Pictures of You (34 page)

             
“Are you going to be all right?” Chris asked when we parked in front of my apartment complex. “Do you want me to come in and hang out for awhile?”

             
“I think I’m going to—somehow—be all right,” I said, although I didn’t know if it was true. Reluctantly I unlocked my seatbelt. “Are
you
going to be okay? Are
we
okay? You’re my best friend, Chris. I don’t want to lose you.”

             
He shook his head in frustration. “September, I don’t want to be your friend. I want so much more than that. I want
you
. I’m in love with you. I have been since the first day we met. Every day, not getting to be with you…it hurt.”

             
Each word wrapped a layer of barbed wire around my already wounded heart. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t know what to say. You know I love you, too. I even have feelings for you. I have for awhile. But…”

             
He sighed. “But you love
him
.”

             
“I don’t know
how
I feel anymore,” I said, coiling the tissue so tightly around my finger, it cut off circulation. “I don’t know if I can love the person who killed Abby—not in that way.”

             
Chris turned in his seat to face me, his expression desperate, his voice urgent. “Tell me I have a chance. That you and I stand a chance.”

             
“I…”

             
“Kiss me, September. Kiss me with all your soul and then tell me you don’t want me,” he said, his gray eyes burning holes through me.

             
“Chris, come on,” I pleaded. “Be reasonable.”

             
“Please. Just one kiss.” His face contorted in pain.

             
“It wouldn’t be fair to you
or
me. Not like this. Not when I’m so confused.” I felt my body fighting against a powerful urge. I did want to kiss him. But Adrien’s face touched my thoughts. Would I be able forgive him? Would I be betraying Abby if I did? What kind of girl would I be, choosing the guy who was responsible for her tragic death?

             
I bit my lip, eyeing Chris like a kid eyeing a giant lollipop at a candy store. I’d wanted Chris for myself for all these months. He could now be mine. For a moment I indulged in thoughts of a possible future together, a luxury I never had with Adrien. I thought about all the time we’d finally get to spend together, outside of work, without sneaking around behind Megan’s back. Volunteering together at the animal shelter, maybe taking some of the cats and dogs home. Going to farmers’ markets and poetry readings. Snuggling on my couch, watching bad chick flicks (Chris admitted to me once he liked those). Maybe taking a few classes together at NYU. Here was my chance to be with the sweetest guy in the world. The person who I trusted the most. My comfort blanket. My best friend.

             
But I cared for Chris too much to make a rash decision. I had to be sure this was what I truly wanted. And I was in no shape to be making a choice right now.

             
Finally I said, “Chris, I want to, trust me. That kiss at my parents’ house, I’m not going to lie, it was great. And I know we’d be good together. There’s no doubt in my mind. But I care about you far too much to let this get out of hand when I’m not sure if…” I frowned and gestured to my head. “I have to think.” I kissed him on the cheek before pushing the car door open and climbing out.

             
“Wait—”

             
“I’ll see you on Monday.” I ran, afraid of what I might do if I looked back. I fumbled through my purse for my keys. As soon as I was inside, I ripped off my dress and ran straight to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I crumbled against the bathroom wall and waited for the inevitable tears. But they never came. I rolled into a ball and let my mind drift. I wanted to escape into an empty slumber, flee cold reality, but strangely I was too exhausted to sleep. I considered taking a sleeping pill, but the dirty bath mat became oddly comforting. I stroked its shaggy fur as I closed my eyes.

             
Adrien popped into my head, like a tired radio song that just doesn’t quit. He could be mine. All mine. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? He was sticking around. He chose life in part to be with me. He was no longer a milk carton with an expiration date. If we still liked each other in five or ten years, we could maybe think about marriage. We could grow old together. God willing, of course. I loved Adrien more than I’d ever loved a boy. But how could I choose him over Chris when I’d known him for only two weeks? How could I choose any one after only two weeks? Let alone the person who destroyed a precious part of my life? He killed Abby. He hit us and left us for dead. Nothing would change that.

             
But the two weeks we shared felt more like months or even years. Partly because we spent practically all day, every day together—and partly because it felt like I’ve known him forever. And if I didn’t choose him, he’d become an eternal “What If?”. Although he made some mistakes, he did eventually do the right thing, even though he knew he’d risk losing me and would possibly have to face legal consequences. It scared the hell out of him but he did tell the truth. He also proved he really loved me. He altered his path dramatically to be with me—and to prevent hurting the ones he loved. All of that must’ve taken a lot of courage, a lot of character.

             
Could I bear never seeing him again? Never hearing his adorable dying-donkey laugh again? I had to admit I’d miss his ridiculous green outfits. And those amazing baby grass green eyes that searched my face so attentively. Those hands that shot electricity through me whenever they touched me. That generous heart, the size of the moon. I’d miss the throw-out-the-clock days we spent together, the way he fit right in with my weird friends, his sloppy hair, his amazing smell, his perfect jaw. I wanted to read his funny stories and discuss music for hours and kiss those soft lips again.

             
But would we be able to get past the fact that he—even though by accident—killed my childhood friend? Would I hold that against him in moments of anger? Would I be able to separate him from the tragedy? Would it even be ethical to be with him? Would we tell Abby’s parents, or keep it buried in the past, a dark secret, like a spider, lurking in the corners? Could I really trust him? Would he really get help? Was he beyond help? Would he threaten suicide the next time tragedy strikes?

