We are not the same, p.1
We Are Not the Same, page 1
WE ARE NOT THE SAME
S.J. Cunningham
WE ARE NOT THE SAME
by S. J. Cunningham
© Copyright 2024 S. J. Cunningham
ISBN 978-1-964369-02-0
EPUB Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. To request permission, contact the author at sarah@sjcunningham.net.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
This edition published by S.J. Cunningham:
www.sjcunningham.net
TO YOU, DEAR READER
May you hold your moments gently and with grace.
And when it’s time to let go, may you release with understanding and gratitude.
May you face your ghosts with your eyes up and your heart full.
And when it’s time to go home, may you find that space a sanctuary.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
The gathering is a swell—a buzzing cacophony, brash and discordant. Megan can’t make out individual words amidst the noise and laughter. People bump into her without recognizing her—without even seeing her.
She is invisible.
Music plays from a hidden speaker. The deep bass pulses and thumps. Bodies move together, coupling and uncoupling, in time with the beat.
She takes another long swallow of beer from the cup in her hand. She barely tastes it.
The damp from an earlier rain chills the air, but now, the night sky is clear and bright.
On the patio outside, the flames of a fire tentatively reach upward out of damp wood, struggling to burst free. Someone throws a log into their waning depths, and sparks erupt. The wood lets loose a high-pitched squeal. It is a living, breathing thing, burning alive and aware of its fate.
She sees him through the flames. Joe Wright. That easy smile, those dark, almond-shaped eyes. He is smiling at her, the girl who is not Megan. The girl who, until yesterday, had been Megan’s best friend. Megan can barely stand the thought of the girl’s name slithering through her mind—Sutton Schultz. The name hisses like a snake, sly and silent.
Megan had thought that Joe might look at her that way, with that wide bright smile and laughter in his eyes. But tonight, he doesn’t see Megan at all.
Instead, Sutton is perched on Joe’s lap, close to the fire, laughing. Her face is close to his. She knows that Megan is watching them, and she’s enjoying it.
Megan wants to look away. She doesn’t want to care. But she stares anyway. She can’t stop herself.
The music has slowed its tempo, and the notes suddenly coalesce and make sense. The words become clear. You still have all of me.
An unknown partygoer thrusts another red solo cup into Megan’s other hand. She glances around, but the person has disappeared into the crowd. She swallows down the second draught of pale amber liquid. It is semi-flat, yeasty, and makes her stomach feel full and uncomfortable.
Her attention returns to the couple behind the fire. The flames flicker, and the heat blurs the objects of her focus, causing the bodies to waver and tremble. Like a dream. Joe bares his teeth and catches the lobe of Sutton’s ear between his white incisors. Sutton squeals, her head thrown back, throat white, lips very red, eyes rimmed with black. Her blond hair falls over his shoulder, and he catches a lock of it between his fingers. Tugs hard.
Megan takes a step back, sways. She’s about to fall. She can already hear them laughing at her as her footing falters.
Suddenly, an arm wraps around her waist. It remains there until she is steady. She looks up into another face, harder and more mature than Joe’s boyish features. Megan knows this other boy who is looking into her eyes—Dan Armstrong.
She has never said anything more than hello to Dan. She doesn’t think she’s ever really even thought about him. Embarrassed, she tries to right herself, but her movements feel fuzzy and soft. She wants to laugh, but she can’t tell if her lips are cooperating.
He smiles. Is he laughing at her? She isn’t sure.
He says something to her, but it’s hard to hear him over the voices, the music, and the buzzing in her head.
He steadies her and leads her away from the fire and through the sliding glass doors into the house.
She wants to stay and watch them, but Dan’s pull is insistent.
They are not supposed to be in the house, she protests, but she follows him anyway. She looks back over her shoulder—one last glimpse of them. They don’t look back.
She and Dan emerge into the kitchen, which is now littered with red cups, pizza boxes, and nearly empty bags of potato chips and snack mix. It’s quieter here. Soft music is playing from another room.
A giggling, pink-faced girl that she knows from her English class is standing against a counter with a boy Megan has known since kindergarten. The girl’s name is Chloe. Chloe Nicholson. Chloe raises a hand and says something, and the other boy makes a face at Megan. She’s supposed to laugh, but she doesn’t. She frowns instead. Their voices are far away, like they’re underwater.
Chloe asks Megan if she wants another drink. But Dan, still by her side, shakes his head and waves it away, answering for her.
He leads her through a doorway and into a living room, where he guides her to a sofa. She sits, and he disappears.
A couple is locked in an embrace on an armchair beside her. She averts her gaze and is about to leave when Dan returns with another red solo cup. She holds up a hand, but he pushes it toward her. Water, he says. She sips it at first, then suddenly, very thirsty, gulps it down.
