How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (23 page)

I stay in the parking lot until they finish chatting and climb into their cars. I see that Lauren and Carlee have ridden together, and I shake my head, thinking how little their lives seem to have changed, when mine is so incredibly different. Once upon a time, I didn't recognize it, but now I barely recognize theirs.

After they're gone, I still can't move, feeling antsy and frustrated from the pent-up adrenaline I ended up doing nothing with. Eventually, I blow a lungful of air out through my lips and turn the key in the ignition. Might as well go home.

I take a slight detour to pick up some hair product at CVS, and as I head back toward my neighborhood, a street name jumps out at me. Seaview Lane.

Taylor's street.

I sit at the stop sign until a car pulls up behind me and honks, and the noise propels me into action. I jerk the wheel hard and turn right.

As I park in the driveway and start walking toward the front door, my heart thumps inside my chest and echoes in my ears. I feel kind of seasick, too. I notice that Jeremiah's truck isn't in the driveway, which is a positive. I barely feel up to one confrontation, let alone two. I haven't thought about him in weeks and can't believe that at one time I pinned my hopes on him.

My hands are shaking so badly, I can't manage to ring the bell and so resort to closing them into fists and knocking on the door instead. A moment later, Mr. Jordan opens the door, a look of evident surprise dawning on his face. He knows who I am from his history with my father, but he stands in front of me without saying a word.

I swallow hard and try to look him in the eye. “Um … I was hoping I could talk to Taylor.” The words scratch my throat, which has turned dry and brittle, on their way out.

Mr. Jordan's features harden. “I'm not sure that's necessary. Or a very good idea.”

I hear a voice behind him. “Who is it?”

Taylor.

Mr. Jordan keeps his eyes on me as he answers his daughter, the look on his face making me feel like a piece of trash that has been left at their doorstep. My name comes out sounding like profanity. “Nikki Baylor.”

Taylor comes to stand beside her father, crossing her arms and mimicking his stare. He instantly wraps his arm around her, and I feel a new wave of shame and embarrassment.

I hope he didn't see the pictures we posted. The idea makes me cringe. I know full well how awful it feels to lose the title of “daddy's little girl” because of one bad decision. I'm pretty sure her father isn't able to see his daughter the way he'd like to, either. Thanks to me. Us. Whatever.

Taylor stares at me, eyes cold and flat. “What?” she demands.

“I … well I just…”

It's really hard to talk to her in person, especially with the death stare she's got trained on me. I never really knew her all that well, and over the course of the past few months, she's been turned into this figure in my head, this character who ruined my life, this regret.

And Mr. Jordan … he's not budging. He's just
standing
there, condemning me in silence.

Maybe this was a really bad idea.

I keep failing at meeting Taylor's eyes. “I don't … I'm not sure how … what to say.”

I look up quickly, and her eyes are practically bulging out of her head. “You've had months to think about this, about
what you did
, and you still don't even know? Why are you wasting my time?”

“I'm sorry!” I sputter.

A harsh, humorless chuckle escapes through Taylor's lips. “You're sorry for what? You don't even
know
!”

Even though it's a cool fall morning, sweat is pouring from my armpits. Forget difficult. This is impossible. This was stupid. I should go.

I duck my head and think about turning and running … and then, strangely, Sam's face pops into my head. The image makes me feel stronger and serves as a reminder. Sam is a living, breathing person who has become my friend. Sam knows what it feels like to be Taylor, and I wish someone would apologize to her.

So I try to gather the frayed remnants of the courage I showed up with and pull them back together into something useful. The words come out of my mouth before I even realize they've collected in my brain. “I'm sorry we were so uncertain about … no … I'm sorry
I
was so uncertain about who I was that I let a group decide how I was going to act,” I tell her. For just a second, I manage to look up and meet her eye. “I'm sorry that because I did nothing, because I sat back and let people do what they wanted to do, you got hurt. That I wasn't stronger back then.”

A hint of surprise registers in Taylor's eyes. She'd decided I was soulless, a monster.

