Never Never

by Colleen Hoover

  Right when I open my mouth to ask her what just made her smile, a muffled ring comes from the console. I flip it open and reach in until I find the phone. When I look at the screen, I read the contact.

  Charlie baby

  I guess that answers my question. She must also have a nickname for me. I swipe answer and bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, Charlie baby.”

  She laughs, and it comes at me twice. Once through my phone and again from the seat next to me.

  “I’m afraid we might have been a pretty cheesy couple, Silas baby,” she says.

  “Seems like it.” I run the pad of my thumb around the steering wheel, waiting for her to speak again. She doesn’t. She’s still staring at the unfamiliar house.

  “Call me as soon as you get a chance, okay?”

  “I will,” she says.

  “You might have kept a journal. Look for anything that could help us.”

  “I will,” she says again.

  We’re both still holding our phones to our ears. I’m not sure if she’s hesitating to get out because she’s scared of what she’ll find inside or because she doesn’t want to leave the only other person who understands her situation.

  “Do you think you’ll tell anyone?” I ask.

  She pulls the phone from her ear, swiping the end button. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m going crazy.”

  “You’re not going crazy,” I say. “Not if it’s happening to both of us.”

  Her lips press into a tight, thin line. She gives her head the softest nod, as if it’s made from glass. “Exactly. If I were going through this alone, it would be easy to just say I’m going crazy. But I’m not alone. We’re both experiencing this, which means it’s something else entirely. And that scares me, Silas.”

  She opens the door and steps out. I roll the window down as she closes the door behind her. She folds her arms over the windowsill and forces a smile as she gestures over her shoulder toward the house behind her. “I guess it’s safe to say I won’t have a housekeeper to cook me grilled cheese.”

  I force a smile in return. “You know my number. Just call if you need me to come rescue you.”

  Her fake smile is swallowed up by a genuine frown. “Like a damsel in distress.” She rolls her eyes. She reaches through the window and grabs her backpack. “Wish me luck, Silas baby.” Her endearment is full of sarcasm, and I kind of hate it.

  “Mom?” My voice is weak, a squeak. I clear my throat. “Mom?” I call again.

  She comes careening around the corner and I immediately think of a car without brakes. I retreat two steps until my back is flush against the front door.

  “What were you doing with that boy?” she hisses.

  I can smell the liquor on her breath.

  “I…he brought me home from school.” I wrinkle my nose and breathe through my mouth. She’s all up in my personal space. I reach behind me and grab the doorknob in case I need to make a quick exit. I was hoping to feel something when I saw her. She was my incubating uterus and birthday party thrower for the last seventeen years. I half expected a rush of warmth or memories, some familiarity. I flinch away from the stranger in front of me.

  “You skipped school. You were with that boy! Care to explain?”

  She smells like a bar just vomited on her. “I don’t feel like…myself. I asked him to bring me home.” I back up a step. “Why are you drunk in the middle of the day?’

  Her eyes splay wide and for a minute I think it’s a real possibility that she might hit me. At the last moment she stumbles back and slides down the wall until she’s sitting on the floor. Tears invade her eyes and I have to look away.

  Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

  Yelling I can deal with. Crying makes me nervous. Especially when it’s a complete stranger and I don’t know what to say. I creep past her just as she buries her face in her hands and begins to sob hard. I’m not sure if this is normal for her. I hesitate, hovering right where the foyer ends and the living room starts. In the end, I leave her to her tears and decide to find my bedroom. I can’t help her. I don’t even know her.

  I want to hide until I figure something out. Like who the hell I am. The house is smaller than I thought. Just past where my mother is crying on the floor, there is a kitchen and a small living room. They sit squat and orderly, filled to the max with furniture that doesn’t look like it belongs. Expensive things in a non-expensive house. There are three doors. The first is open. I peer in and see a plaid bedspread. My parents’ bedroom? I know from the plaid bedspread that it isn’t mine. I like flowers. I open the second of the doors: a bathroom. The third is another bedroom on the left side of the hallway. I step inside. Two beds. I groan. I have a sibling.

  I lock the door behind me, and my eyes dart around the shared space. I have a sister. By the looks of her things she is younger than me by at least a few years. I stare at the band posters that adorn her side of the room with distaste. My side is simpler: a twin bed with a dark purple comforter and a framed black and white print that hangs on the wall over the bed. I immediately know it’s something Silas photographed. A broken gate that hangs on its hinges; vines choking their way through the rusted metal prongs—not as dark as the prints in his bedroom, perhaps more suited toward me. There is a stack of books on my nightstand. I reach for one to read the title when my phone pings.

  Silas: You okay?

  Me: I think my mom is an alcoholic and I have a sister.

  His response comes a few seconds later.

  Silas: I don’t know what to say. This is so awkward.

  I laugh and set my phone down. I want to dig around, see if I can find anything suspicious. My drawers are neat. I must have OCD. I toss around the socks and underwear to see if I can piss myself off.

  There is nothing in my drawers, nothing in my nightstand. I find a box of condoms stuffed in a purse under my bed. I look for a journal, notes written by friends—there is nothing. I am a sterile human, boring if not for that print above my bed. A print which Silas gave to me, not one I picked out myself.