             
More importantly, could I trust myself to really love someone again? Could I trust
anyone
? Could I trust life again?

33

             
Mary found me in the morning, drooling on the red bath mat.

             
“Hello? Are you still in there? September, are you dead?” At first I melded her words with the weird dream I was having. She poked me hesitantly, like a kid poking a snake with a stick. “You’re freaking me out. Wake up!” she said, yanking me out of a surprisingly heavy sleep.

             
“Huh?” I tried to open my eyes, but my lids were too heavy. I groaned. Every square inch of my body ached, particularly my neck. I felt as stiff as a corpse.

             
She folded her arms over her chest. “What are you doing sleeping in the bathroom in your underwear? Did you get wasted last night? Please don’t tell me you threw up.”

             
“No, no, no. Nothing like that.” I struggled to peel myself off the floor. I cringed as I greeted the reflection in the mirror. Mascara circled my eyes. Lipstick smeared across my cheek. The entire left side of my face had shaggy bath mat imprinted in it, making Play-Doh come to mind.

             
“You look like hell,” Mary said, stating the obvious. “Are you okay? How did the thing go? Where’s Hot Waffle Guy?”

             
My head was throbbing—I guess I had a crying hangover. “Please. Stop with the questions. I just want to fall into my bed and die,” I said, stumbling into the bedroom.

             
Mary gasped, theatrically placing a hand over her O-shaped mouth. “He broke up with you, didn’t he? I knew there was something wrong with him. He was too good to be true.”

             
“Something like that,” I said, facedown in my pillow. I didn’t have the strength to tell her the whole story.

             
Mary began babbling about who-knows-what. I tuned her out, but found the familiarity of her voice soothing. I said nothing in reply, but occasionally a soft moan escaped my lips. I had to think…I had to think…I was out before she noticed I wasn’t listening.

             
When I awoke later in the afternoon, I knew I couldn’t wait until Monday to see Chris. I sat up abruptly, making the throbbing pain in my head intensify. I swallowed an ibuprofen and made a mad dash for the shower. I scrubbed the bad night from my face and shampooed in record time. I barely did my hair, applied a minimal amount of makeup. I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and grabbed an apple to eat in the taxi.

             
“Where to?” the cab driver said, bobbing his head to Bob Marley. The laid-back Reggae seemed almost comical compared to my urgent mood. I gave the driver Chris’s address between bites of apple. This wasn’t the first time I’d been to his apartment. He’d taken me there once during a work break because he had a “special needs” guest, a Rottweiler, he had to check up on. In this case “special needs” meant a chewer. The first and only time I saw his place the couch was torn to bits. Chris, being the cheerful guy he was, had a good laugh about it for the rest of the night. I admired that in him, his ability to find humor in things.

             
After twenty painfully long minutes, I paid the driver and hopped out of the car. I pressed the doorbell and waited.

             
“September,” Chris said, his brows raised, his mouth gaping open. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, throwing on a tie-dyed shirt. Seeing him shirtless for the first time made me blush a little.

             
“Chris, I had to see you right away. We need to talk,” I said, my heart hammering.

             
“Is everything okay?” He searched my face for clues.

             
“I hope everything
will
be okay,” I said, walking over clothes and textbooks and shoes, making my way into his living room. He was kind of a slob. I wondered if Adrien was too or if he was the-change-your-sheets-every-week type. The same destroyed couch centered the modest-sized room, but a blue blanket covered it now. I assumed Chris, being a student and living solely on a janitor’s wage and student loans, wouldn’t be able to replace the couch for a while. His apartment was a wreck. Every inch of his coffee table was cluttered with homework, paper-back novels, candles, candy wrappers, you name it. A half-eaten TV dinner was left out on a bookshelf, out of an animal’s reach. The place smelled of chicken and instant mashed potatoes, pets and laundry soap. A dryer hummed from another room.

             
“Sit down,” he said, anticipation in his voice and on his face. He knew why I’d come. He cleared a spot for me on the couch.

             
As I sat, three dogs, a black lab and two poodle mixes, greeted me. One sniffed my legs while another licked frantically at the remaining apple juice on my fingers. A bored-looking white cat glanced over at us before darting behind the entertainment center.

             
“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” he said, sitting up too straight, interlocking his hands. “It’s not every day you just show up at my apartment. Actually, I think this is a first.”

             
“There’s a first for everything,” I said, swallowing twice. “Chris—”

             
His hands shot up. “Wait, please don’t say anything.”

             
“What do you mean?”

             
“Let’s just sit and chat. Pretend we’re pals—like the good old days,” he said, picking up the white poodle and stroking its head. “I think we both know things will never be the same again.”

             
“You really feel like talking about the weather? At a time like this?”

             
“Or sports,” he said, managing to grin.

             
Chris hated sports. He was making this hard. “We never talk sports.”

             
“We could always start.” He laughed. “How about those Jets?”

             
I squirmed in my seat. “I can’t put this off any longer. Chris, you’re my best friend.”

             
“I don’t like the sound of this,” he said, probably guessing where this was going.