by McLean, Jay
Leo pulls me into him and kisses the top of my head. Running a hand up and down my arm, he asks, “You have church tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.” And, just to see his reaction, I ask, “Would you want to come with me?”
He chuckles. “No.”
I pull away and look at his profile. “Why is you going to church so funny?”
“Don’t you have to believe to go to church?”
“You don’t believe in God or faith?”
He vehemently shakes his head. “Not even a little bit.”
“Well.” I sit taller. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that kind of makes me sad for you.”
“Why?” This time, his laughter is more of a scoff. “Because I don’t believe in the power of an All Mighty being? Because I don’t think walking into a building once a week to listen to a person talk and tell stories will take away all of my sins?” He takes a breath. “Or is it because I don’t believe that I can do horrible things in this life, then say a few prearranged words, and suddenly, I’m forgiven?”
I don’t respond. I just look down at my lap and press down on my skirt, trying not to let his words hurt me the way they do.
“Don’t feel sad for me, Mia. I’m fine. I own up to my actions, and I know that there are consequences if I do wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk about this. It’s making me uncomfortable,” I reply meekly.
He’s quiet a beat, and just when I think he’s about to let it go, he says, “So what you’re saying is that the guy who shot Laney, he can walk into a church and ask for forgiveness and boom, done.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. And don’t do that, Leo. Don’t mock people for having faith.”
“Faith?!” He’s shouting now, and I’m glad we’re away from everyone so that no one can hear him. “Faith carries as much bullshit as fate.”
I don’t know how we got into this conversation, but I want out of it. I start to stand, but he grabs my wrist, forces me to stay.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice lowered. “I didn’t mean to yell; I just… I don’t get it. I don’t get how people can believe so blindly in something that doesn’t physically exist.”
“You don’t need to see something to know it’s there.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Like love,” I rush out. “You can love someone, and there’s no measure of that love, no way to determine if it truly exists or not, but you can feel it, and know that it’s there.”
“That’s a cop-out answer, Mia, and you know it.”
I bite back my annoyance. “Why does it matter to you?” I ask. “How does someone’s faith affect you?”
“It doesn’t,” he says, shrugging. “It’s just bullshit, is all.”
He sits there, quiet, relaxed, almost bored. Meanwhile, I’m agitated and frustrated because who the heck is he to judge what I believe. I hop down and stand in front of him, because I want to see him properly, and I want him to see me, to hear me. “What if faith isn’t about believing in one God,” I say quietly. “What if it’s about believing that there’s good in this world, and it may not be right in front of you, and it may not be happening right now, but you know it’s coming… because you believe. You believe that there has to be something better because you’re here, and you’re alive, and there has to be a reason for it.” I watch his Adam’s apple shift with his swallow. “Take this as an example. Earlier this year, in Sydney, Australia, five kids were walking on the sidewalk to go to a corner store or something. A drunk driver lost control of his vehicle and hit all five of them. Four of them died. Three of them were siblings. In one devastating accident, a mother and father lost all their children. You know why they can wake up every day and continue to live? Because they have faith, and because of that faith, they don’t have it in them to hate that driver. They chose to forgive him, and that level of forgiveness isn’t human, Leo. It has to come from something divine.”
“Mia,” he sighs, and he’s still shaking his head, a forever non-believer.
“Okay, how about this: Take a girl”—I choke on the words—“whose parents abandoned her the first chance they got, and she spent her entire childhood thinking there was something wrong with her. That she wasn’t smart enough, or pretty enough, or thin enough, and no matter what she did, they never fucking came back for her.”
Leo’s breaths are ragged as he turns to me, his eyes filled with pity.
“What if faith is all that someone has, Leo?”
“Mia…” he says through a heavy exhale, his hand reaching up to cup my face.
I lean into his touch. “You don’t think there’s a reason someone found my bike on the church steps when I left that night?” I ask him. “How about Laney? You said it was a miracle she survived, right? Or how about the night you nearly drove us over the cliff edge? I saw you, Leo. I saw you looking up at the stars, and your lips were moving, and you were talking to someone.” I press my lips to his palm and then grasp it in both my hands. “Who were you talking to, Leo?”
He shakes his head because he doesn’t want to admit it.
“Who?” I push.
“My mom,” he murmurs.
“Right.” I nod. “So your mom’s body, her soul, it’s not rotting six feet underground. At least that’s not what you want to believe.”
“Of course I don’t want to believe that, Mia. Shit.”
“And those flowers in the field…”
His eyes narrow. “What about them?”
“You said it yourself, they were surrounded by weeds and dirt, and they had no business being there. But they were, Leo. In a place you went to almost daily. You—just you. They were there, and they got your attention enough to remember what shade of yellow they are. Yellow… your mom’s favorite color.”
He stares at me, his breaths short, shallow, and then he leans in, kissing my forehead just once before clearing his throat. “So what? You think it’s a sign or something?” His voice cracks. “A sign for what?”
I pull back. “That’s not for me to decide, Leo. It could be nothing. It could be everything. Whatever you want to believe.”
