Tell Me When (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Marcus

I drop onto the grass next to Ryan’s grave. The dead grass partially obscures his small grave marker, making it easy to miss that someone’s buried here.

“I fucked things up big time.” I wrap my arms around me to ward off the mid-November chill. No one’s around to hear me curse, not that I care either way. “You’d have liked Amber. She’s a survivor like you were, bro.” I can almost hear Ryan ask then why the hell did I mess things up. Wish I had an answer. “Alejandro’s involved with Carlos’s gang. I made a mistake and took Amber with me while I was looking for him.”

I should have left her at the youth center. Bringing her was a huge mistake. Ever since I received Amber’s text yesterday, I’ve cursed myself a million times for not doing the smart thing. After sending me several texts and voice messages asking how I was doing, she shocked me by suddenly dumping me. I’ve tried calling her but she hasn’t responded.

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t imagine being without her. Not that I deserve her. Not when I can’t be completely honest with her. But I swore I’d never tell your secret, and I won’t.” Maybe Amber was right to dump me. But knowing that doesn’t take the ache away. It makes it a thousand times worse.

I snatch up a small stone, push myself up, and hurl it at a tree several yards away. A sharp pain stabs at my ribs, reminding me just how much I screwed up. Shit.

I don’t want to lose Kitten. I miss the way her smile brightens my day. I miss the beautiful sound she makes when she laughs. I miss how she makes me feel whole and wanted, and not in the same way most girls want me. The emptiness she once filled is returning. And I don’t want to feel that way, again.

After saying bye to Ryan, I drive to Amber’s dorm. If she won’t answer my calls, then she has no choice but to talk to me face to face. I’m not letting her walk away so easily, as if the past two months meant nothing. I know it’s not true, for either of us.

Luck is cheering for me when I arrive. I bump into a guy I know from engineering, and he gets me into the building and past security, without asking too many questions. It doesn’t take too long to track down Kitten’s room. Flirt with girls, especially when you have a black eye, and they’re willing to tell you anything.

I knock on Amber’s door. No one could tell me if she’s here, but I’ll camp out in front of it if I have to.

The door opens to reveal a girl in black. Black dress. Black tights. Black boots. The only thing that isn’t black is her hair, which comes pretty damn close. She’s got on way more makeup than Amber ever wears. In a way, she reminds me of an emo version of Tammara. But whereas Tammara’s appearance screams sex appeal, this girl’s screams “mess with me and I’ll mess with your face.” Or at least that’s the vibe she’s sending. There’s a wariness in her eyes that I recognize. A wariness I saw too many times in Ryan.

“I’m looking for Amber.”

She looks me over, but not in the same way most girls do. She’s judging me. “She’s not here.”

“You know when she’ll be back?”

“Can’t say I’m privy to her schedule, if that’s what you’re asking.” She leans against the door frame. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning, when she freaked out over some stupid letters.”

“What do you mean? What letters?”

“Hell if I know. But one of them was delivered to the wrong mailbox and a guy dropped it off for her.”

“What guy?”

“Geez, you’re as bad as her.” The girl shrugs. “Like I told Amber, I have no idea his name.”

“Do you have any idea where I can find her?”

“No, but her friend might.” She points down the hall then shuts the door in my face.

I knock on the door marked Isabelle & Jordan’s Room. The door opens but instead of Jordan, a tiny girl with wild black hair answers.

“Is Jordan here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. She and her friend went away for the weekend.”

My stomach drops several floors. “Which friend?”

“Amber. They’re visiting Jordan’s family.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Amber

Jordan and I pass field after field as we drive along the interstate. After Paul’s last messages, I contacted the cops. Now all I can do is wait while they investigate who sent them. So far the only thing they can confirm is that Paul is in the psych ward. I’m still safe from him.

With each mile Jordan and I travel, each field we pass, each second we’re away from Chicago, tension drains from every cell in my body, until I feel like I’m the same girl I was over a year ago.

Almost the same girl. I miss Marcus something fierce.

He’s called me, but I haven’t had the courage to listen to his messages, to hear his voice. Knowing I can never see him again, my heart feels like I played basketball with it, and it’s hit the backboard too many times.

