Six Months Later Part 2

And why do I care? He's a stranger, and I don't care where his car is. Except that he's not a stranger. And I obviously care a lot.

A touch to my arm brings my attention back to Blake. He's also mostly a stranger, but not the kind I need to be afraid of. He's the poster boy of nice. Good citizen. Cla.s.s president. He probably does commercials for the Boy Scouts when he's not helping little old ladies cross the street.

He's the one I should feel safe with.

"Chloe, are you okay?" he asks me, his hand resting just above my elbow.

"No. Not really," I admit.

"Is your head all right? Why are you muddy?"

As soon as he says it, I reach for a spot just above the nape of my neck. My fingers graze a swollen lump, and I wince in pain. What the h.e.l.l? When did that happen?

"Easy," Blake says, and I step back from him, wary. He ignores me, reaching forward to take my hand. "You b.u.mped it pretty hard. I can't believe you didn't go straight home. Maybe I should get you to the hospital."

"I didn't b.u.mp my head," I say, even though it's clear I did.

And it's equally clear he saw me do it.

He looks really concerned now. Like daytime TV worried, his brow all puckered and eyes sad. He doesn't know me well enough to worry about me like that. Or to hug me.

The world starts a precarious tilt, so I rest my palm on the roof of my car and try not to pa.s.s out.

"Chloe, I think I should take you to the hospital," Blake says slowly. "Do you even know why you're here? And why are you so filthy?"

I prod the tender b.u.mp, hoping that the pain will jar my memory.

"I don't know. I remember..." I trail off because what am I going to say? I remember falling asleep in study hall. On the last Tuesday in May.

"Do you remember the walk we took at my house tonight?" he asks.

A walk with Blake Tanner? Not possible. If Blake pa.s.sed me a napkin in the cafeteria line, I'd dissect it with Maggie for three days. I wouldn't forget a walk.

"Do you?" he repeats softly, and I feel his fingers lacing through mine.

His hand is warm and large and everything that a boy's hand is supposed to be.

"Do you remember slipping on the porch? That's when you hit your head. I don't know how you got so dirty though."

I touch my head again, this time conscious of the cold, black stains on the knees of my jeans. Is that what this is? A stupid head injury or whatever?

I want it to be true. I need it to be true.

"I...I slipped. By the sidewalk," I say, the lie spilling out of me automatically as I brush at my filthy jeans. "I'm really tired. My brain is just fuzzy."

"Let me take you home," he says. "At least there your mom could take a look."

I glance back at my half-sc.r.a.ped car and then over to his snowless, clearly garage-stored Mustang. The dark interior is probably toasty. Maybe if I just sit for a moment, I'll figure this out.

"Okay," I agree. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."

He laughs at that, like it's ridiculous for me to even think it. "No, Chloe. It's not too much trouble to take my girlfriend home."

Girl-what?

Girlfriend. He said girlfriend.

It's a joke. This whole stupid thing is an enormous prank but why? Because I have a crush on him? Who doesn't?

No, that can't be it. Blake isn't into that kind of juvenile c.r.a.p. He's on the Bully Patrol, for G.o.d's sake.

But it can't be anything else.

Blake doesn't seem to notice me standing there gaping like a goldfish. He takes the sc.r.a.per from my hand and turns off my car, locking the doors when he's done. And since he doesn't fumble with the locks or my ignition, which tends to stick, I'm guessing he's done this before. He hands me my purse with a frown.

"This was on the floor."

"Thanks."

He smiles and guides me over to the Mustang. I fidget and watch him open the pa.s.senger door, and then he helps me into the seat like this is all routine. Like I wouldn't normally be stumbling over myself in rapture at the chance of setting foot in his vehicle.

When I sink into the leather seat, I don't feel rapture. If anything, I feel a little uneasy. Maybe even nauseous. I s.h.i.+ft my feet, painfully aware of the mud on my boots and his pristine carpets.

It's deliciously warm though, like sitting by a fire. I smell new car and Blake, and I don't know why, but I don't like the mix. Blake slides behind the wheel, and we both fasten our seat belts in silence. Then he tugs something out of the backseat.

"You left your coat when you ran out tonight," he says, and then he hands it to me. "You must have been freezing."

I run my hands down the rough red wool. It's my coat, all right. I spent a small fortune on it at the beginning of my soph.o.m.ore year, so it's not something I leave lying around.

"Oh, thanks. I really must have hit my head harder than I thought," I say, baring my teeth in something that I hope pa.s.ses for a smile.

Blake turns up the heater and rolls out of the parking lot without another word. He turns right on Main before I can direct him and makes the immediate left onto Birchwood, proving that he knows where he's going.

When he slides his hand to my knee, my whole body goes cold and tense. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn't look like someone playing a prank. His body language is relaxed. Touching me is comfortable for him.

For some insane reason, I'm pretty sure Blake believes this. He thinks I'm his girlfriend.

I ignore my swimming head and Blake's squeezing hand, and stare out the winds.h.i.+eld. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me.

"What a crazy night," I say, figuring I can't just sit here in silence forever.

He doesn't react at first, but I see a muscle in his jaw jump when I turn to him.

"Yeah," he finally says. "What all do you remember?"

It's a weird question. And a short list. Darkness. Snow. Terror. Adam.

