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“Fine. Humid. Churchy.”
Sam’s gaze is heavy. He nods slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Or maybe it’s just my paranoia.
“It’s nice to be back.” I force a smile, know he’ll take that as me saying it’s nice to be backherewithhim. And that’s exactly what happens. His lips curl up, and he leans in, kisses me. I let it linger, manage a smile back. But inside, I feel like shit. He’s a really nice guy.
We drink more wine, polish off the bottle.
After dinner, we fall into his bed and don’t come up for air until 1 a.m. Sam seems satisfied, sated even, and I’m glad for that, at least. I feel pretty darn relaxed, too, and I think I might even sleep tonight. But first, there’s something I need to do . . .
I crawl over and prop my head on a fist, leaning on Sam’s chest. His heart is still pounding beneath his rib cage.
“I have a favor to ask,” I say.
“Hmm?” he responds sleepily.
“When I was in Louisiana, I couldn’t find one of my friends. She was one of my best friends in high school. With my other friend, Ivy, we were like the threemusketeers. But Ivy hasn’t been able to get ahold of her, either. I thought she moved down south, maybe to Florida. I’m sort of worried. I tried to look her up online, but I couldn’t find anything.”
“Maybe she got married? Changed her name?”
“Maybe, but . . .” I sit up, frown. “Shouldn’t there be a record of that?”
Sam searches my gaze, nods. “Yes, there should be.”
“Do you think maybe you can look her up in that system of yours?”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
I stare at him. Even in the dim light, I can make out his features, and I watch carefully as I say, “Jocelyn Burton.”
Mostly, I can’t imagine he has anything to do with any of this anymore. And he doesn’t make a weird face or look shocked. He just thinks it over for a moment and shrugs.
“Sure, I can run her for you. Anything else you have? Birth date or city she was born in?”
“I can write it all down for you in the morning.”
“Sounds good. I’ll look into it first thing. Don’t want you to worry.” His hand smooths over my head, through my hair. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thanks,” I say. But I feel like an even bigger piece of shit because of how sweet he is.
We settle beneath the covers, and before long, his breathing takes on that steady, even rhythm of sleep. I expect to pass out, too. But I don’t. It’s like every other night lately. I’m staring at the ceiling, wondering who I can trust, if anyone. My mind wanders to tomorrow, to the next chapters that are due. Will Hannah submit more of her story? She still hasn’t answered my email. And if she does, what secrets will her story tell next?
CHAPTER
20
Chapter 3—Hannah’s Novel
Jocelyn’s heart raced as she walked through the empty halls. Today was the first time Mr. Sawyer had told her to come so late. Normally, they met after school, when activities were still going on and students were milling around. But now it was six in the evening, and the second floor was so empty that her footsteps echoed, reverberating off the walls. The extra few hours of waiting had seemed to drag on forever. It reminded Jocelyn of a line she’d once read in a book:Sometimes the anticipation is more exciting than the event.Wasn’t that the truth of most things in high school? First kiss, junior prom, Christmas—all letdowns. Yet Jocelyn’s time with Mr. Sawyer was different, likely because she couldn’t everanticipatewhat he would have her do. As soon as she did, he changed things. They’d been meeting for almost a month now. During their last session,he’dread toherfor the first time—poetry. He said he’d never shared it with anyone else. His voice had been low and raspy as he spoke.So damn sexy.She didn’t understand a lot of what he’d written—Jocelyn hoped one day she’d be smart enough that she would—but she thought his words were beautiful nonetheless.
As she entered room 206 and walked tothe desk where she normally sat, she immediately noticed Mr. Sawyer’s desk had been moved. It wasn’t smack in the middle at the front anymore, but relocated to the far left corner. She plopped her backpack down on the floor and slid into the plastic chair.
“You moved your desk?”
Mr. Sawyer ignored her question, strolled to the back of the room, and shut the door. Thesch-lenksound of the lock clanking closed made Jocelyn feel like her insides were vibrating. She loved being alone with him, loved having all his attention. Yet . . . there went her palms, sweating already. It was only a matter of time before her throat grew tight.
“Is your essay for today ready?”
Mr. Sawyer always made her write about her screwed-up life. But this week’s assignment had been more difficult than others because it really hit home. She’d been tasked to write about her loneliness.