The Accident
Junior year: December 19
“You can’t mope around and avoid Hunter forever,” Céline says.
“Why not?” That is, in fact, exactly what I plan to do the rest of winter break.
“Because you can’t.” In the background, there is a rustling sound; I picture Céline standing in front of her open closet, rifling through her thrift-store gems, trying to decide what to wear tonight. It doesn’t matter what she decides. Whatever she wears, she will look effortlessly chic and put-together.
I flop backwards onto my bed. “You didn’t see his face. It was like… like he’d been slapped.” A snake of guilt coils around and around my stomach. Still, I don’t regret breaking up with him.
“Don’t worry about Hunter. It’ll be a huge party. You can avoid him.”
I laugh. “That’s even weirder! Being at the same party and not even acknowledging each other? Besides, I bet he’ll come over and talk to you. Just to show me he still can.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’ll want to rub it in. Even though we broke up, you two are still friends. It’s like he stole you from me.”
“Nobody stole anybody. And who knows, he might not show up.”
“Did he text you? Have you talked to him?”
Céline sighs. “No. But c’mon, Em!” Her tone shifts into pleading. “All I want is to go to a party with my best friend. That’s all I’ve wanted all semester long. Is that too much to ask?”
It has always been hard for me to say no to Céline. And now? Now that she’s played the “all semester long” card? Now there’s no way I can beg out of Robbie Zwick’s party.
“Okay, okay,” I surrender. “Can I raid your closet for something to wear?”
*
Robbie Zwick lives in The Keys, a ritzy neighborhood that opens directly onto the driftwood-studded beach. The houses are a blank-faced assembly line of white stucco walls and terra-cotta roofs. Twin rows of palm trees arch their shaggy fronds over the sidewalks. Robbie’s house has been firmly established as a party spot since freshman year; his parents, both surgeons, are often working late or out of town, leaving Robbie to fend for himself with their platinum credit card and his fake ID. They have a state-of-the-art stereo, an ornately tiled pool and hot tub surrounded by a large wooden deck, and neighbors who never call the police to complain about the noise.
I gaze around the pool deck, enjoying the hazy film settling over my thoughts. Lizzo thumps from the stereo and a dance floor is slowly forming over by the barbeque grill, under the potted palms. I bob my head to the beat, taking sips from my red plastic cup, surprisingly glad to be here. Something is going to happen tonight. I can sense it. I’m home for the holidays, buzzed from rum-and-Cokes, and the air feels charged with possibility, and there is Mark Sampson, taller than I remember, and he’s lost his acne, and I could flirt with him, if I wanted to. I’m single now. I could even kiss him in some dark corner of Robbie’s house.
But I won’t kiss Mark Sampson. I won’t even flirt with him. Maybe if I were a different type of person, the type of person who likes to cause a scene and be the center of drama, maybe then I would kiss him. Anabelle would kiss him, simply to prove she could. But my breakup with Hunter happened mere hours ago, and I don’t particularly want to kiss anyone else. David’s face flashes into my brain—my treacherous brain—but I push the thought away. He is thousands of miles away. And he is Anabelle’s.
Hunter would inevitably find out if I kissed someone else at Robbie Zwick’s party. At a party like this, no matter how discreet two people try to be, someone will stumble [HS1] on them looking for the bathroom, or notice their disheveled hair or misbuttoned shirts or creeping blush when they glance at each other, and word will travel around the party and pop up the next morning on social media and pretty soon everyone will be talking about it. If Hunter had been the one to break up with me, then maybe I could rebound with someone else tonight. But as the Dumper, the only acceptable post-breakup hookup is to reconcile and make out with the Dumpee. And I am not going to do that, no matter how drunk I get.
I glance around for Céline, who is supposed to keep me from doing anything that will be gossiped about tomorrow. Almost as soon as we arrived, she slipped her hand out of mine, saying she would get us both drinks. But she didn’t come back. I eventually gave up and poured my own rum-and-Coke, and now I can’t find Céline anywhere. I’m willing to bet the real reason she dragged me here tonight is that she’s hoping Hunter and I will get back together. She was my friend first, but now she’s Hunter’s friend too—and the two of them have gotten closer all semester, while I’ve been thousands of miles away. Instead of a Venn diagram with me in the middle, the three of us morphed into an equilateral triangle. It must be awkward for her now, with us broken up. Now we’ll go back to a Venn diagram again, only instead of me in the middle, it will be Céline in the middle.
