Chapter Twelve Nic
Chapter Twelve
Nic
Friday morning, I wake bleary-eyed, the pounding in my head threatening to split my skull in two. I didn’t drink that much at the bar, but once I got home…
I catch sight of the half-empty bottle of whiskey across the room on the coffee table as I stumble to the bathroom. My stomach heaves.
Right.
Once I got home, shit got real.
I spent three hours painstakingly writing down everything I could remember about the party while drinking down that bottle: the timeline of events, the people in attendance, the details about the body I hadn’t already blocked from my mind. The deep slice across his chest, leaking red onto the sand.
As far as I could tell, none of it would help Sara.
In the bathroom, my reflection greets me: bloodshot eyes, hair sticking out every which way from my head.
I look like the walking dead.
This week has been a nightmare, and last night was the poisoned cherry on the top of a shit sundae. My sister going down for the murder of some rich asshole. Harriet not able—or not willing—to help.
The injustice of it all makes me want to puke.
So I do.
Once that’s over and done with, I spend several long moments horizontal on the bathroom floor and then punch out a text to Martin, reassuring him I didn’t drown a puddle of self-pity.
He responds that Sara’s arraignment has been set for Tuesday—she’s going to be stuck sitting in that fucking jail cell an extra day because of the Monday holiday.
After I read this, I lie back down on the cool tile for a while, staring at the ceiling, contemplating how all this is really Harriet Baker’s fault.
My reasoning is this: If she hadn’t been born, the party never would have happened. George wouldn’t have been killed, and therefore, Sara would be free.
I finally manage to heave myself off the ground and head into the kitchen, where I’m greeted by an empty bag of coffee beans.
I let out a groan. Of all the mornings. The universe is clearly conspiring against me.
I was all ready to brew a pot and whip up breakfast using the random assortment of foods in my fridge, an activity that eases my mind.
Helps settle me. But instead, I’m being forced out of my apartment to hunt for caffeine.
Back in my bedroom, I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and head out the front door. There’s a coffee place two blocks over. I usually try to avoid it; each cup is five dollars, and I don’t have that kind of money. But it seems I have no choice.
Damp, cool early morning air slaps me in the face as I walk out the front door. By the time I make it to the shop, I can’t wait to get inside.
Its warm interior is a relief, but the feeling is cut short as my gaze lands on the last person I want to see: Harriet Baker, holding a paper cup, looking offensively fresh given the early hour. Whereas I resemble a hungover toad.
What the hell is she doing drinking coffee on this side of town?
She spots me, and a smile stretches across her face. Like she thinks we’re friends.
“No,” I say as she approaches.
She stops in front of me, face falling. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean, no. I can’t deal with this—with you—right now. I need coffee. My head hurts. My sister’s in jail. She’s going to be charged with something she didn’t do. You won’t help. And you’re smiling at me like you think it’s—”
She punches her fist into her hip. “Excuse me? Is it illegal to smile now? Maybe you should rethink being such a dick to me, because I’m actually here to—”
“Uh, excuse me?” a shaky voice interrupts. I turn to find a pimply teenage boy, wearing an apron that says Java the Hut.
“What?” Harriet snaps.
He flinches back. “I…uh…I…”
“You don’t have to be so mean,” I tell Harriet, even though I was going to do the exact same thing if she hadn’t beaten me to it. “Can we—can I—help you?” I ask the kid, extra polite.
“Yeah, um, well,” he stammers. “It’s just…you’re sort of standing in a puddle of coffee?” He indicates the ground, where there is indeed a very large puddle of coffee beneath my white sneakers.
Harriet smirks. “Whoopsie. Hope your shoes are okay.”
I edge out of the puddle. “You know,” I tell the kid, “you should put up a sign to warn people.”
“Uh, yeah. There actually is a sign?” He points behind me, where—sure enough—a yellow caution sign sits.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Um, also, before you walk away, would you mind wiping off your shoes? So, you know, you don’t track coffee all over the floor?” He hands me a filthy dish rag.
“Fine.” I swipe at the soles of my sneakers, shove the towel at him, then stride to the counter to finally, at long last, order my coffee.
“Hey,” a voice says by my elbow.
Harriet. She’s following me. Once upon a time, finding her next to me would have made my day, but right now, it just pisses me off even more.
“What?” I snap. She’s staring at me with those big doe eyes, like a puppy begging for food. It’s annoying.
