You and Everything After(62)

I pull my phone from my pocket and text my brother, because he’s the only one who won’t judge me too harshly. He’ll judge, but it will come with sympathy. When he texts back, I tell him to meet me at the bar. I head inside and order a round of beer and shots, then don’t bother waiting for him to show up before I down his drinks and mine.

I’ll forget the watch tonight. I’ll forget Cass too. And tomorrow, I’ll suffer.





Chapter 18



Cass



The hand of Nick Owens is fast and swift. My father’s law firm can handle most things just by flashing its name. He told me Paul Cotterman had turned in his resignation after his phone call. Just as he always does, my father makes my problems go away.

I thanked him. And of course, he told me I didn’t need to thank him. What stung is that I don’t think he actually believed me. I think he thinks that maybe, just maybe, I was acting inappropriately, and that I let things get out of hand. Just like last time. But he still made it disappear, because he loves me.

He loves me. He just doesn’t believe me.

Rowe is still out of town. Paige is completely moved out, thanks to Nate’s help. And I’m alone. For the first time ever, I’m completely alone. I used to wish for this. I think maybe all twins do. What I realize, though, is maybe I was confusing my craving for individuality with my desire to be alone. Individuality is liberating. Alone leads to one thing—loneliness.

I don’t know what happened, other than the fact that my incident with Paul Cotterman left me crooked…feeling dirty. And I just couldn’t shake playing the part.

Sabotage is a funny thing; self-sabotage even funnier. Ty and I—we were both at work—sabotaging left and right until there was nothing left but shreds and a shadow of our dignity.

For an hour, I’ve been staring at the picture he drew; the sad melancholy of The National is playing on random shuffle on my iPod. Even their “pop” songs are sad. The drawing is beautiful, done by his hands, days ago.

“That’s how I see you,” he said.

Not anymore.

I don’t know how the ugliness showed itself—how he saw my history without me ever telling him. But when he put it out there, so bluntly? Promiscuity comes at a high price when you’re a teenager, and it just keeps taking.

I got his watch. I had to. I don’t hate him. I far from hate him. Now that I have it, I understand why it’s so important. Or at least, I have a clue.

ALWAYS—that’s all it says in simple engraving on the back. The letters are a little worn, but you can still read the words. Someone gave this to him, someone who meant that word to him.

Maybe they still do.

I run my finger along the small indents of the word, my mind imagining that I have the power to erase it. I could take a razor blade, scratch the lettering away from the metal right here, right now. But I would never be able to take away its power and everything it means. I know this without even asking.

My phone buzzes, and I jump, simply excited that someone from out there is contacting me. It’s Rowe.



Hey, we’re throwing a late-night party for Paige. Her idea, actually. She wants to thank Nate for his help with the move. Free drinks! I’ll wait for you to finish your workout. We can go together. Miss you!



Rowe misses me. While the fact that she’s enthusiastic about a party with my sister is, well, weird, I’m desperate for my friend to come home. I need someone, even if I can’t tell her the entire story. That’s another layer of Nick Owens’s agreements—they are sealed. No talking about what happened if we want to keep things nice and tidy.



I’m in. I could use a drink.



Or five. Or six.

I tuck Ty’s watch in my sock drawer and change for the gym, not really feeling the energy tonight. My body is tired from pushing so hard yesterday. And I should heed the warning and rest. But I have two hours until Rowe gets home. Idle time isn’t doing me any favors.

Hoping that will ignite my fire, I run most of the way to the gym, searching for that inner competitor that takes over when I exercise and helps me forget everything else. But my inner soldier is tired, too. I end up walking the last four hundred yards. I head right to the locker room, swap out my clothes for my swimsuit, and spend the next hour in the pool.

I really wanted to be in the spa. But heat isn’t great for MS, and hot baths always make my vision blurry. So even though this water is cold, I opt for it, and it still soothes my muscles. I don’t even swim; I just float. I’m surrounded by a bunch of older students, maybe faculty members, who are swaying and swishing their way through water aerobics. Bizarrely, I feel right at home—the thump of the bass from the small boom box near the pool’s edge pulsating in the water. It’s all I hear—boom, boom, boom, boom.