Someone bumps into me from behind and I nearly stumble into a bush.
“Oh crap, sorry,” a familiar voice says. I regain my balance and look up into Matt Hayward’s kind brown eyes.
“Hey Emma,” he says, a smile in his voice. As if everything is normal. As if I didn’t just smash his best friend’s heart to smithereens. “You’re home.”
“Yep.” Home. I thought Wabash was starting to feel like home, but then I arrived in Buenaventura for winter break and my whole body loosened up. There’s something nice about relaxing back into my old self, like slipping on a comfy pair of well-worn jeans.
I expect Matt to nod goodbye and continue on his way, but he doesn’t seem in a rush. “How’s art school?” he asks. “Where is it, again? Ohio?”
“Indiana.” Wabash Academy for the Arts is a small private boarding school tucked amid the quilted cornfields between Indianapolis and Chicago. I still can’t believe I got the scholarship—when I applied last spring, it felt like throwing glitter at the stars. Like blowing out the candles on your birthday cake and making an outrageous wish.
And then my outrageous wish came true, and I learned that wishes can be complicated beneath the surface.
“So you’re happy there?” Matt asks.
“Yeah,” I answer automatically. “I am.” My tone comes out more defensive than I mean it to be. When I received the scholarship, it seemed like the decision was already made for me. Like there wasn’t even a choice. Of course I would go. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.
“I mean, Indiana is super cold,” I continue. “But I like the snow. And art school is great.” Because in a lot of ways, it is great. But also it is frustrating, and scary, and exhilarating, and lonely.
Matt’s looking at me with that same openness I recognize from that afternoon we sat in his car together, parked in my driveway, as the sunlight slanted toward dusk. Like he knows there is more for me to say and is patiently waiting for me to say it.
But while I did unload my thoughts and fears to him six months ago, tonight I take a sip of my drink, swallowing down my words. I don’t know how to capture the layers of my life in Wabash, how to explain it to someone on the outside.
“I couldn’t live somewhere that cold,” Matt says when it’s clear I’m not going to elaborate. “We’re spoiled here. Beach life.”
“You get used to it,” I tell him. Which is true. And also not.
Yesterday, I had boarded my flight home in the middle of an Indiana winter: gray and brown and barren. Salt-crunched roads, dirty snow hulking along the curbs. Icy winds that slam your face whenever you turn a corner, making your eyes water and your eyelashes freeze. When I exited the airport terminal into the warm smog of Los Angeles, it was like I’d time-traveled back to summer. Everyone is wearing T-shirts and flip-flops even though it’s a week before Christmas. Here in Southern California, you can even skinny-dip in the winter, thanks to heated pools.
“Well, I’ll see you around, Emma,” Matt says, heading toward the keg. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks.” He must have heard from Hunter that we broke up, but he’s still being nice to me. That’s Matt for you. I think of his small warm car, the way he handed me the box of tissues. A girl like you.
I watch the back of Matt’s head until he disappears into the crowd. A cool breeze sweeps in from the ocean, smelling of salt. My bare arms break out in goosebumps. The salt air smells both fresh and rank, both cleansing and decayed, in a way I can’t fully explain to my Wabash friends who have never lived by the ocean.
I breathe in deeply. Once, after a day at the beach, Hunter buried his face in my hopelessly tangled, windblown hair and called me a goddess.
I push the thought away, crossing my arms over my chest even though my mom says crossed arms make me look unapproachable and Céline once tipsily admitted that, yes, some people do think I’m a little aloof. I gaze around the backyard, searching for Céline. Across the pool, Hunter casually rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that sends a pang through my chest. He is talking to Siggy Taylor, who everyone knows is a huge flirt.
