I walked, and there was an accident, and . . .” I lift my hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. I know I’m ignoring the whole Robert situation, but I don’t want to deal with it. Maybe he was going to dump me but now he can’t. Maybe he’s waiting to see what I say or what I look like or . . . I don’t know. It’ll work out though. We’ll stay together or go back to being friends. In a town this small, that’s just what happens. It’s all very civilized.

Nate just stares at me, and I can tell that there are a dozen thoughts he’s weighing and deciding not to say. I feel guilty. I get like that, guilty, when people look hurt or upset. I think it’s why my parents think I can handle everything myself: I simply don’t want to trouble anyone.

“It’s not his fault,” I say quietly. “I could have called someone else. I didn’t. Neither of us knew some lunatic was going to smash his car into me.”

The look on Nate’s face isn’t quite disdain, but it’s close. “I don’t want to argue with you. I just think you deserve to be treated . . . right.”

When Nate sits silently for several moments, I murmur, “Thank you.”

He smiles when my hand covers his.

I wait, fearing that I’ll have another hallucination. I don’t. Instead, I get Nate Bouchet looking at me with interest in his eyes. I remind myself that I have a boyfriend, but a little voice inside me also reminds me that Robert hasn’t even asked to visit.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Nate says. He frowns. “That sounds wrong. I mean, I’m not glad you’re
here
, just that it’s nice to see you.”

I almost laugh. I’ve looked in the mirror; I know what I look like now. I take my hand away from his and slide my fingertips over the blanket.

“Don’t.” He grabs my hand, and this time, everything is different.

The car swerves toward me, and I have to go off the road to avoid impact. I feel the truck dip and jerk as the front wheel hits the ditch. I’m braking, hoping the brakes don’t lock up, praying I don’t go into a spin, and regretting the lack of airbags. My brain is racing, rolling into thoughts that seem out of place. I wasn’t going fast enough that the accident will be fatal, but I don’t have time to be without wheels
.

It’s dark out, and there are no streetlights on Old Salem Road, but I know the area well enough after driving it every day the past year and a half. It’s wooded along the road, but not thick. The front of the truck clips a tree, but it’s only a sapling. I start to swerve farther only to jolt to a stop as I smash into a much larger tree
.

After a moment, I unbuckle my belt, and shakily push open the door. I shiver as I stand outside my truck. My phone is in my hand, but before I can call anyone, a sharp pain in my stomach makes me bend over. The stomach cramps become bad enough that I stumble and clutch the door frame of my truck. I touch my stomach. I don’t feel blood, but that doesn’t mean I’m uninjured. Internal bleeding can be far worse
.

My mouth feels like it’s filled with something hot and sour. I’m not throwing up. Yet. My heart feels too fast
.

A car pulls up in front of me, and I wonder if it’s the car that ran me off the road or someone who saw the accident. The headlights shine in my face so I can’t see who’s in the car. There aren’t a lot of people who drive along Old Salem Road, but there are a few houses and the reservoir
.

The lights make the person getting out of the car look like a silhouette. He’s not a huge man. I can tell that. Although
he
could be a bigger woman. . . . I open my mouth to speak, but instead puke all over the seat of my truck. Something’s wrong
.

“I’m hurt,” I force out of lips that feel oddly numb. It’s not that cold, but numb is the best word I know for this feeling. It’s kind of like that tingling when you drink too much but aren’t blacking out yet. I wasn’t drinking, haven’t in over a year. Hiding in a keg or bottle isn’t going to make anything better, and I need to be strong for Aaron
.

The person from the car is beside me, but he—or she—isn’t speaking. I can see jeans and tennis shoes, but when I look up, I can’t see a face. It’s there, but I can’t focus on any details. It’s like a white fuzzy space where the features should be. My eyes can’t focus there
.

I’m shaking, and I think that maybe it wasn’t the cold making me shiver when I got out of the truck. The person takes my phone, and I’m grateful that he or she is going to help me call for help
.

“Call my mom,” I say
.

