“Before what?”
“Before I realized things would never work between us.”
Poppy breathes out a long breath through her nose and sits back in her seat, crossing her legs. “I’m still team Lincoln.”
“Good luck with that.”
“If you’re not going to pursue things with Lincoln—which I still think you should, for the record, but if you’re not—I think we should cross off Derek. It’s too messy. Too much baggage. Besides, he was a rebound. Let’s be honest.”
It’s my turn to sigh as I close my textbook. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right.”
“What about you? How are things with Chase?”
A smile smooths her brow. “He’s been blowing up my phone lately.”
I try to hide my envy with a smile. “See? I knew he liked you.”
“He still hasn’t asked me out, though.”
“Tell him you won’t give away the cream unless he buys the cow.”
“I hate that saying,”
My grin widens. “I know. That’s why I said it.”
“I think at the next party we attend, I might flirt with someone else. See if I can make him jealous.”
“That’s a textbook bad idea,” I warn her.
“Definitely. But this is just for fun.”
“One day, I have a feeling we’re all going to be in a book you write: social experiments conducted by Poppy Anderson.”
She grins. “I’ll give you all pseudonyms, don’t worry.”
I pretend to wipe my brow as I stand, gathering my things into a pile as I hear her front door open, followed by the loud barks from their dog Cooper, confirming Poppy’s mom is home.
“You can stay,” she says.
I shake my head. “I need to go do some laundry.”
Poppy stands. “You sure?”
I nod, her concern and love for me makes me smile. “Yeah, but we can do breakfast in the morning. Your first class is at eleven, and I don’t have anything until one.”
“Yes. I’m so in. Frank’s at eight?”
“Nine,” I counter.
“It’s always busy on Thursdays. I’ll be late for class.”
“Fine. Eight-thirty,” I concede.
She walks me downstairs, passing by her mom, who’s dressed in a khaki pantsuit with an orange top, her hair and makeup in clean lines. “Hi, girls.”
We chime our hellos, Poppy stopping to pet Cooper as I slide on my coat. “See you tomorrow. Bye, Miss Anderson.”
She smiles. It’s the only part of her that I can see in Poppy. Everything else about her is icy and intense, almost harsh.
I walk down their long driveway to where I parked on the street, my muscles tightly bunched as the cold seeps in. I’m lost in thoughts of Lincoln and Derek, and the possibility of moving out and what my parents will say when the thoughts scatter upon the sight of a paper crane tucked into my windshield wiper.
I swallow, my steps coming to a stop as I glance around, the small hairs on my arms standing erect as concern swirls with the chilly night. The high-end neighborhood Poppy lives in has immaculate yard after immaculate yard, each house shining bright with numerous porch lights, cars neatly tucked away in their garages. Nothing is amiss, and I don’t know if that is more assuring or concerning as I hastily grab the crane and climb into the driver’s seat, dropping it to my passenger seat. My car has turned freezing in the hours I stayed at Poppy’s, my steering wheel stinging my fingers. My impatience urges me to bear through it, but the cold makes my muscles ache, and the edges of my thoughts turn even darker than the night sky. I blast the heat and set it to defrost as my windows start to fog, rubbing my hands together in search of warmth.
I stare at the crane for several seconds. It seems like a lifetime ago that Maggie opened them and revealed the ugly words that were masked within the intricate folds.
I think of my conversation with Derek today, trying to recall the faces of those who passed by us. I can’t remember any of them, though.
I carefully unfold the paper, catching glimpses of the angry letters.
You jumped into an ocean, proving to be the martyr we all knew you were. It’s too bad you lived because your miserable existence plagues my days and destroys my nights. Why does he care for you the way he does? Why does he always put you first? You take, and you take, and you take, and you don’t even recognize everything he gives up, all for you. Why couldn’t you just have died?
I swallow, tracing over the same handwriting that slants down to the right hand corner of the sheet. The heater is finally blowing warm air, but I feel even colder as the words settle into my thoughts.
The outside lights from Poppy’s house flip on, cueing it’s my time to leave before she comes out to see if I’m okay. I shove the note into my middle console and pull forward.
My thoughts are on the opposite side of the world, in a tiny town in Nigeria with Maggie, as I silently move into the kitchen, wondering what she’d think of this letter. She’d say I needed to tell our parents and Paxton and be smart about this.
I sigh, running through the plausible conversation in my head. How my dad would get his sister the police officer involved. How each of my actions would need to be accounted for again. It’s daunting and promises to accomplish the opposite of what I’ve been trying so damn hard to achieve, which is to provide some assurance to my family. I consider ways to mitigate their concerns as I set my bag down and flip on the lights.
For the most part, I feel the same as I did before the accident, but my appetite still hasn’t returned. I’m sure it’s because I wasn’t able to eat for several days due to the tracheal tube, but since the hospital, I’ve craved hot chocolate. I fill the blue kettle that sets on our stovetop and set the burner to high.
A noise catches my attention. The sound of voices, making me listen more carefully. I follow the sounds down the hall to Dad’s closed office door. This morning he’d told Mom he couldn’t attend a dinner she’s at because he had something at Brighton. I move to open the door, but it’s locked.
My father’s voice ceases, and then footsteps and rushed words tickle my ears. I take a step back, working to gather the contents of the situation. Could it be a robber? Might someone have broken in and is looking for something? Was that my dad’s voice?
I take several steps back, my heart pounding in my chest as I realize I might have leaped back into the arms of danger without even having realized it.
The door creaks open before I finish organizing the facts, my dad’s face a shadow as a light behind him clicks off.
A gust of air falls from my lips as I grip the wall for balance
“Raegan?” His tone paints confusion, albeit a quiet and marginal amount of relief.
“Dad?” I ask in the same shade of confusion. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you were going to Poppy’s?” he counters, the scent of wine rolling off his breath, staining his teeth and lips.
“I was. I did. I just got home.”
“You said you were going to be home late?” The sound of something falling pulls his attention back into the room before I can answer him. He starts to close the door, but I move my foot first, my palm connecting with the door, pushing it wide. Dad’s reaction is too slow, and while I’d like to blame it entirely on the wine he’s consumed, I quickly realize another distraction held his attention.