TWENTY-SEVEN
A fter an entire night spent in the emergency room, Jack is released with a fresh ice pack and a list of instructions, but no prescriptions—when asked again, he turned down painkillers. His nose is broken, and he has a mild concussion. Since I don’t think he should be alone, I offer to take him back to East House, but he insists he can’t take away his mother’s opportunity to dote on him. He calls an Uber to take him to his parents’ house.
Gracie and I take the streetcar back to campus. I’m physically exhausted, but more than that, I’m emotionally wrung out. After the ups and downs of the day, I now have to accept that Jay’s gone. Forever. And it hurts so much to go back to our room knowing I’ll never talk to him or feel him there again. Somehow, within minutes of getting to my room, I manage to fall asleep.
That evening, after I’ve napped, I try to catch up on the piles of coursework I missed in the last few weeks. A text from Jack interrupts me before I’ve read even one article for politics.
Jack: If I go to rehab and go clean, will my powers go away?
Aleeza: I don’t know. Do you want to keep your powers?
Jack: Great question. It feels a bit like a curse. Why would I want to know the future? The present is hard enough.
Aleeza: True. How are things at home?
Jack: Surviving my mother’s babying without chemical armor is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Aleeza: So it’s your parents who want to send you to rehab?
Jack: It’s always been an option. I’m thinking of accepting the offer this time. If I give all this up, will I still be me? How much of this shit has shaped who I am?
Aleeza: I have no idea. I do know that I’ve seen you both drunk and sober, and I like sober Jack just fine.
Jack: You’re a real gem, you know that? You don’t need me unloading this on you. I should talk to my therapist.
Aleeza: You can talk to your therapist, but we’re friends. You can talk to me too. I don’t mind the unloading.
Jack: No, let’s talk about you. One day I’ll get you to explain what’s the actual situation between you and Jay Hoque, but for now, why are you so obsessed with octopuses?
We continue to text for a while. I tell him about growing up in Alderville and being the weird one in my school. He tells me about private schools and European holidays and sailing trips he still wants to take. I suspect he’s talking so much so he won’t be tempted to drink, but I don’t mind. To be honest, I need the distraction too. And ... after everything, I like Jack. Getting to know him and seeing beyond his rich-kid mask, I can tell there’s something real and genuinely kind about Jack Gormley. I completely understand why Jay kept him as a friend after drifting apart from the others in the group.
The next few days are pretty ... normal. I go to all my classes. Have lunch with Gracie. I start reading a new mystery series—a gender-swapped Sherlock Holmes retelling that I’m now obsessed with. I talk to my mother for longer than normal. She tells me she can help get me a summer job in the library in Alderville if I want it, and I say yes.
I feel numb, though, like I’m just going through the motions. Actually, it feels like none of it happened, and this is how my life has always been. Since I sent the police my audio recording of the fight at Andrew’s sailboat, I haven’t heard anything about Lance, Taylor, or their father. Which is fine. Right now, I don’t want to think about them, or about what they did to Jay and his family. It hurts too much. But eventually I am going to have to think about it. My media project is due in two weeks, and I know I need to finish it. I need to document the justice we tried to get for Jay.
To be honest, any justice feels pretty hollow. Nothing will bring him back. And I doubt I’ll ever learn what actually happened that night. I have no doubt that the three of them—Andrew, Lance, and Taylor—won’t suffer any consequences for any of it. But now that I’ve seen the underbelly of the privileged life, and what some people will do—and get away with—for money, for entitlement , I wonder if not knowing would make my life easier.
Mostly I’m just sad. For Salma, who I’ve never even met. For Manal. For everyone who loved Jay and lost him because one rich man decided he was entitled to what another rich man had.
And I miss Jay. In just barely a month, he became the best friend I ever had. More than a friend, actually. All I have to show for it now are the screenshots of our conversations. I printed them all out in the library so I can reread them easily. Pages and pages of conversations. Our entire relationship is now in a stack of paper on my desk, and a picture on my phone of Dr. John Watson cozied up with Cthulhu. Oh, and a beautiful watercolor octopus that says I love you on the back.
On Tuesday, five days after the chaos at the yacht club, I have dinner with Gracie and Aster at a noodle place near campus. Gracie insisted I come—she said I need a change of scenery, and she’s probably right.
“Are you going to stay in East House?” Gracie asks once our noodles arrive. I ordered cold sesame noodles, and they look amazing. I wish I could tell Jay about this place.
I frown. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I stay?”
“I dunno. Too many memories.”
“You could go back to Mia’s now that Taylor moved out,” Aster suggests. I know she’s kidding. Aster came straight from soccer practice today, so she’s in sweats and her hair is pulled back. Gracie’s in her yellow cardigan, and she’s wearing red lipstick.
I cringe, shaking my head. “Mia and I are not going to be friends again.” I pause. I’ve barely thought about Mia in the last few days. “Has Taylor moved out?”
Aster nods. “Word is she is going to finish the school year remotely because of her family crisis .”
Of course, the school is bending over backward to accommodate her. It all still infuriates me. Taylor should also be in jail. She may not have been the one to push Jay off the boat, but she was an accessory to it. She knew what her brother and father did. I don’t know how she lured Jay to the yacht club, but Jay left East House thinking he was safe with Taylor.
But I have no doubt Taylor will walk away from this without a blemish on her record, thanks to her powerful lawyer mother and grandmother. Hell, Lance may also get off scot-free.
“I think it would be weird to live in Jay’s room,” Aster says. “After learning what happened to him. So sad.”
I shrug. That room is the last tangible thing I have of Jay’s. When I have to leave at the end of the term in a month, all I’ll have is the stack of printouts and that painting.
“I’ll be fine.” I smile at Gracie. “I want to be next door to you. I should probably think about finishing the podcast too. It’s due soon.”
“What do you think Taylor meant when she said to wait? That the story isn’t finished yet?” Gracie asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. Probably some self-serving bullshit about her family being innocent in this. Or about her thinking she should get Jay’s money. I honestly don’t even care anymore. None of it can bring Jay back.” I take a bite of my noodles. The chewy noodles with the creamy sesame sauce and crisp cucumber almost make me feel better.
After dinner, Gracie goes with Aster to her apartment. I’m again not sure what’s going on between them, but hope Gracie figured out how to get out of her own way with Aster. Someone in East House deserves to be happy. I walk back to campus alone and take the stairs up to the third floor.
It’s unseasonably warm—a huge change from when I first moved here, but I shiver the moment I get to the third floor. In fact, my stomach falls with dread. I exhale. Maybe Gracie is right and I should look into leaving this building. There are too many memories here. Not all of them are welcome anymore.
As I walk to my door, my phone buzzes with a notification. Assuming it’s a text from Jack, I check my phone, but I don’t have any new texts. Or ResConnect messages. It’s an Instagram DM on my screen.
While opening my door, I read the message.
@KEANU58008: Hi. Long time no chat.
I stare at the message. Is this—
“Hey, Roomie,” a deep voice inside my room says.
I drop my phone. It lands on the linoleum in my doorway with a thud.
Jay Hoque is in my room. The real Jay. Not an illusion, not a message on my phone. And he’s not wearing a Cthulhu mask. It’s Jay, alive and well, sitting on his bed with a computer on his lap and a stack of paper and Tentacle Ted next to him.
My bag drops to the ground, landing on top of my phone.
Jay isn’t dead. He’s safe. He’s here .