Gone Too Far (15 page)

My head finds its way out of the neck hole and my hair is all caught on my face. Nick helps me brush it free. In that second, I see something in him that almost makes me cry again. I've assumed
every
bad thing about this guy. I've judged him and pushed him and snapped at him, and he knows I hurt his friend. He knows and he's still here making me cocoa and offering me his sweatshirt.

“I'm not the vigilante,” I say without warning. “But I'm helping him.”

I can see his questions coming, but I hurry on before he can ask. “It started with texts. I don't know the number and reverse lookup doesn't work on it. I think it's one of those untraceable num—it doesn't matter. I text him the names and he sets up the takedowns. That's how it works. He tells me where to be so I can take the pictures.”

His brow furrows. “Why you?”

“Because I see a lot of things that go on around here—injustice stuff. And because I was there the morning that Stella got torn down.” I pause. Swallow hard. “He told me this would be a chance to do right by her. And I wanted that. I failed her and I wanted to fix that.”

“Piper, that had nothing to do with you.”

“Yes it did.” I laugh bitterly. “I just stood there, Nick. I stood there and heard them rip her apart. And I didn't say a word.”

“Neither did I,” he says.

“Actually, you did. You tried to get them to stop.” I shake my head. “Eventually you pulled them both off. I didn't. I thought I could make it better, maybe stop it from happening to someone else. But now…it's just not what I thought it would be.” My breath hitches, tears strangling me. “I tried to quit. I tried. He-he won't—”

I can't come up with the words, but I don't need to. Nick lets out this shaky sigh and I know he gets it.

“Do you hate me now?” I ask.

“Maybe I should. But no. No, I don't.”

Our eyes lock and it scares me. His hands move to cradle my face like I'm something that matters. I can't handle him like this. When he touches me I don't care about the fact that I'm planning for NYU this fall. I don't care about how different we are. I want him anyway. No logic. No plan. I just want him.

The tags on Moose's collar jangle as he makes his way into the kitchen. A cold dog nose presses into my fingers and Nick's hands slide down to my neck.

He kisses me.

For one millionth of a second, I wish I had my camera. I wish I could catch this image, with his lips slanting over mine and his touch light as feathers—I wish I could hold this moment forever.

The gentleness doesn't last. I reach up, finding his slightly scratchy jaw. I pull him. Push myself. He makes a sound that sends my heart into my throat. My hands move to his hair and his fingers are on my waist. He's bunching up his own sweatshirt around me to tighten his grip. Closer. I need him closer.

It's so awkward, him so crazy tall and me stretched high on my toes, but I want all of it—the strange angles, the click-hiss of Moose's claws against the kitchen floor. I've been underwater too long and every brush of his tongue feels like coming up for air.

A phone buzzes. I cringe and Nick sighs. He pulls back, one hand still locked behind me with an apologetic smile. That's when I realize it's his phone, not mine.

I slump against him, breathing hard against his chest, listening to his heart race under my ear. I see the worry flash over his features when I look up at him.

“It's Jackson.”

He moves to the other room to talk. I stand in the kitchen, trembling because I've just been kissed half to death. The tea kettle whistles and I fumble with the unfamiliar stove to turn it off.

I find mugs in the cupboard and put them down on the counter, but I don't know where the cocoa would be hiding, so I kind of stall out. In our house, we make cocoa from scratch, some crazy organic chocolate concoction. Here they probably have the easy little packets, the ones with the freeze-dried marshmallows that my mother thinks will kill me.

I turn one mug around. A logo blazes across the front.
Proud
Cougar
Mom
—
ROAR!
It doesn't end there. Ten, twelve, heck, I can't even count the number of pictures on the fridge—all of Nick or his older brother, Michael, in their uniforms. I think of my own kitchen—the Matisse art calendar on the wall, the Chilean clay bowls in the cupboard.

Stop
it. Just stop the comparisons.

I shake my head, reminding myself that my friends live in houses closer to this than to mine. It's not like I check their coffee tables for a modern sculpture book before I agree to come inside, so I need to quit.

I pull my hands inside the sleeves of Nick's sweatshirt and try not to think about kissing him again. It works for almost two entire seconds.

Nick walks in, running a hand through his hair and showing a thin band of skin beneath his Nike sweatshirt. I look away.

He spots the mugs and pulls two packets of hot cocoa out of a box in the cupboard. One point for the packets, but no little marshmallows, so I guess I haven't pegged everything. I watch him pour the water and mix our cocoa.

“Jackson's losing it,” he says. “He's even talking about Harrison being a victim. It's all just fuel to the fire now. Jackson was a bad choice.”

My temper flares, even though I know it shouldn't. “Why? Because he's your friend?”

“No, he's messed up and it makes him dangerous. That's why he's a bad choice. You've got to get away from this. You do want to get out, right?”

“I do. But I don't know how,” I say softly. “I think he's blackmailing me.”