  My mother is in the kitchen. I can hear her sniffling and making herself something to eat. She’s drunk, I think. Maybe I should ask her some questions and she won’t remember I asked them.

  “Hey, er…mom,” I say, coming to stand near her. She pauses in her toast-making to look at me with bleary eyes.

  “So, was I being weird last night?”

  “Last night?” she repeats.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You know…when I came home.”

  She scrapes the knife over the bread until it is smeared with butter.

  “You were dirty,” she slurs. “I told you to take a shower.”

  I think of the dirt and leaves in Silas’s bed. That means we were probably together.

  “What time did I get home? My phone was dead,” I lie.

  She narrows her eyes. “Around ten o’clock.”

  “Did I say anything…unusual?”

  She turns away and wanders over to the sink where she bites into her toast and stares down the drain.

  “Mom! Pay attention. I need you to answer me.”

  Why does this feel familiar? Me begging, her ignoring.

  “No,” she says simply. Then I have a thought: my clothes from last night. Off the kitchen there is a small closet with a stacked washer and dryer inside of it. I open the lid to the washing machine and see a small mound of wet clothes clumped at the bottom. I pull them out. They are definitely my size. I must have thrown them in here last night, tried to wash away the evidence. Evidence of what? I pry the pockets of the jeans open with my fingers and reach inside. There is a wad of paper, clumped in a thick, damp mess. I drop the jeans and carry the wad back to my room. If I try to unfold it, it might fall apart. I decide to set it on the windowsill and wait for it to dry.

  I text Silas.

  Me: Where are you?

  I wait a few minutes and when he doesn’t text back, I try again.

  Me: Silas!

  I w
onder if I always do this; harass him until he answers.

  I send five more and then I toss my phone across the room, burying my face in Charlie Wynwood’s pillow to cry. Charlie Wynwood probably never cried. She has no personality from the looks of her bedroom. Her mother is an alcoholic and her sister listens to crappy music. And how do I know that the poster above my sister’s bed compares love to a boom and a clap, but I don’t remember said sister’s name? I wander over to her side of the small bedroom and rummage around in her things.

  “Ding, ding, ding!” I say, pulling a pink polka dot journal out from under her pillow.

  I settle down on her bed and flip open the cover.

  Property of Janette Elise Wynwood.

  DO NOT READ!

  I ignore the warning and page to her first entry, titled:

  Charlie sucks.

  My sister is the worst person on the planet. I hope she dies.

  I close the book and put it back underneath the pillow.

  “That went well.”

  My family hates me. What type of human are you when your own family hates you? From across the room my phone tells me that I have a text. I jump up, thinking it’s Silas, suddenly feeling relieved. There are two texts. One is from Amy.

  Where r u?!!

  And the other is from a guy named Brian.

  Hey, missed u today. Did you tell him?

  Him who? And tell him what?

  I set my phone down without answering either of them. I decide to give the journal another try, skipping all the way to Janette’s last entry, which was last night.

  Title: I might need braces but we’re too broke. Charlie had braces.

  I run my tongue over my teeth. Yup, they feel pretty straight.

  Her teeth are all straight and perfect and I’m going to have a snaggle tooth forever. Mom said she’d see about financing but ever since that thing happened with dad’s company we don’t have money for normal things. I hate taking packed lunch to school. I feel like a kindergartener!

  I skip a paragraph in which she details her friend, Payton’s, last period. She’s ranting about her lack of menstruation when her journaling is disturbed by yours truly.

  I have to go. Charlie just got home and she’s crying. She hardly ever cries. I hope Silas broke up with her—would serve her right.

  So I was crying when I came home last night? I walk over to the windowsill where the paper from my pocket has somewhat dried. Carefully smoothing it out, I lay it on the desk my sister and I seem to share. Part of the ink has washed away, but it looks like a receipt. I text Silas.

  Me: Silas, I need a ride.

  I wait again, growing irritated with his delay in response. I am impatient, I think.

  Me: There’s a guy named Brian who’s texting me. He’s really flirty. I can ask him for a ride if you’re busy…

  My phone pings a second later.

  Silas: Hell no. OMW!

  I smile.

  It shouldn’t be a problem slipping out of the house since my mother has passed out on the sofa. I watch her for a moment, studying her sleeping face, trying desperately to remember it. She looks like Charlie, only older. Before I head outside to wait for Silas, I cover her with a blanket and grab a couple of sodas from the barren fridge.

  “See ya, Mom,” I say quietly.

  I can’t tell if I’m going back to her because I feel protective over her or possessive of her. Either way, I don’t like the idea of her reaching out to someone else. It makes me wonder who this Brian guy is, and why he thinks it’s okay to send her flirty texts when Charlie and I are obviously together.

  My left hand is still clutching my phone when it rings again. There’s no number on the screen. Just the word “Bro.” I slide my finger across it and answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  It’s a guy’s voice. A voice that sounds a lot like mine. I look left and right, but nothing is familiar about the intersection I’m passing through. “I’m in my car.”

