Deadly Design (9780698173613) Page 19

  “How’s Jimmy?” Matt asks. “Did you see him today?”

  “I went this morning. Cami and her dad are going to see him after her dad gets off work.”

  “How is he?”

  “Medicated,” I say. “He’s so doped up, he couldn’t even eat his breakfast without help.”

  Matt nods. “I bet you didn’t know that Uncle Sam was such a drug pusher. Guy loves giving out the meds.”

  “It’s not going to hurt him, is it?” I hate seeing Jimmy like that. He seriously couldn’t hold his head up for more than a few seconds.

  “He’ll be fine,” Matt says. “Once they release him, we’ll get him off all that shit.”

  I look at him doubtfully, because it can’t be that easy.

  “I’m going to go see him tomorrow,” Matt says. “Hopefully he’ll be out in a few days. It’s not like he hasn’t been down this road before.”

  “But he went down it because of me.”

  “Hoorah,” he says. “Being a hero isn’t supposed to be easy.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, because Jimmy is my hero.

  My phone starts to ring.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Matt says. He gives me a little wave and goes offline.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Have you checked Facebook lately?” Cami asks.

  I’m surprised, because she knows that I don’t get on Facebook anymore. Not since James . . .

  “You might want to. I think you have an invite. Emma said she sent you one.”

  “Emma? Invite to what? Isn’t she still gone?”

  “Her parents’ wedding anniversary is next week, and she’s coming home for it. She invited me to the party and said she sent you an invite too.”

  “Why me? I’m the reason she moved.”

  Cami doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Maybe the months Emma has been away have strengthened her. Maybe she’s gone on lots of nature hikes around Minnesota’s numerous lakes and found peace with losing Connor, so seeing me won’t be a big deal. Fat chance.

  She’s not over him. No one could ever get over him. So maybe that’s why she invited me.

  “You don’t have to go,” Cami says.

  “I do.” I have to go because Connor can’t. He can’t make sure that she’s all right. And if seeing me somehow brings her comfort, then . . .

  “I love you,” Cami says, making me smile, even though I don’t feel like it.

  I want to go find Connor and tease him because he has to go to some boring anniversary party. I want to see him in a pressed shirt, a tie, and uncomfortable dress shoes. I want him to come home and tell me how everybody kept asking him when he was going to pop the question to Emma. I want them to have the future they should have had, the future I was jealous of.

  I want Connor alive.

  I want Emma happy.

  I think about how people carve their names or initials into tree trunks or get them tattooed into their skin. Connor + Emma = Forever. It’s as true as 2 + 2 = 4. It can’t be changed. Two can’t be added to another number and equal four. Emma plus any other person can never equal what she had with Connor. Never.

  “Are you there?” Cami asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”

  I’m here for now, I think. And I can’t help but wonder what Kyle + Cami will end up equaling.

  38

  I feel like I’m suffocating in Emma’s living room. There are people everywhere, all of them dressed to the hilt and holding a beverage of some sort. Some sip from thin-stemmed wineglasses, others from short, fat glasses filled with orange juice and vodka or deep circular glasses with the rims dipped in salt to offset the flavor of the festive green margarita mix.

  I’ve never been drunk before. Okay. I’ve been buzzed. In eighth grade, I met Scott Henderson behind the Ferris wheel at the county fair. He had a bottle of his mom’s peach schnapps, and we got a little wasted. Enough to lose our corn dogs and the schnapps on the bumper cars.

  I’m not drunk now. At least I don’t think I am. I asked Emma’s dad for a Coke. He gave me a large glass, and in the heat of all the bodies in the room, I downed it. When I asked for another one, he laughed. I watched him as he put a few more ice cubes into my glass, then he doused them with rum before adding Coke from a two-liter bottle.

  “Shit,” I said out loud, making Emma’s dad, a chiropractor with a thin face and graying hair, laugh again.

  He gave me the drink, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Emma’s family has a nice house. From the living room, a person can see into the dining room and the kitchen. The granite counter dividing the kitchen from the dining room is covered with various bottles of liquor, and a blender is constantly whirling and crushing. There’s music playing, and while no one is outright dancing, not yet anyway, people sway as they mingle, holding clear plastic plates with appetizers on them.

  Emma is standing in front of a potted tree, its branches strewn with tiny white lights. She’s wearing an off-white dress with a ribbon that encircles her torso just below her breasts, which are pushed up so the top crescents of them are visible. Her shoulders are bare, and her legs practically are too, the dress stopping midthigh. She’s wearing thin-strapped, high-heeled shoes, and her hair drapes over her shoulders.

  “Having fun?” Emma shouts over the music being piped in through her dad’s surround-sound speakers.

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  “I’m sorry your parents couldn’t make it,” she shouts. “I told Mom and Dad not to invite them. I’m sure they’re not up for a party. I told them not to invite me either, but . . .” Her bare shoulders shrug. “Cami’s not coming,” she says, not knowing that Cami had called to tell me that nearly two hours ago. “Her dad’s working, and she found a babysitter, but then Josh started throwing up. But it’s okay. I’ll have plenty of time to see her later.”