The thing is, I hadn’t planned to break up with Hunter this morning. I was hoping to arrive back in Buenaventura and realize that my growing doubts all semester were just flimsy ghosts, and that when I saw Hunter again in person, I would not want to break up with him at all. Or, at the very least, I was going to wait and break up with him in January, right before catching a plane back to Indianapolis for the spring semester. That way Hunter and I could have one last hurrah, one final nostalgic run-through of all our favorite hangouts and hookup spots around town. I would have someone to keep me company during the three p.m. Christmas Eve dinner at my grandmother’s nursing home, a place that always makes me sad. And I would be invited to the Murray family’s annual cookie-decorating party, an afternoon I’ve genuinely been looking forward to since last Christmas, when Hunter’s mom gushed over my detailed precision with sugar icing and food coloring.
But when Hunter came over this morning, all of my careful plans fell to pieces. I knew I couldn’t make it through winter break pretending everything was fine between us. I desperately wished I had stuck with my decision to break up with him over the summer. That was when we were meant to break up. All this time we’ve been prolonging the inevitable.
I glance back. Hunter leans against a palm tree, alone. The tree is strung with white Christmas lights that sway erratically in the breeze, casting shadows on his face. Siggy must have gone off to flirt with someone else. Hunter is wearing a faded cross-country T-shirt, the one I’d borrowed and worn it to school when we first started dating, a badge of ownership announcing to the world that we were together.
That seems so long ago. Another life.
Hunter alternates between staring gloomily into his beer can and gazing around the pool deck. Is he deliberately looking at everyone except for me? He’s refused to meet my eyes since this morning, when the breakup words came spilling out of me.
I feel terrible for hurting him. I want to tell him that. Later, maybe. I sip my rum-and-Coke. Later, maybe I’ll walk over and tell him, I’m so sorry, Hunter. I’m sorry for the way things ended. Maybe he’ll turn and stalk away, maybe he’ll splash beer in my face, maybe he’ll push me into the pool. But no matter what his reaction is, I know things will be better once the words are out.
Because this morning everything was so abrupt, so messy and unfinished. I want Hunter to know that I do care about him. I always will. I wish things could have been different. I wish—
“Is that Emma Mason?!”
Siggy Taylor sways a little in her heeled sandals and string bikini, silver starfish necklace dangling into her cleavage. Siggy does not talk much to me out in the real world, but for some reason drunk Siggy is one of my loudest admirers.
I push my thoughts away from Hunter. I’ll wait to apologize. I’ll give him space. Who knows where Céline disappeared to; for now, at least, I’ve got Siggy to distract me.
“Oh my godddd!” Siggy yells, squeezing her bony arms around my shoulders. “It’s so good to see you!!”
“You too.” I pat Siggy on the back gently. Once, at a previous Robbie Zwick party, Siggy spent twenty minutes holding both of my hands in her own, marveling at my “artistic fingers” and pretending to read my fortune. “You have great love in your future, and great sadness also,” Siggy had intoned, her eyes momentarily looking quite sober as they latched onto mine, and I remember feeling a shiver down my spine as I pulled my hands away from her grasp.
Now, Siggy steps back but keeps her hands on my shoulders. Her fingers are surprisingly strong and her silver rings are cold against my skin.
“Oh my god, Emma,” Siggy says, each word a sour alcoholic burst of breath upon my face. “Are you okay? I heard what happened.”
“You mean me and Hunter?” I flick a strand of hair away from my eyes, trying to seem nonchalant.
Siggy nods, her movements exaggerated and slow. “He told me what happened. I’m here for you. I’m here for you, Emma.”
“Thanks, but it’s really okay. I’m fine. We grew apart, you know?”
Siggy’s eyes are watery. “I can’t believe he would do that to you.”
“No, it’s my fault,” I clarify. “I’m the one who broke up with him.”
“That’s right, you broke up with him!” Siggy exclaims, waving her arms wildly. “Of course you broke up with him! I mean, how could you not, after what he did?”
My throat tightens. “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
“I can’t believe he would cheat on you with some slut from Roosevelt.” Siggy clasps my hand, her fingers squeezing mine in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring. But I am not reassured. A wave of nausea rolls through my gut.
