WE SIT IN the car silently, parked around the corner from Seymour Avenue. I stare at an empty spot on the street blankly, trying to control my breathing. I fidget with the hem of Parker's hoodie, which he leant me so I wouldn't have to wear my blood-stained raincoat.
The boy himself sits in the driver's seat, his head in his hands as he curses under his breath. I close my eyes, feeling a wave of nausea pass over me. He curses again, louder this time, lifting his head and bringing a hand down on the steering wheel sharply. I can't help but flinch at the sudden movement, bringing me out of my trance.
"What the hell?," he finally asks, his voice wavering. "Why haven't you told anyone?"
"Who am I supposed to tell when everyone I know is lying to me?" I return quietly.
He gives a short laugh of disbelief. "We're not lying to you, we just know the wrong truth."
I lift a shoulder, looking away.
Parker is quiet for a few moments, mulling over my revelation. He'd been rendered completely speechless when I first confessed my suspicions, and it's taken him a while to wrap his head around the idea of it. I don't blame him, I'm still struggling myself.
"Who do you think did this to you?" he asks, gentler now.
I shake my head. "I don't know." I refrain from telling him about the nightmares, or the diary.
He leans back against his seat, looking agitated, his fingers thrumming on his thigh rapidly. "We need to go to the police. The person who did this to you could still be out there, and they need to be stopped." His voice is filled with determination, but then he sighs, looking at me with guilt-ridden eyes. "I would've never moved out if I knew this was going on. I should be there—"
"Stop," I say forcefully, though I keep my eyes on the street. He freezes, taken aback. I wait a few moments, wishing I could rewind time and take back my words. "I'm not your responsibility, Parker. And it's just a theory. I'm probably losing my mind."
"You can't be serious," he says after a weighted silence, voice teetering on the edge of insanity. "After what I just saw and what you just told me, you cannot be serious."
"I am," I confirm.
Dragging a hand over his face, he pauses. "This is ridiculous."
"I shouldn't have come to see you," I say, angling myself toward him in my seat, hearing the splatter of a few stray raindrops on the windshield. The movement causes my side to sting slightly, but I ignore it. I haven't forgotten the way he looked at me outside of the restaurant, as if we were something that we aren't. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry. But when I get out of this car, that's it. It's over."
The air becomes heavy as the reality of my words sets in. A pained expression takes hold of his face, his eyes becoming shiny, and theatrically, the rain picks up outside the walls of the car.
"Allie," he murmurs, shaking his head, measuring the weight of his words.
"Even as friends," I continue, trying to speak softly, but still drill the words into his brain, and my own. "We've been betraying Audrey long enough. This can't go on. I won't be able to live with myself if it does. I appreciate your support, but I think I need to be on my own."
He's silent for a long while, and his lack of response makes me hold my breath. It's clear he's deeply considering everything I've said, and the quiet is filled by the angry raindrops that continue to catapult from the sky. I fidget with my fingers, beginning to wonder if he'll even say anything at all, or if I should just leave.
"I understand," he murmurs after what feels like a century, though he doesn't look at me. "I'm sorry."
I roll my lips in, not knowing what to say.
"But, Allie," he continues, voice stronger now, "please don't think that you have to do this alone."
My gaze jumps to the street again. "I told you, I'm not—"
He sighs in frustration, beginning to look agitated. "You can't possibly expect me to forget that someone tried to kill you. That's not going to happen."
I lift a shoulder stubbornly, keeping my expression neutral as I look at him. "I'm delusional," I say. "I have a brain injury. It's just a conspiracy theory with no basis." I pause. "Try telling yourself that instead. Maybe it'll help you forget."
His eyes widen in disbelief at my behaviour, and he shakes his head, lost for words. The atmosphere is thick with tension, and I'm eager to leave, even if it means stepping out into the downpour. My fingers creep toward the door handle, enclosing around the cool surface.
"Please, just—"
I tighten my grip on the door clicks open, allowing rain to enter the car and fall on my jeans. He looks even more panicked once he sees that we've come to the end. "Bye, Parker," I say, finality clear in my tone.
