Truly, Madly, Deadly

EIGHT

Sawyer blinked in the early morning sunlight as the morning show DJs cackled on her nightstand. She slapped the alarm off and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and finally focusing on the spray of baby pink roses on her bureau. They were the same ones from the table downstairs, and Sawyer frowned as she passed them and stepped into the bathroom to get ready for school. When she headed downstairs, Tara was seated at the kitchen table, yesterday’s UPS box splayed open in front of her, packing peanuts surrounding her plate of half-nibbled dry toast.

“Morning, Tara.”

Tara pushed her plate aside, wiping toast crumbs from her swollen belly. “Good morning, Sawyer. Are you feeling any better? You were dead to the world by the time we got home last night.”

Dead to the world?

Sawyer grimaced but tried to hide it with a friendly smile. She nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling way better. How about you?”

Tara groaned, resting her head in her hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little. You don’t usually look so…green.” Sawyer felt bad immediately when she saw the blush wash over Tara’s cheeks. “Sorry. Is—is there anything I can do for you?”

“Short of delivering this baby, I don’t think so.” She began the mammoth job of pushing herself up from her chair. “How about I get you some oatmeal, hon?”

Sawyer felt herself bristle involuntarily. Only her parents—her real parents—called her hon.

“No, thanks.”

Tara’s face fell now that she was standing. “Nothing?”

“I’m okay. You should sit down. Oh, and you didn’t need to bring the flowers to my room. They’re nice, but you should be the one to enjoy them.”

Tara pulled a cup from the cupboard, poured herself a glass of water. “Why? They’re yours.”

Sawyer blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They came for you yesterday.”

Sawyer’s stomach started to roil, and she swallowed hard. “For me? Was there a card?”

Tara frowned. “I didn’t see one. But the delivery kid asked for you specifically. He said, ‘These are for Sawyer Dodd.’”

“It was a kid? Like, my age?”

Tara drained her water glass and shrugged. “Yeah, about your age, I guess. Why? Do you have a secret admirer?”

Sawyer’s eyes went wide, and Tara held up her hands then clapped one on her mouth. “Oh, Sawyer, I didn’t mean—I mean, I know you and Kevin were together for a long time and—I was just being silly.”

Sawyer took a step back, threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I need to get to school.”

Chloe was sitting on the stone wall that surrounded the school when Sawyer spotted her.

“Hey,” Chloe said, launching herself from the wall. “You didn’t call me last night.”

“What? Oh, sorry.”

“And I didn’t see you after school.”

“I went home early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

Chloe offered her a sympathetic look. “You know you can talk to me, Sawyer.”

“My parents want me to talk to the shrink.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Still?”

“Again.” Sawyer stopped walking and turned to face Chloe. “Hey, do you know anyone who would send me flowers?”

Chloe folded a stick of gum into her mouth. “What kind of flowers?”

“Roses.”

“No, like, romantic flowers or sympathy flowers or, I don’t know, ‘sorry your dad and stepmom are breeding’ flowers.”

Sawyer tried not to smile. “This is serious. And I don’t know what kind of flowers. Just…roses.”

“Color?”

“First red and then pink.”

Chloe waggled her eyebrows. “Two bunches? Ooh la la. Red is the color of love. And pink is appreciation.”

“How did you know that?”

Chloe shook her cell phone. “Information superhighway. So you’re loved and appreciated. What did the card say?”

Sawyer bit her lip and glanced at her friend. Normally, she would tell Chloe everything—every crush, every intimate detail of her dates with Kevin—but her admirer and the notes he left her felt bigger than all that. “No,” she lied. “No note.”

Chloe blew a bubble and sucked it in. “What about that Cooper guy? You said he sent you a flower, right?”

Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, but why would he send roses right after he sent me a flower?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to send you the flower. Maybe Meddling Maggie forced him into it. Face it: a buck is a small price to pay to get her to shut up.”

Sawyer thought of Cooper, of his shy smile, of the way Sawyer knew next to nothing about him. “It’s a possibility, I guess. Oh. There’s the bell. See you in choir?”

Chloe nodded and popped another bubble. “Sure.”

Sawyer was digging in her backpack when she bumped into Logan.

“Oh, hey, Logan. I’m really sorry. It seems like I keep doing that to you.”

Logan’s smile—and his cheek-pinkening blush—went all the way up to his eyes. “That’s okay.” He didn’t move, and Sawyer stared at him for a beat.