“Did you know Steven and Martin left the bar together?”
I stare at her. If she expects that piece of news to soften me up, she has another thing coming.
She chews on her lower lip. “Well, actually.”
I flare my nostrils. “Actually?”
She scoots around someone trying to grab their order. “I’m actually here because I need to talk to you.”
“About Steven and Martin? I could have told you that was coming.”
“No. About something else.”
I give my head a sharp shake. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
“I have things to say to you!” she says like she can’t believe I just said that. “Lots of things in fact.”
“Fine, let me rephrase: I have nothing to say to you. Understand?”
Another teenager behind the counter—don’t these kids have to go to school?—clears her throat. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah. One large, black coffee. To go.”
“Should we leave space for—”
“No!” I’m the one snapping this time. I need to chill. “Sorry. I mean, no, thank you. Black is fine.”
“Okayyy, sure. Whatever.” She grabs a to-go cup and heads to the machine.
“So,” Harriet says. “The thing is—”
“You’re still here?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re being rude.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, not sounding a bit sorry. “My sister is being charged with a murder she didn’t commit, and they’re arraigning her on Tuesday. How dare I be in a bad mood?”
“Your sister is what?” The barista is holding out my coffee with her mouth hanging open.
“Nothing!” I grab the cup, throw some dollars in her direction—possibly too many, but who cares; I just want to get the hell out of here—and hightail it out of the shop.
Once I hit the sidewalk, I pause to take a sip of my drink, and someone crashes into my back. Coffee spills out through the black plastic lid, scorching my hand.
I spin around. “Are you serious? Why are you following me?”
“I told you! We need to talk!” Harriet says.
“And I already told you no. Please leave me alone.”
She grabs my sleeve. “Nic. I’m serious.”
There’s a spark where her fingers touch my shirt, but I ignore it. “Kindly take your hands off me.”
“I will if you give me a minute to say what I need to say. If you don’t, I guess I’ll be holding your shirt for a long, long time.”
“Are you threatening me?”
She bats her lashes, which, annoyingly, makes my stomach lurch with longing, a long-buried memory invading: the feel of those lashes on my cheek, my neck, my inner thigh as she—
“Of course not.” She interrupts my little fantasy. “Think about it like this: The faster we talk, the faster I leave you alone. So you might as well get it over with.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Thank you,” she says, smiling with all her teeth. My stomach jumps again.
Since it’s clear I won’t be rid of her until I acquiesce to her demands, I point to a nearby table. “There.”
“There what?” Her full lips quirk up to one side.
I give her a withering look. “Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Fine, fine.” She bounces to the table with far more energy than is socially acceptable for nine a.m. “So,” she says once we’re seated.
“So, what?” I say flatly.
“I want to…” She hesitates. “First, I guess, apologize? For what happened at the party. And before that too. Back in high school. I… Look. I was in a really bad place that summer after Kozel left and…it wasn’t personal.”
My jaw muscles clench. Not personal? Is that supposed to excuse her behavior? It certainly seemed personal at the time.
She reads my mind. “No, wait. I don’t mean…
My boyfriend who I thought I was going to marry had just left town without telling me.
I was a mess. And I didn’t realize it was your first time, and I’m sorry I stopped answering your calls.
I’m also sorry I didn’t recognize you when we ran into each other.
But you do understand not recognizing someone is not the same as not remembering them, right? ”
That does have a ring of truth to it.
“I suppose,” I grumble.
She studies me. “You are aware that you owe me an apology too. Right?”
It is possible I was maybe a wee bit of a jerk to her too.
I let my anger get the better of me, which I don’t normally do.
Not that it excuses anything, but I’ve been carrying around the hurt of that summer for eight long years.
Even when I dated other people—people who meant something to me, people who I thought I loved—I never felt as connected to them as I did to Harriet during those two weeks.
“You’re right. I’m sure all your sexual partners are very important to you.” At least I’m pretty sure. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you. Now, let’s start over. It’s good to see you again, Nic. How have you been?”
I’m really too tired for this shit. “Yeah. You too. Can we skip to the reason you’re here?” I set my paper cup down on the table and take its lid off to let it cool.
“Oh! Right.” She perks up. “I talked to my old editor last night!”
“Your editor?” It takes a second to land in my brain. “Wait, what? You did?”
“I did.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say that when you first attacked me in the shop?”