"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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The memory swings like a wrecking ball, landing with enough force to knock out a layer of consciousness. I suddenly feel light-headed; if I don't take the weight off my legs I'm not sure I can rely on them much longer.
Thank God there's a bench nearby.
I lower myself onto the seat slowly, using two hands for support. I'm shaking all over and it has nothing to do with the cold. I didn't know a memory could evoke this kind of physical reaction, let alone months after the event, but I guess it has more power after being locked away for so long. And it's been there, all along, tucked into the folds of my subconscious like an animal burrowed deep from a predator. All it's taken is a few flakes of snow to draw it out.
I rest my elbows on my knees and let my head fall into my palms, trying to breathe deeply. Perhaps the trembling will let up if I allow myself to calm down. Still, that's easier said than done when images of Josh keep flashing through my mind. Smirking as he hands me a drink. On top of me, pinning my arms above my head. Scrambling to keep hold of me at the edge of the lake.
Disappearing under the surface of the water.
He's gone, I tell myself, and for the first time this feels like a relief. I know it's going to take a while to process what I've remembered, but I have the luxury of time, to take as long as I need. Not to mention the luxury of anonymity. To not have to tell anyone except those I choose. Past Morgan didn't realize the favor she was doing me when she slipped that letter, unsigned, into Hanna's pigeonhole. Kind of like how past Hanna didn't realize the favor she was doing me when she chose to believe it.
My breathing has begun to slow and the nausea is abating and I must've been sitting here for about five minutes when I feel the presence beside me. I feel a flush of embarrassment; it takes a certain level of desperation to sit down beside a girl in the middle of a breakdown. So I lift my head in an effort to make it look like I'm not completely crazy. Then I risk a glance sideways and realize I don't need to.
"Elliot. What are you doing here?"
"By one huge coincidence, I happened to be passing," he says. "You okay?"
I nod, still attempting to save face, though I'm sure he can see right through it. "Yeah. Just, uh... having a moment."
"You need to talk about it?"
I like how he says need instead of want, and also how he's willing to set the undeniable weirdness aside if it would make me feel better. Would it?
"I don't know," I say. "It kind of involves telling you something first. Something I've been keeping from you and, well... pretty much everyone for the last few months."
Elliot is unfazed. "Okay. I'm all ears, if that's what you need."
I take a deep breath. Thread my fingers together in my lap. Consider whether I would feel better if I got it off my chest to the best listener I know, despite the thing we're very pointedly not talking about. My brain must settle on an answer, because then the words come tumbling out.
