She was in her cheerleading uniform last night when they crowned her senior homecoming queen at the football game. That orange and white skirt hiked up just below her ass, her bright smile dazzling the crowd. On the arm of one of the players I’ve been coaching, she walked through the arch of balloons like her kingdom was receiving her.
Fuck, I hate how happy she is. It pisses me off, that someone who I used to be happy with, used to smile with, flirt with … that she can still find joy in life when I’m so fucking miserable.
The hope in her eyes when I carried her things to the car after my first day of football coaching? I had to dash that. It was a stupid fucking idea to go up to her in the first place. But then she started babbling about homecoming, and I flashed back to the time Rachel told Scott who told some other guys I knew that Kennedy thought I’d ask her to be my senior prom date.
I’d wanted it to be her. I was a moron for not taking her. But I talked myself in and out of it so many times that, in the end, I just chickened out. Me, the future soldier, couldn’t even muster the guts to ask the girl I was desperately infatuated with to prom.
But those memories came slamming back, and Kennedy had looked so fucking pretty in her practice uniform, and my cutting mouth went to work.
What I’d said was awful. I was the worst kind of prick, the kind who slut shamed a girl and rubbed false accusations in her face to soothe my bruised ego. My plan was to drive her away, to make her hurt as much as I did.
So why did I feel like shit for accomplishing what I’d set out to do?
It was because she called my bluff, fair and square. I’d expected to knock her on her ass, to level her with my verbal attack. But she’d spit back the same amount of realness, instead, devastating me. I’d been blaming her, blaming everyone around me, for the unspeakable atrocities that had happened to me. Even when they supported me, even when they tried to get through to me, even when Kennedy attempted to … love me?
Did she love me?
I wonder if she’s going with anyone, if a guy is meeting her at the dance. Of course, I know it’s homecoming, I coached the game last night, and I could see Kennedy lingering after the final whistle blew. Did she expect me to ask her?
Fuck that, I’m far too old and far too cynical for high school dances anymore.
Maybe Logan Myers will end up being her date. The thought makes my blood boil, and I don’t want it to but the fury is there, nonetheless.
I wanted to strangle the kid when he was making moon eyes at her during practice last week. The way he smugly pursued her, made her blush, chatted her up when he should have been focusing on the blocking drills we were doing.
It was all I could do to keep myself from running over there and tackling him around the middle, then marking my territory by peeing all over Kennedy. Gross metaphor, but you get the picture.
If I’m being honest, I want Kennedy. I still do. I always have. I’ve just never allowed myself to go there, didn’t want to mess things up with my young boy ways if I wasn’t ready. That’s why I made her that promise, that’s why I never allowed myself to get intimate with another girl. I’ve always been saving the special parts for her.
But now, I have no special left to give. If I was with Kennedy, there would be no romance. No sweet moments or love filled days. She would be miserably strapped to the shell of a guy who has little to no positivity left in the tank.
Still, it doesn’t mean I want to see her with anyone else. I know that’s selfish, and it makes me a complete asshole, but if I can’t have her, no one else should either. The yearning and frustration eat me up inside, knowing that I can’t make her happy but seeing her move on to someone else.
It takes all the willpower, and leg shaking, in me to stay shut up in my room rather than storm out of the house and down to the high school.
14
Kennedy
“Have a good night, guys.”
I wiggle my fingers at Rach and Bianca, who giggle as Scott peels off into the night with Damien, Bianca’s boyfriend, in the passenger seat.
They’re probably all going to Bianca’s house to make out, or more, in her basement. I was invited, but as the permanent fifth wheel, I just couldn’t do it tonight. This night was special, second only to prom, and they should spend it romantically.
That’s what I would have wanted if the person I’d always envisioned going to the homecoming dance with had ever asked me. All I got was one dance, my sophomore year.
I couldn’t help but remember it periodically throughout the night. Everett had surprised me, sneaking up behind me just as the chords to John Legend’s “All of Me” began to serenade the dance floor. His strong arms bolstered around me, my cheek on his chest, my fingers tangling in the dark blond curls at the nape of his neck.
When I was having a particularly rough day, if I missed him or even after we got the news about his death, I would imagine us back on that dance floor. The memory haunted me as I moved through the dressed-up cafeteria tonight, a cobweb stuck in my head that I was trying to swat away.
My heels are in my hands as I traipse up the driveway, drunk on ear-splitting music and too many hours goofily dancing with my friends. I’m not the type to spike the punch or take shots in the parking lot; I’m way too anxious to try to get tipsy for a school dance. Knowing me, I’d be the one to rat myself out to a chaperone because I couldn’t take the pressure I was imagining from them.
The black heels clink against each other as I walk, the silk pleats of my dress swooshing against my legs. The night is cooler, and I didn’t bring a coat or even a wrap, but I don’t mind. After sweating against, and being sweat on, by hundreds of other teenagers, the breeze and nip are a welcome pair.
Tonight was more fun than I expected it to be. After the dark cloud Everett’s return has painted over the last few weeks, it was nice to just enjoy a night of ridiculousness with my friends. We danced, laughed, tried to see who could rap the words to a Twista song the fastest, and just had fun.