  “You will?” I ask, wondering how long she’s going to be in town and how many classes she can afford to miss back at the community college in Minnesota.

  “You came.” She lifts her hand and brushes it against my cheek. “It’s so hot in here, and loud.”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically. And the floor shifts under my feet just a little.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” I insist, then look at my half-empty glass of rum and Coke. “Maybe.”

  “You lightweight.” Emma laughs and takes my hand. “But it’s okay. I’m a little drunk too. Maybe more than a little.”

  She leads me to the stairs, the temperature decreasing with each step. The basement is huge. There’s a giant flat screen on one wall, and sports posters and memorabilia hang on the others. A couple of people are shooting pool, and I don’t like the sound of the balls cracking into each other.

  “Still too crowded?” Emma asks.

  I nod and follow her down a long, dark hallway.

  “Welcome to my abode,” she says, opening the door to a large room bathed in soft violet light.

  “This is your room?”

  There’s a square, black-lacquered table in the center. The inner blob of a lava lamp dances next to a tray of sand and pebbles and a bonsai tree. In the corner of the room, a giant beanbag chair sits next to a stack of paperbacks. Mother-of-pearl wind chimes dangle from the ceiling, a breeze from a small fan making them move in a constant, clinking motion.

  Against the wall is a large bed covered by a dark, faux-fur blanket. Above the bed, a poster of Bob Marley looks down on a pile of satin pillows.

  “Do you like it?” Emma asks. “My parents remodeled it for me. Well, they repainted it. Mom and I went shopping and I added a few personal touches. I think they’re hoping I’ll move back home.”

  “Where are the cheerleading trophies and the calendar with the cute puppies on it? This looks like a hooka
h bar.”

  Emma smiles, like “hookah bar” is exactly the look she was hoping for. She sits on the bed, unfastens the thin straps on her shoes, then slides them off.

  “Was Connor ever in here?” I ask. “Before it looked like this?”

  It’s too dark to see if the mention of his name makes her flinch, but I don’t think it does.

  “My parents don’t allow boys in my room. But I’m in college now. I’m not a little girl anymore. Besides, they’re busy with their guests. And”—she slips from the bed to the door—“there’s a lock.”

  She turns the deadbolt and leans her back against the door. “Did you know that Connor and I never made love?”

  Between the weird lighting and the rum, my head is starting to spin a little.

  “We never did. I was willing, but he wanted to wait. I thought it was romantic.” She’s smiling as she takes a step toward where I’m standing, just a few feet from the bed. “He had this vision of us going on a ski trip with other college students. We’d all share some big cabin in the mountains. There’d be a huge fireplace and a hot tub. And one day, when the others all decided to go skiing, we’d stay behind.”

  The smile fades.

  “You always think you have time,” she says. “Time to make things just right. Time to make them romantic and lovely, but you don’t.” Emma looks at me. “You don’t know, when you say good-bye to someone, if you’ll ever see him again.” Her hands reach behind her back, and with a slight shimmying motion, her dress slips from her body. Her strapless bra looks violet in the lighting. Even her tiger print thong is purple, and the image of a great purple tiger roaming the plains of Africa pops into my head, then pops right back out again.

  The air was cool a moment ago, but now my skin feels like it’s heating from the inside out. And those damn wind chimes are giving me a headache.

  She comes forward and takes my face in her hands.

  Her smell is incredible, and her mouth tastes like strawberries. She pulls me onto the bed, and we sink into the thick black fur. I run my hands over her legs as they curl around mine.

  “I don’t want to wait anymore,” she says, her breath hot against my neck.

  “Me neither.” My hands cup beneath her bare hips. Our mouths find each other, the flavors of rum and daiquiri fusing on our tongues.

  “I want you so much,” she says, tugging at my clothes.

  “I want you. God, Cami, I want you.”

  Her body stiffens beneath mine. Emma’s body. Not Cami’s.

  “Oh, shit!” I scramble from the bed.

  “Cami?” Emma’s voice is more air than sound. “You and Cami . . .” Tears burst through the clouds in her eyes.

  “You were the one who kept bringing us together,” I say, wanting to remind her that I’m Kyle. I’m the one with Cami. Not Connor. Connor could never be with anyone but her.

  I sit on the bed, wrap the blanket around her, and hold her. I hold her tightly, as tightly as I can, but I know I can’t make her feel better, just like I couldn’t make her feel better after Connor’s funeral. She needs him.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is soft against the top of her head. Emma looks up at me, then squeezes her eyes closed, and I wish I were brave enough to throw acid in my face, so she wouldn’t have to see Connor anymore.

  Suddenly I see Dr. Sharp standing in the violet light of the room. His skin looks even nastier now as it clings to his slightly exposed skull. He’s a skeleton in baggy clothes with black beaded eyes and a mouth made of exposed teeth and bone. Volcanic anger and sadness rise in me, and hatred.

  I won’t let him get me. He took Connor and James and the others. He dragged their families, everyone who loved them, down into hell with him. But I won’t let him take me. Dr. Bartholomew told me she’d find a way to save me, and whatever way she finds, no matter what I have to do or what pain I might have to endure, I’ll do it. I’ll survive. I won’t let Cami end up like this, and in whatever way I can, I’ll be there for Emma. Even if it’s just to hold her and to tell her how sorry I am and that I miss him too. I’ll do it for her, and I’ll do it for Connor.