It doesn’t take long before her stomach gurgles, and she feels queasy. She places a hand on her midsection before standing and quickly shuffling down the hallway to find a bathroom. Thankfully, someone comes out, and she hurries in.
She shuts the door and manages to make it to the open toilet. She throws up all of the liquid, then stares into the bowl. Dried flecks from the contents of someone else’s stomach stare back at her, mingled with her own sick. She wretches again and again until nothing is left.
When she finally stands, her head hurts. She splashes water on her face. In the mirror, her eyes are puffy and red, and her skin is blotchy. She looks grotesque.
She wants to cry.
I have to get home, she thinks. But she has no idea where her friend Holly, who has driven her to this party, has gone.
So, she walks back down the long hallway toward the room with the sofa.
In her pocket, Megan runs her fingers over the solid form of her Razr phone. She could call her mom for a ride. But the phone is for emergencies. Her mom has made that clear. And this is a tragedy, a humiliation, and a drama. But only to Megan. Her mother would resent the inconvenience and then be furious to find out that Megan, her perfect child who never does anything wrong, has been drinking.
When she returns to the living room, Dan is talking to a beautiful girl who Megan has seen before. Crystal Karlik graduated two years earlier. Megan wonders what Crystal is doing here with these kids. Kids like her. Crystal is standing very close to Dan, gesturing with her hands as she speaks. Her fingernails are long and purple-pink, the color of the summertime flowers on the rhododendron bush in front of Megan’s farmhouse.
They see her standing in the doorway, and Dan walks away from Crystal. He doesn’t turn around when Crystal calls his name. Instead, he looks very closely at Megan’s face, and the attention makes Megan look down at the floor. He is asking her questions, but she can’t answer. Her mouth feels sour and her head hurts.
He takes her hand, and they walk out of the room, back through the kitchen and outside into the cool night air. The chill makes Megan feel slightly better. She can breathe. They continue to the front of the house where cars are parked haphazardly in the driveway.
Crystal follows them. She yells words Megan can’t understand. Others join her, and when Megan turns around, she sees them. Sutton and Joe.
Sutton runs up to Megan and puts her hand on Megan’s arm, pulling her back. Dan is tugging her in the opposite direction, and Megan is temporarily caught between two worlds.
She pulls free of her. They are not friends. Not anymore. She might have said that aloud, but she’s not sure.
Dan leads her toward a car. It’s cherry-red and low to the ground. When she climbs into the seat, her jeans slide on the shiny leather.
Crystal is beside Dan again, her rhododendron nails bright against his black t-shirt as he climbs into the driver’s seat. Is Crystal his girlfriend? If Megan is taking him away from her, then she’s no better than Sutton. But Megan doesn’t think that’s right. This girl is bossy and demanding. She seems more like a sister than a girlfriend.
Dan pulls away from Crystal, and he offers Megan a half smile as he twists the key in the ignition. It’s now just the two of them, and even though her head is pounding and her throat hurts, she feels safe here. And happy to be insulated from the faces of the people she’s grown up with.
The car roars to life with a low rumble. The exhaust is acrid in her nose. Dan powers down the windows. Then he maneuvers in reverse through the line of cars and backs out onto the road.
It isn’t yet midnight, but theirs is the only car on this rural street. Dim lights from nearby homes blink as they travel past.
He accelerates along a stretch of roadway, and she feels like they are flying. She laughs—a real laugh—and the wind blows her hair away from her face. She leans out the open window. Her hair streams behind her, an auburn curtain. She closes her eyes as the wind washes over her.
Dan takes a bend fast, and the tires squeal as the back end of the car shudders on the wet roadway.
She laughs again. The buzzing in her head has subsided and her mind feels as clear as the stars above them. The half-moon is bright when it peeks out from behind the clouds.
He downshifts as they come to a series of bends in the road, but they are moving faster than they should. They slide, and the car’s engine rumbles. Megan doesn’t know if he’s taking her home, and she doesn’t care.
When they stop at an intersection, he doesn’t move right away. She looks over at him. He leans forward and kisses her. She is surprised and slightly hesitant. She must taste terrible, but he doesn’t seem to care. His tongue finds its way into her mouth. It is unexpected, and nice.
She knows that she’ll probably feel differently in the morning, but right now, this is where she’s supposed to be.
It may have been seconds or minutes before the high beams of a pickup truck blind them through the back window. The truck’s horn blares and its engine growls.
Dan swears and gestures aggressively in the rearview mirror, shifts into gear and plows forward. They accelerate. The truck follows too close behind.
Megan blinks and squints in the glare. The wet asphalt of the road in front of them shines in the headlights.