"Allie—"
Exiting the vehicle, I don't let him finish, and whatever words he was going to say next are lost on my ears, due to the torrential flow of water making its way to the ground. I close the door behind me, flicking up my hood in vain, despite the fact that I'm soaked through within seconds. Sticking my hands into my pockets, I duck my head, making for Seymour Avenue without looking back.
I make my way to the front door, removing a hand from my pocket to turn the doorknob. It's cold, and wet, much like the rest of me, and I'm eager to get inside and warm up. Despite the fact that I feel like I've just taken a hammer and shattered my own heart, I can't help but a little bit freer from the chains that were binding me. No more Dylan. No more Parker.
Just me.
Pulling the door open, I enter the house, kicking off my waterlogged shoes. I strip myself of the sweater I now realize I should've returned to Parker, running a hand through my damp hair and taking a deep breath. It takes a moment for me to register the voices carrying from another part of the house. A scowl pulls at my lips when I recognize Clark's pretentious timbre. I'm definitely not in the mood to see him, not that I ever am. Sighing, I prepare myself, hoping that I can slip by undetected and take a hot shower.
Heading to my bedroom, I pass through the kitchen, and I'm nearly past the living room when I hear Sofia's voice.
"Alina?" she calls. "Is that you?"
Closing my eyes in anguish, I come to an abrupt halt, backing up a few steps to the entrance of the living room. She and Clark sit side by side on the sofa, nearly empty glasses of wine on the coffee table before them. Sofia's lips are pulled into a smile, as though she was previously laughing about something. She only gets this way around him. It makes me want to gag. Clark looks at me with a pleasant expression on his face, but I ignore him.
"Where have you been?" she asks, beginning to frown when she takes in the sight of me. "Goodness, why are you all wet?"
"I was with Zoe," I lie effortlessly. "And it's raining outside, in case you haven't noticed."
An eyebrow quirks up in warning, but she doesn't comment. "Well, you missed dinner," she says pointedly.
"I already ate," I say, beginning to turn away.
"Allie," she says, the irritated tone of her voice causing me to stop again. She gives me a tight smile, gesturing to the man beside her. "We have a guest. Aren't you going to greet him?"
My hand twitches to lift up and flip him the bird, but I refrain, plastering a sickly sweet smile on my face instead, narrowing my eyes. "Hello, Clark," I utter sardonically. "I'm so glad you've decided to join us this evening. I can't think of anything that would make me happier than I am right now."
"Alina," Sofia snaps, her face doing little to disguise her fury.
Clark is quick to settle her, placing a hand over her knee, giving her a charming smile. "That's quite alright, Sofia. I'm well aware that I'm not Alina's favorite person."
I cross my arms over my chest tightly, glaring at him. I should just drop the subject and leave, but my decency has been spent already, and I'm tired of all the bullshit. "Gee, whatever gave you that impression?"
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, clearly not anticipating that response, and Sofia looks as though she's ready to blow a gasket. I wonder briefly if he even remembers what he did—or tried to do—to my sister, wonder if that's floating around in his mind right now, or if he's as oblivious as my mother. I don't find out the answer, as Sofia stands up rigidly, setting her fierce gaze on my face.
"Your behaviour is unacceptable," she informs me, looking as though it's taking everything within her to keep from shouting. "I think you need to go to your room and examine your attitude."
"Gladly," I mutter, turning on my heel, not caring to hear whatever Clark says in an attempt to comfort his girlfriend.
After burying Parker's hoodie in my laundry bin, I head for Audrey's room, hearing voices from inside. She's traded staring at the wall despondently to binge-watching anything she can get her hands on, and I'm sure she's doing that now. I enter the room without knocking, and she looks up from her laptop in surprise. Her hair has been tossed up into a messy bun, her face free of makeup, an ever-present pile of tissues next to her. I doubt she attended dinner either. She pauses whatever she's been watching once she sees the look on my face, tucking some stray stands of dark hair behind her ears.
"Hey," she greets, eyebrows pulling into a frown of concern. "Is everything alright? You're soaking wet."
"It's raining," I reiterate with a sigh, closing the door behind me quietly. She makes room on the bed, and I perch on the edge, trying to dampen her comforter as little as possible. "How are you doing?"
