That lands. Some of the momentum goes out of her. "What?"
"She has no idea. She hasn’t made the connection. I changed everything, Rose — name, face, body, city, all of it. To her, I'm a stranger she was hired to fix." I hold her gaze. "She doesn't know."
There’s a long pause as she watches me for a moment, the weight of it all settling in.
"And you've just been—"
"Yes."
"For three days."
"Yes."
She closes her eyes briefly. "Michael. What are youdoing?"
I stand up. Go back to my desk. Pick up the whiskey and look at it and set it back down because it isn't actually helping; it's just something to do with my hands at this point.
"I don't know yet," I say. And it's the most honest thing I've said out loud all week.
“Michael, I have to leave for New York for a week in the morning. I don’t want to leave you dealing with this alone.”
“I’ll be fine, Rose.”
That may be a little less honest.
Ten Years Ago – Michael
"Michael!" I hear my name like an echo. It blends in with the thunder, and I keep walking.
I don't know how long I've been out here.
The rain has started coming down even heavier, soaking through my jacket, plastering my hair to my face. At least it masks the tears. Small mercies.
My feet just keep moving because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling the full weight of what just happened in that poolhouse and I'm not ready for that yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that.
It was all a fucking joke.
Three months.
Three months and it meant nothing.
I knew there were cruel people in the world. I'm not naïve. Four years of high school have disabused me of that. But I never expected Blaire to be one of them. I thought I knew her. I thought she let me know her in a way she didn't let most people in.
Boy, did she have me fooled.
Lightning brightens the sky for a brief second, then a hand closes around my arm and Rosalie is suddenly standing in front of me, soaking wet, her eyes wild.
"Michael, what are you doing out here?" She yells over the pelting rain.
"Walking," I say, and try to move around her.
"Michael." She presses both hands against my chest. "Michael, it's three in the morning. You weren't back when I woke up. I've been looking for you. What happened?"
Three in the morning.
I left the party just after eight. I remember looking at my phone on the way out the door, making a grim joke to myself about the time of death of my heart being eight thirty-one.
I've been walking for nearly seven hours.