Logan even asked me to slow dance, and I actually said yes. The senior tight end has always flirted with me, but until Rach and Bi suggested him, I never entertained the idea. I was waiting for a certain someone who I now know will never feel the same way about me. So, I decided it was time. When he held me in his arms as Ed Sheeran sang about perfection, I didn’t have those enormous, all-consuming butterflies floating about in my gut. My skin didn’t tingle, and I didn’t get so nervous that I thought I might be sick. But, I was comfortable, and I felt admired when his eyes sparkled down at me, so I’m counting it as a good step in the right direction.
It’s not until I’m halfway up my driveway that I hear him. I can’t even see him, the darkness of the night shrouding me. My parents must have forgotten to turn on the lights above the garage, and the shadows hide the boy next door.
“You look beautiful.” That deep voice sends goose bumps racing over my skin.
I jump, nearly out of my skin, still unable to see Everett but knowing it can’t be anyone else spying on me.
“You scared the crap out of me. What are you even doing out here?” I ask, peering into the dark.
The figure steps into the moonlight, and goddamn it but my heart stutters. Even in athletic pants and a long sleeve, the boy next door steals my breath.
“Waiting for you.” Those green eyes are so earnest.
The minute his voice hits the air, my bones sag with exhaustion. I’m so tired of this narrative, of the hot and cold.
“I’m over this, Everett. Pick on someone who actually cares.” Sighing, I begin my ascent up the driveway.
“Where is your crown?” he asks, ignoring my declaration.
My back is to him, but I slow my steps. “I gave it to Ashley Tobin.”
I hear the breath he blows out. “Kennedy, you were always too nice for any of us.”
What I did, anyone would have done it. Ashley is a senior, has been in my grade since elementary school. We’ve been friendly since the day we met
, and her having down syndrome just means I look out a little bit more for her than she does for me. We buddy up in clubs we both joined, and tonight, when she wanted to win homecoming queen, I gave her my crown.
“Funny, I thought that’s something you apparently hate about me. Spare me the compassionate act tonight, Everett. I’m tired.”
The moment my feet begin to move, his fingers lightly graze my elbow. Just the barest hint of a touch between us has my heart beating erratically, and every muscle south of my waist melting. How does he have that kind of power, and we’ve never so much as kissed?
“I owe you an apology. Several, actually. I’m sorry, Kennedy, so fucking sorry. I never should have said those things last week. Or the things I said before that. I was out of line, and none of it was even true. When I saw you tonight, with your friends—”
“You were spying on me?” I refuse to let the organ in my chest be charmed by him, but it’s falling no matter what I internally yell at it.
“If you only knew how many times I’ve watched you through my window.” His eyebrow hitches up.
“Pervert.” A tiny smirk twitches at my lips.
“Come sit with me?” He extends a hand.
I don’t take it, but I do step toward him. If I allow Everett to touch me right now, I know I won’t stop it at that. Even for all of my talk, I’m so vulnerable when it comes to him. Case in point, I’m following him across the lawn and taking a seat next to him on the patio couch. The dark vibrates around us, and when I examine the back of both of our homes, all the lights are off.
“You look beautiful.” He breathes, and even though we’re not touching, I feel his words lick up my spine.
“You said that already.” I almost hate myself for staying put.
“I carried that picture of you around in my uniform the entire time I was in that fucking sandstorm.”
My heart flutters. “I forgot I sent that.”
In one of the letters, I’d included this candid photo Rachel had taken of me at cheer practice. I’m in the middle of a laugh, my hair blowing behind my ears, and sun-kissed freckles dotting my nose.
“I never forgot one of your letters. Each of your lines tattooed onto my brain.” Everett seems to be talking to himself more than to me.
And now my heart gallops, because he’s feeding it the exact words it’s always wanted to hear.
“You wrote a lot of things in those letters,” I whisper.
“I meant every one of them.” His response is so quick, I know its sincere. Everett didn’t even have to think about it.
How can I allow him to do this every time? Take a perfectly good night, one I’d almost gone without thinking of him once, and completely turn it into the Everett show? I always let him, that’s why. The charming things he’s saying are invading my heart, twisting it against itself until it’s convinced that it’s not even a part of me. That it’s … his.
I think of Logan, of the easy, fun time we had tonight. I think of how simple the homecoming dance had been, how there wasn’t a lump in my throat the whole time as I considered whether a certain boy would ask me to dance, or take someone else home.
“Or did you mean all the things you’ve said since you came home?” I cut my eyes to him.
From where we sit, our thighs almost touch. But it feels as if we’re oceans apart, separated by the bodies of water that used to come between us when he was shipped overseas.
“You don’t understand.” Everett’s expression pleads with me.
“No, I don’t.” I’m too tired to explain, to argue anymore.
“If I could, I would prove all the things I wrote to you. But that was another life. The things I’ve done …”
He trails off and yet again, hides another piece of himself from me. I don’t know what to say, or why I’m even still sitting here. The cold seeps in, making me shiver.