"Oh," she manages, looking caught off guard, and sheepish. "Um, I'm okay. Surviving."
Looking around, I spot several half empty bags of potato chips, as well as a small tub of melting ice cream. The room has become a mess since Parker left, and I grimace, selecting one of the bags and crumpling it up. "You should go eat some real food."
"I can't," she replies stiffly. "The devil is in our living room."
I raise my eyebrows. "Sofia?"
She snorts, and it's the closest thing I've seen to a smile on her face for a long time. It causes my own mouth to twitch as I toss the bag into the trash bin. The action leaves me with a sharp pain on my side, and I remind myself to move slowly. "You know who I'm talking about."
"Unfortunately, I do." I sigh. "It was rather unpleasant to see him sitting in our living room."
She rolls her eyes, rubbing at her arms uncomfortably. "Tell me about it."
We fall into silence.
"I'm sorry," I say softly.
She looks at me quizzically. "What for?"
"Everything." Consumed with guilt, I lean forward, enclosing her in a hug. I'm the reason she's feeling this way, after all. It takes her a moment, but she returns it. When I pull back, she gives me another smile, though she blinks repeatedly.
"You don't have to apologize," she assures me, not knowing that I do. "But, thanks."
I give her my own weak smile, reaching out to squeeze her hand. A forlorn expression takes hold of her face, her eyes looking faraway, and an apology nearly bursts from my lips. A very strong part of me wants to throw myself at her feet, confess my sins, and beg for her forgiveness. But at this point, I think it would do more harm than good.
"Listen," I begin, trailing off with a sigh. "I know it hurts right now, and it feels like everything sucks, but I really think you should try to move on. I am, too. You're strong, and you're smart, and you're beautiful. You deserve the world."
Her eyes brim with tears, and she gives me a watery smile. "That means a lot," she says shakily, squeezing my hand in return. Then her expression clouds over, causing her to frown. "Wait... What do you mean you are, too?"
My lips part as I realize my mistake, my stomach dropping. Of course she caught that. What reason do I have to need to move on from my sister's break up? I quickly think of something to cover my tracks, my heart racing. "That's right," I say feebly, "I haven't told you yet."
Her frown deepens. "Told me what?"
I do my best to mirror her devastated expression, pulling my hand from hers and looking down. "I broke up with Dylan," I admit.
I see her eyes widen as her mouth falls open in shock, clearly not anticipating my answer. She's speechless for several moments, and it seems the news of my long-term relationship coming to an end is something worthy of gawking. She shakes her head in disbelief, her eyebrows tipping upward in a look of sympathy. "Oh my God," she breathes finally. "Allie, I had no idea. I'm so sorry."
Pulling me into another hug, she pats my back, deeming me in need of comfort, though she couldn't be farther off the mark. My break up with Dylan was so insignificant I didn't even consider mentioning it until now, not realizing it would be a big deal to everyone else.
I return the gesture until she releases me. "It's alright," I remark. "Like I said, I'm trying to move on."
She nods, a look of understanding on her face. "We both will."
Smiling, I stand from the bed slowly, before taking a deep breath. "Well, I'm going to go take a hot shower," I announce, holding out my arms and appraising my attire.
"That sounds like a good idea," she agrees, giving me a knowing smile, settling back against her pillows and pulling her laptop onto her thighs. "Let me know when Satan leaves. Maybe I'll make an appearance in the kitchen and scavenge for some real food."
I let out a short laugh. "Sure thing. Though, I could just bring you something and save you the trip if you want."
Her eyebrows furrow briefly as she considers, before she shakes her head. "No, that's okay. I can't remember the last time I left my bed, so I'm probably due to stand up sometime soon."
"Probably," I agree, grinning.
Turning on my heel, I prepare to leave the room, wondering why on earth we didn't get along in the past. In all the time since I've left the hospital, she's been nothing but kind to me, and incredibly supportive. She has all the qualities you'd want in a sister, and I have fun when I'm with her. Why did I screw it up?
I'm nearly to the door when her voice stops me.