He laughs once and then pulls me into him, his hands stroking my bare arms. “You’re freezing,” he says, and it’s his way of telling me he’s done talking about it. But I know him. I know he’ll be thinking about it, stewing it over in that complicated mind of his. He runs the pads of his fingers down my arms until his hands meet mine, and then he lifts them both, cups them in his and brings them up to his mouth. I watch as his lips part, his breath slow as it leaves him, warming my hands. It’s a move so romantic and so intimate that it catches my breath.
And I catch myself.
Because I can’t do this.
Not again.
“Mia,” he whispers, and I lift my glassy eyes to his.
He stares back.
One second.
Two.
Then he dips his head, his breath heavy against the crook of my neck.
I cannot, will not, break.
Not again.
He whispers, “You have no idea how much it hurts to want you as much as I do.”
I close my eyes and breathe, allow myself this moment. Even if it’s all a lie. I let him hold me under twinkling lights, on the first and only date we’ll ever have.
Because as much as it may hurt him to want me, it hurts me more that I can’t want him back. That I can’t love him the way my heart does.
Chapter Forty-One
Leo
I thought it would be fun to pretend, just for one night, that Mia was mine and I was hers, and this date we were going on was just one of many we’d been on in the years we’d been together. I was wrong. It wasn’t fun at all. In fact, it was kind of depressing. And Mia must feel the same way, because she hasn’t spoken a word since we got in Holden’s truck.
I smile at her, but I can’t say much more. Or do much more. Because the truth is, I’m devastated. I’m in love with a gir
l who might possibly be in love with someone else, and there’s fuck all I can do about it. I told her how I felt, and she didn’t say it back. She didn’t say anything.
When Holden drops us off, Mia and I hold hands on the porch and wave him and his date goodbye. As soon as they’re no longer in view, I drop her hand.
I need distance.
No more touching.
No more feeling.
No more pretending.
Her phone rings, that same stupid ringtone I’ve heard too many times, and I can’t fucking be around her anymore. “Answer it,” I tell her. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Now? It’s, like, almost eleven.”
“I just need to clear my head.” Hands shoved in pockets, I go down the driveway and onto the road, and then I walk. I walk and I walk, but it’s nowhere near as satisfying as the beating I take from running.
I could leave.
That would be the sane thing to do. It would take a couple of days to finish up the barn so it was ready for when John got home, and it’s not as if he needs me to house-sit. Mia’s here. Holden’s here.
I could leave.
It suddenly dawns on me that I haven’t been paying the slightest attention, and now I have no idea where the fuck I am. With a heavy sigh, I pull out my phone to use the GPS. There are a bunch of messages from the family group chat from two hours ago that I must’ve missed.
Lucas: Leo, are you there?
Logan: Leo.
Lucy: LEEEEEELEEEEEE!
Liam: LEEOOOO
Lincoln: LEO!!
Logan: Doesn’t look like it. Call him?
Lucas: Nah, he might be studying.
Lincoln: Swear, he has more self-discipline than anyone I know.
Logan: No shit.
Lucy: I really hope he gets into the college he wants.
Lucas: He will. I’ve never seen him so focused on something.
Logan: He doesn’t go out anymore. Doesn’t party. He’s in those books all the damn time. I’m fucking jealous my lazy ass doesn’t have that built in.
Lucas: At least you’re working and not just sitting on your lazy ass.
Lucy: I miss him. :(
Liam: Hey, Luce. Who’s your favorite brother? Be honest.
Lucy: I don’t have a favorite. It changes every minute with you guys.
Lucas: Lol. That’s what Mom used to say.
Lucy: Exactly. :)
Logan: Why do I never get any other notifications besides this chat. And girls. Obvs.
Liam: Because you don’t have any friends?
Lincoln: None of us have friends.
Lucas: We’ve never needed friends. We’ve always had each other.
I read the passage of texts, over and over, and that homesick feeling I have only doubles. Without a second thought, I hit call on Lucas’s contact. When he answers, he’s almost whispering. “Hey, bro.”
“Sorry, man. Are you and Laney sleeping?”
“Give me a second,” he says, and I can hear the covers shifting and then a door opening and closing. “You there?”
“Yeah. I just, uh…” Miss you? I can’t say that. That would be… weird. “I saw in the chat you were looking for me.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice louder than before. “I know you haven’t decided on colleges yet, but I saw NC State has an open house in October.”
“NC State?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“Unless you don’t want to stay local,” he rushes out. “I mean, obviously it’s somewhat up to you, but… I don’t know, it would kind of suck if we only got to see you during summers and holidays.”
I push down the knot growing in my throat. “NC State would be… I mean, that’d be awesome.”
“Well, you can look around campus and stuff. I did it for UNC and got a lot out of it, so…”
“Yeah, but your route to college is a hell of a lot different than mine.” UNC practically begged Lucas to go there, offering him a full athletic scholarship.
“I went the athletic route because I’m a dumbass. I would’ve failed out within a year if I didn’t run track. You’re different, so, yeah, I guess you’re right.”
