Page 73 of I Would Die for You

“You have no idea.” I seethe.

She looks awkward, no part of her seeming as if she’d be involved in a sick ploy to destroy my life. But until I’m convinced that this isn’t what’s happening here, I’ll not be giving her the benefit of the doubt.

“I just have one question,” says Zoe. “And then I promise you’ll never see me again.”

I want to tell her to go to hell and slam the door in her face. But there’s something holding me back—a need to know what the question is. Because knowledge is power, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that I need all the power I can get.

“What is it?” I ask tersely.

“I don’t want to take up any more of your time than is absolutely necessary,” she says, rooting around in her bag. “So, I’ll get to the point.”

She takes out an old Sony Walkman, the kind I had when I was a struggling singer-songwriter. The kind I’d listen to my mixtapes on.

She presses the rewind button and I hold my breath as the shrill of the tape backtracking sends every sense into high alert. I usedto find the sound exciting—a clean slate for new possibilities—but now, as I wait to see what’s coming next, it just sounds like the scrambling of my brain.

The opening chords of a guitar filter through the muffled speaker, and my knuckles turn white as I grip hold of the doorframe. I want to snatch it from her and turn it off. I want to cry out loud to silence it. But instead, I grit my teeth and keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead as a voice from a bygone era fills the room.

“I would go to the ends of the earth if it meant I could keep you safe,

I would die for you if it meant I could keep you here with me…”

“Is that…” Zoe begins. “Is that you?”

“You need to tell me where you got this from.” My voice is hoarse, strangled by regret.

“And I would do anything for your love,” cuts in Ben’s dulcet tones, singing in perfect harmony. “Because your love is all I need.”

I can’t breathe, my lungs closed off to air, as a voice I haven’t heard in twenty-five years wraps itself around my vital organs, making them feel as if they’re being systematically shut down.

The grief that I naively thought had been laid to rest rips through me, shredding the layers of resilience it has taken me years to construct. It’s as if I’m being sucked back into the vortex of 1986, and despite gripping on to the here and now with all my strength, my fingers are being pried away, one by one, as I’m finally forced to face the past I thought I’d left behind.

“Excuse me…” I manage, fearing that if I don’t remove myself from this situation, I’ll not be able to mask the guilt that is running roughshod through my nervous system, about to tip me into territories unknown.

She watches me as I run to the bathroom, my behavior only courting more suspicion, but there’s nothing I can do. Of all the pieces of evidence I imagined she might have, that song is the only one I couldn’t possibly have prepared for.

I lean back against the locked door, willing the incessant noise in my head to stop. Most days, I’m able to convince myself that I deserve to be happy, that I’m as worthy of a loving family as the next person. But on days like this, when the drums reverberate so loudly that I can’t think straight, I’m reminded that nobody who’s done something as unforgivable as I have iseverforgiven.

The tears threaten to fall, but I swallow them back down and force long, deep breaths in and out of my lungs. I need to focus, stay levelheaded.

My ashen complexion reflects back to me in the mirror, my eyes spooked and panic-stricken. If my world hasn’t already imploded, then this is the detonator that will blow everything to smithereens.

I splash cold water onto my face, hoping it will kick-start my brain. But all it manages to achieve is to make me realize that perhaps Zoe knows even more than I do.

She offers a watery smile, giving nothing away, as I walk back into the hall on unsteady feet.

“So…” she starts, eager to continue, despite my obvious discomfort. “Is that you on the tape?”

“You need to leave.”

She sidesteps my unease and pushes her shoulders back, as if the action will reassert her standing in what is essentially the hollowed husk of my life.

“Just tell me if it’s you on that tape, and I promise I’ll never darken your door again.”

I suck in a breath, wondering what difference it would make if I told the truth, but then I stop myself. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

“Whoareyou?” I ask.

She shrugs, but her eyes widen, making her look like a deer caught in headlights. “I told you, I’m writing a book on the demise of Secret Oktober.”

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