If We Were Us

by K. L. Walther

  The only place I couldn’t duck him was Frontier Lit, so I was relieved when classes ended. It meant I didn’t have to sit across the table from him anymore, and hear the collective breath the class took every time someone finished speaking, waiting for Luke to launch into his counterargument. Because he didn’t think twice about getting into it with people; he checked his shyness at the classroom door. He didn’t pick apart everyone’s opinion, but I always knew when he was about to—­drumming his fingers lightly on the table, rolling his eyes at least twice, and taking a huge gulp from his water bottle to be plenty hydrated. He was the very definition of a Harkness Warrior, someone who slayed class debates. And Mr. Magnusson loved it. If discussion was ever lacking, he would make some statement like, “O Pioneers! does not value Emil and Marie’s love,” and then look at Luke and go, “Mr. Morrissey, your thoughts?”

  Our final for Frontier Lit was just a paper, so I finished that before monitoring the study group that had gathered in my room. Carter Monaghan was attempting to relearn the last three months of precalc, Eddie Brown conjugated French verbs, and Kyle Thompson flipped through his bio flashcards. Dhiraj was waiting for me to edit his Euro paper.

  But then I started thinking about Luke. “You’re the one with the highest GPA, aren’t you?” he’d asked while reading over our joint essay for that map assignment. He glanced up from his laptop and gave me a look, one of his eyebrows raised. Yes? No?

  I’d shrugged. “It’s probably by only a tenth of a point.”

  “Nope.” Luke shook his head. “I bet it’s a flat-­out landslide.”

  I pretended to be downright fascinated by his backpack.

  “Yet,” he continued, “you don’t like talking about it, when—­from what I’ve gathered so far—­you do enjoy talking about yourself quite a bit.”

  I glared at him. “Fuck off.”

  Luke laughed. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant it’s interesting.” He paused. “You’re interesting…”

  God, I now shut my eyes, gut twisting. I just—­

  “Hey, Charlie!” Dhiraj called from across my room. “Is my paper hopeless?”

  * * *

  Now, I lay in my bed and listened to the dial tone, hoping he would answer. Because if I were him, I probably wouldn’t.

  He picked up on the fourth ring. “Hi.”

  I exhaled—­not realizing I hadn’t been breathing. “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “All right, good talk.”

  “No, wait.” I gripped the phone tighter. “How’d your test go today?”

  A beat of silence, and then, “An hour flat.”

  I grinned. Exam blocks were three. “Luke is so freaking humble,” I’d heard Sage say on more than one occasion, but I’d always thought it was mostly bullshit. Luke had a low-­key cocky side to him, and I liked that. I liked that he knew he was smart, and sharp, and quick as hell…

  “Man, I love your brain,” I whispered.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” Luke whispered back after a couple of seconds. “Because I seriously don’t know.”

  I was quiet.

  “I want to figure this out,” he went on, now an edge to his voice. “Since it’s getting a little confusing. You tell me that I’m your friend at homecoming, but after that, proceed to ghost me…and then you said you missed me a few weeks ago.”

  Again, I didn’t say anything, and he didn’t either for a while.

  “And let’s not forget,” he picked up, “your nighttime English class. I somehow got you back to your room, which, I’m going to be candid with you, was pretty much Mission Impossible, and then you asked me to stay.”

  My stomach dropped. Fuck.

  He kept going. “You told me to stay, saying that you didn’t want to be alone, that you couldn’t be alone, and that you feel like you’re always alone…” He paused. “Unless I’m with you.”

  A lump formed in my throat, and I heard Luke sigh.

  “Why did you call me?” he asked.

  I closed my stinging eyes. “Because I think about you all the time.”

  “Likewise,” he said.

  So I dared myself to do it, swallowing hard and murmuring, “And I wish I was holding your hand.”

  Luke let out a deep breath. “I wish I was holding yours too, C.”

  My heart flickered. “What does it stand for?” I asked. “First or last?”

