9. In Which Aiden Regrets Saying Yes
IN WHICH AIDEN REGRETS SAYING YES
I sleep in later than normal the next morning, due to the horror-tinged nightmares that keep me tossing and turning for most of the night.
This is my first interaction with a dead body, so I can’t say for certain, but I’d hazard a guess that nightmares are pretty normal in a situation like this; Juniper probably had them too.
I was able to keep calm last night—though when I was brushing my teeth before bed, my face was as pale as I’d ever seen it—partly because the reality hadn’t sunk in.
Now, though, in the light of day, the truth seems undeniable: that was a dead body in the woods behind Solomon the Spud. It was a girl. And even though she had vanished by the time Garrity got there, I know what I saw.
I shiver thinking about this; for someone to have moved the body in the fifteen minutes before the sheriff arrived, they must have been there when we found her. That doesn’t sit particularly well with me.
And I think she was a student. A student . What was her name? I don’t have keys to the school, but surely I can find out somehow. Right?
I force myself out of bed—and away from these thoughts—and move to the en suite bathroom.
I pause partway through brushing my teeth to scrub at a few spots on the mirror with my sleeve; then I continue, splashing an extra bit of cold water on my face when I’m done.
Despite the water and the late morning, though, there are still dark circles under my eyes, and my hair looks especially unkempt.
I’m looking a bit more human by the time I get out of the shower, though. I pull on some jeans and a sweater and then head out of my room.
I’m not sure what Juniper is going to be like today, but I’m a little nervous to find out. Everyone reacts to trauma differently. Will she still be in shock like she was last night? Will she be calm? Hysterical? Somewhere in between? I’m not sure I can handle a hysterical Juniper.
I scrub my hand over my scruff as I think about that, my steps slower and warier as I approach the living room and kitchen areas. What would a hysterical Juniper even look like? Similar to how she was when we first saw the girl?
Crying. There would be lots of crying.
By the time I reach the living room, I’m ready for just about anything.
She might shout, she might cry, she might be catatonic—I’ve talked myself through all these possibilities, as well as formulated a plan for each one.
Most of those plans involve a desperate call to Caroline followed by a swift exit on my part.
When I spot my pink-haired roommate, though, all those plans and possibilities fly out of my head as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Juniper is standing in the middle of the room, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
She’s wearing…well. I don’t even know what she’s wearing.
It’s some sort of ode to Halloween— black leggings patterned with white ghosts, an oversized orange sweatshirt, and one of those headbands that has two long springs coming off the top.
The springs are attached to little pumpkins, which dance wildly with every little move she makes.
There’s a slightly manic gleam in her eyes that has me approaching slowly, my hands outstretched in a placating gesture.
I come in peace, those hands say. Don’t bite me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice deceptively calm. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” she says breathlessly. “Good. It’s going good.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, concealing my skepticism as I nod and look around.
There are fall decorations strewn everywhere, an explosion of fabric leaves and red-orange garlands and fake pumpkins.
There’s also an honest-to-goodness twig tangled in Juniper’s hair—how on earth did that even get there?
—so that it looks like she’s just tumbled out of a tree.
Her shirt, I also notice, is on inside out.
It could not be clearer that nothing is good with this woman right now. I don’t blame her; I’m not feeling good either.
“So,” I say. I try to keep my voice conversational rather than accusing or confrontational. “Where did you get all of this?”
“At the store,” she says distractedly. She’s still got that feverish spark in her eyes as her gaze ping-pongs around the room. She tilts her head, considering something, which makes the little pumpkins on her headband flop sideways.
I look at my watch, frowning. “Already? It’s only nine-forty-five. When did you have time to go to the store?”
Juniper puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes.
“It’s almost ten, Aiden. Some of us have been panic breathing since six.
Every time I close my eyes, I see—I see that—” She swallows, her gaze shuttering briefly, before aiming a bright smile at me.
“Well, anyway,” she says. “I just needed something to distract myself.”
“That’s fair,” I say slowly. I’m not sure I want a distraction myself—I need to know who this girl was—but I understand the desire.
“I tried to write,” she says, grabbing the length of garland in a pile at her feet and holding it up. “But I’m sort of stuck on this scene.”