Dan shifts, and they shoot forward. She hears the truck’s engine accelerate behind them, but it can’t keep up with the little red car. She laughs again, and he looks over at her and smiles. He touches her knee.
A hard thud and a lurch on her side of the car knocks her teeth together. Dan jerks the wheel. They are careening sideways across the road.
They spin like a top—like a carnival ride—out of control. Bright lights flash. Megan is disoriented.
Tires screech, and the engine sputters. Another thud—harder, jolting. Her body is flung forward and held in place by the seatbelt tight against her chest. Her head lashes back against the headrest then sideways. She has no control. They are tumbling, turning, flying, soaring. She looks over, and Dan is floating in space, frozen in time. His eyes are wide, and they lock with hers. She laughs. Or maybe it’s just a smile.
She turns her head. Something dark and solid comes toward her. They are moving in slow motion, but she doesn’t have time to think.
And then…
A thousand stars burst from her head, out of her eyes, nose, mouth.
The stars become sparks of fire and light. Brilliant. They shoot from her hands and feet. From her chest.
She is the maker of the sparks. Her body becomes the sparks, the light. Countless glowing embers breaking open, breaking apart. It is terrifying, fascinating, unbearable.
Just as she thinks that her body doesn’t exist anymore—that it has dissolved into the ether—the disparate parts of the universe start to come together, rushing toward her—as her. She is hypersonic, condensing at a velocity beyond words. The essence of her contracts at the speed of light until there is a final, dazzling implosion. She is everything and everything is her—inside out, upside down, and all around. She holds the universe, and it holds her. Her breath is the wind, her tears the ocean, her laughter the fire. She pulses and everything comes alive. She swells, bloated with herself. Her final scream is primal.
And then silence. Peace. The faraway sound of a horn. She sleeps.
CHAPTER 1
SUTTON-NOW
Sutton Schultz’s phone buzzes, and she stares at the name that lights the screen.
Mom.
Sutton steels herself to answer. If she doesn’t pick up, the woman will just keep calling. Or worse. Sutton does not want a repeat of the situation a year earlier when she hadn’t answered the incessant buzzing of her mother’s phone calls. The woman had called the police, and two uniformed officers came sniffing around the mobile home to perform a welfare check. It had taken weeks to convince both Tommy and Andre that she wasn’t a snitch. It had taken months for their neighbors in the trailer park to acknowledge them. And it had taken even longer to recover from Tommy’s rage at the entire situation.
Sutton is aware that she is rubbing her jaw where it had once been broken.
She presses accept. “Yeah, Mom?” she asks quietly. She tries to make her voice sound rested and upbeat. She’s not sure she knows what that sounds like anymore.
“Hi, honey.” Her mother’s voice is thick and bright and too sweet. They are both pretending. “Just calling to check in. Everything okay?”
From the tiny kitchen, Tommy walks into the room and scowls at her. Then he scowls at the squalor around her—clothes, empty food wrappers, other paraphernalia. “Can you clean this place the fuck up?” he says from the doorway.
Most of the mess is his, but Sutton knows that she needs to do a better job of tidying up. She needs to be a better housekeeper.
Sheepishly, Sutton rises from the stained polyester couch and walks past Tommy. She tries to hide the fact that she is on the phone.
His bulky frame moves in close so that she has to angle her body in the narrow hallway. She eyes the fist-sized crater in the faux-wood paneling next to her and makes herself small.
He grins in a mean way, pleased that he has made her flinch, and she enters the bedroom she shares with him and closes the door.
He follows and pushes it open, staring at her.
The phone is against her ear. “I’m fine, Mom,” she says, emphasizing the word so that Tommy knows she isn’t talking to a guy. He gives her another scowl, but he walks away. She knows he’s out there, listening. The walls in the trailer are barely thicker than cardboard.
She sits down on the edge of the unmade bed.
“I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” her mom says.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing?”
“Working,” Sutton says and shuts her eyes. She doesn’t want to lie to her mother, but she has no choice. Not that it’s any of her mother’s business anyway. She’s a grown-ass woman. She can do what she wants. But she lets the falsehood lie between them.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Angela Schultz says. Her words have changed from honey-sweet to a waterfall—flowing and gushing through the line. Sutton can hear the force of the hope in the older woman’s voice.
Sutton runs a hand through her unwashed hair, then picks at a scab on her arm.
There is a pause.
“And what are you doing at your new job?”
A moment of panic grips her. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Doctor’s office,” she says. “Pediatrics.” She shuts her eyes again. It’s a stupid lie. Her mother is a nurse, which is no doubt why the lie had come so easily. But Angela Schultz will see through this in an instant.