  But he didn’t tell me, instead saying, “I should probably go. It’s late.”

  Which was probably code for Think about it.

  “Okay,” I told him. “Call me over break?”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “So please pick up.”

  Chapter 19

  Sage

  This year’s Thanksgiving festivities were in full swing by the time the Carmichaels arrived, for the first time ever.

  “It was supposed to be all set,” Nick had said during another movie in my room, a few weeks before that horrible night on the golf course. “But Grammy and Poppy just epically pulled the plug. They want to visit friends in Florida, so everyone else is scattering. No road trip to Pennsylvania for us.”

  “Well…” I’d sighed an overdramatic sigh, “I guess you’ll just have to come to the Morgans’ Friendsgiving!” Without much extended family, my mom and I always hosted a big Thanksgiving party for whoever wanted to come in the neighborhood. Everyone brought food, and the day before was spent moving around furniture to set up as many dinner tables as possible. It was my favorite holiday.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Nick grumbled, but with a gleam in his eye. “It won’t be the same as Grammy and Poppy’s, though…”

  “Oh, shut up, Nicholas!” I’d laughed, and then kissed him.

  He grinned and pinched my side, making me giggle more. “I love that.” He was flushed once we broke apart. “I love your laughter.”

  The memory made my heart ache now, as I refilled a six-­year-­old’s plastic cup of apple cider. Nick had just walked into the kitchen and was heading straight for the impressive spread of hors d’oeuvres, everything from a baked Brie with raspberry jam to balsamic bacon-­wrapped Brussels sprouts and butternut squash soup.

  Try it, I remembered Luke telling me. Try explaining yourself.

  “Here you go, Jenna,” I said, handing the little girl her cup. “I’ll see you a little later, okay?” I pointed to where Nick was now piling food onto a plate. “I have to go talk to Nick.”

  Jenna’s eyes grew wide. “Is Nick your boyfriend?”

  I ignored the grimy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Nope. He’s just a friend.”

  But someday, I prayed, hoping he would understand, hoping we could fix things.

  “Well, I have a boyfriend,” she informed me. “His name is Ryan, and he’s in my class.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I replied, glancing over to see Nick sitting at one of the island’s barstools, only an arm’s reach away from the appetizers for when it came time for seconds.

  “But Tori doesn’t believe he’s my boyfriend,” Jenna continued. “Because—­”

  “Have you checked out the dessert table yet?” I interrupted.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “Where is it?”

  “Oh my gosh! In the dining room!”

  Five seconds later, she was gone, and I was moving toward Nick. “Hey,” I said, my hand quivering as I lightly touched his shoulder. “How are you?”

  Nick turned to look at me, and I half-­expected his eyes to widen since this was our first time speaking post–golf course, but they didn’t. They were as calm as could be. “Hey,” he said after swallowing his mouthful of food. “I’m good. How’re you?”

  I nearly fell to the floor. In pieces, I thought. I am in pieces.

  “Congrats on the big win!” I said instead
, stalling. “First place. That’s awesome!” Bexley had beaten Kent in overtime at their Thanksgiving tournament.

  “Thanks,” he replied, smiling without showing his teeth. Not even close to his real smile. “It bodes well for the rest of the season.”

  “Oh, definitely! I bet you guys have a ton of momentum now.”

  “Yeah, we’re really pumped.”

  Then it got awkward, with neither of us saying anything. Even though my house was bursting at the seams with noise and an oven timer was going off, I could still hear crickets. Okay, I thought. Here you go. Ask if he wants to talk somewhere—­

  “I’m gonna go check out what’s happening in the basement,” Nick said. “I’ll see you later?”

  He didn’t even wait for me to respond, nodding in confirmation and then hopping off the barstool to leave the room. Shoulders sinking, I barely had time to blink back tears before someone called my name. I turned to see Mrs. Carmichael. “Sage!” she said. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” I replied. The twins’ mom wrapped me in a hug, Charlie behind her. We hadn’t talked much about our fight, but we were talking again. He’d found me after exams, with Pandora’s as a peace offering. “A CTL,” was all he said. “Your favorite.”