But ultimately her eyes don't warm, not a bit. “I'm not going to stand here and tell you I forgive you,” she says. “I can't. And I don't even want to.”

“You certainly don't need to,” her father chimes in.

Silence hangs between us. Because this was a futile mission. Maybe even a fool's mission.

And it's time for me to go.

I lift my chin. I look both of them in the eye. “Thank you for hearing me out. I'm sorry for what I did, a million times over, and I thought you should hear that in person.”

There won't be any absolution, not now and probably not ever. I turn and walk quickly toward my car, accepting this might be the best I'm going to get.

I can't change Taylor's feelings about me.

Maybe my apology has value anyway. I did what I could to take baby steps toward changing how I feel about me. And although I'll always feel ashamed of what I did, maybe I'll feel slightly less ashamed of who I am.

 

Chapter 16

“This is
so
sweet, isn't it?” Sam asks me.

In theory, it is sweet. It's two thirty on Monday afternoon, and we're standing on the front steps of our school, leaving early. We've ditched our horrid uniforms, stuffed them into our book bags as quickly as possible. Now we totally look college-concert-appropriate in tight jeans, boots, and fun tops. Sam's mom will be by any minute, and we'll be out of here, on to something much better.

But a minute's passed and I haven't answered Sam.

She turns toward me, the harsh wind blowing her hair across her face. “What's wrong?”

What's wrong is that I'm supposed to be excited. Really, getting out of school early would be reason for excitement in and of itself, and we have tickets to see a superpopular group play at a small venue. But I don't feel excited. I feel cold, not carefree, even as I stuff my hands into the pockets of my bomber jacket and bury my chin inside the collar.

I'm way too focused on the date. And the time. What else is going on right now.

I've been trying not to say his name too much to Sam. Trying really hard not to be
that
girl. But …

“Pax has to get this MRI today … and … even though he acted like it was no big deal, I know he's really scared, and I just wish…” My voice wobbles and turns into a whisper. “I wish I could hold his hand.” I swallow over the painful lump in my throat. “I wish he wanted me to.”

Sam carefully removes a strand of hair that's gotten stuck to her bright lip gloss. “Well, I mean, do you really believe he doesn't?”

I frown toward the ground and consider this. What do I believe, anyway? I know what he said when he took off from the party. But I also know how I'd felt. I know how he'd felt. And nine days have passed since we last spoke, but … my feelings haven't changed. I'm still angry about how he reacted that night, but that anger is starting to dissipate. The other feelings, the ones that run much deeper … they haven't started to fade at all.

After everything happened with my friends, I sort of stopped believing in the endurance of relationships. But now …

Unable to meet her eye, I admit the truth. “I feel like I should be there.” Guilt washes over me as I say it out loud.

Sam's quiet for a minute. “If that's where you need to be, Nikki, you can go.” Her words come out grudgingly.

“I know it would be totally uncool to bail, though. I'm just telling you … how I feel.”

Sam bites on her thumbnail for a minute. She glances over at me a couple of times. Then she blows a huge puff of air through her lips. “No, really, you can go.” Her gaze falls to the ground. “I still feel bad you guys were even at the party in the first place. You said no and I pushed. It sucks that we won't get to go to the concert, but I sort of owe you on the whole Pax thing.”

“No, you don't,” I assure her. But I continue to ponder her offer. I believe things with Sam are in pretty good shape. Things with Pax? Definitely need some work. I glance at my watch. “I don't even think I would get there in time.” I'm pretty sure he said his appointment is at three. “And what would you do, anyway? Go by yourself?”

“I'm not gonna go by myself!” She considers a minute. “Tim did say he was bummed there wasn't an extra ticket.” Sam pulls out her phone. “Maybe I can catch him in time. Meet up with him after school.” She's already sending the text. “It does suck that there's usually no chance to see him during the week.” With a hair flip, she reminds me, “This was supposed to be your birthday present, though.”

“I will consider your extreme understanding and flexibility in the situation present enough.”