My legs are shaking too, and I hit the ground. I’m sitting in a puddle of vomit. The person opens a bottle of what looks like Mad Dog 20/20, grabs my chin with a gloved hand, and tilts my head back. The alcohol pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow, and it spills down my shirt
.

He takes my hand and wraps it around the bottle, and my muscles are too weak to put up much of a fight. I try, but it’s about as effective as a toddler resisting a parent. My phone hits the asphalt beside me hard enough that the screen cracks, and I watch a blurry shape come down on it to stomp on it
.

“Eva?” His voice, Nate’s voice, draws me back into this moment. I am shaking all over, so cold that I can’t speak at first. I don’t know how or why I hallucinate like this, but I feel like my whole body is icy when it happens.

I yank my hand away from Nate.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.” Nate folds his hands together, pointedly not touching me now, and asks, “Is it the hand sanitizer? It burns in cuts. I know that. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“No.”

After a few quiet moments pass, Nate says, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay,” I lie.

It’s not like I have any other options that make sense. How do I say “either I’m hallucinating or I somehow saw your death”? I can’t. I’m not overly superstitious, but I’ve always sort of thought that it might not be a bad idea to go along with the ones that are easy to manage. I don’t step on dead folks’ graves; I don’t walk under ladders. I toss a pinch of salt over my shoulder to avoid bad luck; I only pick up pennies on the sidewalk if they’re faceup. I’m not very fond of Friday the thirteenth, or really any thirteens, and I know that someday when I get married I will be wearing something borrowed, something blue, something old, and something new. For now, I stay clear of catching any bouquets at weddings,
but
I do stand in the group of girls and women. I may not be ready, but I don’t want to risk being an old maid either.

My mind is still running over my tiny harmless superstitions when Nate asks, “Do you need a nurse?”

“No.” I sniffle, and he hands me the box of tissues. I dab at the tears on my face, wincing a little as I get too near one of the unstitched cuts.

“Okaaay. . . . Tell me what’s going on here because you were shivering and staring blankly, and right now, you look like you’ve been out on the slopes too long.” He pulls off his hoodie and puts it on my lap like a blanket.

I smile at him and reach out to touch his hand, but he pulls back before I do.

“Eva, you need to tell the doctors if—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “They know.”

I repeat the lie again because I don’t know what else to say. I’m not okay. I’m hallucinating, scarred, and in a wheelchair. I’m really, really not okay.

We sit quietly for a moment until Nate says, “Do you want to turn on the news?”

“If you want.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “I bet you still watch it for hours.”

“Whatever.” I can’t argue though. It’s true. I don’t know why I like the news so much, but I follow bunches of news feeds online, and since I’ve been in here, I’ve watched everything from CNN to the Weather Channel to the local news on WRAL—even though it was mostly about the Raleigh–Durham area.

Nate reaches over and pushes some buttons on the remote, and the words fill the room. I’m not really watching it—Nate distracts me by simply breathing—but then I hear: “. . . and over in Jessup, seventeen-year-old Michelle ‘Micki’ Adams was killed in a car crash in the Jackson Road area. The accident happened early this morning when Adams’ car overturned after going over an embankment. Indications here at the site”—the camera pans around the area, where skid marks are visible, and small bits of debris from the accident glitter in the sun—“are that Adams attempted to stop her descent after what appears to be a collision with an unknown car, but was unable to do so. She was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Durham, but was pronounced dead on arrival at 4:41 a.m., a spokesman for the hospital said. Police officials say that an investigation is ongoing, but are not commenting further at this time.”

“No!” My hand tightens on his. Tears race down my cheeks. We’ve known Micki since we were in elementary school.

“Adams is the second Jessup teenager who has been rushed to Mercy Hospital in recent weeks. Eva Elizabeth Tilling, daughter of winery heiress Elizabeth Tilling née Cooper, was—” The broadcast cuts off abruptly as Nate clicks the remote again, stopping the horrible words.

We sit quietly for a moment. Micki is dead.

“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Nate looks up and meets my eyes before he continues, “When we were in sixth grade . . . we were at a school dance, and afterwards, both of our parents were late. We were the only two left, and the chaperone went outside. I kissed her. Micki was my first real kiss.”