Forgive Me Read online

  Forgive Me is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Joshua Corin

  Excerpt from Sick by Joshua Corin copyright © 2016 by Joshua Corin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Sick by Joshua Corin. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  ebook ISBN 9780425284766

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Joshua Corin

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Sick

  Chapter 1

  “There is weather in Paris.”

  Scott blinked at the cow-headed gate agent. “I’m sorry?”

  “There is weather,” the man insisted, “in Paris.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure what that means, but this is my point…” Scott knew there were people in line behind him, people just as frustrated as he was, and he would let them have their turn with this moron—of course he would—but not until his perfectly legitimate questions had been answered in a satisfactory manner. “My point is that my wife…it’s still kind of strange saying that…you see, we just got married nineteen hours ago…anyway, me and my wife checked the weather in Paris before we left for the airport…we checked the weather for the whole week, and it’s supposed to be gorgeous, so if it’s a problem with the plane…you know, a mechanical problem or whatever…then say it’s a mechanical problem, but the flight has been delayed now for almost two hours and it’s already seven sixteen P.M. and we have this itinerary…Crystal is all about itineraries…and we’re paying a lot of money for our hotel because we’ve got a view of the Eiffel Tower from our room and they have this cancellation fee and so I guess what I really want to know is what contingency plan you have in place so that you…so that the airline…can do its job.”

  The cow-headed gate agent considered Scott’s words, chewed them over cud-like in his mind. Then he replied in a deep, flat-toned moo, “As soon as we receive word of a change, we will let you know.”

  Now, Scott McCormick was not a violent man. He had never been in a fight in his life. He had always been the tallest kid in class by at least six inches and had therefore been the object of much ridicule, scorn, and spitballs for many years, but he had always taken abuse with a respectable nonchalance. Even when he had surpassed six feet tall and could have palmed their faces like a basketball, he had maintained this even temper, and anyway, by middle school, he was already ankle-deep in a steady stream of girlfriends and the bullying had ceased altogether.

  And so he had never been in a fight, and certainly had never felt inclined to start one, and yet, as this jug-eared, snout-nosed gate agent, this middle-aged man, persevered in his efforts to completely not give a shit about ruining a honeymoon, Scott could feel his own long fingers flex and curl, with his thumbs instinctively sealing his fists into hard, pink blocks.

  “Next,” said the gate agent, and Scott brought up his fist…

  …only to feel a pair of soft, warm hands encircle it, calm it, gentle it down to his waist. Crystal stood as tall as his elbow, but her touch, oh her touch, was mighty. Without further word, she guided him back to the waiting area. They sat down beside their carry-ons.

  “Take a breath,” she whispered.

  He took a breath. He let it go. He thought about his uncle’s cornfield. Trite but helpful. Plus, her soft, warm hand remained wrapped around his fingers, no longer rigid curlicues but now a smooth plane, like hers.

  He leaned over and rested his head on hers. Her purple-pink scalp rubbed against his cheek. How he loved the feel of her butter-smooth hair along his skin. He took a breath. He let it go. He thought about her bangs, tipped purple, framing her face, red-brown eyes, red-brown freckles, red-brown lips. He thought about her lips and her lips met his lips and for a moment, he forgot all about apathetic gate agents and flummoxed itineraries. Such was the magic of Crystal Kinkle—no, Crystal McCormick.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked her.

  “It’s out of our control,” she answered. “Paris will still be there tomorrow.”

  “If it exists.”

  This was their private joke, stemming from the fact that Crystal had tried—and failed—to visit Paris twice before. The first time had been with her high school. Thanks to a sudden bout of mono, she was the only student in French III who had not enjoyed a week abroad in the City of Light. The second time had actually been with Scott—or was supposed to have been with Scott. Through his job at the bank, he had won a weekend getaway to Paris and had surprised her with the news a month before their one-year dating anniversary. Although he himself could not have cared less about Paris, he knew how much it meant to her. He had told her over dinner at the only French restaurant in their speck of a town and she had become so excited by the news that she had popped from her chair, jumped up and down, screamed, and then wept on and off for a good three hours.

  The next day, the travel agency that had sponsored the trip declared bankruptcy.

  And so, their private joke, that Paris didn’t really exist and all photographs and anecdotes related to it were an elaborate fiction. A private joke was like a precious and loyal pet, and Scott had felt a tinge of regret at bidding this particular bit adieu. This, of course, was before their flight from Lincoln, Nebraska, had landed at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, whereupon their layover became a Kafka nightmare.