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Mrs. Carmichael apologized after giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “There was”—­she gestured to her son—­“a wardrobe issue.”

  “Yeah, what are you wearing?” I asked Charlie, because I’d seen pictures of the Carmichael twins on Thanksgiving, and they always looked ready for an autumn family photo shoot. Nick looked so dashing in a pair of black watch plaid pants, but Charlie just had on a navy sweater and brown cords, with one of his usual striped ribbon belts cinched tight.

  “None of it fits!” Mrs. Carmichael exclaimed, as if reading my mind. “He came downstairs and I thought he was wearing Nicky’s clothes.” She shook her head. “Sage, I don’t care how you do it, but make sure my son eats tonight. I don’t care if you have to hold his hand or force food down his throat. He needs to eat.”

  I nodded.

  * * *

  “It’s hard to believe,” my mom said as she handed the twins and me tumblers of her famous Thanksgiving cocktail, a sweet auburn-­colored concoction. We were allowed one drink since it was a holiday. “It’s hard to believe that in a few weeks, you’ll hopefully know what’s next.” She and I exchanged a smile. “This is the place for you, Sage,” she’d remarked after a college tour last month, crisp Vermont wind whipping through the air. “I can feel it.”

  I’d given her a big hug and told her I could feel it too. My heart was aflutter, excitement mixed with that familiar feeling of home. This is it, I thought. This is where I want to go to college.

  Now I just had to get in.

  “Oh, I know.” Nick grinned. “I’m amped.”

  “Says the person who already knows what’s next,” Charlie said, elbowing him in the ribs.

  Nick responded by trapping his twin in a one-­armed headlock. I still wanted to retreat under my covers and cry, but also felt a flood of relief, seeing the twins joke together. Just like between me and Charlie, tension among the Carmichaels didn’t last long. There was stuff swept under the rug, but they were too close for any ongoing tension.

  My mom laughed. “And what about you, Charlie? Your parents said you’re keeping your options open…?”

  Charlie nodded and sipped his cocktail. “Yes, but that’s all I’ll say on the subject.” He smiled slyly. “The rest is between me and the college counseling office.”

  “Okay, come on.” I punched his arm. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said, and cocked his head. “Where do you want to go?”

  I rolled my eyes. It had become a game now, trying to get the other to admit where they’d applied. “Definitely colleges,” we usually joked. “Oh, and some universities.”

  It was fun, but in the back of my mind, I kept hearing Nick say that Charlie wanted to go far away for school. Nowhere near here. Part of me worried he’d be living in a broom-closet-­sized room at Oxford come next fall. All the way across the ocean. Who knew?

  I took a sip of my drink and glanced over at Nick, only to catch him watching Charlie as he spoke. Quietly, thoughtfully, and maybe even a little sadly.

  I’m not the only one, I knew. He’s going to miss him too. We’re going to miss him so much.

  * * *

  We went hard on dessert, so hard that I needed to take a moment and breathe after my first plate, but I watched Charlie dig right into his second one (an assortment including slices of pumpkin, pecan, and apple pie, plus a generous scoop of mint chip ice cream). We’d eaten dinner in the front hall with the DePietros from up the street, but now we sat in the kitchen’s breakfast nook. “Does your mom think you have anorexia?” I asked, again noticing how thin he was.

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I just told her the truth—­that besides hockey, I run a lot, and Bexley’s food options are at an all-­time low—­and she seemed to believe that.”

  “You look like the difficult child,” I said. Just like Nick, Kitsey Carmichael looked ready for her Thanksgiving close-­up. Her gold pleated skirt was stunning.

  Charlie chuckled softly. “I am the difficult child. That’s nothing new.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I protested. “You were just…”

  “A challenge,” he filled in the blank, lips curling up in a smile. “I was a challenge.”