“What?” I ask. “Where did you hear that?” Blood pounds in my ears.
Siggy bends forward and rests her forehead on my shoulder, as if the weight of her bleached hair is suddenly too much. “Everyone’s talking about it,” she mumbles.
I remember watching Siggy and Hunter across the pool, how Hunter rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, the way he does when he is nervous. “Did Hunter tell you that?” I ask. My voice is soft and hollow, an echo of itself.
Siggy nods, her head still resting on my shoulder. Her hair grazes my arm, tickling unpleasantly. Her head is heavy and I want to push her away. My heartbeat quickens. Doubt settles in, even as I try to disarm it. Who does Hunter even know at Roosevelt? Is it that Ashley girl, from the concert?
“I’m sorry,” Siggy murmurs.
“Hunter wouldn’t cheat on me,” I insist. “He wouldn’t. He’s only saying that because he’s pissed I ended things.” Even to myself, the words are not convincing. Had Hunter cheated on me? Is that why he can’t even look at me? Maybe he’s not heartbroken after all—maybe he’s guilt-ridden.
Or maybe he’s proud. Why else would he tell Siggy, unless he wanted word to get around the party and back to me? He must want me to know. He must want this sickening suspicion to wind its way through my memories, tainting every kiss and phone call and “I love you” we shared. He must want to hurt me.
I hate him. I’m furious. It’s a mistake. There must be some mistake.
Siggy lifts up her head and looks at me, her eyes filled with drunken tears. Mascara clumps her lashes and trails of black leak from the corners of her eyes.
“You two seemed so perfect together,” Siggy says. Then she leans back and shouts, “Guys suck!”
“Amen, sister!” someone yells in reply. Laughter, a few whoops and hisses.
I gulp my drink. Despite myself, I’m thinking about the first time Hunter and I slept together, squeezing ourselves into the backseat of his mom’s car. His palms sweaty on my thighs. Formal dress hiked up around my ribcage. He groaned my name, then collapsed on top of me and kissed my hair.
I want to smash something. I want to get drunk. I want to get drunk and then smash Hunter in the face with my purse, which would likely deliver a pretty solid blow because I’m not only carrying my cell phone and wallet, but also Céline’s cell phone and wallet. Céline hates carrying a purse, so when we go out together, I take care of Céline’s stuff. Because we’re best friends, and that’s what best friends do for each other.
I scan the pool deck. Where is Céline? Does she know about Hunter and some other girl? People are congregating around a new case of beer—maybe Céline is over there? I step forward, then stop. Hunter is no longer leaning against the palm tree across the pool. What if he is getting another beer? The last thing I want right now is to bump into Hunter Murray.
I am thinking all of this, feeling Mark Sampson’s eyes on me from a few feet away and Hunter’s eyes not on me from wherever he is at this damn party, downing the last of my rum-and-Coke as I half listen to Siggy speculate about Elliot Escoval’s relationship status, the stereo blasting Justin Timberlake and—Oh! my heart leaps with relief—there is Céline, grinding with Matt on the makeshift dance floor—thinking all of this, my heart pounding dizzily with anger and alcohol, I say to no one and to everyone, “Let’s go skinny-dipping!” and peel off my T-shirt in one fluid motion and leap into the pool, as if I am born to play this role, as if everything is predestined. It feels fated, this moment.
Because the reality is, I hate pools and I hate swimming and I hate my bony hips and A-cup boobs.
Before this moment, I’ve never skinny-dipped in my life.
Other people whip off their clothes and race onto the pool deck with whoops and shouts, jumping in and pushing each other in. I eggbeater in the deep end, the water not as warm as I expected it to be. Goosebumps fan out over my breasts and stomach. A group of boys splash each other and water gets into my eyes. There is shouting, and laughter, and then everything narrows, a camera lens focusing, zooming in. A beat, two beats, of silence.
Screams and panic erupt from the shallow end.
A body, floating there.
Hunter’s red hair.
In that moment, my life splits: there is Before, and there is After.