  In the end, the airline’s solution for its stranded passengers had been abeyance. They were all given vouchers for an overnight stay at a local hotel and were assured—repeatedly—that a special flight to Paris would be waiting for them at 9 A.M. Two employees of the airline, recognizable in those bland blue blazers, directed the passengers with ruthless efficiency toward the four
shuttle buses.

  Once on the bus, Crystal phoned their folks, first Scott’s parents and then her own, while Scott tried to distract himself with an e-book he had downloaded to his phone. It was a biography of Napoleon. Something to get him in the mood for Paris.

  If Paris even existed.

  Once she had finished reassuring their families that they were in fact still continuing on with their honeymoon, Crystal slid a breath mint under her tongue and emitted a brief teapot-whistle of stress. Scott slid an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. They kissed. Accidentally, the breath mint traveled mouths. They kissed again. The breath mint returned to its original owner.

  “How’s Napoleon?” she asked him.

  Scott slid his phone into his pocket. “Napoleon has a low battery.”

  “Me too.”

  He tightened his grip on her shoulders.

  “There’s weather in Paris,” she said.

  “Who would’ve thought?”

  “It’s our fault. We should have picked a place without weather. Like the moon. We should have gone to the moon.”

  “Next time.”

  “Yes.” She rested her head against him. “Next time.”

  The Peachtree Marriott, which their shuttle bus parked in front of—the other three shuttle buses having driven to parts unknown—was surprisingly classy. Cavernous lobby. Wood paneling. The hotel employees were all smiling, and all wore a small white rose on their left lapel. The rest of their uniform was crimson wool. A Ray Charles look-alike was playing light jazz on a black piano. Several guests sat nearby on pillowy divans.

  The thirty-some passengers formed a line. It was an old habit by now. Scott and Crystal found themselves in the middle of the line. Every few minutes they inched forward. They were too tired and too hungry to chat. But the man at the piano was very, very good, and the music soothed their tired, hungry silence.

  Finally, they reached the clerk at the desk. Her white rose glistened with dew. Scott handed the woman their IDs. How many times today had Scott handed over their IDs? There was the ticket counter in Lincoln, the first time they approached the gate agent in Atlanta, the bar in Atlanta while they waited out their delay, the second time they approached the gate agent in Atlanta…

  And as always, there was the once-over, as the person compared the faces in their photographs with the faces on their heads. What did they see? Probably a basketball player and a punk rock grrl. Scott and Crystal fit the profile, even if, in actuality, the carrot-topped string bean had truly clumsy hand-eye coordination and even if, in actuality, the rainbow-coiffed cupcake at his side preferred the sultry sounds of Nina Simone to the loud growls of Kathleen Hanna.

  At least this clerk was smiling. That was a pleasant change of pace. She handed them their room key card and pointed them in the direction of the elevators and advised them to have a blessed day.

  The elevator was to the right, and so to the right they strolled, and maybe with a little more pep now that, for another pleasant change of pace, they were going to actually reach their destination. And they would have reached the elevator in good time too had a tall man in a black hat not stepped in their path.

  “You’re newlyweds,” he said, pointing, “aren’t you?”

  The black hat shadowed his face, but his teeth were wide and white. This was a hotel filled with grins. The man wore a long silver-gray suit that shimmered like the coat of a warhorse. He wasn’t one of the passengers. He must have been among the guests sitting near the piano.

  “Want to know how I can tell?” His breath smelled like mosquito repellent. “It’s two things, really. First, it’s the rings. I love your rings. And rings means married. Ring-a-ding-ding. Second—and this is the real giveaway—you’re holding hands! Married and holding hands? Newlyweds! Am I right? You don’t need to tell me. I know I am. But you’re thinking—who is this douchebag and why is he rudely interrupting our honeymoon bliss?”

  Which was in fact exactly what Scott was thinking.

  The man flashed them his key card, and then waved it in front of their noses as if it were made of gold.

  “I have the best room in this hotel and I didn’t pay for it. My company paid for it. It’s not even a room. It’s a suite. Top floor. Got to be two thousand square feet from wall to wall. Marble floors. Marble shower. Jacuzzi. A full kitchen—not that I’ve cooked a meal in my life. And now you’re thinking—why is this douchebag telling us all this?”

  Which was again exactly what Scott was thinking.

  Crystal squeezed his hand. This man was making her uneasy.