“Yeah well…” she grumbles. “Don't ever question that I love you.” We watch as her mom's car pulls into the lot and up to the curb. Sam shuffles down the steps and gestures over her shoulder. “Come on, get in. We'll drop you where you need to go.”

I spring into action, following her down the stairs, my heart pounding with renewed purpose and drive. “His appointment's at the Medical Arts Building, right next to the county hospital.”

I have to give Sam's mom directions because she still doesn't know the area all that well, and we make a few wrong turns along the way. On the bright side, in that time, Tim responds to the impromptu invitation with an enthusiastic yes, which is one thing to feel better about, anyway. By the time we pull into the huge medical complex, it's already two fifty-four. I start biting my nails, knees bouncing up and down in the backseat. “There it is!” I cry when the tall, narrow Medical Arts Building comes into view. I recognize it, remembering the time Emma broke her wrist and we came here for X-rays.

Sam's mom pulls up right in front of the building, and I'm already moving before she puts the car in park. Leaning over the front seat, I squeeze Sam's hand. “Thank you sooo much, Sam, really. You too, Mrs. Alexander. There's no way I could have gotten here in time otherwise.”

“You're welcome,” she smiles. “And good luck.”

“Go!” Sam shrieks. She seems to have perked right back up. She raises her hand to her forehead and fires off a quick salute. “Godspeed.”

“Right.” I open the back door and climb out, waving one final time before turning toward the building. And then I sprint inside.

I skip the elevator and dash up the stairs to the third floor. I pass all the “-ologies”—endocrinology, gynecology, oncology—and finally make it to the wide doors of the medical-imaging suite at the end of the hall.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, and throw open the heavy doors.

The scene inside doesn't align with my dramatic arrival. It's quiet, the waiting area dimly lit, with low music playing. And it's mostly empty. Definitely no Pax. I missed him.

Feeling defeated, I wonder what I was expecting anyway. I scan the room, unsure of what to do now.

Then I spot her, at the far end of the waiting room. Mrs. Paxton's eyes look up from the
Real Simple
magazine she's reading. “Nikki?”

I walk toward her, the surprise in her eyes evident. “What are you doing here?” I look her in the eye another minute and pick up on something else, a level of guardedness, and suddenly I'm pretty sure she knows that there's been a falling-out between me and her son.

I turn my head and stare at the bland pastel print hanging on the wall. What
am
I doing here?

I'm here because maybe some relationships are damaged beyond repair … and maybe some aren't. Some things go beyond anger, and sadness, and a fight.

And I just really want and need to believe that Pax and I are some things.

The thought causes my throat to tighten. “I … I…” I look her in the eye, pleading. “I just really care about him, ya know?” I whisper.

She instantly lowers her guard and offers a small, sad smile. “Yeah. I do know.” A few seconds later, she pats the seat beside her. “And you're welcome to stay if that's what you want.”

Relieved, I nod and stoically drop into the seat beside her. My back is stiff, and I stare at the wall.

She returns to her magazine but a few minutes later pulls a copy of
People
off the stack beside her and offers it to me. “Magazine?” she asks. “It's going to be at least an hour.”

I shake my head and go back to staring at the wall, watching the seconds tick by on the clock. I try not to think about what Pax is going through, what the experience feels like for him. It's really hard not to, and I start chewing on my nails.

Mrs. Paxton's energy is so different from mine. Her body is relaxed, and I think she's humming along with the soft-rock station playing in the waiting room. “You're so calm,” I can't help remarking.

She turns toward me, eyes clouding with painful memories. “I've sat through many much, much worse hours in hospital waiting rooms,” she reminds me. A trembling breath escapes her. “All things considered, this is cake.

“I'm praying for good results, of course,” she continues. “Pax depends on his shoulders, and if he has to have surgery, he won't be able to get around. It will be such a hit to his spirit, and I don't want to see him have to endure that hit. I know he hates the MRI procedure itself—I don't know if he's even gotten around to thinking about why we're here. Worrying about that.”