Chapter 56. Brynn
brYNN
In my dream, I’m drifting on my mattress in icy waters and pitch darkness. No floating bodies nearby. No whistle to steal. I scream without sound. The rescue boat can’t hear me. My parents and Cody wave from aboard a big ship, smiling at me as it pulls farther away. Sirens sound from its deck.
I wake to an ambulance racing down Bleecker—my throat swollen and dry, my face wet, the sky outside my window dark like in my dream.
I crashed hard after my call with Dahlia, still in the clothes I slipped on after my shower. My empty stomach aches along with my head.
I rub my gritty eyes, grab my keys, and shuffle out of the coffin—only to stop in my tracks.
The lights in the hallway glow bright. Was that one light ever broken, or did someone turn the bulb?
A chill creeps up my spine. I double-check the corridor, threading my keys between my fingers.
Holding my breath, I walk through the building at a brisk clip.
I was planning to go to the grocery store, but then I wouldn’t eat for another hour.
I’ll get cheap takeout this one time and shop in the morning, before I head out to Westchester to meet this Silas person.
After tonight, I’ll start cutting back. Rhonda said she’d try to get me that extension by reminding the bank of my parents’ recent passing.
No one wants their financial institution in the press for kicking out the famed Basilio and Katia Gallardo’s grieving daughter. I hope.
I head toward the ramen restaurant on Sullivan, dodging the smiling couples out on this sticky Friday evening.
My brain still fuzzy from my late-afternoon nap, I about run into a guy playing “Only the Good Die Young” on his sax near the corner.
My parents loved Billy Joel. I growl at the universe’s timing.
Waiting to cross over MacDougal, I taste exhaust fumes.
An EDM remix of some Dua Lipa song blasts from an open car window; another streams Spanish talk radio into the muggy air.
I feel a tug in my chest, wanting Micah beside me, holding my hand.
The way he’d cup my face, drinking me in, pops into my head.
Why did I open my big mouth and run him off?
Someone walks into me.
I jerk back.
Hot, garlicky breath skims my face. “Smile, gorgeous. Don’t look so serious.”
I don’t turn my head. My eyes burn.
The jerk and his friends laugh.
I grit my teeth, step off the curb, and move with the crowd. I look to either side and behind me. I exhale. The back of my neck tingles as I walk like someone’s watching me. Not those same jerks. Someone new. I shake it off.
As I near Sullivan, the tingles buzz again. Am I being followed? I look over my shoulder, and Dahlia and Teddy slide into view. I blink, look again. Not them. Just my imagination playing tricks on me.
I dart around the group I’m trailing and duck through the restaurant’s brown wooden door. Inside, I press my back against the wall, my heart punching my ribs.
A skinny, tattooed, straggly-haired guy in a fitted I LIKE DOGS AND WEED tank elbows the brunette with the high ponytail and purple tube top next to him. They’re wearing matching pearls and silver padlock chain necklaces.
Her violet, deep-set eyes pull away from her screen and take me in. “Picking up, or what?” Her accent straight out of Jersey.
I glance at the takeout orders lined up behind the register, then back at her. “Menu?”
I find large boxes standing in the hallway outside my door when I return, breathless from my sprint-walk. I look for Debra’s name and see mine. Sender: St. Ignatius. Why would some church send me stuff?
I drag them inside and leave them by the door. Food first, boxes after.
As I shovel ramen down my throat, I lean back against the wall, stretching my legs in front of me.
The idea that Cody lied about having parents—wealthy ones, at that—hurts.
Did I come off so shallow that he thought he needed to keep lying to me?
And why did I find it easy to believe him when I never even met them? What else did he lie about?
Silas Walker. The name he put down on his new student paperwork. Who is this guy, and why would he give Cody access to some church’s apartment?
Wait, St. Ignatius.
Silas answered his phone with the same name.
I gasp. How did he know where I lived?
Holding on to the wall, I rise to stand and leave the empty ramen container next to the kitchen sink and splash cool water on my cheeks.
I dry my face with my T-shirt, take a deep breath, and stab my key into the packing tape on one of the boxes.
Sawing off the last bit, I open the flap—and the scent of Cody’s coconut body wash hits my face like he’s just entered the room.
I stumble backward. Our last kiss flashes behind my eyes—his forehead resting on mine before he turned to leave, never to return.
I-I can’t do this. I can’t. Dammit, get a grip.
I blow out a long breath.
I lift out some T-shirts and jeans, and my favorite, his green button-down.
I let the soft memory of him threading daisies into my hair in Central Park hang a little longer before shoving the box aside, slashing the tape on the second one, and dumping out its contents.
Worn copies of The Scarlet Pimpernel, To Kill a Mockingbird, and some guitar books fall by my feet, along with his Alexander Hamilton High School ID.
His round freshman face stares at me from the floor.
CODY BENNETT WATERS.
Holy crap. He did name CB Drunken Waters after himself. Cody Bennett, not Cody and Brynn. He never corrected me. He could have told me the truth.
A scream travels up my throat. I bite my cheek, swallowing it down. Who the hell were you, Cody?
I slump down onto the floor and flip through his ninth-grade yearbook, past the class photos and sport teams to the clubs.
My stomach plummets and I about rip the page when I see a photo of him with his arm draped around a dark-haired girl holding a guitar, both of them wearing jerseys with “Wildcats” printed across their chest like in the Disney movie High School Musical.
Something in her eyes bothers me. I chew my thumbnail. I’ve seen her before.
The same girl appears on the next page. And here’s another one of Cody singing in front of more Wildcats. He must have played the part of Troy. A freshman getting the lead role? He never once mentioned that, and he discouraged me from auditioning for any of the LaGuardia musicals.
I study the girl’s face. The Falcon Messenger chick and server at Caffé Dante morph into one. Dahlia Schenkel. She darkened her hair to play Gabriella. Same pen name she uses when she posts videos of Cody on YouTube.
I scour the entire yearbook, finishing with the signature pages in the back filled with notes from his many female followers. The boy didn’t waste time. One written in red catches my eye, a heart turned 90 degrees replacing the “D” in her name. Code, Thanks for always being my hero! Love, Dahl.
This girl’s so extra.
I start putting his stuff back in the box. When I pick up one of the guitar books, a couple of folded pieces of paper fall out—online news stories.
The first one is less than a year old. I reread it, remembering the incident. The media covered it for weeks. They called the boys heroes. Why would he save this?
Cody’s a showman . . . Your parents treated him like he was never good enough for you. He needed to show them what he could do.
I stare at the headline.
brONX TEENS SAVE MOM AND DAUGHTER FROM BURNING CAR
Oh, shit.