“Do you write books?” I say, blinking at her with surprise.
“I do, yeah,” she says. She begins running her hands down the length of the garland, searching for the end. “I teach yoga to pay the bills, but I write too.”
“I thought you didn’t like that stuff—reading and writing.”
“When you knew me, I didn’t. But you did a good job tutoring me.
” The smile she gives me now is more real than the one she tried to force out before; it’s soft, grateful, reminiscent.
“Really, you’re the reason I ended up learning that I love to write.
It’s what I studied in college. I got my yoga-teaching certification alongside it, but in my dream world, I would just be able to write full time. ”
“Huh,” I say, nodding. I can’t say I’m not impressed. She’s right; when I was tutoring her, she really struggled in her English class. “What do you write?”
“Ha!” she says, holding up the other end of the garland in triumph. “Found it.” Then she looks at me. “Well, I used to write romance—oh, wait.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re probably a literature snob, right?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I’m not the kind of person who thinks romance is trash. I think there’s a place for well-written romance. No one said all books have to be deep and moving all the time.”
She shakes her head. “That’s true, but look—you’re already assuming that romance isn’t deep or moving.”
I stare at her, lost for words. She’s right, I realize; I completely made that assumption. But it’s not correct, is it? Sure, some love stories are superficial, but the same can be said of any genre.
“But romance can be deep. It can be moving,” she goes on.
“You’re right,” I say grudgingly. “I stand corrected.”
“Anyway, I used to write romance, but now I’m trying to write a murder mystery—a decision I made before the events of last night, believe it or not. But I’m only in the first scene, and I’m already stuck.”
I nod. “Well, good luck.” I cast one last glance around the living room.
“And don’t leave it messy like this, please.
Finish decorating now that you’ve got all this stuff.
” With that I turn and head back to my bedroom, where it looks like I’ll be hiding for a while longer now that fall has exploded in my living room.
I don’t want to get roped into decorating?—
“Hang on,” Juniper says, and I freeze.
Crap.
“What?” I say, not turning around.
“You know,” she says slowly, and I can hear the soft padding of her footsteps as she approaches from behind. She sounds far too calculating for my peace of mind. I shove my hands in my pockets, preparing to stand my ground.
When she steps past me and into my line of sight once more, I sigh. Her eyes are narrowed in consideration, and she’s giving me a blatant full-body scan—a slow perusal that leaves me feeling too warm.
“Stop it,” I croak.
For a second, she doesn’t respond; she still seems to be deep in thought. But then her gaze finds mine again, and she nods, causing the pumpkins on her headband to dance once more. She looks like she’s just made a decision. “Hey,” she says. “Do you want to help me research something?”
“I really don’t,” I say quickly. “At all.”
“Please?” she says, grabbing my arm when I take another step toward my bedroom. “Help me just a little bit? It really won’t take long at all.”
“Use the internet,” I say firmly.
“I tried!” she says. Her hand tightens on my arm, and good grief—where did she get a grip that strong? “But this is more of a hands-on research thing. Come on,” she adds, her voice wheedling now. “I need a distraction. Don’t you?”
This is sounding more and more dangerous by the second. And I am clearly insane, because my mind starts running through all the things she could mean by distraction, and most of them involve the two of us in compromising positions.
My stupid brain. I don’t want that kind of relationship with Juniper. I don’t want any kind of relationship with Juniper.
“Please,” she says once more. “I need a distraction. I think being with another person will help.” She gestures to the explosion of decorations around the living room. “This isn’t really helping. Please.”
It’s that last please that does it. Because her voice cracks when she speaks, and her big, blue eyes seem glossier than usual. Those stupid pumpkins are still bobbing this way and that on her headband, and her inside-out sweatshirt advertises loudly that this is a woman possibly unhinged.
Crap.
“Fine,” I say, sighing. “Fine. Just for a little bit, okay? What do you need help with?”
Her eyes brighten. “Thank you, thank you! And it’s really nothing much,” she says. “I just need your body.”
I swallow.
“I hate you so much.”
“I know,” Juniper says soothingly from where she’s standing over me. “Lift your left foot a little bit more?”
I comply, glaring at her. “So, so much.”? *