“Um”—she pointed over his shoulder—“you’re kind of blocking my locker.”

“Oh.” Logan jumped out of the way. “I’m really sorry.”

Sawyer spun her lock as students milled around her. She felt motion everywhere as she was jostled and bumped, but she also felt the stillness. Logan remained behind her, eyes boring into her back. She turned slowly, gripping her history book.

“Can I help you with something, Logan?”

“Um…” He twisted his hands in front of him, then jammed them into his jeans pockets. “Did you get the roses I sent?”

Ice water shot through Sawyer’s veins. She had the overwhelming feeling of heat and cold all at once. “What did you say?”

“The roses. I sent them. Did I get the right house?”

Sawyer put her book down. “You sent me flowers.”

“Roses. Pink roses. Just to say, you know”—Logan looked at his feet, kicked at the school-issue linoleum flooring—“thanks and all.”

“How do you know where I live?”

Logan shrugged, a small, shy smile on his lips. “You said it was the new housing development past the market. I knew it was called Blackwood and once you’re in there, it’s not that hard to find. Only full house in the place, right?”

Sawyer nodded, hearing the roar of her blood as it pulsed. “You only sent the pink roses?”

Logan stared blankly at her. “That’s all they were supposed to be. Why? Did they bring something else? I don’t have much money, so…”

Sawyer held up a hand. “So all you sent was the pink roses?”

“I’m sorry, I thought that would be good enough—”

“No, no”—Sawyer’s heart caught on a giggle—“sorry, that’s really sweet. They were fine, really pretty. I just—am a little—thanks, Logan. That was nice. You really didn’t have to.”

Sawyer switched her books and slammed her locker shut, shivering at the cold sweat that sprung up under her clothes.

“And I was wondering if…”

She turned to Logan once more. He was twisting his fingers again, the pink in his cheeks replaced by a flaming, all-out red. “Wondering if,” he started again, “you’d want to go out sometime?”

“Oh. Oh.” Sawyer felt sorry for the kid but the idea of dating anyone—Cooper included—suddenly seemed frivolous, precarious, dangerous.

And maybe deadly.

“I really appreciate you asking, Logan, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to date again. And besides”—she took a step toward him, leaning in conspiratorially—“you really don’t want to be with me. I’m—I’m a little messed up.” She smiled apologetically. “Maybe, you know, when I’m up to it.”

The smile didn’t fade from Logan’s face. He nodded at everything she said, and Sawyer recognized the look, the smile, as the pasted-on kind, the kind that a second-place winner keeps on her face until she can break down in private. Sawyer’s heart felt a pang of guilt, but when Logan shrugged and nodded, she felt better for keeping him safe.

The school day continued and passed uneventfully but Sawyer was still on edge, scrutinizing everyone who chanced a glance at her and jumping at the slightest sound, cringing each time she rolled her combination lock, pulled open her locker. She was changing for a lone run on the track in the nearly empty girls’ locker room when she heard the heavy doors press open. Sawyer straightened, that same piercing finger of fear tracing her spine.

“I can’t stand her,” she heard.

“You know she didn’t really care about Kevin. He was her ticket to popularity. I mean look at her; she came right back to school afterward. I was practically shattered and we weren’t even dating anymore.” Maggie sniffled as she rounded the bank of lockers and came upon Sawyer. Maggie’s groupies hung close to her, arms crossed, throwing glaring, challenging looks at Sawyer.

“Why do you care so much about what I do, Maggie?” Sawyer wanted to know.

Maggie batted innocent lashes. “I don’t know what you mean. We were just having a private conversation amongst ourselves. Were you possibly eavesdropping, Sawyer?” She wrinkled her pixie nose. “Such a bad habit.”

Sawyer pulled on her sneakers and slammed her locker. “Whatever.”

“You know Kevin was never really that into her,” Maggie said, her voice low but just loud enough to stab at Sawyer.

“Go to hell, Maggie. He left you for me. So, if he wasn’t all that into me, he must have been completely over you even when you were dating.” Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked her head, feigning sympathy. “Ooh, that must have hurt.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open, as did the mouths of her cronies. “You are such a bitch!” Maggie yelled, nostrils flared, wide eyes moistening.

Sawyer shrugged and walked out of the locker room, hearing the girls closing in on Maggie, patting her back and cooing, “She doesn’t know anything” and “She’s a totally jealous bitch, Maggs,” behind her.

