Emma flings herself across my bed and a groan muffles against the comforter. "Do you see what I have to live with? My parents are out of their fucking minds."
I'm not sure how to comfort her. I drop into the desk chair across from her, and press my back into the cushion. "They sounded worried to me. And, I mean—they're not wrong. If the situation was reversed, I'm sure my parents would act the same way."
Emma rolls to her side, and props her head up with her hand. Her dark hair falls like an inky black curtain, obscuring the tattoo on her wrist. "I guess. But seriously. They don't have to act so weird all the time. Like, what the hell am I supposed to do? Live under their thumbs for the rest of my life?" She rolls her eyes, and blows out an exaggerated huff of air. "They still won't give me my phone and I told Smith I'd get in touch with him. But how can I do that when the wardens are always breathing down my neck?"
My shoulders tense at the mention of Smith's name. I hate myself for what I'm about to do. For the deceitful game I'm going to play behind his back. But I have to. If I don't ask, it will eat away at me until there's nothing left but a giant black hole in the center of my chest. "So, you haven't talked to him yet?"
It's a low blow. Pretending like I'm asking out of concern for their relationship, when all I'm really doing is thinking about mine. Would Smith tell me if they spoke? Would he be honest? He said he would, and I have no reason not to trust him.
But still.
"My parents won't let me talk to anyone." Emma sits up, crosses her legs at the ankle, her shiny black combat boots hanging off the side of my bed. They must be new, I've never seen them before. "I'm about to lose my shit. I wish they'd leave me alone."
My insides curl at the tone of her voice. Like she doesn't even care about the hell her parents went through. All those months spent looking for her. The pray chains and candlelight vigils. The fliers posted in every carry out and gas station within a five-hundred mile radius. How can she be so detached from their pain?
"You always wished they were around more, and now that they are, you can't stand it," I tell her, trying to understand. "I know you've been through a lot, but I've never heard you talk this way before. It's—I don't know—harsh, don't you think?"
Her brows arch. "Maybe I've just never been this honest with you before? Maybe I didn't think you could handle it?"
There's a restless energy about her. The way she fidgets on the bed. The constant twitching of her mouth, her eyes. The way they dart around like they're constantly on the lookout. But for what, I'm not sure.
"They're suffocating me." Emma leans forward and folds her legs in. Nibbles the nail of her pinkie nail. It's bitten to the quick, just like the rest of them. Emma from before would have never done that. She's always been more of a tomboy, preferring to keep her nails short and colorless, but at the very least they were manicured. Nice round tips, not jagged and uneven like they are now. It must be a nervous tic or a new coping mechanism.
Her face suddenly brightens. "Hey—maybe you can give Smith a message for me! Tell him I haven't forgotten him and that I'll talk to him soon, okay? Or maybe I can use your phone and do it myself?"
"Um..." My back straightens, my fingers guarding the cell in my back pocket. "He's at an All Hands on Deck meeting tonight."
Except he isn't.
"All Hands on Deck? Oh, right. Okay." Her shoulders deflate, her bottom lip jutting out in dismay. "You know what? I'm just gonna tell the wardens to give me my phone back. They can't keep it forever, right? It's my phone."
"True." I readjust in my seat, my brain grasping for a way to change the subject. I choose my next words carefully. "Can I ask you something? I know you're probably sick of talking about it, but there are a few things I'd like to know, if it's okay?"
She shrugs, and looks away. I can't tell if she's disinterested or uncomfortable. "Sure. Shoot."
I clear my throat. Take a breath. "Do you remember what the guy looked like? How he took you in the first place? Did it happen in Menteuse? Or were you somewhere else? Because that's what the police think. And how did you get away?" The questions shoot out like rapid fire, but I can't fight the urge to hold them back.
It takes her a while to answer. Emma stares at the wall, as if she's working it out in her head. Or maybe she's deciding how much to share? "He had red hair and a beard, and he wore a lot of flannel. I can still feel the material scratch my skin. But every time I try to picture his face, it gets all fuzzy."
"Could you tell if he was young or old?"
She draws in a breath, shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe late twenties. Thirties? It's hard to know what I've made up in my head and what's real. The doctors say that's normal though, between the drugs and my brain trying to suppress the trauma. But every time my parents try to explain that to the police, they don't listen. They just keep asking questions," she says, her voice growing irritated. "My dad won't let them do anything if he's not right there with me. And even then, it's only if I agree to it."
My voice comes out hollow. "Like ... what kinds of things?"
Emma shrugs. "Medical tests. Interviews. Letting the police take me back to those woods to see if it'll jar my memory. They lay the guilt on real thick, too. It's a good thing Dad's not afraid to stand up to them."
I lean forward, dig my elbows into my knees. Press my fingers to my forehead. This is the most information I've gotten since Emma returned. It's a good start, but I need more. "Do you remember anything else? Anything that might help them find this guy?"
She waits a beat. And then another. "He smelled weird. Like cabbage or something." When she wrinkles her nose and shudders, her repulsion ripples through my entire body. I try not to heave. "And the last thing I remember on the day it happened—before everything went black—was stopping by the store after school. Bits and pieces will come to me from time to time, but nothing's ever fleshed out. It's weird. I vaguely recall getting poked with needles, and the way I'd feel once the drugs hit my system. And I remember being forced to—"
Emma stops, looks at me. Doesn't finish the sentence. I'm not sure I want her to.
Her gaze skitters over me and stops at the wall. "Sometimes, I'll have visions of the cabin. The stained mattress on the floor, and the mice that would run across my legs when I slept. But the memories come and go, like dreams I can't recall."
I swallow, focus on the scalloped hem of my comforter, try to process what she's said. But it's so hard to imagine her living in those conditions. I want to hug her, but I'm afraid of how she'll react. I can't read her body language.