And my head’s a panicked mess, because now I’m screwed when it comes to math. There’s no way I can pass the class without Marcus’s help. We’re covering new material and I’m already lost again. And the final exam, which makes up the majority of my grade, is rapidly approaching.

“You sure your parents are okay with me coming?” I ask again, for no other reason than to avoid dwelling on my math grade, Marcus and Paul.

Keeping her eyes on the road, Jordan says, “Don’t worry. They’re excited to meet you.” She briefly turns to me and smiles, her grin filled with mischief. Why do I feel like I’m missing something? “I’m gonna tell them the truth. And you’re gonna help me by being the buffer.”

Truth? Which truth? “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to tell them I’m studying to be a child psychologist, not a physician. It’s my future, and it’s about time I have a say in it. I mean, it’s not like I’m getting my body pierced and joining a rock band.”

I stifle a laugh at her heartfelt speech and decide not to point out that she’s been doing what she wants for the past two months. They just don’t know about the dancing and drinking and partying.

“So when are you gonna tell them?”

“Tonight at dinner. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What happened between you and Marcus?”

Okay, not what I was expecting. I thought she was going to ask something about her boyfriend or family. This was the question I was hoping to avoid, because the truth hurts, and I can’t exactly tell it to her.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw Chase yesterday and he told me you ended things with Marcus.” Even though she does her best to hide it, her voice betrays her disappointment that she had to hear it from Chase and not me. “I don’t get it. You guys were perfect together.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, perfect doesn’t exist. Perfection is an illusion, nothing more.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Is something going on between you and Chase? You know, you guys would be cute together, and he really likes you.”

She smiles. “I really like him, too.”

“More than your boyfriend?” Who lives a million miles away.

Her smile turns into a frown and she shoots me a quick glance. “Hey, no redirecting. We’re talking about you and Marcus.”

Darn it. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed what I was up to. “Look who’s talking. You’re redirecting, too.”

“I love Garrett, so end of that discussion,” she says. “Now, you and Marcus....”

“It’s really no big deal.”

She flashes me a look to tell me she’s not buying it. “You’ve been depressed since yesterday. Even now you’re hurting. It’s so obvious. Which means you didn’t willingly dump him.”

“I think you’re reading too much into things.”

“So, you can look me in the eye and tell me you don’t wanna be with him?”

“Sure, but then we’d get into an accident and die. And what’s the point of that?”

Jordan shakes her head in mock irritation. “Nice try. I meant when we’re no longer driving.”

I want to tell her the truth, that I care about him too much to let him die. Enough people have died because of me. I won’t let him be another one.

I want to tell her that but I can’t. Not without telling her what’s going on. And I would if I thought for a moment she was in danger. “It’s better this way. I need to focus on my school work.”

“But wasn’t he helping you with your math? Who’s going to help you now?”

I shrug even though she’s not looking at me.

“You could always ask Chase. I bet he’d love to help you.”

I’m not too sure about that. He might not be too thrilled to help me—unless Marcus isn’t all that brokenhearted about the breakup.

“I don’t have his number,” I say as an easy out. I’m hardly going to drive to their apartment and risk bumping into Marcus.

“That’s not a problem. I have it.”

“Oh, really?” I grin. “And why do
you
have it?”

Her face reddens and she mutters that it doesn’t matter. I’m about to ask more questions about her boyfriend when my phone rings. Mom. Relieved that the conversation with Jordan has moved away from me and Marcus, I answer the phone moments before realizing that was a dumb idea.

“The D.A. contacted me about the letters you’ve been receiving. Do you know how bad it looked when they didn’t hear about them from me first?” she says, without so much as a “Hi. How are you?”

I glance at Jordan. She’s paying attention to the road, but that doesn’t mean anything. She can still hear everything I say. “Now’s not a good time, Mom.”

“It’s the perfect time.” She uses her lawyer voice, which means she’s not interested in arguments or excuses. At least not from me. “We need to discuss your strategy with the D.A.”

What she means is
she
needs to discuss the strategy, and it won’t be pretty. Those two have nothing but a strong dislike for each other.

“I’m going to ask Grandma for help. She knows what she’s doing.” She might not have been a defense lawyer, but she was a successful family lawyer until she retired from her practice.

