The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (41 page)

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I saw the wolf pack in there on the prowl. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. I just had to… collect myself.” It’s a lie and easily detectable in my voice, but I don’t care. I know I look and sound small and miserable, and I hate myself for it, but I’m suddenly too tired to care much at the moment.

“Right,” Koby says, and looks from me, to his keys, and then out at the parking lot for a long moment. “Do you want me to take you home?” he finally asks, still staring out over the car lot. “I know your stepmom is always here late, and it’s not really out of my way, not much, anyways.”

It sort of is, farther down Fifth Avenue than his house and down Riverside Drive, but at this moment my misery outweighs my concern for others, and I don’t bother to argue.

“That’s really, really nice of you,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”

He gives a c’mon gesture and I follow him to the adjoining lot that’s slightly hidden around the corner of the club, and we get into his car. The ride is silent, the radio turned up enough that the silence isn’t overwhelming but low enough that conversation wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Still, we don’t talk because I’m still feeling sorry for myself and Koby apparently has nothing to say.

He pulls into my driveway and I open the door and thank him, and I’m already out of the car before I hear him say my name and lean down to look at him. He’s leaning slightly over the center console, looking at me with concern.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “I mean, do you want me to take you to Zeke’s or something instead? Or call him or whatever?”

I finally give a genuine smile, because his concern is touching and I feel a warm glow of affection for Koby. I have the sudden, random memory of Jenny and me giggling together about how cute he and Zeke were, and feel a rush of regret that she and Koby never seem to have connected. They would have been a good match, I’m sure of it.

“No, thanks,” I say in response to his question. “I’m okay. I’m just gonna go to bed anyway, so it’s fine.”

“If you’re sure,” Koby says, still sounding doubtful. He sits in the driveway as I walk up to the house, waiting until I unlock the door, get inside and re-lock it before pulling away, and it makes me smile to myself despite my sudden misery.

I text Clarissa to tell her I’m already home, knowing she’ll probably give me a lecture about it later but not really caring at this point. I take a bath, hoping the warm water will soothe away the chills that are still chasing down my skin. I realize it’s a bad idea, however, when I start scrubbing myself so hard that my skin turns raw and pink, because all of the sudden I’m feeling dirty again, the kind of dirty that’s inside and can’t be washed out. The dirty that I’d thought I was rid of.

I’ve rubbed at my arm so hard that the last cut I made, the only one with scabs still on it, has broken open and has a small trickle of blood leaking from it. I wash it off quickly and have to take a few minutes to talk myself into letting go of the scrub brush and lying back, to try and get my breathing under control and
relax
.

When I’m finally a little less tense, I open my eyes and I see my tattoo. It doesn’t give me the warm, reassuring feeling that it used to; instead, it fills me with shame, makes all the nasty words echo through my brain again, and I drape a washcloth over it so I don’t have to look at it. And then I curse Chantal, Grace, and Tiffany ten times over in my head for ruining this for me. And then I splash water on my face so that I don’t have to know if I’m actually crying or not.

Ten minutes later I’ve done all the relaxing I can manage under the circumstances and get out, wrapping my terrycloth robe around me and going back to my new room to hunt out my oldest sweats; comfort clothes that I know will make me feel marginally better. I check my phone and find that I have a voicemail and brace myself for the worst, but it’s Zeke’s deep voice that I hear, not Clarissa’s shrill one.

“Hey, it’s Zeke. Koby called me and said, um, the girls at the club were after you. He said he took you home, but I was just gonna say, if you want to talk or… or something or whatever, just call me. So, yeah. If not, I’ll see you on Monday.” There’s a long pause, and then his voice is low and intense. “I mean it, Evie. Call me if you want to talk. Bye.”

It’s sweet, especially on Koby’s side, even if it feels slightly interfering, though I understand why he did it. It makes me smile, at least, even if I know I’m not going to call Zeke and bother him. And at least now I have his wonderfully deep, reassuring baritone permanently on my phone to listen to as often as I want. In fact, I take the phone back into the bathroom with me and put it on speaker as I quickly braid my damp hair over one shoulder.

I smile as the message plays over once more and ends as I tie off the braid, and I grab the phone from the counter and it instantly slips from my slick hand and falls to the floor with a loud clatter. I mutter a curse and grab it, turning it over slowly in my hands to see the front.

“Don’t be cracked, don’t be cracked,
please
don’t be cracked,” I pray. I turn it all the way and the front screen is miraculously undamaged. And then I become aware of the robotic female voice still speaking in my voicemail center.

“-April thirty-first, eleven forty-five, A.M.” And then Tony’s frantic, scared voice is filling the bathroom, seeming to bounce off every surface and hit me from all angles as he says my name.

“Evie? Evie! I don’t know how you could do this to me. I loved you, I gave you everything I had and you just left me!”

I sit down hard on the tile floor, hurting my tailbone but not really noticing. The phone slips from my numb hands and hits the floor again and I don’t even check for cracks this time. I just stare at the phone like its poison, unable to touch it, unable to reach out and stop the message from playing. I just sit there, listening to the whole thing.

That
voice.
It’s been almost two whole months since I last heard Tony’s voice, and yet I know it just as well as I know my own. It still seems to have the power to make me stop in my tracks, clearly evidenced by the way I’m frozen on the floor. It still sends a chill of fear down my spine, makes the old instinct of jumping up to attention come to the surface.

And the guilt. Not quite as deep and all-consuming as it used to be, and not for all the same reasons. I know I didn’t make Tony the way he was, and I know that what he thought and did doesn’t matter anymore. I know that he shouldn’t have any control over any part of my life. But oh, the guilt of knowing that what happened to him, where he is right now, lifeless and lying in a hospital, is my fault still kills me. It comes back instantly and intensely as I hear the message.

