Chapter 12 #2
“So,” I said, taking another bite of my sandwich, “Jack’s coming by tomorrow. Michael invited him for dinner. Something about them not spending enough time together since the wedding.
“But I think he’s lying. He probably wants to see how Michael is taking care of me. He does too much—“. I paused, noticing Pauline’s expression, the way her fork froze halfway to her mouth.
“That’s nice,” she said. Setting down her fork.
I looked at her. The smile had disappeared from her face, so did the lightness from earlier.
“Oh, here we go,” I muttered.
“What?”
“This. The thing you do every single time I mention Jack.” I leaned back in my chair. “The whole ‘I’m fine’ act while looking like you’d rather be literally anywhere else.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do that. You’ve been doing it since college and even a few weeks ago.” I picked up my water, eying her.
Pauline stabbed her salad with unnecessary force. “Can we not talk about this?”
“No. Because every time I try to figure out what happened between you two, you shut down. Or change the subject. Or suddenly remember you have somewhere to be.” I set down my water. “I’m your best friend. Jack’s my brother. So today’s the day that we’re talking about this.”
She was quiet for a moment, still pushing lettuce around her plate.
“Pauly. Please.”
Resignation flickered in her eyes. “Remember that guy in college? The one who humiliated me?”
“The rich asshole who said you weren’t his type?”
“Yeah.” She exhaled slowly. “It was Jack.”
I stared at her. “What?“ My mouth dropped open in shock.
Jack and Pauline. In college. And he’d hurt her.
“Pauly… I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for him.” She picked up her fork again. “It was years ago. I’m over it.”
“You’re clearly not over it.”
“I’m working on it.” She stabbed her salad with unnecessary force. “Can we not talk about this?”
“But—”
“Please, Claudette. I only told you because you kept asking and I owed you the truth. But I really don’t want to dissect it right now.”
My phone buzzed. Jack’s name lit up the screen.
I looked at it. Then at Pauline. Then declined the call.
Pauline raised an eyebrow. “You just ignored your brother.”
“He’s an asshole who hurt my best friend.”
“Claudette—”
“No. He doesn’t get to do that and just… get away with it.” I put my phone face-down on the table. “I’m choosing my friend over my brother right now. He can wait.”
Pauline’s eyes went soft. “You know most people would pick family.”
“You’re more important than his fragile ego.”
“That’s very sweet. Also completely impractical. He’s still your brother.”
“I don’t care. He hurt you.”
She smiled. Real this time. “Good to know you’re choosing your ride-or-die over your genetics.”
“Always.”
My phone buzzed again. Jack. I declined it again without even looking.
“He’s going to keep calling,” Pauline said.
“Then he’ll keep getting voicemail.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “He can leave a message explaining why he’s such a jerk. Maybe I’ll listen to it. Eventually.”
Pauline laughed despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m loyal.”
We moved on to lighter topics. Her work disasters. My adjustment to married life. The fact that Michael apparently owned seven of the same white shirt and I couldn’t figure out why.
“Men are so weird,” she said.
We were walking through the main corridor, bags in hand, still laughing about Michael’s shirt situation when I saw her.
The woman from the carnival.
Hannah Pierce.
She was coming out of a bookstore, holding a bag, looking elegant in jeans and a cream blazer. She saw us at the exact same moment I saw her. She waved slightly, I stared at her awkwardly, still unsure if she was friend or foe. I meant, Michael had completely deflected every question about her.
She walked away before I could respond. Wave back or something.
I watched her go, this strange feeling settling in my chest.
“Who was that?” I turned to Pauline.
“Hannah Pierce?”
There was something too-bright about her voice, my eyes narrowed at her suspiciously.
“I know her name. But who is she? I feel like I should know her.”
“Maybe you’re overthinking it,”
I opened my mouth to respond—and the first wave of headache hit.
Sharp. Vicious. Like someone drove an ice pick straight through my skull.
I staggered, shock flooding through me faster than the pain.
“Claudette?” Pauline’s voice sounded distant. Muffled. “What’s wrong?”
I tried to speak. I couldn’t form words. The pain was escalating fast. Too fast. Spreading from the base of my skull like fire.
“Claudette! What’s happening?”
Images flashed behind my eyes—disjointed, wrong, too fast to grasp.
A doctor’s office.
Beige walls.
My mother crying—that broken, keening sound I didn’t recognize but somehow knew.
“I need to—” I managed. “I need to sit—”
My legs gave out before I could finish the sentence.
My body hit the floor, her arms strong around me, her voice sharp with panic.
People were staring and moving around me. I could hear Pauline shouting at them to help.
The last thing I heard was Pauline’s voice—scared, frantic—saying my name over and over.
Then I feel my head hit something sharp, and it went black.