Chapter 16 #2
"You kept saying, 'If you touch my head again, I'll fail calculus.'"
The mention of calculus sends a pang of longing through me. Suddenly I want it back—the version of my life that was ripped to shreds mere weeks ago.
"Where's my phone?" I ask.
Mom frowns. "You should rest, Bree."
"I just—I need to check something. It's important." My bruised brain is screaming for one thing. The one person who's been calling me every day for weeks.
Mom hesitates, then digs into her bag and pulls out my phone. "Just a few minutes," she warns.
"Okay." My hands tremble as I unlock it. And freeze.
I have twenty-seven missed calls.
Ten from a withheld number. And the remaining seventeen from Jordan.
My throat tightens. Jordan tried to call me again last night. And instead of the usual one or two tries, he called seventeen times. And possibly ten more after hiding his caller ID, desperate enough to try anything.
I scroll to his name and hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings.
Please, Jordan. I'm sorry I ignored you. Please pick up.
A click, then an automated voice cuts in: "The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later or send a text."
I try again. Same thing.
My hands shake as I look at the timestamps: 7:47 PM, 7:52 PM, 8:00 PM, 8:23 PM, 8:54PM, 9:07 PM, on and on until 11:08 PM.
While I was working, Jordan was calling. While I was having coffee and crying, needing him, he was calling. And while I was unconscious on the side of the road, he was calling. Over and over.
Why did he call that many times?
I open my messaging app and see the long thread of his messages I left on read. The last is from a week ago.
Jordan:
We'll never fix this if you won't talk to me.
My eyes sting. I don't even recall reading that text. I type a reply.
Me:
Jordan, I'm sorry I've been ignoring your calls. I've just been too hurt and ashamed. Please tell me you're okay?
I press send and instantly get a 'Not Delivered' notification.
I try again.
Not Delivered.
Oh God. What if something has happened to him? What if he needed me last night? What if he was dying?
The monitor beeps faster. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
"I think he's hurt Mom."
"Who's hurt? Bree?"
I try to get out of bed but Mom's hands push me back down. "Where do you think you're going—?"
I tear out my IV. "Jordan needs me, Mom!"
"Oh, hell no! You need to stay put!" Mom grabs me. "Nurse! We need help in here!"
Two nurses rush in. One pries the phone from my hands and pins me down while the other holds up a syringe.
"Just something to help you rest, honey," she says.
Within moments, the room blurs to nothing.
It's been five days.
My calls to Jordan still end in the same robotic voice. No messages are being delivered.
I'm now lucid enough to know I can't go to him. Still, guilt and worry tear at me. I imagine him hurt and dying, needing me while I ignored his calls.
I keep my phone beside me at all times, lunging for it every time it beeps, hoping it's Jordan.
I barely sleep. Barely eat. Mom watches me with exasperated sighs but otherwise says nothing.
Finally, on the sixth morning, I drag myself out of bed, heartsick, and get dressed for work. Mom insists I still need rest, and although the manager gave me a week off work to heal, I can't stay in bed one more minute.
As I head out of my room, I hear Drew and Mom talking in low voices in the kitchen.
I pause in the hallway to listen.
"...saw it in the tabloids this morning..." Drew's voice. "Photos of that angel-faced demon..."
My heart stops.
I walk in, finding them huddled at the kitchen table. "Jordan's in the tabloids?"
Drew and Mom exchange a look.
"Bree—" Mom starts.
"Can I see?"
Drew hesitates, then pushes a copy of Raze toward me.
I snatch it and flip through with shaking hands.
And there he is on page three.
Jordan in a tailored shirt, with his top buttons undone, lounging on a chaise in what looks like an exclusive nightclub in Manhattan. He's reclined, nursing a highball glass of liquid, his other arm around a friend I don't recognize. He looks... fine.
Devastatingly gorgeous. Healthy. Not grieving. Not destroyed. Not anything like the person who, six days ago, called me twenty-seven times in desperation.
He looks like a man who's already moved on.
"Not a woman, at least," I mutter, trying to find some comfort in that.
"That doesn't mean there wasn't one earlier. Or later." Drew mutters.
My mom sends Drew a death glare and he stops talking.
Jordan is alive. He's well.
The relief lasts exactly two seconds.
Then comes the rage—white-hot and blinding.
I've been lying in bed for five days thinking he's dead. Sobbing into my pillow. Terrified I'd never get to apologize or hear him out. Meanwhile he's been partying it up at nightclubs.
While I've been drowning, he's been living.
"Wait, where are you going, Bree?" My mom calls, and I realize I've started walking out.
"Out for a walk," I retort.
I walk to the gas station at the end of the street, the magazine crumpled in my fist. It's one of those stations that still has a payphone.
I throw the tabloid in the trash outside, then feed quarters into the payphone and dial his number with shaking hands.
In less than three rings, a woman picks up, her voice professional and detached. "You've reached Jordan, can I help you?"
My breath catches.
I hang up without speaking, pull out my cell and dial the same number.
"The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later or send a text."
I call the payphone again. The woman answers.
I call from my cell. "The number you are calling is not available. Please try again later or send a text."
I swallow hard, my vision blurring as the pieces click into place.
He changed his number. Forwarded his old one. Made sure everyone else could reach him.
Everyone except me.
For the next few days, I let the truth settle in my bones.
Yes, I ignored his calls because I was drowning in shame. Because my father was being dragged through the courts as I was through the mud. Because in the middle of all that shitstorm, I still had to work, pay bills, get through finals and graduate.
And Jordan, what did he do?
He turned his back on me the day I needed him most. He kept none of his promises to help my father.
And somewhere between begging me to speak to him and "I love you," he built a wall, shut me out and moved on.