Page 62 of The Beat Match

Together, he’d said. I’ll always keep us together, no matter the cost. He’d begged homeless men and women to pretend to be their parents in shelters. He’d helped her with homework so poor marks wouldn’t flag teachers. He’d taught her piano to give her the gift of music when they had nothing but each other to get through each hungry day.

He’d broken that precious promise, and she’d spent many nights furious with him, angry to the point of punching herself in the thighs, tugging out small sections of her hair. She’d been so alone, so lost. Because he’d been too loyal and wouldn’t have left Wes to fend for himself. In turn Leo had left her and now she had to relive his brutal murder because Wes had withheld the truth.

Tears burned, a hot stab that traveled to her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through her blur of tears.

“Annie, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I was ashamed, too much of a coward to admit what I’d done.”

She clutched her throat, tried to swallow through a sob.

“Annie, baby. I’m here. I’ll help you through this. Please let me help you.” Wes enveloped her in his strong arms. Arms that had felt like heaven not so long ago.

They were suffocating now.

She wrenched away, dashed at her cheeks, despising that Wes was seeing her like this. She didn’t acknowledge him or his confession. She couldn’t speak without falling apart. She needed time and space to process, to grieve and be angry. She needed a lot of things right then, and none of them were Weston Aldrich.

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19

Time healed all wounds. The saying was a total cliché, but it had mostly held true for Annie. The days and months following Leo’s death, she’d gradually compartmentalized her grief. She’d learned to breathe through the pain, focus on happier memories, shake off the bad and let in the good. She’d built relationships online. Friends who didn’t get too personal and upset her carefully carved balance. Wes and she had never talked about Leo, either. Not outright. Not until recently. She had thought he’d sidestepped the subject out of respect for her. Now she knew the source of his avoidance: Wes had been consumed with guilt.

Annie flipped through an old scrapbook, one of the first she’d made, thanks to her first foster home.

June—her foster mom—had verged on being a hoarder. Precariously piled magazines and newspapers had filled the house’s every nook and cranny. Annie’s counselor had suggested art therapy as an outlet, but straight-up drawing had frustrated her. One rough day, when a magazine piano advertisement had reduced Annie to tears, she’d slashed up the page. She’d hated crying. She still did. But her hands had moved of their own accord after that, glue found, scissors unearthed, a hodge-podge assembled into a sloppy scrapbook page. At the center of her first artistic endeavor had been a photograph of Leo playing piano.

Creating became cathartic after that. An outlet. Time to do, not think. That page was the one and only she’d ever centered around her brother. She’d avoided all things Leo and piano and clubbing afterward, until happening upon that subway busker. A piano played. Her heart revived. The urge to be a DJ like he’d dreamed so clear and true she couldn’t believe she’d wasted all those years trying not to think about him.

She didn’t want to waste more years. She didn’t want Wes to think she hated him because he’d been a stupid kid who’d made a stupid decision. He’d texted her nonstop after his confession, pleas to talk. Apologies. She hadn’t replied because she hadn’t known what to say. By day two he’d threatened to come over if she didn’t respond. So she’d replied with a simple message: I’m okay, but I need time. Please don’t message again. I’ll reach out when I’m ready.

Five days later she’d been going about her life, working waitressing shifts, cooking, eating, sleeping, messing around with her DJ equipment. She missed Wes something fierce, but she hadn’t done any reaching.

She put the scrapbook away and opened her laptop. Her BOOMPop homepage flickered to life. Deaf Jam’s icon was lit. They hadn’t chatted since he’d encouraged her to hook up with a guy to help find her mojo. Their discussion had been vague then. No details about Wes shared. She could unload on him with her sad story now, or see if Pegasus was on the Punchies site, talk through what she was feeling, a computer screen safely between her vulnerability and another living soul, but that would be her wasting more time. More minutes. More years pretending she didn’t need real, live people close.

She ditched her laptop and called Vivian before she overthought the choice. The second Vivian answered, Annie said, “I’m having a rough day. Can you come over to chat?”

Three hours later, Vivian was on Annie’s couch, legs folded under her, compassion softening her friend’s face. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, and I kind of hate this Wes guy for stirring it all up again.”

Annie resented him for that as well, but she didn’t hate him. She hadn’t hated sharing her story with Vivian, either. Vivian had listened to her with a sympathetic ear, asking questions intermittently, prodding when needed. Annie spilled about her parents, living on the street, her mother’s overdose, Leo’s death. She didn’t remember the last time she’d felt this immense relief, like a pressure valve had been released on her chest.

“Wes has been the mainstay in my life, the one constant that’s helped me keep it together. And he’s obviously never gotten over his guilt about the shooting, which is sad but makes sense. What I don’t get is why the thought of talking to Wes now has me anxious. I love him. I miss him. And all this stuff with Leo is in the past, even if the story has changed slightly.”

Vivian ran her hand up the back of her pixie hair. “Maybe it isn’t as much in the past as you think. Maybe you haven’t dealt with Leo’s death. I mean, you’ve avoided talking about any of it with me until now. Who else do you lean on?”

The answer to that question was pitiful. “Only Wes, and we usually avoid hot-button topics. At least, we used to.”

“Hence your vacation on Wallow Island.” Vivian’s pointed look was far from subtle. “I won’t pretend I know how you feel. Your life makes mine seem like a Leave It to Beaver episode, and I had to come out to my very traditional parents, but I spent many nights moaning about my worries to anyone who’d listen. Some people go the therapy route. I’m good griping to friends. Either way, one of the keys to solid mental health is talking.”

“I know,” Annie said, properly chastised. She knew she dodged intimate friendships, just like Wes had actively abstained from romantic relationships. His fear of abandonment. Her fear of hurting. She should thank him for unearthing this fresh pain. Without it, she wouldn’t be dipping her toes into deeper friendship waters with Vivian. “Does today count as talking?”

“It does. And I’m honored to be your sounding board.”

“You realize this makes you my closest friend.”

Vivian grinned. “If you’d told me we were besties before this went down, I’d have come over with my chocolate cheese dip.”

Annie curled her lip. “Chocolate and cheese?”

“Best comfort food on the planet.”