  This man was making the both of them uneasy.

  “Look—” said Scott.

  Suddenly, the man reached for Scott’s free hand and slapped the key card against his palm.

  “It’s yours,” he said. His voice had lowered to a confidential whisper. “I don’t need it. I’m here alone. What am I going to do with a two-thousand-square-foot suite? No. It’s yours. If you want it.”

  Crystal squeezed Scott’s hand three times. He squeezed her hand three times back.

  It was all they could do to keep from exploding.

  Managing some semblance of chill, Crystal then asked, “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. I mean, we’ll have to trade key cards. I still need a place to crash. What kind of bed did you get, a queen or a king?”

  Crystal looked to Scott. Scott frowned. He honestly couldn’t remember.

  “No matter,” the man said. “A bed is a bed. And it won’t take me more than a minute to pack. So what do you say?”

  “Yes?” Scott replied.

  “Yes,” Crystal replied.

  “Yes!” the man added. “Now let’s get this party moving.”

  And so the three of them took the elevator up, way up, to the twenty-seventh floor of the Peachtree Marriott. The carpets here were crimson, although a slightly darker shade than the uniforms. The door to the suite, Room 2702, was rose white, but it did sport a crimson trim.

  “Congratulations, by the way,” the man said, and he unlocked the door to the room and led them inside.

  Chapter 2

  Only once the man had left, dragging his leather luggage behind him, did Scott and Crystal realize that he hadn’t told them his name.

  “Should we go after him?” asked Scott.

  Crystal shrugged. “We can…”

  Except they didn’t. For starters, how awkward would that be? Wouldn’t it reveal them to be the kind of self-involved phonies who didn’t deserve a treasure like this?

  Plus, now that they were in this room, they never wanted to leave.

  Two thousand square feet? At least. Their house on Osprey Lane was 1,795 square feet. Two stories, the master bedroom on top and the guest bedroom down below, one-and-a-half baths, a crowded kitchen. The shingles on the roof had storm damage and needed replacing. It was a perfectly modest starter home to a perfectly modest starter family, but this hotel room…

  For example, the peephole in the door was ringed with ornate gold piping.

  Why? Because.

  Every so often, the eerie smoothness of the room’s salmon-hued marble walls was interrupted by a long and shallow gash. Scott ran a fingertip along one of the gashes.

  “So this is like how people used to pay extra to get holes in their jeans?” he asked Crystal.

  “I got holes in my jeans by wearing them out. But then again, I always went against the grain.”

  They made their way from the breezeway to the kitchen. The refrigerator was stocked with wine, beer, Coca-Cola, and fresh fruit. Crystal reached for a vertical sculpture of glass and aluminum on the countertop and found its button. It hummed like a monk.

  “Is this, you know, for making smoothies?”

  “There are peaches in the fridge.”

  “Well, OK, then.”

  They moved on to the living room. The hotel room had its own living room. The divan and two chairs matched the elegant pillowy furniture from the lobby. A solid glass co
ffee table centered the space. Underneath the glass coffee table rested a many-patterned Persian rug.

  Here too were a pair of French doors. Scott and Crystal stepped through them to the balcony and beheld the electric skyscrapers of midtown Atlanta. At twenty-seven stories, they were roughly midway between the streets and the clouds. There was no moon, but there was a playful breeze, and it played with Scott and it played with Crystal and they held hands and thought about nothing at all for a very long time.

  Then they returned inside and continued on their tour.

  Next was the bedroom.

  Thirty-one minutes later, as they smiled into each other’s eyes, Scott said, “You know, there’s still one more room to explore.”

  “Oh yes. The bathroom. Sexy.”

  “I don’t know…the guy said something about a Jacuzzi…”

  “Oh yes! The bathroom! Sexy!”

  Smirking, Scott rolled out of bed and checked out the adjourning bathroom, where indeed he found a hot tub in the first half and, on the other side of a thin sliding screen, the other, more conventional excretory and wash accoutrements. He knelt down, naked, beside the hot tub and activated its faucet with a spin of a knob.

  Below the knob was a control panel.

  So many settings…

  Smirking even wider, Scott ambled back into the bedroom.

  “Hey, Crystal, you’ll never guess what—”

  She held up an index finger. She was on the phone.

  “No, Jeffrey,” she said. “We’re not going to sue the airline. Because we’re not. Because tomorrow we’re going to be in Paris and…yes, you told me…there is no air-conditioning in Paris and everybody hates Americans.”