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“So what do you want to talk to Katelyn about?” Buck finally asks me.
“Just stuff. I’d like to talk about what she remembers. And of course I want to hear all about how she came to be engaged.”
“Has she shared with you anything about what happened to her in the last couple weeks?”
“No. I mean I know she went to LA to see her dad. He had some kind of biopsy on his liver. But since she didn’t say anything— Crap, I should’ve asked how he was doing. I’m being so self-absorbed.”
“Her father’s fine. His biopsy was benign.”
“How do you know that?”
“I get all my information from the Wolfes.”
“God, I feel like an asshole for not asking about him.”
“You’re going through your own stuff. She understands that. She of all people understands that.”
Buck is right, of course. Still, I feel bad. I’d like to consider Katelyn a friend. It’s funny. I sat with her in that front room of the dorm many times while we were in captivity. She and I and Onyx. Sometimes another girl would join us. But more often than not it was just the three of us watching old I Love Lucy reruns.
It was a respite.
We could focus on something other than our horrible circumstances. Still? Some of the girls chose to stay in their rooms. But Katelyn, Onyx, and I sat on the couch together, our eyes glued to the TV. We didn’t talk to each other, not about anything important anyway.
We weren’t ourselves back then. Katelyn didn’t even remember her name. I always remembered mine. No one called me Aspen on the island, only Garnet. But I never let myself forget who I was.
That was the difference between Katelyn and me. She became Moonstone on the island. That was how she protected herself.
I was already able to protect myself better than most of the women, which is why they went after me so viciously.
God, it’s too much to think about.
Maybe Buck is right. Maybe it’s best to let it all go, to leave it in the past where it belongs. I’m lucky to be alive.
So I forgot the SEAL trident for a minute. I’m lucky I can still think, that my mind still works. Some of the women are still on the island, still at the retreat center, having broken with reality.
I’m one of the lucky ones.
“You’re not touching your breakfast,” Buck says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Just thinking.” I take a sip of coffee.
“About what? Anything you want to talk about?”
“I’m sorry…about last night.”
“About not staying in my room with me? Baby, you don’t ever have to be sorry for that. I will never ask anything of you.”
“I know that. And it’s not that I didn’t want you.”
“I understand.”
“I just wanted to think. I thought a lot about what you said, Buck. About whether it’s worth it to try to find who’s responsible for my situation. But my father is on board, and I just feel like this is something I have to do. It will help me have some closure, you know?”
Buck meets my gaze as he swallows a bite of omelet.
I see something in his dark eyes—something kind and gentle yet determined and willful.
“Whatever you need, Aspen. I’m here for whatever you need.”
33
BUCK
Closure.
It’s a word therapists use, but it’s essentially meaningless. How do you have closure after something so horrific? Do you do it Aspen’s way? By finding out who was responsible in the first place?
Or do you do it my way? By trying to move forward and leaving the past in the past?
In truth? Neither leads to closure. Closure is a euphemism for moving on.
Nothing is ever closed. Those things are always part of you. Still, therapists like to throw the word “closure” around like it’s a baseball.
And it still means nothing.
It doesn’t heal you, and it doesn’t take away the pain. The past will always be a part of you.
I feel that Aspen is making a mistake, but I will support her. Whatever she needs.
If it’s closure she’s after? She’ll never find it. No one does, and no one knows that better than I do.
I clear my throat. “So after lunch with Katelyn, how do you want to proceed with Gloria Delgado?”
“Do you have an address for her?”
“A home address, a work address, and a phone number.”
“Where does she work?”
“She doesn’t play volleyball anymore. She’s an assistant coach at West Beverly Hills High School. She also teaches history.”
“High school?” Aspen raises her eyebrows. “Not pro or semi-pro? Or at least college?”
“That’s the information I have,” I say. “I thought it was kind of weird as well. Like a fall from grace or something, but it may be nothing. It may be circumstances and nothing else.”
“Maybe…” She sighs. “This afternoon, I guess. I don’t want to bother her at work.”
“School lets out at three p.m., but then she has volleyball practice after school. She’s usually done by four thirty.”