I feel sick. The message ends and my stomach rebels and I crawl over to the toilet on my hands and knees and retch, though I realize as only watery bile comes out that I’ve forgotten to eat today, for the first time in a long time. I heave and heave but nothing comes out, and then I shakily get to my feet and hover over the sink, splashing cold water on my face. I look in the mirror, water droplets trembling on my chin.

I have mascara and eyeliner smeared below my eyes and my hair is all tangled, and I look pale, oh so pale. It’s as though nothing has changed, as though the last two months with Zeke haven’t happened. I look thin and gaunt and haunted, and I hate myself for it. Hate myself for being weak, for not being able to stand up for myself and believe in myself and everything that Zeke has told me.

With shaking hands, I dry off my face and reach for my cell phone. I stare at it for a long moment, and then dial voicemail once more, skipping Zeke’s message and going straight to Tony’s. I sink to the floor again with my back against the door and tears streaming down my face and listen to the message again, and again, and again.

Ezekiel

79

The instant I come over to Evie’s on Monday, I know something is wrong. She’s been acting a little weird for the past week and I thought it was just a phase, or maybe a girl thing, or maybe it was just that
time
, but when she opens the door and I see the big circles under her eyes, I know this weekend has been rough for her and I know that I ought to have been paying better attention.

I knew it subconsciously as soon as Koby called me and said that people were after her at the club, and I know that I should have come straight over, but I was out with Dominic, trying to have some semblance of a life again, remembering what I did with my time before I had to spend it all in slave labor at the Parkers, and selfishly I just called and told myself that Evie has been better and that she’s a big girl and could handle it. How wrong I appear to have been.

“Hey,” I say, feeling awkward around her for the first time since… well, since I can remember. “What’s going on? You never called me back this weekend.”

“I know,” she says, and her voice is small and scared, the voice of Evie of the past, and I don’t like hearing it one bit. “I was… busy.”

She seems small and scared, a shadow of the vibrant person she’s been lately and I get the feeling instantly that there is something terribly, horribly wrong. I’d thought we’d gotten to the root of most of the issues, that she was on the right path and we’d discussed everything we could and that now there was only time that could heal the rest, but now I’m wondering if there’s something she hasn’t told me yet, some missing piece that has yet to be revealed.

“What’s wrong?” I demand suddenly, and she looks up at me, startled. I’m annoyed with her for keeping secrets, especially since now, all mine have come to light and she has seen every part of me, and there are still parts of her she’s holding close. I don’t like the uneven playing field. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Evie says, looking surprised and marginally more alive. There’s a spark in her eyes at my harsh tone, and it reassures me a bit. Maybe she’s just hit a rough patch. Maybe, like she said before and like me, the idea of school starting is a little scary and making her feel uneasy. “I’m fine. Clarissa was just… being stupid. Are you ready to work?”

“Yeah,” I say contritely, not able to actually apologize but feeling bad for snapping at her. “Let’s go.”

The day passes in silence as we work side by side, and I have new appreciation for Evie’s mindless chatter when we worked together while I was mad at my dad. I don’t do chatter, and she doesn’t make any attempt to talk, and so I leave for the day with no more information than when I arrived. I resolve that tomorrow I’ll find out what’s bothering her. And then I realize with a pang that it has to be tomorrow, because tomorrow is our last day. We have to mulch around the gazebo and finish the beds lining the path, and then we’re done; easily a day’s work, not even a full day.

And yet, the next day is more of the same thing. I arrive and try to push her again, but Evie responds noncommittally, blaming Clarissa and an argument with her, but leaving out the details. I can tell deep within, however, that this is crap, especially since I didn’t see Clarissa’s car here yesterday and I don’t see it again today. I doubt if she even came home last night.

It’s driving me insane and yet I can’t seem to push, tease, or provoke her into talking, and as the day goes on and on, I find myself mulching slower and slower, drawing out the inevitable. It’s impossible though, and even with my dragged out pace, we’re finished by one in the afternoon.

There’s a moment, though, when we both throw away the last of the mulch bags and stand back, hands on our hips and survey the job we’ve done, where whatever problem it is melts away, and Evie and I smile at each other with genuine pleasure. The yard does look amazing, and even though it was unpaid and most of the time forced upon me, it looks damn good and I take pride in the fact.

It only lasts a moment, though, and an instant later the shadows are back in Evie’s eyes and the smile has faded. We start up toward the house together, entering through the sliding glass door and passing through the house to the front entryway. I’m floundering, panicking, wanting to think of something, anything to say to stay with Evie, to not have to leave her. It doesn’t feel right and every instinct is screaming that I need to find a way to stay with her and not leave her alone.

Except that the job is done and it’s clear that she doesn’t want me to stick around today. I wonder suddenly if that’s just it; if Evie doesn’t feel like she needs me around twenty-four/seven anymore, that she feels she can stand on her own and this is just how it’s going to be from now on, her a little sad, but at least still
living
. Deep down, I know that isn’t the case, but I let it go, try and make myself believe it because I’m stepping out the front door and it isn’t my problem if she doesn’t want me around to help her anymore. I’ve done what I can.

Traitor. Liar. Flake.
The words echo through my brain as Evie and I look at each other, the threshold of the house between us, her inside, me out. Neither of us seems to know what to say, and I know it’s because goodbye doesn’t feel right.

“Well,” I finally say to break the awkwardness. “I guess that’s the end of that project.”

“Yeah,” Evie says, looking at her feet, then her hand on the doorknob, and then finally up at me. “Yeah, I guess. Um, thank you, Zeke. For everything. I mean it. Not just the garden and gazebo. For everything you’ve done for me.”