  I laughed, remembering our younger days. Charlie had been a precocious child and constantly kept his parents on their toes. When we were in kindergarten, our parents started calling him the mayor, since Charlie knew everyone in the neighborhood and everyone knew him. And I had to smile now, since it was the same way at Bexley. You could drop him in the middle of any situation, and he’d come out with a handful of friends. I loved that about him.

  But I also loved how low-­key his twin was, how calm and collected. The way he could always put you at ease, the way he anchored you on both smooth and stormy days. The way he was just Nick. Suddenly I was choked up, remembering our hors d’oeuvres encounter, and how my plan to talk to him crashed and burned. Try again, my stomach stirred as something buzzed under my fingers. The night’s still young.

  “Hey,” I heard Charlie say, and I snapped out of my Nick reverie to see him holding his phone against his ear. “Happy Turkey Day…” He trailed off, a smile breaking over his face. “Oh, really?” He pushed back his chair. “Well, tell them I say hi…”

  As soon as Charlie was gone, I too was up and on my feet, dessert plates forgotten. Maybe Charlie could eat seconds, but I only knew one person whose sweet tooth was big enough for thirds. So, heart hammering, I weaved through guests until I found Nick eyeing the pumpkin pie in the dining room. Or, more accurately, mourning what remained of the pumpkin pie. Barely a slice, crust already crumbled. “You know…” I said hesitantly. “We have another one.”

  Nick sighed. “This is the other one,” he said. “Your mom pulled it from the pantry after everyone ravaged the first few.”

  “No, Nick.” I shook my head, even though he hadn’t taken his eyes off the prize. “Trust me, there’s another one.”

  * * *

  “Ah, the good old garage fridge,” he said as I slid the pie off its shelf and into his awaiting arms. We hadn’t brought plates, only forks. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I shrugged and moved next to him, leaning against the hood of my mom’s SUV. Nick was already powering through the pan, but I squeezed the utensil in my hand, too anxious to eat. “Are you having fun?” I eventually asked, to break the silence.

  Nick nodded. “Yeah,” he said after swallowing a bite. “You and your mom really do Thanksgiving right.” He pointed his fork at the mudroom door. “This party puts Grammy and Poppy t
o shame.”

  When he laughed, I tried to too, but it was pretty much impossible with tears also pooling in my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Nick, I’m really, really sorry.”

  “It’s all good,” he replied, voice level. “You put me out of my misery…”

  Misery.

  The word felt like a knife through the heart.

  “…by showing me where this baby was.” He took a huge bite of pie, and then smiled his without-­teeth smile. Sarcastic Nick. I hated Sarcastic Nick. “So all’s well that ends well—­”

  I grabbed the pan from him. “Nick, no,” I said, pulse pounding. “I’m not talking about dessert.”

  “Why not? I could seriously live off dessert.”

  “I know,” I said, a few tears falling. I hugged the pie pan close. “I know you can, and that’s…” My voice turned thick. “One of my favorite things about you. I have so many…”

  Nick straightened up from the car, face now solemn. “I do too,” he said. “I have so many favorites.” He fiddled with his fork. “Favorite things about you.”

  My heart fluttered. Here we go, I thought. We’re doing it, we’re fixing it—­

  “That’s what makes us good friends,” he continued, plastering on that stupid no-­teeth smile again. “We’re such good friends.”

  Such good friends.

  My heartbeat slowed down so fast that the world went a little fuzzy. “Yeah.” I barely felt myself nodding. “We’re such good friends.”

  * * *

  Charlie never returned to the party. He didn’t come back for the board games, or to claim leftovers, and not even for the serving of the farewell hot chocolate (with candy canes, to welcome the Christmas season). Good, I thought as my mom and I loaded the dishwasher later. I don’t want to see him anyway.

  Because part of me regretted it, regretted answering his call and leaving Nick on the golf course so I could rescue his twin from Mr. Magnusson’s classroom. I hated myself for it, and right now, it was easy to hate him too.