It’s just his way of being excited about being in a relationship with me. He called me his girlfriend long before we were in a fake marriage. It doesn’t matter, though. After graduation, I’m going to disappear from this place. Might get a new name—I don’t know yet. I feel like I’m going to be running for the rest of my life, running from the past. I’ll never have a place I can truly call home.
Numbness travels through my chest, and coldness settles in my fingers. I’m going to miss my friends and Irvin. I’m going to miss Irvin so much. I’m going to miss his kindness and the warmth of his body.
I shake my head. I need to focus on something else. Even though I have to study for a test next week, I don’t feel like it, so I snatch my phone from the nightstand, hop on Instagram, and check my notifications. I click on the post Irvin tagged me in, and my heart leapfrogs in my chest. A picture of us on our wedding day—we look like a happy couple. No one would suspect this marriage is fake. Many people congratulate us in the comments. I’m so glad Irvin chose an angle of my face that makes it hard to recognize it’s me, and my page is private. My profile picture is of a cat.
Winter sends me memes and videos from TikTok, so I respond to those. Then a message request pops up from Instagram.
I check my message requests—and there’s one from my old friend, Ally.
My vision sharpens. How did she find me? Fuck. I knew Irvin’s status would catch up with me.
I haven’t heard from her since the first day of the trial for Emerson’s death.
Tears cloud the corners of my eyes. She abandoned me, and her parents didn’t want her to have anything to do with me. Theydidn’t want to ruin their reputation. I lost a lot of friends that year. My mother used to say that if you want to know who your real friends are, hit rock bottom. Of all the friendships I’ve had in my life, hers hurt the most because her parents were friends with mine. We’d known each other since we were in diapers. We were so close that I told her everything—including my secret relationship with Emerson.
My cheeks dampen.
After my parents died, I changed my number and deleted my old accounts so I wouldn’t be found.
My fingers shake as I click on her profile. She looks happy with her friends and her new life without me. She attends Yale and has a boyfriend. She still looks pretty—much more mature now. I spot a picture of her at a beach, her dark skin glowing in the sunlight, and next to her is a new set of friends.
I jump up from the bed, pacing the cream carpet. Heart pounding. Hands curling into fists.
Why am I pissed that she’s happy? She moved on. Moved on from the madness I had to face alone.
Should I open the message request? Or leave it be? I shouldn’t be angry about her happy life. I need to do a background check on my old identity to see if it’s linked to my new name—because again, how did she find me?
I hover over the message, wait several seconds, then click on it.
Hey, Lilac,
I looked you up because I saw an article about you and your husband’s wedding. Congratulations, by the way.
Do you know Paige Colson? She was my best friend, and she died—committed suicide. It was my fault. If I had been kind to her, maybe she wouldn’t have done that. Are you related to her? You two look like you could be sisters or related. I just want to be close to my friend, even though she’s gone.
If you know anything about her, please respond to my message.
Thank you.
Ally
She attached a photo of us from Disney World. We went for my birthday, a year before the murder of my parents.
My chest caves. I stare at the younger version of me. My face was plumper but childlike, and my curly sandy-brown hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. The light shone in my eyes, and I was carefree. It’s the old me—before the trauma, before the heartache.
I read the message three times. I have missed Ally like crazy. I miss her kindness, her smile, her laughter.
Should I respond to her message? If I do, it’ll open up a door I want to keep nailed shut.
I tap the delete and block buttons.
My past isn’t about to catch up to me.
I look at my hands, at my mother’s blood on the cream carpet, and then at the gray walls where my father’s grayish brain matter glistened. The smell of overcooked meat mixed with blood wafts through the air. I clutch the trash can and empty my dinner into it. The memories of that night play in my head.
I see myself rushing downstairs. Emerson stood in the corner of the living room. A cigarette dangled between his lips. His cold eyes. Devious smile. His words:“We can be together now.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head, reciting,I’m safe.