  He groans. “No shit. You keep missing practice, you’ll be benched.”

  Yesterday’s Silas probably would have been pissed off about this. Today’s Silas is relieved. “What day is today?”

  “Wednesday. Day before tomorrow, day after yesterday. Come get me, practice is over.”

  Why does he not have his own car? I don’t even know this kid and he already feels like an inconvenience. He’s definitely my brother.

  “I have to pick up Charlie first,” I tell him.

  There’s a pause. “At her house?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another pause. “Do you have a death wish?”

  I really hate not knowing what everyone else seems to know. Why would I not be allowed at Charlie’s house?

  “Whatever, just hurry up,” he says, right before hanging up.

  She’s standing in the street when I turn the corner. She’s staring at her house. Her hands are resting gently at her sides, and she’s holding two sodas. One in each hand. She’s holding them like weapons, like she wants to throw them at the house in front of her in hopes that they’re actually grenades. I slow the car down and stop several feet from her.

  She’s not wearing the same clothes she had on earlier. She’s wearing a long, black skirt that covers her feet. A black scarf is wrapped around her neck, falling over her shoulder. Her shirt is tan and long-sleeved, but she still looks cold. A gust of wind blows and the skirt and scarf move with it, but she remains unaffected. She doesn’t even blink. She’s lost in thought.

  I’m lost in her.

  When I put the car in park, she turns her head, looks at me and then immediately casts her eyes at the ground. She walks toward the passenger door and climbs inside. Her silence seems to be begging for my silence, so I don’t say anything as we head toward the school. After a couple of miles, she relaxes against the seat and props one of her booted feet against the dash. “Where are we going?”

  “My brother called. He needs a ride.”

  She nods.

  “Apparently I’m in trouble for not showing up to football practice today.” I’m sure she can tell by the lackadaisical tone of my voice that I’m not too concerned about missing practice. Football isn’t really on my list of priorities right now, so being benched is probably the best outcome for everyone.

  “You play football,” she says, matter of fact. “I don’t do anything. I’m boring, Silas. My room is boring. I don’t keep a journal. I don’t collect anything. The only thing I have is a picture of a gate, and I didn’t even take the picture. You did. All I have with any personality in my whole room is something you gave me.”

  “How do you know the picture is from me?”

  She shrugs and tugs her skirt taut across her knees. “You have a unique style. Kind of like a thumbprint. I could tell it was yours because you only take pictures of things that people are too scared to stare at in real life.”

  She doesn’t like my photographs, I guess.

  “So…” I ask, staring straight ahead. “Who’s this Brian guy?”

  She picks up her phone and opens her texts. I’m trying to look over at them, knowing I’m too far away to read them, but I make the effort, anyway. I notice she tilts her phone slightly to the right, shielding it from my view. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I tried to scroll back and see if I could figure out anything from texts, but our messages are confusing. I can’t tell if I was dating him or you.”

  My mouth is dry again. I take one of the drinks she brought with her and pop the top of it. I take a long sip and set it back in the cup holder. “Maybe you were messing around with both of us.” There’s an edge to my voice. I try to soften it. “What do his texts from today say?”

  She locks the phone and turns it face down in her lap, almost as if she’s ashamed to look at it. She doesn’t answer me. I can feel my neck flush, and I recognize the warmth of the jealousy creeping through me like a virus. I don’t like it.

  “Text him b
ack,” I say to her. “Tell him you don’t want him to text you anymore and that you want to work it out with me.”

  She cuts her eyes in my direction. “We don’t know our situation,” she says. “What if I didn’t like you? What if we were both ready to break up?”

  I look back at the road and grind my teeth together. “I just think it’s better if we stick together until we figure out what happened. You don’t even know who this Brian guy is.”

  “I don’t know you, either,” she bites back.

  I pull into the parking lot of the school. She’s watching me closely, waiting on my response. I feel like I’m being baited.

  I park the car and turn it off. I grip the steering wheel with my right hand and my jaw with my left hand. I squeeze both. “How do we do this?”

  “Can you be a little more specific?” she says.

  I give my head the slightest shake. I don’t know if she’s even looking at me to notice. “I can’t be specific, because I’m referring to everything. To us, our families, our lives. How do we figure this out, Charlie? And how do we do it without finding things out about each other that are going to piss us off?”

  Before she can answer me, someone exits a gate and begins walking toward us. He looks like me, but younger. Maybe a sophomore. He’s not as big as me yet, but from the looks of him, he’s probably going to pass me in size.

  “This should be fun,” she says, watching my little brother approach the car. He walks straight to the back passenger side and swings open the door. He tosses in a backpack, an extra pair of shoes, a gym bag, and finally, himself.

  The door slams.

  He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through his texts. He’s breathing heavily. His hair is sweaty and matted to his forehead. We have the same hair. When he looks up at me, I see that we also have the same eyes.

  “What’s your problem?” he asks.

  I don’t respond to him. I turn back around in my seat and glance at Charlie. She has a smirk on her face and she’s texting someone. I almost want to grab her phone and see if she’s texting Brian, but my phone vibrates from her text as soon as she hits send.