Everett must notice, because he shrugs out of his sweatshirt. The sleeves of his black tee underneath strain against his biceps, and my mouth goes dry as he leans over to envelop me in the warm material of his discarded layer. The sweatshirt smells like sandalwood and citrus, pure Everett.
“I’m sorry, Kennedy. For everything.”
The whole sequence feels like a dream. I’m silent because I can’t muster up a thought that won’t end in my heartbreak. If I try to confess my feelings again, he’ll only dash them, I know it. But if I forgive him for the things he’s said, I’ll also crack my chest wide open.
We sit on that patio for what feels like an eternity, both never saying all the emotions passing between our gazes.
15
Everett
“This is absolute bullshit.”
I hear Dad swear into the phone, and I’m honestly shocked to my core. And not a lot stirs emotion in me these days. But my old man doesn’t curse, and if he’s doing so right now, it’s because something is really pissing him off.
From where I lounge on the couch, as Mom starts dinner in the kitchen on the other side of our open concept house, I see him slam his cell down onto the table. The forks and glasses, which I set begrudgingly when Mom asked, rattle from the force.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, her voice brittle.
She’s been jumpy and anxious since I got home. I know it’s my fault, that what happened has probably changed her to the root, and for that I feel guilty.
“The goddamn military in this country is crooked. The whole lot of them!” Dad runs a shaking hand through his hair.
If they only knew.
“Dad, calm down.” Even I’m concerned now, seeing him this fed up.
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I don’t how they can actively deny you your veteran benefits. Every time I call, it’s a different excuse. Active investigation, paperwork being filed, some kind of active duty status still pending—”
“Are they going to send me back?” Until now, I hadn’t really thought this was an option.
Because if that’s so, I’ll flee. I’ll off myself. I will do anything to avoid going back to that sandstorm.
“No. You’re staying right here. Anyone who tries that will have to come through me.” I’ve never heard my father so fired up.
Taking a shaky breath, because it feels like a train hit my chest when he said active duty, I press my fingers against my temples. A headache is forming, and I need to hold it at bay.
The only reason Dad has been calling instead of me is because I won’t muster the energy to do it myself. Not only do I want nothing to do with the Marines for the rest of my life, but talking to strangers and lobbying for myself isn’t high on my list of priorities anymore.
“This is ridiculous. After what our son has been through …” Mom breaks off, clamping her lips shut like she’s trying not to let a sob out.
So, I’m captured by the enemy while serving my country and now they’re going to try to deny me my veteran benefits? They’re probably right to do that. If they knew what I’d done, what had really happened the night I was captured, they would do much worse than revoke my right to a free college education and the likes.
Not that I necessarily want the benefits. The therapy, the free education, the insurance, does any of it matter? I’m not planning on making something of my life, no matter how hard Dr. Liu or my parents try. What’s done is done, I’m damaged goods.
“Let’s all take a breath. There isn’t more we can do about it now. I was lucky enough to pull your General’s information out of the lowly desk guy this time, and I’ll try to get in touch.” Dad tries to move us past the tense moment.
“Everett, can you help me peel the potatoes?” Mom asks, taking his lead.
Huffing, I almost don’t rise from the couch. But then I see their faces, and I know I can’t disappoint them tonight. I’ve turned out to be such a letdown, such a loser, that I can do them this one small gratitude.
Joining Mom at the counter, I take the peeler from where she holds it out to me, and begin peeling the brown ski
ns off the lumpy circles.
Looking across the yard, out the kitchen window past the red and orange leaves falling off the trees, I think about Kennedy. I shouldn’t have gone over to her driveway last night. Shouldn’t even have talked to her. In the harsh light of day, I only caused more trouble. Telling her she’s beautiful, that I wish I could be with her? That was such a fucking mistake. In a moment of weakness, I let all the venom and vinegar leak out of me, revealing my true feelings.
But that can’t be the Everett she knows now. I know what I did. I just strung her along even further. I gave her hope, and what a shitty thing to do. Because I can’t act on it, I can’t become the better guy. If Kennedy ever knew just what I’ve done, just what fucked-up things live inside my head?
She’d run for the hills.
They all would. If anyone knew what I was really capable of, they would send me straight back to that hole in the ground.
Still, there is something about her that is undeniable. I can’t stay away.
Even though I know it’s going to land us in a world of trouble, I can’t fight the magnetic pull that brings us together time and again.
16
Kennedy
I reach the end of my sentence, slap a period on it, and should feel a floating sense of relief.
Except that all I feel is … dissatisfied.
Looking at the six-hundred-word essay I have written, rewritten, tried to pour my heart and soul into, and had every emotion in between about, I feel no closure at all.
I thought that when I got to the end of compiling my thoughts, when my college admissions essay was done, that I’d feel some kind of elation. But I know that it’s not done, it’s not what I want to turn in. How does someone fit all of their hopes and dreams into three paragraphs of text? How do I relay just how much I yearn to go to my top choice, how much I want to study diligently and hone the craft of nursing? All of my sentences, my ideas, they sound so arbitrary and without emotion.
Hometown Heartless Page 8