“Who, Jackson?”

“No. My…partner, or whatever you want to call him. When I told him I wouldn't do it, he said if I didn't pick, he would. It felt like a threat.”

“Have you thought about calling the police? I mean, they're already kind of aware something's going on.”

Yeah, I've thought about it. I could hand over my phone and the book and let them sort it out. But that's the whole problem. I did this.
Willingly
.

“Are you afraid of getting in trouble?” Nick asks.

“Yes.” I sigh. And then I tell him the rest of it. Finding the notebook, those first texts, figuring out it was Harrison, and then learning I was wrong. All of it. I finish with a frown, slouching back against his counter. “It seemed so simple at first, you know?”

“Honestly, no,” he says. “But I believe your intentions were good.”

I cringe, because I'm not so sure. “I need to find out who this is. If I can find him, maybe I can talk to him, try to get him to see why this isn't working.”

Nick's expression turns dubious. “You think he'll listen to you?”

“I think he picked me for a reason. And I have to try, don't I? I helped him make this mess. I should try to help him make it right.”

“All right, then let's figure it out.” He talks like it's already decided, like there's no possibility of him
not
being involved now that he knows.

But there is a possibility. A really
big
possibility. If Nick gets involved and ends up in this guy's crosshairs, I could never forgive myself.

“Look, I appreciate you wanting to help, Nick. I do. But I can't get you mixed up in this.”

“A little late for that.”

“I know you figured it out, but it's still
my
problem. I know I can't stop you from warning your friends—”

“Do you actually think I'd do that?”

“You have to think about yourself, Nick. I know you have goals. Football. A social life.”

I look up at him, surprised to see the anger flashing in his features.

“Really, Piper?”

“Yes, really. I don't want my screwup to reflect on you with your friends.”

“Right, because why would a jock like me do anything that didn't benefit his
social
life
?”

Wait. Crap. I raise a hand, horrified. “Nick, I swear I didn't mean—”

“I think you
did
mean it. You don't even realize it, do you? You only see what you're looking for. Jackson's dad is an abusive drunk. Did you know that? Did you know that despite his seriously messed up home life, he hasn't missed a day of school in three years?”

I gape, unable to form a response, but Nick's not done anyway.

“He's no saint. I get that. He earned what he got. But anything remotely redeemable about him didn't make the cut in your little tape. Because you see nothing but his worst. Same with Kristen, and probably with Tate. They're easy targets, but they are
still
people—not popular kids and football players and…shoplifters. Just people.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. All my empty spaces are filled with heaviness that runs bone deep.

“Nick,” I say, but he recoils from me, jaw tight and eyes dark.

He walks out of the kitchen, closing the conversation. I'm too stunned to follow for a moment, but when I hear him at the door, I join him. He's standing there, holding my coat.

Tears sting my eyes but I don't say a word as I slip it on. I don't try to talk on the drive or when he pulls into my driveway and walks me to the door, because he's obviously been ingrained with the kind of manners that would never allow him to just dump a girl he's kissed off without a proper walk up to the porch.

“I can't do this.” He says it on my bottom step, his eyes cast down.

“This?”

“You. Me.”

Two words and they tear me into countless pieces. “We don't have to. We can just—”
We
can
what? Pretend it didn't happen? Pretend we're just buddies?

Nick laughs, but there's no humor in it. “We both know I'm too far gone to pretend I just want to be friends. So let's just…not.”

A burst of panic goes through my middle. I reach, fingers grazing his palm. His breath catches and my stomach goes tight. He doesn't want to go. I can feel it in every inch of him.

“I want to make this right,” I say. I didn't know how much until now.

“Then you have to figure out where it went wrong in the first place.”

• • •

I take cookies to Stella's mom the Wednesday before Christmas because cookies feel like a good excuse this time of year—and I
need
to see her.

Nick was right. Where it went wrong first was in that hallway with Stella. And I did absolutely nothing to stop it.

It snowed, so I drive slower than usual, checking the address I jotted down from the school directory. I pass her mom's church first, a plain brick building with a single steeple and narrow windows evenly spaced down the sides.

Five houses past the church, I find the van with a Claireville Cougars Swim Team logo on the back windshield. I hit the brakes a little too hard, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the street. Stella's name is scripted above the logo in slanting letters.

This is where she lived. It's a simple, pretty house—a white Cape Cod with shuttered windows and flowerbeds that are probably bright with color in the spring. There's still a fall-themed wreath on the door, but I can see a small nativity set up near the tree in the front yard.

Of course there'd be a nativity. Stella's mom is a pastor. Stella probably spent her holidays singing in choir and attending candlelight services. Not this Christmas though.