I linger on that last one longer than I should, my mind forming a picture of him. "It's kind of a blur."

He sighs in a way that borders on theatrical. "I just wish you'd tell me why you're so tense. Is it still about your SAT scores?"

"My SAT scores?"

He turns to me, half rolling his eyes. "Mine aren't that much better, you know."

"I haven't taken-"

I cut myself off, realizing that I probably did take the test. Like everything else, I might just not remember it.

"I'm just stressed," I say weakly, half expecting that awful itchy anxiety to return. Instead, I feel numb. Heavy and slow, like I'm half-asleep.

Huh. I must be going into shock. Fine by me. It's infinitely preferable to the flailing and panicking.

Blake pulls to a stop in front of my house. I look up at the dormer windows and black shutters. Mom's Thanksgiving wreath hangs on the door, and the windows give off a warm, yellow glow. In my whole life, home has never looked so sweet.

"Want me to walk you in?"

"It's all right," I say. "I'm really tired."

He nods and then tilts his head. "Hey, stop worrying about your scores. You're in the top three percent, Chloe. You're one of the elite."

I open my mouth because I have no idea what he's talking about, but before I can say anything, he's kissing me good-bye. And I can't remember what I wanted to ask him about now because this is Blake. Blake Tanner. Kissing me.

I've imagined him doing this for as long as I can remember. I never dreamed it would feel so horribly wrong.

Chapter Four.

Insistent electric beeping wakes me. It can't be seven o'clock yet. I'm too tired. Too snug and content here in the coc.o.o.n of my blankets.

The clock blares on, unmoved by my silent protest. I roll over and mash the snooze b.u.t.ton and then burrow back into the blissful warmth of my quilt. Two more minutes and I'll get up. I mentally catalog my sandal options. Is my blue tank top clean? Maybe. Or I could- My thoughts cut off as I remember. The snow. The darkness. Blake. Adam.

I sit up, scanning my room as I kick the covers off my legs. It's cold and dark. Too cold and dark for seven o'clock in May. I s.h.i.+ver as I rise from my bed, padding across my wood floor. My curtains are tightly shut, not a sliver of daylight showing around the edges.

I pull the drapes open quickly, like I'm ripping off a bandage. Outside, it's still winter. Inside, I die a little.

I press my palm to the cold windowpane with a sigh. The street looks magical, every house and mailbox dipped in a snow so white it looks like sugar. It's like a Christmas card.

But I'm not ready for Christmas. I'm ready for jean shorts and sweet tea and long, sticky nights with cicadas singing in the gra.s.s.

I return to my bed, curling into a ball. It wasn't a nightmare. I'd known that, of course, but nothing else seemed possible when I'd stumbled in here last night.

Now, the newness of the day hits me like teeth, gnawing at the unwelcome truth. I'm missing time. A lot of it.

"Chloe?"

My mom's voice drifts up the stairs, familiar and just a little scratchy so she probably hasn't had much coffee.

"You want breakfast, honey?"

No, I really don't. I want my six months back.

I try dialing Mags again before giving up and heading downstairs. Mom is peering into the fridge, her hair in a towel and her s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned wrong. Nothing newsworthy there. Until she turns at me and breaks into a grin.

"Morning, Superstar. Need some oatmeal to keep that brain churning?"

Uh, what? I blink several times, and she just laughs, pulling out a carton of blueberries and a couple tubs of yogurt. Which is...weird. We don't do breakfast. Not together, anyway.

"Too early, I guess." She nods at a cup and saucer on the counter. "Your tea's ready."

Tea? We have tea in this house?

I don't know what she's talking about, and I'm too tired to care. The coffeepot is sputtering, so I head over to get myself a cup. One whiff and a wave of queasiness rolls through me. I push the pot back onto the burner.

"What's wrong with the coffee?" I ask.

My mom sighs and takes another sip while my stomach cramps in protest. "Don't start again, Chloe."

My hands are shaking now. I can't handle this. It's just too scary.

"Mom, I need to talk to you."

"Is it about Va.s.sar? Honey, I know it sounds hoity-toity, but with these scores, you've got to consider-"

"It's not about Va.s.sar, Mom. It's about me. I'm having some trouble."

She looks up, her gray eyes clouding with worry. "What kind of trouble? School trouble? The kids in the SAT group?"

I can't blame her for asking. If I go down in the yearbooks for anything it'll be Most Likely to Not Live Up to My Potential. "No. I'm just...I'm forgetting some things."

Her relief is palpable, bringing pink back to her cheeks. "Of course you're forgetting things. You're exhausted, honey. You've been studying day and night, putting in extra credit."

"I think it's more than that," I say, though the idea of me investing in extra credit is just insane. I'm a Play Now, Work Later girl, and she knows it better than anyone.

She takes a breath, hands moving absently to her throat. "You don't think it's those panic attacks again, do you?"

She says it like a dirty secret, almost whispering it. I feel like she's poised on the edge of a knife. One wrong word from me now and she will return to the mother I remember. Quiet. Distant. Disappointed.

"Maybe I just need some sleep," I say with a sigh.

Mom nods so quickly it's like she spoon-fed me the answer. She clears the table, though I've barely touched my yogurt. Typical. I get a smile and a pat that's supposed to be rea.s.suring. And then she's up the stairs and I'm left on my own.