"Hey, Allie?" she calls tentatively, and I turn around, my eyebrows raised.
"Yeah?"
"If you ever need someone to talk to about Dylan, I'm here," she tells me gently, and I nearly have to remain from laughing at the thought of needing to confide about my nonexistent heartbreak. "Heaven knows I understand."
"Thanks, Audrey," I say sincerely. "I'll keep that in mind."
I exit the room, and she resumes whatever she's watching. Ignoring the chatter of Clark and Sofia, I trod up the stairs up the stairs to my bedroom, pushing my door open with what energy I have left. Once I close the door behind me, I lean against it, feeling weary from the events of the day, as if all of it is hitting me at once.
Hanging my head, I breathe deeply, letting my hair fall forward and shield me from my surroundings. As I begin to process, my breathing quickens, increasing until I'm nearly hyperventilating, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to tell myself to get a grip. It doesn't work.
Pushing myself off the door, I move to the mirror, staring at the terrified reflection that stares back at me. I peel my shirt away from my stomach slowly, revealing the clean bandage placed properly over my newly sewn-up stomach. The thought of it makes me want to keel over with nausea, and a sheen of sweat forms on my forehead.
I have no doubt in my mind now that someone tried to end my life. The frightening part—as if the whole thing isn't frightening enough—is that the stitches seem to be a sign of regret. Like someone stabbed me, then changed their mind, and attempted to fix it. A chill runs up my spine as I think about it.
Who did this to me? And why?
More importantly, why has no one told me the truth?
I don't know if I believe Parker when he says that everyone isn't deliberately lying, they're just oblivious. It makes no sense for Dr. Meyer to choose not to tell me about the stab wound. If he really wanted me to believe it was a car accident that did this to me, he should've made up an explanation for the injury. By not telling me about it, he's only heightening my suspicions.
And speaking of the man, there was no reason for the nurse to lie to me today about Dr. Meyer's presence. His car was clearly in the parking lot. He must've known I was there, and didn't want to see me.
My brain begins to ache from my fruitless analysis, and I walk over to my nightstand, digging through the drawer to pull out my diary. There have to be answers in here. I can't have spent my whole life oblivious to the person who hated me so much they were driven to attempted murder. My fingers enclose around the book, and I take a seat on my bed, flipping it open.
I page through it, trying to get to my more recent entries, the ones I would've written before getting into my "accident". My eyebrows furrow as I scan through the pointless words, bitching about my latest fight with Zoe, or talking about the guy who pissed Dylan off by flirting with me at a party. It makes me want to roll my eyes.
I soon reach the torn out pages, coming up on the words I've reread countless times, trying to decipher them. He knows. She knows. It could still be either one.
Clenching my jaw, I feel my grip on the journal tighten, my frustration growing. Who the hell ripped the pages out? There had to be something implicating written on them. Something someone didn't want me to remember, something they knew I'd forget. Maybe the person who ripped them out and the person who did this to me are synonymous. I may never know.
Tears of anger prick to my eyes, and in a rush of motion, I throw the journal across the room. I bite down on my lip to hold back the cry of pain that results from the sudden movement as the book collides with the wall, before noisily falling to the floor, the pages fluttering. The tears continue to fall as I double over, folding my arms around my torso, and I don't know if it's because of my rage or the pain. At this point, I'm going to end up ripping out my stitches and paying another visit to the hospital.
I remain that way for a while, until I hear my cell phone ring from on my desk. My crying ceases as I sniffle, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. I haven't gotten much use out of the phone since leaving the hospital, and it's mostly stayed in my room, Dylan, Zoe, and James seeming to understand that it's not the way to reach me anymore. There's not much on it either, as if it was wiped clean, or it was a recent purchase.
Removing my arms from my stomach, I brush the tears from my cheek with the back of my hand, standing from the bed as it continues to ring. I reach my desk, picking it up, my eyes widening when I see the name of the caller. I let it ring several more times before realizing they won't give up until I answer.
Slowly, I press the button to connect the call, bringing it up to my ear. "Hello?"
"We need to talk," a smooth voice tells me. "Meet me outside."
The call disconnects before I can say another word.