Page 28 of Made for You
Ah. Right under my pencil list of baby wipes, broccoli, milk is scrawled, in blue ink:
I know how to run a damn plate.
Idiot. Of course the officer who saw me run away from Josh’s tent took an interest in my vehicle. Especially if Miss Pert pointed it out. All that skulking in the woods with aching breasts? Could’ve saved myself the trouble.
So. Mitchell knows I lied about not remembering the campsite. He knows I booked it there after his morning visit, right after telling him that I couldn’t join the search party because of my baby. He probably imagines I tampered with evidence. All of this, I’m sure, adds to his imaginary case against me.
What if I’d just told them the stupid campsite name when they asked? Or better—what if I’d gone to the campsite before filing the missing person report?
“What does it mean?” says Eden.
“Oh...” I say. I stop rubbing my collarbone. I didn’t realize I was even doing it. I’ve irritated the skin.
“Are you okay?” Eden has sidled up to me, backpack slung over her shoulder.
“I don’t know.” My voice comes out shaky. I hate this. I need the world to slow down. I need to slow down...but if I don’t stay five steps ahead...
“I’d better—” I gesture at the ceiling. Check on Annaleigh, shower, go to bed.
“I’ll see myself out,” says Eden. She hesitates. “You know where to find me.”
Upstairs, I open Annaleigh’s door quietly. It smells like baby powder and magnolia and that ineffably sweet smell that I know comes from Annaleigh herself. It’s pitch-dark inside, with only the green light of the baby monitor piercing through, but the soft light from the hallway is enough for me to see her outline in the crib. Sleeping; safe.
I turn toward my room and the promise of a hot shower, but trip over Captain. He yelps as I stumble into the wall, knocking my head hard.
The spike of pain brings a flash of dark blue.
The California sky at twilight.
Memories explode so vividly, it’s like I’ve been transported in time.
I’m poolside, on my back. A face above. Pale blue eyes. The woman. Attacking me for no reason I can discern. Hating me for no reason I can discern.
I suddenly realize who I just saw at Walmart.
Her hair is carrot red now, not gray, but the eyes are the same. Her expression, the same. Looking at me without emotion. As if I was the pot she picked up in aisle 27, my body nothing more to her than a mass-produced terra-cotta container. Empty of anything growing. An object she wanted to smash. Fragile. Defenseless.
It could have been any of us, we all said—but I should have trusted my first instinct.
It was me she was after all along.
THEN
“Andy,” I say with surprise. I was about to step onto the lighted stage area where I’m filming a confessional about the attack when I heard someone call my name. I reverse course and pick my way in my high heels over cords and cables to meet him behind the cameras. A weird feeling of déjà vu spreads over me as I bend to hug him.
“Julia. God, it’s good to see you.” His embrace brings a hint of spicy cologne competing with a layer of BO.
We pull back at the same time and survey each other.
Andy is dressed in a flannel button-down over a black T-shirt. Baggy jeans, the rectangular bulk of a phone in his front pocket. A pen hooked over his shirt pocket. He looks both put together and messy, like a puppy dog who got groomed and then rolled around in the yard. I, on the other hand, am fresh out of an hour-long session with hair and makeup, in silk cigarette pants and a one-shoulder sequin top that displays the bruising to my shoulder.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon!” I say with a smile that I hope reads as welcoming despite my unease. The Proposal is ultra-secretive during filming. No one is supposed to know what happens here...right?
Andy runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, neither was I. They called me about the, uh, incident. The attack.” He shakes his head. “If I could’ve come last night...”
“I didn’t realize they were involving you,” I say lightly.
“Can I just take a moment to apologize to you, for what happened?”