When Sawyer set foot on the track—leaned in and let herself run—she finally felt free, felt weightless, felt untouchable. The strain of Kevin’s death, of the note, of Maggie, and of Sawyer’s soon-to-be stepsister poured off of her as the sweat started to leave her pores. Suddenly, she didn’t feel needled or pinned down, and by the third lap she was shrugging off the note and the flowers—a coincidence, she told herself—an ill-timed coincidence. But no matter how fast or how far her legs pumped, Sawyer couldn’t outrun the tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head—but what about the peanut oil label? But what about the “you’re welcome” note?

Sawyer clenched her fists and pumped her legs harder, punching at the air as she whizzed down the track. The heat that broke in her legs was punishing, but she relished the aching feeling. It made her feel alive.

No one knew about my relationship with Kevin, she reminded herself. No one knew about what happened with Mr. Hanson.

She was looping the track again, closing in on the bleachers, when she saw him up on one of the top benches, oversized coat on, hood pulled up. She slowed to a steady pace and studied Logan. He didn’t look up at her from his perch, just kept his head on the notebook he was scribbling on. He looked up once and caught Sawyer’s eye; she saw his eyes grow, his cheeks redden. He immediately dropped his head and his hand went back to his pencil, working on his notebook. Sawyer ran past him, but something weighed on her.

Logan was there when she left Mr. Hanson’s room.

But I didn’t say anything…but maybe he saw?

Her throat went dry and she coughed, her diaphragm closing in on itself painfully. Her legs seemed to spin uncontrollably, and she found herself falling. Her arms went out instinctively and she was chest-flat on the red clay track, dust floating up in choking clouds. Sawyer rolled onto her back, sputtering, choking, coughing. Suddenly, someone blocked her light.

“Are you okay, Sawyer?”

Sawyer blinked, then squinted. “Logan?”

He offered her a hand, and Sawyer looked at it for a beat before taking it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She was surprised at how strong he was. Sawyer brushed the red clay dust from her damaged knees and coughed again. “I’m okay.”

“Let me get you something to drink.”

Logan disappeared, returning immediately with an icy bottle of water. He popped the cap and gave it to Sawyer, studying her as she drank. She took a large sip and held it in her mouth before swallowing, the cold liquid soothing the ache in her diaphragm.

“Thanks,” she said, breathing out icy breath. “That’s just what I needed.”

“You’re fast,” Logan said, smiling.

Sawyer nodded. “What are you doing out here?”

Logan looked sheepish. “I missed the early bus again. But it’s not like I expect you to drive me home or anything. I didn’t know you’d be out here running. Sometimes I like to come out here and think or write or whatever.”

Sawyer gestured to the red notebook tucked under Logan’s arm. “Is that what you were doing? Writing?”

“Something like that. Anyway, I’m really glad you’re okay. That was kind of a big spill. Kind of a Logan-style spill.” Logan’s smile went from sheepish to goofy and lopsided, and Sawyer had to smile back.

“Thanks, Logan,” she said, “I’m really fine though. I just got distracted. I tend to bail when distracted. You sure you don’t need a ride home?”

Logan seemed to focus on something just over Sawyer’s shoulder. She watched his goofy smile falter, saw his face pale.

“Logan?”

He pasted on a smile again, this one far less goofy, far less authentic. “No, thanks, Sawyer. I’ll be fine. I’ve got to go.”

“Hey.” She reached out and grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt. “Are we okay?”

“Us? Yeah.” He still didn’t look at her. “I get it. You’re not ready to date.” He turned on the last word and Sawyer almost thought she heard the word “me.” But he was already halfway up the bleachers by the time her brain processed it. She watched Logan snatch up his backpack and hop down from the bench, disappearing into the slatted shadows beneath the bleachers.

“That kid’s a weird one.”

Sawyer whipped around, sending a spray of ice water careening out of the bottle over her wrist, slapping her already soaked T-shirt and leaving a wet trail on Cooper’s chest. “Oh, crap.”

Cooper’s eyebrows went up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sawyer’s heart was in her throat, still doing a choking pound. “You didn’t,” she squeaked. “Okay, maybe you did.” Her eyes went to his wet chest. “Sorry—sorry about your shirt.”

Cooper was dressed almost identically to Sawyer: he was wearing the green and white Hawthorne High track uniform, fearsome, fisted, fighting hornet smack in the middle of his nylon tank top. Sawyer took a second to notice Cooper’s chest—and his broad shoulders, the bubbly muscles in his bare arms. “Why are you wearing a track uniform?”

“Because this is what the track team wears…right?”

