I’ve never seen this look on her before.
“I cheated on you!” Alana yells out. “That’s why we broke up.”
An electric shockwave courses through the room, but that look is still in Alana’s eyes. Her pupils are pinpricks. What is it? And why does it look so unnatural on her?
“I cheated on you,” she repeats. “With Thiago and Lance. It was late. I was hanging out at Thiago’s place after working out. I took a shower, came out in a towel, and it just… happened.”
The words hit me, but they don't land. Alana cheated? No. I’ve seen her angry and scared. But this is different. That's when it hits me.
Alana has never lied to me before. So why now?
“AHHHHH!” Lance grabs his head and shoves back what little hair he has, his panic confirming my thoughts. She’s lying. “WHY?” His voice cracks, “Alana, that’s a life-ruining lie!” He paces, directionless. “I would walk through hell and fire for you, and this is how you repay me? Fuck, my father-in-law would kill me if he thought that shit was true. Izzy would leave me. I’d never see my son again.” He clutches his chest. “Jesus Christ, I need a minute.” He circles once, then slumps against the wall. “God, you and Thiago. I’m going to throw up.” He bolts toward the back hallway where the bathroom is.
Everyone else stares at Alana in stunned silence. Then Craig leans in and whispers loudly, “I think you might be lying.”
“You don’t know me well enough to assume that.” Alana mutters, finishing the last of her wine. Then she sinks back into the couch, pouting.
“I’d be mad if it were true,” I say, watching her. “But it’s clearly not.”
She glares at me, then dips her head, a rare moment of relent. “A few days ago. I told you our parting words. That you only came back for one final screw, but you can’t remember what I said back?”
I flinch. I can’t. It’s still blackness. The room fills with sounds of moral disgust, and I can only stare at the carpet between my feet. I hear her stand, and then her shoes enter my vision. Then her legs, then her knees. She cups the back of my neck, lifting my chin with the other hand.
“Grae, your brain is a strange and wonderful place,” she says softly. “But it’s also incredibly guarded. You lose painful moments. It shields you from trauma. Whatever is in that box cost you six months of your life.” She kneels in front of me, brushing my hair with her free hand. Her touch centers me and my heartbeat slows because the lies leave her eyes. She’s mine again.
“It’s not worth it.” Her forehead rests against mine.
All the certainty of yesterday, everything I’ve felt in the past hour, settles into place. I can predict what she’s going to say and do. Because no matter what happens, she’s still Alana. And she’s trying to shelter me at her own expense. “It’s fine,” she starts, but I press a finger to her lips.
“Shh. No.” I shake my head. “You don’t think you’re worth the pain.” She pulls back, but I reach for her. “I’ve spent the last few years hating whatever asshole hurt you. And it was me. I broke you. Whatever is in that box will give us the answer, the diagnosis, so maybe we can find the cure.”
She shifts, her voice barely audible beneath the hum of the air conditioner, “I’m scared.”
I pull her into my chest. God, she feels right here. Forever. I want her here forever.
“Let’s open the box together.”
CHAPTER 27
Grae
Day 8
I lift the small black phone from the box first. It’s lighter than it looks but heavy for its size. Holding it feels like touching a ghost. A forgotten friend. The scratches on the side are from the moment I dropped it after I found out Dragons wanted me as a backup bass player.
“Hello,” I say softly. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Craig steps in with a cord and hooks it to the TV. The room tightens around me. My friends lean in with morbid curiosity. My thumb traces the scratches along the side of the phone before I press the power button, and the screen springs to life. The lock screen appears. Muscle memory guides my thumb as I type in the four-digit code to reveal twelve-year-old secrets. The phone searches for a signal, trying its best.
I don’t know where to start—voicemails, emails, notes. I look at Amanda. “There’s a video,” she says. “It’s the last thing you filmed before you shut off the phone and handed it to me.”
I scroll with one hand and reach for Alana with the other. I dig through outdated icons until I find the gallery and press play.
It’s me—adjusting the camera. A younger me. Long, shaggy hair. A goatee I’m experimenting with. Twenty pounds lighter. I look awful. My face is drained of color, eyes red like a vampire’s. My hands rattle violently, visibly. The room is a hotel room—basic, generic, several stars below what we are used to now. Young Amanda walks in, still in that country's good-girl-next-door phase.
“Did you do it?” Younger me asks.
“Yes,” she says.
