The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“This, what’s his name, Nate? He’s not even moving.” Colin gestures with disgust toward the screen.

“He moved his hand all over her breast,” I argue.

“No, she held his hand against her tits.” He says these words slowly as if I’m too dumb to comprehend, and maybe he’s right. I lean forward as he explains, “He isn’t moving even once. And if a guy’s got two hot chicks grinding their pussies all over him and he ain’t moving, guy is dead or passed out.”

“Why would they do this?” I argue. I want to believe him, but I’m afraid.

“Revenge. What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I cry. “I’ve been here. And before I was sick Nate and I didn’t even date.”

“So it’s him. Did he do something to one of them?”

“I don’t even know the guy or the girl. Just Greta and . . .” I stop. “He mentioned to me that he’d had a run-in with her, but I wasn’t there at the time so I don’t really know what went down.”

“Meh. This isn’t even good porn.” Colin kicks out his legs and folds his hands behind his head. He’s officially over the video.

“Thank God.” I guess I can be done too. Although I’m still feeling hollow inside. I don’t know if it’s relief or the remnants of fear. I know I won’t be whole again until I talk to Nate.

“What? We can’t be friends without having watched porn together.”

“You watch porn with all your friends?” I give him a skeptical look.

“Not the guys, ‘cause that would be weird.”

“I’m not watching porn with you.”

“You are such a killjoy, Miss C.”

I do not want to talk about porn with Colin, but I recognize his act. He’s trying to make light of something to make me feel better, which is actually kind of nice, porn references notwithstanding. “What do you think I should do?”

“About this?” He jerks his head toward the computer. I nod. “Call your boy. Tell him you love him and get back at Greta.”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“Eh, why not? Being an asshole to you takes effort. You’re too nice. It’s like kicking a kitten.”

“There was a compliment in there somewhere.”

Colin rises and stretches and then ambles over to give me a kiss on the top of my forehead. “It is. Wish I had a girl like you, Miss C. I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.”

I ring Nathan almost before Colin has left. He doesn’t answer.

I hang up and dial again. It would be early evening there. It rings several times.

I get on the computer, but he’s not available on Skype.

I text him.

Love you babe. Miss you.

Nothing back.

I text Nick next.

Hey, miss you. Hope to be home soon. What’s happening?

He responds immediately.

Miss you too. You shouldn’t have left. We’re a mess without you.

I haven’t heard from Nate. He okay?

There’s a long pause.

Yeah. Why?

I decide to confess.

Got the video.

Shit. He did not cheat on you. He was totally out of his head. They drugged him.

Colin was right.

Greta?

Yeah and this guy from Northwestern that Juliette Waite brought. She set us up so we’d fight them then bc the asswipe got his pants kicked, he decided to get back at Nate. N would never do this to you.

No, I know. I figured it out. But I texted him and called him.

I don’t mention that I needed help.

He’s sick. He’ll call you promise.

Okay. Tell him I love him. Give him a kiss for me.

Yeah, not doing that. But love you too. Take care of yourself. Hurry back.

And with that, a little of my hollow parts are filled out.

22

Nathan

“Are you sure?”

I nod, refusing to look up. Dad exhales heavily. He’s frustrated with me and casts a beseeching expression of help toward my mother. He wants me to say it out loud, but my mouth is sealed shut. I’m afraid of what will come out if I open it. But she’s not going to convince me to change my mind. The sadness and fucking pity on her face are the exact reasons I’m sure of my decision.

“You’re going to miss Switzerland.” He makes a last ditch effort to change my mind. What he doesn’t get is that he’s barking up the wrong tree, chasing the wrong ball—whatever wrong metaphor there is, he’s doing it.

“You mean Charlotte.”

There. I’ve said her name. Acknowledged her existence. The piercing agony that slices through me as the vowels and consonants reverberate through my head is less this time than the last. I’ll keep saying it until I can’t feel anything any longer. Not pain, humiliation, shame, or even . . . love. I just want to stop feeling.

Because if I went to Switzerland and the first thing I saw on Charlotte’s face was the expression my mom is currently wearing I’d . . . well, it wouldn’t be good.