Missing (11 page)

There was a long, dead silence.

Ed's expressionless face just hung there—as if someone had pressed the pause button. All at once she felt sick. What was she doing? The thought of what might or might not be running through his mind at this moment was unbearable. It ate away at the lining of her stomach like a cramp....

If Heather had learned anything in her experience with boys so far, it was this:
It only took one thing.
At any given moment, no matter how long two people went out, you might say that
one thing
that would totally change the other person's mind, make them reassess you and leave you in the dust. Of course, she'd never really cared too much about saying that one thing with anyone but Ed. And now she was terrified that she'd just said it. Ed probably thought she was a horrible person for even conceiving of it. He probably thought that she was some conniving moneygrubbing bitch. But he was wrong. He was so wrong. She just had to prove it.

“Pretend I can't do the one thing I've wanted to do for years?” Ed asked. He shot Heather a piercing, incredulous glance. “So I can scam the New York court system? That's your suggestion?”

“Shhh.” Heather raised her hand over Ed's mouth. “God,” she whispered. “Don't look at it like that.”

He laughed, but he was frowning. “Well, how should I look at it? I mean, you're joking, right? You can't be serious.”

Hopelessness began to well up inside her once more. She could hear the doubt in his voice, the fear. It had been a perfect evening just minutes ago—and now he was glaring at her like she was some petty little schemer. Couldn't he see the immensity of the situation?

“Ed,” she said. “You just said to me that if there was anything you could do, you'd do it.”

“I know, but—”

“Don't you understand? There is something you can do.” Heather drew in her breath and forced a smile. “Besides, when did you turn into the world's most upstanding citizen?” She was trying to joke with him, but her words ended up sounding stiff, tense. “When did you start caring about the New York court system, for God's sake? Don't you remember how you used to feel about the cops when they'd mess with you just because you had scruffy hair and a skateboard?”

“Well, yeah,” Ed admitted with a fleeting smile.

Good. A smile is good. Now just be honest with him.

“Ed,” Heather said gently, taking both of his hands. “You have the power to help my whole family. And besides, you
deserve
that money after what you've been
through, whether you ever walk again or not. And who in their right mind just waves bye-bye to a totally deserved twenty-six million dollars?”

Ed shook his head, but now he was laughing. He bit his lip and looked very seriously into Heather's eyes.
Heather looked back with all the love that was in her heart.
Maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to make sense to him.

 

I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M ACTUALLY EVEN
considering this.

Ed stared into Heather's eyes. Those beautiful, wicked, anguished, sexy blue eyes. The eyes that had brought him so much joy and so much misery. The eyes that wiped the past clean. The eyes that promised a future of happiness.

And she had a point. All he'd have to do was delay his recovery just a few weeks while they worked on securing that settlement. And in doing so, he'd be saving not only the woman he loved, but the entire family of the woman he loved.
He'd be doing something good.
Something positive.

Besides, the family who had done this to him
did
deserve to pay for the damage they had wrought. Didn't they?

Deep down, he loved that Heather trusted him enough to expose such weakness to him. It proved that their relationship was stronger than ever. And he loved that he had something that could give her back her strength and bring her such instant happiness. But mostly Ed loved that he had the chance to be a hero. And how often did a guy really have the chance to be someone else's hero? Especially a guy in a wheelchair? Certain friends of Ed's could never see him as the hero— certain blond, beautiful, badass friends (who would remain nameless) were such heroes in their own right that they never gave Ed the
chance
to be truly heroic.

But not Heather. She needed him. He was her savior. He placed his hands on Heather's face and drew her to him. He brought his lips to hers. Heather dropped her shoulders and leaned back her head, surrendering to him.

Finally he pulled away.

“I'll do it,” he said.

Heather leaped up and threw her arms around him. He could feel her chest heaving. He could feel her wet tears against his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you, Ed.”

“I love you, too,” he said, his nose and lips nestled in her silky hair. As gently as he could, he maneuvered her
back into her seat. Suddenly he realized he was exhausted.
There had been far too much drama tonight, far too much chair jumping.
It was time to chill.

“Hey—are you hungry?” he asked.

She giggled. “Starving.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the menu for the third time. Well. Now they could actually settle down and—

“So you can't tell anyone, Ed,” Heather stated.

Ed looked up. “Huh?”

“No matter how much feeling you might—I mean you do
—
gain in your legs, you can't tell a soul. You and I are the only ones who can know about it.”

“Uh—uh ...well,” he stammered, not sure what to make of this. Couldn't they just eat first before they got into any specifics?

“Ed, I'm totally serious,” Heather muttered, glancing around the restaurant. “You can't tell anyone. Not your doctor, not your parents, not even your physical therapist. Not until that settlement is final.”

Ed blinked. Wow. Something about Heather's tone had just . . . thrown him a little. It was so mercenary.
Which in a weird way—besides being disturbing—was kind of sexy, too.
He patted her shoulder. Heather's brow relaxed, and her face brightened.

“Don't worry,” he said. “You're gonna be fine.”

 

SAM'S DORM ROOM LOOKED LIKE IT
had been hit by a tornado—and pretty much any other natural disaster one could think of. Literally. He was used to a mess . . . but this was sheer destruction. They'd rummaged through every single piece of clothing, every CD case, every book, every notebook, every goddamn tube of toothpaste. And they hadn't cleaned up a thing.

They'd taken his insulin kit. They'd even taken his computer.

