Amends: A Love Story Read Online Free Page A

up at
the house, looking for him. When they find him, he calls their
parents to come get them. Then he gets a restraining order. If they
show up a second time, our security guys call the police. I thought
you were better than that, but I guess not."
    Finally, her mask cracks and steams. She
reacts with all the hot fury reflected in her name.
    "I can't believe you think I would—how
exactly did you put it?—fuck your father. I'm your girlfriend. Or,
at least, I was your girlfriend. You keep telling me what a bad guy
you're father is, but I think you're the sick one."
    Now it's my turn to stare out the window. I
watch the road signs whip by. This is probably the worst day of my
life.
    Ember clutches at my arm. Her long nails dig
into my flesh. "Why don't you pull over and let me out of this
fucking car! I'll walk to Deegan's party! Just let me out!"
    We're driving past a gator-infested culvert.
There's no way I'm going to let her out here to stumble around in
the dark. "That's ridiculous! You're wearing high heels. You can
barely walk in them. I'll let you out when we get to the party.
We're practically there."
    Ember yells in my ear. "I said let me out
now!" She reaches over and grabs the steering wheel, pulling it to
the right. "Now! Now! Now!"
    We struggle, and the car swerves. I'm so
focused on removing her hands from the steering wheel without
hurting her that I don't notice the stop sign, or the white Ford
Escape, until it's too late.

Chapter 3: Amity

    I am dreaming of my future, perfect life at
Adams college. My stammer and limp are magically gone. I have witty
conversations with pretty people in cozy cafés. The air is crisp,
dry, and tasteless—the polar opposite of central Floridian air. And
there is foliage. Lots of foliage.
    "Amity, wake up, honey! Wake up!"
    I feel a rough hand on my shoulder and inhale
the minty sour scent of beer imperfectly masked by mouthwash. It's
Dad. I roll over, open my eyes, and push myself into a sitting
position. Dad looks awful: unshaven, red-eyed, and
stoop-shouldered. He's wearing a white T-shirt decorated with
condiment stains.
    "What's up, Dad?" I ask warily.
    "It's your mother. She didn't come home last
night." His lips quiver. He's close to crying. He's also obviously
drunk.
    "Are you sure she's not working an extra
shift at the hospital?" Sometimes Mom will work around the clock,
napping between shifts. I think of her promise to help me pay for
college and feel a twinge of guilt.
    "Yes, honey. She told me this morning she was
working a double. She said she'd be home by eleven at the
latest."
    I ask the next obvious question. "Did you
call or text her?"
    "Yes. She's not picking up or texting
back."
    I frown. Mom is typically ultra-responsible.
She has to be when she's at work—people could actually die if she
screws up—and I guess it just bleeds over into the rest of her
life. Dad looks distraught. Tears are gathering in the corners of
his eyes.
    "I'm sure there's a good reason," I say,
trying to convince myself as well as my dad. "She could have a
critical case. Maybe she's monitoring a child in a long, complex
surgery."
    Dad shakes his head and locks his droopy
brown eyes onto mine. He's about to burst into loud, drunken sobs.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice is tremulous.
    "Sure."
    "Is your mother having an affair?" When I let
the question dangle in mid-air, he rushes to add, "If you say yes,
I'm not going to do anything crazy. I just need to know, OK?"
    I nod slightly and think over what he just
asked. My gut reaction is to say no in the strongest possible
terms. But then I remember my freshman year of high school, when
Dad was getting blackout drunk, and he and Mom were fighting all
the time. Mom took Xanax like they were candy. They were
legitimate—her doctor prescribed them for stress and she never took
them at work—but she told me later she'd had a problem. When I
reacted with shock and disbelief—Mom was always the stable one—she
said, "Everyone has