Chapter 19
CHAPTER
I thought returning home would be a relief—that stepping off the plane at JFK, taking the trains home, and walking through the doors to my building would put me at ease.
I would breathe again without the humid air of Louisiana.
I missed being able to walk in a store and be anonymous instead of running into people I grew up with, people I suspect of something . . .
Instead, as I head to the university, that prickle on my neck won’t go away, not even after two days.
I duck around a corner, then glance through the window front of a café, looking to see who’s following me.
Of course, there’s no one—or rather everyone , an assortment of people in all sizes and shapes, headed to the library, to a class, to meet someone.
No one is looking at me, though. No one following.
At least, no one I see. I’m being ridiculous.
I huff out a breath and pull my sweater closed.
It’s an uncharacteristically chilly morning for the third week in June.
I clutch my second cup of coffee, trying to relax enough to avoid squeezing it so tightly it bursts.
I didn’t sleep well last night. Only a few catnaps where I fell asleep for fifteen or twenty minutes, then lay awake for hours, staring at a dead plant on my windowsill, a gift from Sam the first time he came over. The symbolism isn’ t lost on me.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out to find Sam’s name.
I haven’t answered his last few messages.
I know I need to have a conversation with him, end things politely.
He’s been kind to me, and I owe him that much.
But my head isn’t in the right place. It’s an effort just to focus on reaching my office, getting to my first class on time.
The bustle of campus usually invigorates me, but today—today it’s too many people.
Finally, I reach my office. My calendar stares at me from the wall, and I realize tomorrow, I’ll be getting more chapters. My stomach roils at that—or maybe it’s all the coffee without any food.
I sit down at my desk, then bolt back up to my feet.
Someone’s been sitting here. My chair is adjusted all wrong.
I force myself back down, tentative, feeling the different position of the armrests, the depth of the chair.
Whoever sat here is bigger than me, taller.
My gaze drifts over my desk, but nothing appears out of place.
Was someone going through my things? I imagine Sam or a student or . . .
I swallow more coffee and adjust the height of my chair, eyes darting around the room searching for anything else that’s changed.
Nothing seems out of order, so I slide open one wooden drawer, then another, and another.
My hand pauses on the cool metal of the handle, trying to think .
. . Is there anything someone might have found?
No, of course not. I have no connection to my old life anymore. No pictures, no datebook with private notations, not even a scribbled-down telephone number lying around. My only connection is the story. Hannah Greer. But that’s all digital now, locked away on a server.
It leaves me uneasy, though, and as I gather my things to go to the lecture hall to teach, my mind drifts to Jocelyn. Jocelyn, who wasn’t in Louisiana and who I can’ t find so much as a mention of online. Maybe it’s time I find her? She’s the missing piece of this puzzle.
A few students are already seated as I enter the classroom and get settled at the front.
I pull out my notes for today’s lecture.
Thankfully, I’ve taught this class a million times and can do it without any prep.
I take my cell out to switch it into silent mode, and Sam’s last message appears in preview.
Sam: Get together tonight?
I sigh. Then a thought hits me. Maybe it’s time I ask Sam to help me find Jocelyn?
Would that be using him? Maybe. Probably.
Yes, yes, it would be. But these days, I’m not above anything.
I nibble on my bottom lip as I debate doing something I know is shitty, not to mention risky.
The last of my students file in, and I need to get started, so I force myself to make a decision and text back before silencing my phone.
Elizabeth: Sure, sounds good.
The evening starts with wine. As if I didn’t already feel like a shitty person, Sam’s gone all out, gotten a fancy bottle he says is the reserve blend, three burners are going on the stove, and he handed me flowers when he answered the door.
The wine is fruity and thick, and I take a long draw, letting it roll over my tongue.
“How’s your mom?”
I look up from where I’m studying my glass at the kitchen island. He uses tongs, tosses wild field greens, pours olive oil and vinegar and a seasoning—God, this man turns cooking into an art. I appreciate it, even if I don’t have any desire to do it myself.
“Um, she’s . . . okay.” I try to remember if I told him she was in the hospital. That she’s dying . Did I text him that? Mention it? Probably not.
He turns his back and moves to the stove to turn the pork chops.
I open my mouth, almost tell him. But I don’t.
It’s opening a can of worms, a can full of emotions and heaviness, and that’s better left shut tight where I don’t have to think about it.
“It was good to see her,” I finish with, because that’s what’s expected when you go home and see your mother.
“And Louisiana? How was that?” He turns, hands on hips. My gaze traces the strong, handsome lines of his face, and I can’t help but compare him to Noah, even though there’s a twenty year age gap. They’re both self-assured, borderline cocky.
“Fine. Humid. Churchy.”
Sam’s gaze is heavy. He nods slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Or maybe it’s just my paranoia.
“It’s nice to be back.” I force a smile, know he’ll take that as me saying it’s nice to be back here with him . And that’s exactly what happens. His lips curl up, and he leans in, kisses me. I let it linger, manage a smile back. But inside, I feel like shit. He’s a really nice guy.
We drink more wine, polish off the bottle.
After dinner, we fall into his bed and don’t come up for air until 1 a.m. Sam seems satisfied, sated even, and I’m glad for that, at least. I feel pretty darn relaxed, too, and I think I might even sleep tonight. But first, there’s something I need to do . . .
I crawl over and prop my head on a fist, leaning on Sam’s chest. His heart is still pounding beneath his rib cage.
“I have a favor to ask,” I say.
“Hmm?” he responds sleepily.
“When I was in Louisiana, I couldn’t find one of my friends.
She was one of my best friends in high school.
With my other friend, Ivy, we were like the three musketeers.
But Ivy hasn’t been able to get ahold of her, either.
I thought she moved down south, maybe to Florida.
I’m sort of worried. I tried to look her up online, but I couldn’t find anything. ”
“Maybe she got married? Changed her name?”
“Maybe, but . . .” I sit up, frown. “Shouldn’t there be a record of that?”
Sam searches my gaze, nods. “Yes, there should be.”
“Do you think maybe you can look her up in that system of yours?”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
I stare at him. Even in the dim light, I can make out his features, and I watch carefully as I say, “Jocelyn Burton.”
Mostly, I can’t imagine he has anything to do with any of this anymore. And he doesn’t make a weird face or look shocked. He just thinks it over for a moment and shrugs.
“Sure, I can run her for you. Anything else you have? Birth date or city she was born in?”
“I can write it all down for you in the morning.”
“Sounds good. I’ll look into it first thing. Don’t want you to worry.” His hand smooths over my head, through my hair. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thanks,” I say. But I feel like an even bigger piece of shit because of how sweet he is.
We settle beneath the covers, and before long, his breathing takes on that steady, even rhythm of sleep.
I expect to pass out, too. But I don’t. It’s like every other night lately.
I’m staring at the ceiling, wondering who I can trust, if anyone.
My mind wanders to tomorrow, to the next chapters that are due.
Will Hannah submit more of her story? She still hasn’t answered my email.
And if she does, what secrets will her story tell next?