Unforgivable by Amy Reed Read Free Book Online Page A

HOSPITAL, LYING IN ONE OF those beds she hated, alone and scared. No matter how hard I try to think of something else, I keep seeing her there, I keep seeing myself with her, and everything in my body wants to be there, to wrap her up and take her away, and the impossibility of it all makes me crazy. She’s on the other side of town, locked up in a tower that I can’t climb, guarded by people who won’t let me see her, by parents who think I’m the reason she’s in there. But I’m the one who saved her. I’m the one who wants to save her still.
    It does no good wondering about the past, wishing I could change it. But I can’t help hating myself for not noticing the signs that she was in trouble. Those far-off looks she’d get. How she’d disappear sometimes when she was sitting right next to me. How she kept wanting to get higher and higher, how she was never high enough. I keep thinking I should have loved her better somehow.I should have said something sooner. Maybe there was a way I could have saved her from this.
    I can’t do anything about the past, but I can do something about now. I can find my way back to her. I can save us.
    I am on my way to the coffee shop where we met for our first date. I remember being so nervous I changed my outfit five times before I got in my car to meet her. She was unlike any girl I had ever met—so real, so authentic —I didn’t want her to think I was just another high school idiot. I wanted her to think I was cool enough, smart, funny. I wanted her to think I was worthy.
    Before Evie, I had made a habit of not getting close to anyone. It was my code. Don’t get close and no one can hurt you. They can’t use you. They can’t let you down. They can’t leave. But something about Evie made me go against my code. Something about her convinced me she was worth the risk.
    So now here I am, standing in the same spot where a few short weeks ago I tried not to stutter as I attempted witty banter with Evie. Here are all the hip people sitting around, poking at computers, and eating overpriced toast. I take a deep breath as I step up to the counter. The short, androgynous guy at the counter looks at me with confused recognition and pauses a moment before smiling and saying, “What can I get you?” For a moment, I consider running.
    â€œHi,” I say, and it comes out sounding like a frog croaking.
    â€œHi,” he says, his smile wavering. Maybe he thinks I’m going to steal the tip jar.
    â€œI don’t know if you remember me,” I begin. “You probablydon’t. I came here a few weeks ago with Evie Whinsett.” His smile immediately fades into a look of pure sadness. “Um . . . she’s kind of in trouble right now and I can’t get a hold of her, and I guess I figured you know her, so I wanted to talk to you to, you know, see if you could help me or, I don’t know. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m probably not making any sense.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says with a small smile. “I’m off in half an hour. Can you wait until then?”
    â€œYes, of course. Thank you.”
    I wander around Telegraph Avenue for the next thirty minutes, trying to busy my mind with window-shopping so I don’t have to think about Evie, but she breaks through everything. Here’s the yoga studio (“Fifteen dollars to do some stretching for an hour?” Evie would say. “Ridiculous”). Here’s the tattoo shop (I wonder what kind of tattoo Evie would get. Something pretty and botanical, I bet. But not predictable. A weed, maybe. A dandelion). Here’s the Burmese restaurant (Evie’s favorite). Here’s the organic ice cream shop with the weird flavors (another of Evie’s favorites). She’s everywhere, in everything.
    The half hour is excruciating. When I get back to the coffee shop, Evie’s friend is counting the money out of the tip