He went numb. He could only stand there and survey the wreckage. His anger fell away. His despair fell away.
Maybe this was how shock actually felt.
He wasn't sure. He wasn't even asking himself the same old questions he'd been asking for weeks. Why me? What have I done to deserve this? When will I be free from all this? He was just a body. Just another object amidst the rubble.

I'm dead,
he thought coldly.
This is purgatory. And I am dead.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” Josh said behind him. “I really am.”

Ted Koehler from down the hall ducked his head into Sam's room. Without knocking. He and Sam had maybe exchanged five words in their entire lives.
And from the prying look on Ted's face, he was just another sniveling, suspicious gossip hound sniffing around Sam's
life.
Sam couldn't take another minute of it. Without thinking, he picked up the biggest book within his immediate reach and hurled it at the wall.

“Get the hell out!” Sam screamed as the book smashed against the plaster—leaving a huge black mark.

Ted Koehler bolted.

And then Sam was numb again.

 

WHAT A BIZARRE EVENING,
ED
thought as he rolled along Charles Street, the icy wind beating hard against his face.

Heather had wanted to see him all the way home, but Ed had decided that tonight wasn't such a good night for it. He needed to think. Besides, they'd taken a nice long walk after dinner—strolling through their favorite parts of the Village, even revisiting some of their secret make-out spots from back in the day. There was an excellent secluded park bench down by the Horatio Street basketball courts where they used to go all the time. No one ever walked by there after ten. So they'd hung out there for a while and kissed, then they
moved on. They'd found nooks and crannies every few blocks where they'd share some kisses before moving on again. But after a while Ed had simply tired. He'd called it a night and sent Heather home in a cab.

It wasn't just the confusion, the apprehension. It was everything. He was totally wrung out from the emotional Tilt-A-Whirl of the dinner, and he was also physically beat from the therapy. He couldn't believe that this was his first night out since he'd been discharged from the hospital.
He'd packed about as much into it as he had in the last two years put together.
Well, except for the nights he'd been with Gaia—those wild nights around Thanksgiving time with Mary . . .

He shook his head. Thinking of Gaia reminded him of school. And tomorrow would be his first day back. Shit. He'd need all of his energy. The thought of Brian working him over in the evenings after The Village School worked him over during the days . . . Jesus. That was enough to wreak serious havoc on his body and his mind—not counting the addition of the lies that would be required to convince everyone that he wasn't making any progress.

He shook his head, shivering as he rolled along the sidewalk. The weird thing was, the more momentum he picked up, the less tired he felt.
It was as if his exhaustion had carried into some weird
state beyond exhaustion.
His bones ached; he could barely think; but for some reason, he was wide awake. He didn't know what he was feeling: It was something he couldn't put his finger on. It was a kind of . . . well, a sort of gross sensation in the pit of his stomach, coupled with an annoying pressure on his temples.

Sleep,
he said to himself. Right. He just needed to get home and get some sleep.

Only . . .

Ed began to notice that he wasn't actually going in the direction of his home. As if acting of their own free will, his hands seemed to have wheeled him on a detour farther into the West Village. And with his mind racing, he hadn't quite noticed that he'd made a turn off Charles Street onto Perry Street. Next thing he knew, he was just a few doors down from Gaia's house.

Maybe she was home.

The windows were dark, but that meant nothing.

She might still be there.

He rolled to a stop in front of the wheelchair-friendly entrance—one of the few in the city, at least as far as brownstones were concerned. Not that he would be needing it anymore. Not after the settlement . . .

Why hadn't she called him when he'd been out of school so long? Were things still awkward between them? He could just ring her doorbell right now and get all this bullshit out in the open. There was no
reason for things to be strained between them just because Ed was seeing Heather again.
So what if Gaia and Heather despised each other with a passion?
Those two really needed to just throw on some gloves and go a few rounds in the ring. Settle their differences—

What am I saying? That would be like Jean-Claude Van Damme against some little . . . I don't know, like that little mini–Backstreet Boy Aaron Carter kid. Although actually, I wouldn't mind seeing that kid get a little Van Dammed . . .

He stared at the door. He could just go up for a few minutes. Tell her about—

Ed stopped himself midthought. Of course he couldn't. He couldn't tell her about his surgery. He couldn't tell
anyone
about it. Without really thinking, he rolled up the ramp. He looked through the front door window, but it was pitch black. All he could see was the circle of frost from his own breath on the glass of the door. He pulled back a foot and looked up at Gaia's floor. Pitch black. From here, so close, the entire town house looked . . . dead. Vacant. Not just like no one was living there. Like no one ever
had
lived there.

Ed took a long, deep breath and blew it out as he slumped down in his chair. He moved his face an inch from the glass one more time to peer inside, for no good reason. There was nothing to see but another
circle of icy white formed by his breath. Finally Ed raised his finger and wrote a four-letter word in the frost.

Gaia.

He only wanted to talk to her for a few minutes. He
needed
to talk to her. It had been too long.
And that's when he realized what the feeling was that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He was depressed.

 

So.
I told Heather my news at the restaurant, and her reaction was
perfect
. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. She was thrilled. She was just as ecstatic as I was. It was like she could see the whole future for us that I'd been seeing. The one with all those possibilities.

But I don't know how long it was, three minutes? Four minutes later? And we were talking about
money
. It was just . . . weird.

Money is weird. I mean, who really cares about money? Obviously Heather does. In a way, it defines her friends' social status. Not that she's as shallow as her friends . . . but still. And her family cares about money for sure. I guess everybody does. I don't know. I guess I'm the weird one for not caring.