Pictures form in my mind, conjured out of nowhere but crisp as snapshots. I can see Stella leaving the house the night she died. Another image of her turning onto the sidewalk, adjusting the volume on her headphones. And then another—the one I wish I couldn't see. A police car in this driveway, an officer at that red front door waiting to deliver horrible news. I don't know if that's how it went down, but it's all I can think of right now.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and force myself to get out of the car. Stella's driveway seems two miles long and paved with glass. I cross it anyway and ring the doorbell before I can come up with a good enough reason to bolt.

Mrs. DuBois opens the door with a sandwich in her hand and a curious look on her face. I force my brightest smile. “Hi. Uh, Merry Christmas.”

She is a slim woman with a friendly face, but the set of her shoulders tells me she probably wasn't the mom to let Stella get away with much either.

“Hello,” she says.

My voice catches, sticks. She sounds
so
much
like Stella. I clear my throat and offer the cookies awkwardly. “I'm Piper Woods. I went to school with your daughter.”

That was stupid. Maybe I should have said Stella's name. Maybe I should have brought a picture. God, I'm screwing this up already. I should leave. Nick wouldn't go though. More importantly, I don't
want
to go.

She nods and then looks at the plate I'm still holding against my hip.

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. “I made these for you. I didn't even think to ask if you like cookies.”

“Does anyone not like cookies?” She smiles then, obviously trying to put me at ease. I hate that I made that her job somehow.

“Come on in, Piper. It's freezing out there.”

I follow her in through a living room with armchairs and a pretty piano. The attached kitchen is bright and airy, and that's where she puts my cookies, in the center of a glass dining room table. She's not eating there though. I see a plate with the other half of her sandwich and a can of diet soda on the counter next to the sink.

I hear the foil crinkle as I look around the living room. There's no Christmas tree, no row of Christmas cards. Nothing. And what did I expect? The woman lost her daughter. My eyes find a row of pictures on the mantle, mostly of Stella, but one of the whole family, Dad, Mom, and a very young Stella in pigtails.

Did her dad leave? Or did he die too? I'm not even sure which feels more unfair.

“These cookies are delicious,” Mrs. DuBois says, sounding only a little forced. “Do you bake a lot?”

“Never, actually. I was a little afraid they'd be bricks.”

“You didn't try them?”

I realize how odd it is that I didn't and frown. “Weirdly, no.”

“Maybe
you
don't like cookies.”

I smile, but she's preoccupied wrapping the foil back over my plate. I scan the mantle, which includes a poster-sized group shot of Stella with her school friends. Stella's in the middle and there are lots of in-crowd players around her.

“There's something about the cinnamon,” she says. “It's amazing.”

“My mom is kind of a health nut, so it's organic. Could be that,” I say, stepping closer to the picture. “Though half the time I think organic is just an excuse to charge more.”

She laughs then, but the sound is strained. I messed up. I shouldn't have talked about my mom. I don't even know what that word means when your only child dies. Does that mean it doesn't apply to her anymore?

“Stella looks really beautiful here,” I say, pointing at the group shot.

“Stella always looks beautiful,” she says, and now she's much closer, looking at the picture too.

It's true, she does, but this one captures more than a collection of pretty features. She's wide-eyed and looks like she's on the verge of an unexpected laugh. Nick and Marlow are in the picture, Marlow's hand wrapped around his bicep. Candace is on her left, and Tate and Aimee are on her right. And of course there's Jackson behind her, sort of
looming
with his flinty eyes and too-white smile.

Everyone is looking at the camera except Tate. My heart sinks as I realize he's looking at Stella. Pictures tell a thousand words, but I wish this one didn't. His open body language, the affectionate tilt of his chin—even the depth of his expression are so clear I don't know how I missed it before.

Hearing him say it was one thing, but this is different. Nick was right. Tate loved Stella. Absolutely one thousand percent adored her. I take a step back, feeling breathless.

“It was the last week of junior year,” Mrs. DuBois says. I try to find something else in the picture. Like Jackson, who looks more sinister with every passing second. I realize his arm is curved at an awkward angle behind Stella's back. I can't be sure, but it almost seems like he's grabbing her butt. The photographer in me calculates the angles, while the girl in me catalogs the difference in their faces. Jackson's canary-in-my-teeth smile against Tate's open adoration.

“I miss her,” Mrs. DuBois says, and her words bring back an eerie echo of Tate with his stained shirt and empty eyes.

I have to say something. I started this for Stella. Because of the things I didn't say. If I don't say them now, I don't think I'll ever breathe right again.

“Mrs. DuBois…”

She looks at me with patient eyes. I feel the pressure of her desperation though. She's hungry for some bit of comfort—some answer about Stella that I know I don't have. I don't think we'll ever know what happened to her on those tracks. Not for sure. The things I do know feel worthless, but they are true, so I say them.

“I didn't know Stella very well,” I say softly, looking down at my feet. “My locker is next to hers, and I've taken a lot of pictures of her because I'm on the school yearbook committee. But I don't know that we were friends. Not really.”