And then, something unexpected comes to mind. A question Jordan asked when she cornered me in the locker room. I'd forgotten about it until now. "Did you ever see the guy before?"
Her eyes jump to mine, her expression turning hostile. "If I did, don't you think I would have told the police?"
I bite the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help."
"Hey—I don't want you to feel weird around me. I know how you get sometimes, with your anxiety and all. I'm home now, and all I want to do is to put it behind me. So let's just move on, okay? I don't want your pity."
A jolt shoots through me. "I'm not trying to pity you. I'm just ..." I'm not sure what to say. How to say it.
"If I can get past it, so can you. After all, you were safe here in Menteuse. I was the one stuck out there." Her face softens, and she pats the empty space next to her. I join her on the bed. "I'm just glad it was me and not you. I don't think you would have survived it," she says in a quiet voice. She nudges her shoulder into mine. "And I'm not sure how I would have survived without you."
"You would have survived. If you made it through what you did, you can make it through anything."
Emma shakes her head. "That's not true. You never know what will finally break you. Dealing with that pervert was the hardest thing I've ever done, but there was no way I was letting him get the best of me. Losing you, on the other hand, would have been enough to kill me. And as soon as I had my phone, you're the first person I wanted to call—after my parents, of course."
My entire body stiffens. I twist around until I'm facing her. "How did you get your phone back? The police said your license and cell were missing from the truck, but they could never ping it to a location. But then you texted me." I stare at her, confused.
She shrugs. "A stroke of good fortune, I guess? He must have taken it from me right away because I never saw it after that. But he'd leave the cabin around the same time every day, so I formed a plan in my head. It took forever to work it out. To find something sharp enough to slice through the cable around my ankles and wrists. To try and make sense of which direction to go in. The only thing I saw out the windows were trees, and even those were hard to make out through the newspaper taped to the glass. But when I was finally able to get free, I rummaged through the drawers and found it wrapped in an old T-shirt. It was dead, of course. But when that lady found me on the road and took me to the hospital, one of the nurses charged it for me. That's when I texted you."
It doesn't seem possible, how she got away. The courage it had to take to even try to in the first place. What if he'd caught her? Would she be dead right now, her body buried beneath a bunch of rocks and dirt, hidden somewhere in the mountains?
Tears press against the backs of my eyes. I gnaw my bottom lip to try to keep them from falling, but it's no use. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again." My shoulders shake as the pain and worry I've been holding onto push their way out.
Emma's arm wraps around me and she pulls me close, her head resting against mine. How is it that she's comforting me, and not the other way around? "I'm home now, and I'm never leaving you again."
We stay this way for a while, until I'm able to get enough air to fill my lungs. I take a shaky breath and lift my head. "How are you so strong?"
She pushes up her sleeve and holds her forearm out in front of her. I try to smile and do the same. When our bare wrists press together, the yin and yang tattoos nearly touch. "This is what gave me strength. All those nights I spent wondering how I was going to get out of there, this is what I held onto. Knowing I needed to get home. Not just to my parents, and to Smith. But to you," she says. "You're my best friend in the whole world. These tattoos prove it. I wasn't going to be the one to break that pact."
I want to tell her the same thing, but the words won't come out. My throat's raw, aching.
The middle of the beds dips behind us and I glance over my shoulder. Cooper inches closer, his pink nose twitching as he presses forward. Sniffing Emma's shirt. "Come here, kitty." She twists around to grab him, and brings him to her lap. "What's his name?"
I rub my sleeve against my nose. "Cooper. After that soccer player from Scotland, the one I always thought was cute."
Emma laughs, but I can tell she's distracted. "So," she finally says, sliding her fingers through Cooper's fur. "Rowan was pretty quiet tonight. Do you think I scared her?"
I shrug a shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe? Meredith doesn't even watch the news when she's around, so she's never been exposed to anything this traumatic. But I told her it was okay and that she shouldn't worry."
Emma nods and readjusts Cooper on her lap. "Poor kid. I didn't mean to freak her out. Maybe if my father hadn't gotten so worked up she wouldn't have—fuck!" A sudden fury shadows her face as the fur along Cooper's back stands on end. She shoves him from her lap and he lets out a scream. "What the hell's wrong with your cat?"
I curl my legs to the side and lean over the mattress just in time to see Cooper disappear beneath the bed. "What happened?"
"He fucking bit me, that's what happened! I'm bleeding." When I sit back, Emma's sucking on the side of her finger.
"I—I'm so sorry. He's never done anything like that before. Here, let me see." I reach for her arm but she yanks it away and stares at the glistening drop of blood against her skin.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
"Are you sure? I can get you a Band-Aid, or—" I swing my legs over the side of the bed, but she grabs my sweatshirt.
"I said, I'm fine!" The words spit from her mouth.
A thick tension fills the room, making it difficult to breathe. Emma's glaring at me like I've done something wrong. And it's obvious that no matter what I say, it won't be what she wants to hear. So, I don't say anything.
Finally, Dad's voice floats up the stairs. "Emma? It's time to walk you back home now."
My breath catches as we stare at each other. But then the mask of anger slips from her face and is replaced with a smile. She leans over, wraps her arms around my neck. Squeezes. "I'm so glad I got to visit. I've missed hanging out with you."
Her complete three-sixty throws me off guard. I force my arm around her shoulder and hug her back. Push the words from my mouth. "Me, too."
"Promise we'll do this again soon."
I'm too stunned to respond, so I nod, hoping it's enough to appease her. Emma hops up from the bed and heads toward the door. Before she turns the corner, she glances back and grins. "See ya around."
And then she's gone. All I can do is stare after my best friend.
Only that's not what she feels like anymore.