  39

  Emma was asleep when I left her. Between the alcohol and the crying, she was exhausted. I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to go home. Not yet.

  The front porch light is on, and a strip of light shines from a gap in the living room curtains. I knock on the door, and Cami’s there almost instantly. I know I must smell like Emma’s perfume, but if Cami can smell it, she doesn’t seem to care. She pulls me inside, and we wrap our arms around each other.

  Cami leads me into the living room and directs my eyes toward the sofa, where Josh is sound asleep in his Spider-Man pajamas, a plastic bowl by his side. “He finally stopped throwing up about an hour ago. Poor little guy. He’s exhausted.” She’s covered him with a blanket. A penguin-shaped pillow supports his head.

  Cami’s wearing an oversized nightshirt. Her feet are bare. Her hair is freshly washed and allowed to do what it wants, which is curl haphazardly around her face. She isn’t wearing any makeup, no lipstick or eyeliner, and she isn’t genetically altered.

  She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  “Come on,” she says, then kisses me softly, sweetly. Her hand clasps mine. She starts to lead me down the hall to her bedroom, but I stop her.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say, but she puts her fingers across my lips.

  “I know you, Kyle McAdams. There’s nothing you need to tell me.”

  She does know me. She knows me, and she trusts me, and she loves me.

  I wrap my arms around her and pull her in to me until she backs away and takes my hand again. We reach her room. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent here. Lately, Cami’s bedroom feels more like home than just about any place, but tonight, as I watch her lock the door, I feel like I’ve never been here before.

  “What if he wakes up?” I ask, surprised by the trembling in my voice.

  “He won’t.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’ll be stuck at the station until at least nine thirty tomorrow morning.” Cami sits on the bed. Her nightshirt slides toward her hips, and I can see her pink panties.

  “We don’t have any protection,” I point out, not certain why I keep coming up with reasons not to have sex when I really, really want to. It’s not just the raging, almost-seventeen-year-old hormones either. And it’s not the whole “I don’t want to die a virgin” thing. It’s her and how I feel about her.

  She’s the one.

  If everything were normal, if I were normal, Cami is the one I’d marry someday. We’d have children together and cart them around to soccer practices and piano recitals. We’d get our first gray hairs together and complain about getting older, but we wouldn’t really mean it, because there would be something graceful, something . . . profound about aging alongside the person you love. And when my face began to wrinkle and my hands turned thin and cold, it would be her eyes I would look into—her hand I would hold.

  I want that, and I swallow down a sob because no matter what, I can’t have it. I can’t grow old with her. But we have right now. We have this moment.

  Cami opens the top drawer of her nightstand and removes a box of condoms. “Dad gave them to me for my sixteenth birthday. It’s never been opened,” she says, lifting the lid and revealing two dozen individual packets. “I hope they haven’t expired.” She closes the lid again and starts looking for an expiration date on the box.

  “You know, we don’t have to. You don’t have to. It’s okay if . . .” I want to say that I’d rather die a virgin than leave Cami with any regrets, but I don’t get the chance because she’s grabbing me, kissing me. She’s squeezing me so tightly, I can hardly breathe, but I don’t care. I want her to hold me tighter. I want her to be so close to me that her heart starts beating for my
body too, and we can tell death to go fuck himself.

  “I love you so much,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

  I kiss her, running my fingers through her still-damp hair, then over the delicate lines of her face and throat.

  “Tonight there’s no such thing as time,” she says. “No seconds, no minutes, no years. The world has stopped for us. Time has stopped.” She closes her eyes, and I do the same.

  Cami loosens my tie and slips it over my head. Then she unbuttons my shirt, peeling it from my shoulders. When she sees my bare chest, she stops and presses her palm over my heart. She can feel it beating against her hand, then against her cheek. Then she presses her lips against my skin and holds them there as the seconds stay frozen, suspended.

  She steps away from me and grips the bottom of her nightshirt, pulling it over her head. Her skin is pale. Her breasts are small but perfect.

  She comes toward me and takes my hand. I feel dizzy, not just with passion, but with the sharpness of it all. My body feels like it’s being pressed with thin needles. I’m in a kind of glorious pain that I know will be relieved with only the greatest pleasure. But more than the physical sensation is the intensity of knowing time hasn’t really stopped. It doesn’t. Not for me, not for anyone. I’m moving toward a cliff, and seeing the edge coming closer and closer makes everything I feel somehow . . . more. Cami and I . . . we love each other more because of the cliff. And tonight, we will cling to each other, press against each other with more intensity because we take nothing for granted.

  Tonight is everything.

  40

  “A little help,” my mom shouts from the door leading from the garage to the house. Her arms are filled with grocery bags, and I rush to take them. Vegetables, I bet. The bags are filled with vegetables and a highly nutritious array of organic fruits.

  “Put the milk in the fridge,” Mom says. “I’ll start dinner in a minute. The store was packed. I guess a lot of people are planning on camping over Labor Day weekend. I didn’t see Cami there.”