Page 20 of Paging Dr. Hart
Tiffany: Washburn’s sending Ethan and me up to Cleveland for a month to set up the resident exchange program. Need you to watch my cat, Fred. The apartment there doesn’t allow pets.
Melanie: Okay. Give me your key, and I’ll stop by UR place every day.
Tiffany: Sure? I feel bad asking.
Melanie: It’s fine! Love cats. I mean, I think I love them. Haven’t spent a lot of time with one yet.
Tiffany: You’re making me nervous.
Melanie: No! It’ll be fine. Promise.
I pause, wanting to call the whole thing off. But I can’t. I have to go to Cleveland, and I can’t take Fred The Cat with me. A damp snout bumps my elbow as the feline in question winds around me, purring like a chain saw. As usual, the cat’s presence calms me. I scratch behind his ears and under his chin. Fred tilts his head up with a lazy cat smile.
“Good kitty,” I tell him, my voice raspy from disuse. I’ve had the weekend off, and he’s the only living thing I’ve talked to.
Tiffany: Thanks. I owe you.
Melanie: Drinks when U get back?
I stop typing, fingers hovering over the keys, understanding what Melanie is asking. This is her invitation, yet again, to become friends. Real friends, not just work friends. Do I want that? It’s silly, but needing someone to watch Fred The Cat has made me think. Melanie is theonlyperson I trust with the job. She’s repeatedly shown me I can rely on her. I want to let her know I can do this. Be friends. It’s scary, terrifying really, but I’m ready. I square my shoulders and tap out my response.
Tiffany: Deal! I’ll buy you two drinks. Seriously, I appreciate it.
Melanie: No problem.
I return to the open suitcase sitting on my bed, along with the pile of clothing that I’ve picked out to take to Cleveland. When my phone dings, I assume it’s Melanie again. My stomach plummets, convinced she’s calling to tell me she doesn’t want to go to drinks with me, that she can’t watch my cat.
Stop it. Not everyone is going to reject you,I chide myself.
It’s not Melanie, though. It’s something much worse, that strange number again. A sense of foreboding spreads over me as I hold my phone with numb hands, cursing myself for not blocking the number.
No pictures this time. Just one word. Black letters on a white background that reads:
Remember.
I slump down on my bed, barely noticing that I’ve jostled the stack of neatly folded clothing, toppling it over into a heap. For a long, long time, I stare at that single word with my mind emptied of every thought, every emotionexcept for one. Dread. That’s all I feel. It’s a roaring darkness that presses down on my chest, smothering me until I can’t take in a breath or let one out.
All the things I’ve deliberately forgotten. All the things I’ve hidden. Someone knows about them. But who can it be and what do they want? Are they trying to scare me? Because if so, it’s working. Are they trying to blackmail me? I have more student loans than money, so not that. A million different theories spin through my mind, but none make sense. The people I used to know in Las Vegas are long gone. Scattered in the wind.
My legs grow stiff. That’s how long I sit there staring at my phone. Finally, I give up searching for answers that refuse to be found. I punch the buttons on my phone and block the number. No more texts. No more being frightened. My heart can’t take it. Determined to forget the message, I shove the clothing into my bag, give Fred The Cat one last pat on the head, and leave my apartment.
Time to go to Cleveland.
Friend
17
Present, Cleveland, Ohio
When I arrive in Cleveland, it’s past 10:00 at night. A full moon sends its luminous spotlight down to the street, causing light and shadows to dance across the pavement. My old run-down car makes alarming wheezing noises as I pull into the apartment parking lot. It has a chronic oil leak that no mechanic can fix. Once I’m parked, I pop open the hood. I always carry a quart of oil in my trunk. Kicking myself because I forgot to bring a funnel, I carefully pour it into the engine, trying not to drip.
A low voice calls out behind me. “Hey, Tiffy. What’re you doing?”
Startled, I jump, and oil splashes onto the engine block.
Why does he always make me spill?
I’m still furious at Ethan about the “missing him” comment when he came back from the dentist and about how unhappy he looked when he learned we were going to Cleveland together. I’ve also spent a large part of my drive reminding myself that he’s my competition for the Resident of the Month award.