“You’re my daughter,” Mom snaps. Glad to hear she still remembers that.

“I know, but...”
Grandma doesn’t look at me and see my dead brother and remember that I never saved him when he was shot
. “You’re busy...”
Getting drunk
. “Your clients need you.” I need her, too, but not in the same way. Not that this is anything new. I’ve needed her since Dad walked out on us but her job always came first.

“I’ll call you later.” I hang up on her before she can respond.

* * *

The weekend is better than I imagined it would be, and Jordan’s parents aren’t so scary. Actually, they’re downright amazing. Despite what she had feared, they accepted her decision to pursue child psychology, even admitting she’ll excel at it.

“What do you say, ladies?” Her father pulls into the mall parking lot. “You ready to shop till you drop?” He’s nothing like I was expecting. He looks more like a linebacker than a surgeon, and according to Jordan, he used to be one during his pre-med days. But he’s not intimidating, even though he is over six-five.

“You’re gonna love this,” Jordan has yet to tell me anything, other than it’s been a family tradition for the past few years.

We walk to the toy store. At the entrance, I pause, confused why we’re here. Jordan was already smiling when we arrived at the mall. Now she’s beaming. She gestures for me to grab a shopping cart, and she and her parents claim their own.

“Our trauma unit sees a lot of victims, many who are children,” her mother explains. “They’re victims of physical or sexual abuse, family violence, or other types of criminal activity. They come in scared and irreparably changed.” She smiles at Jordan, pride clear on her face. “Jordan came up with a great idea a few years ago. She and the kids in her school raised money and bought gifts to give to traumatized children when they’re admitted to the hospital. Something to give them hope and show them they’re loved.”

“Someone else is now responsible for the fund-raising.” Jordan’s father pushes his cart to the side to let a mother and her two young kids pass. “But we love to do our part and buy gifts for the kids. With the holiday season coming, the incidence of violent crimes increases. We want to ensure there are enough toys.”

Somehow, at his words, I manage to keep back the tears at how wonderful my friend and her family really are. And not for the first time since I met Jordan’s parents, I wish they were mine. And Marcus’s

Just the thought of Marcus encourages the tears I was trying to hold back. Not because we’re no longer together. But because he was the boy they were talking about, and Jordan doesn’t even realize it. I can’t tell her, though. It’s not my story to tell.

“Are you okay, dear?” Jordan’s mother asks.

I could tell them how I was that girl, the one who was a victim of a violent crime. But the mall isn’t where I want to have this conversation. I wipe the tear away and do my best to smile without letting any more fall.

I say I’m fine and Jordan hugs me. But in that moment, I feel like she knows more about my situation than she realizes, more about what happened to me than I had intended.

“We’ll talk after this,” she whispers and I nod.

We spend the next hour laughing and figuring out which toys will make a difference, even just a small difference, in a child’s life. By the time we’re finished, I feel better than I have in a long time. The toys are meant to give their recipients a taste of hope, but they’ve given me so much more in return. If only Marcus were here. Then he’d see how wrong he was. There are people, like Jordan and her family, who do care about what happens to victims, especially the kids.

Once we return to her parents’ house, I tell Jordan about Paul and about the stalking and kidnapping. I tell her about the nightmares and the flashbacks, and how they’re the result of what happened to me. I leave out a lot of details. She doesn’t need to know everything.

I do, though, show her my tattoo, and tell her why I had to turn away from my best friend. Like Marcus, she points out that Trent’s death wasn’t my fault. The only person at fault was Paul.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I say. And I mean it. “I wanted to, but I also wanted to keep you separate from what happened. I wanted us to have better memories than the ones I want to forget.”

Jordan smiles, then hugs me. “You’re forgiven.” She pulls away. “Does Marcus know?”

“Yeah. A friend of his figured out I’m dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. Marcus eventually convinced me to tell him what happened.”

“You guys didn’t break up because of this, right?”

“No. It had nothing to do with that.” I almost choke on the lie.

My cell phone buzzes from Jordan’s desk. I check to see who sent me a text but don’t recognize the number. I open it.

It’s from Tammara.