We’re quiet a beat, neither of us having anything to add. Finally, he says, “So, I was thinking… if you want… I could go with you—to the open house thing. We can get a hotel room nearby and make a weekend of it. Might even bring Logan for some comic relief.”
There’s a heaviness in my chest, and I can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. “Yeah, that sounds good.” It really fucking does.
“All right, well, you register asap, and I’ll find us a killer hotel.”
“All right.”
“Anyway, you good there? You need me to send you anything, or…?” I’d always seen Luke as a martyr, someone who took on the responsibility of taking care of us even though we didn’t need it, didn’t ask for it. But no one forced him to be the way he is. He does it because he genuinely fucking cares. Eight years since Mom died, and I’m only seeing this now, and now—now I see him as my big brother, my confidant.
“Hey, Luke?” I say, ignoring his question. “How did you do it—when Laney was with Cooper? How did you just… wait?”
He heaves out a sigh so loud it fills the speakers with static.
“I shouldn’t have waited,” he says. It’s so quiet I barely hear it. “Obviously.”
* * *
By the time I return, an hour and a half has passed, and I’ve come up with one simple conclusion to my problems: I can’t keep doing this.
But I can fight for her like Holden said.
When I enter the house, I climb a set of stairs I’ve never climbed before and knock on the door. “Yeah?” Mia calls out, and I open the door, peek inside. She’s sitting up in her bed, covers over her lap, with the phone still to her ear. She taps the screen, probably mute, and says, “What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you?”
She nods. “One sec.”
She taps her phone again, then says, “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
A bedside lamp casts a dim light across her room, and even though I spent many hours wondering what her room looks like, I never wanted to invade her privacy. It’s so different from the rest of the house filled with nothing but tan furniture. Mia’s room is full of light pastel colors and pictures, mainly of her and Holden, pinned to the walls. There’s a desk, a chest of drawers, a full-length mirror, and a white wrought-iron bed with pale-yellow covers. I sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand over the soft fabric. It matches my new bracelet, and I can’t help but smile.
“Okay, bye,” she says into the phone, and then taps a button, drops it on her lap. “What’s going on?” she asks me. Her walls are gray, so light they almost look white. There are a few items of clothing scattered on the floor, and on the pillow next to her is a laptop. The image of her falling asleep while video chatting with her boyfriend flicks in my mind, and I push it away just as fast.
“So this is your room,” I murmur, looking around.
“You’ve never seen it before?” she asks, and I shake my head. “You didn’t even get curious enough to peek in while I was gone last year?” Another head shake. “Huh.”
“Have you ever seen my room?” I ask.
“No.”
I smile over at her. “You never got curious?”
“Only in my mind,” she says, and then lowers her head in embarrassment. “I mean, I never actually snuck a look or anything, just um… imagined.” She rolls her eyes as the last word leaves her.
“What did you imagine it to be like?”
“I don’t know.” Her lips purse as she looks around. “Probably nothing like this.”
“I have plain white walls, all wooden furniture. Desk, bed, and three bookshelves.”
“That’s it?”
I nod.
“Clothes on the floor?”
I almost grimace at the thought.
“So, you’re neat?”
“
I’m… organized. Plus, I spend a lot of time in there, so…”
“So…” she responds, and the elephant in the room hangs in the air between us.
What exactly am I doing here?
I take a second, looking around the room again, while I scratch at my jaw with the backs of my knuckles. That’s when I notice the blank space between a myriad of pictures—the water tower.
I heave out a breath, my head falling between my shoulders. “What happened last year? When we were out on your porch… you kissed me.”
“No,” she says. “You kissed me.
I bite back my scoff and face her. “You kissed me back, Mia. You can’t deny that.”
She looks down at her lap.
“And then you left, and you didn’t just leave me, but you left that picture, and you told me—”
“I know what I told you,” she interrupts.
I sigh, so fucking close to giving up. “Then let me say it out loud.”
Her throat moves with her swallow.
“You told me you loved me.” Silence stretches between us, and I’ve never hated the sound more than I do now. I ask, because I need to know, “How long have you and your boyfriend been together?”
Her breath catches, and every single one of her muscles seems to lock up. Her gaze lifts, locks on mine. “Almost a year.”
“So, like, right after you left?”
“Yes.”
My entire body slumps, as if any life inside me has left, and I’m nothing but flesh and bone. I wish I were anywhere else, but I’m here, and I need to know if this fight is futile. I need information, and I only have one source. “How did you meet?”
“He was one of the interns I told you about.” There’s no lilt in her tone. No excitement at speaking about him. There’s nothing.
“So, he’s in college?”
“Yes. NYU.”
I nod, my jaw working as my eyes drift shut. I keep them closed. Seconds, minutes, hours. There’s a war brewing in my head, in my heart, and when I open my eyes again, I focus on hers. I suck in a breath. “Is he good to you?”
She looks anywhere but at me, and I know she can hear it—the pain in my voice.