“You’re on the team? You’re a runner?”

“I was at my old school. I thought I’d give the track team a try here. Coach let me on without trying out. My old times were pretty good, I guess.”

Sawyer studied Cooper, the way the thin material of his shorts fell over his tanned legs; they were thick with well-defined muscle. He didn’t have the powerful, sinewy legs of a runner.

“I know,” Cooper said on a smile, “I don’t look like I can run.” He seemed to be reading her mind, and Sawyer felt an involuntary shiver run through her. A dark cloud passed over Cooper’s face. “Are you okay? Let me get you my sweatshirt.”

“No.” Sawyer put her hand on Cooper’s arm. “I’m fine. I’m just wearing a refreshing beverage.”

Cooper slid back into that easy smile. “I prefer to drink mine, but whatever works for you. So, Ms. Nonbeliever”—he jutted his chin toward the empty track—“a friendly jog? Or an all-out race?”

Sawyer nodded and breathed deeply, testing out the ache in her diaphragm. The water seemed to have done the trick, and she had never been one to back down from a challenge—according to her father, it was both her best and her worst trait. She leaned over and set the water bottle on the bench, looking at Cooper through the dusting of long bangs that fell over her forehead.

Then she bolted.

She was on the track in a split second, legs pumping, wind slapping against her face when she heard the tail end of Cooper’s “Hey! Cheater!”

She vaguely heard his footfalls as he entered the track, could hear his huffing breath as he closed in on her. He was panting by the time he came up on her left shoulder.

“Is this how you win all your races?” he panted. “By cheating?”

Sawyer kept up her steady pace, her breath shortening. “So you know I win all my races?”

“And now I know how!” Cooper balled his hands into fists and put his head down, going head first into the oncoming wind, his sneakers kicking up bursts of red clay dust as he passed Sawyer by a hair. Then it was a shoulder, then a full body length. Sawyer felt the fire in her legs, felt her lungs expanding, and she blew by him. She crossed the finish line and hooked her arms over the bleacher gate, blowing on her nails when Cooper finished a few seconds behind her.

“What took you so long?” she said without looking up.

Cooper knotted her in a playful headlock. “Cheaters. Every one of you Hawthorne Honeys!”

Sawyer backed out of the headlock, laughing. “Honeys?”

A blush flitted over Cooper’s cheeks. “Honeybees. I meant honeybees.”

“We’re hornets!” She gave Cooper a hard hornet sting with her index finger, and when he came at her, she cringed. It was automatic; muscle memory burned in from dating Kevin, from never knowing just what it was that would set him off. She burned with shame.

He stopped. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Sawyer felt a nervous twitter rush through her. She licked her dry lips and forced a laugh that sounded false even to her. “I was kidding. Let’s get some water.”

Cooper followed her out to the center of the field, Sawyer suddenly stiff with embarrassment—was she afraid of everyone now? Cooper stayed silent, walking behind her.

They headed back toward the locker rooms, and Cooper sucked the last of the water from his bottle, stuffing the empty in his bag. “I guess this is where I leave you.”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t usually shower in the girls’ locker room.” His eyes went over her head, gesturing at the Women’s Locker Room sign.

“Oh,” she said on a sheepish grin, “right.”

They stood in awkward silence for a beat before Cooper nodded, gave her a mannish chuck on the shoulder, and promised to beat her next time around the track. Sawyer grinned and was grinning still when Cooper disappeared into the men’s locker room; she went into hers.

The locker room was empty when Sawyer walked in, her half-dry track shirt stuck to her jog bra, her cheeks red hot and flushed. She slipped out of her clothes and into a towel and flip-flops, grabbing her shower bag and turning a shower on as hot as she could get it. When steam poured out of the stall, licking her knees and pressing against her chest, she slipped inside, letting the hot water rush over her, soaking her skin. She imagined it seeping into her aching muscles, dripping over her head and into her brain. She wished she could wash away the violent memories of Kevin, but knew the memories ran deep—so deep that she cringed even when she didn’t want to—and soon the water that rushed over her cheeks was salty with tears. She slumped against the shower stall and doubled over, letting herself cry until her stomach ached, until her skin was red and raw and overheated from the searing water. Finally, she turned the shower off and re-wrapped herself in her towel, shuffling to her locker.

That’s when she stopped dead.

The locker room was silent—so quiet that it seemed to hum with the vibe of desertion—but Sawyer’s locker seemed to scream. The word whore was spray-painted in an angry red across her locker door.