I don’t know.
And I’m not sure I care, either.
I sigh, click over to my vlog page, and refresh it aimlessly a few times, but I don’t know what to think, what to do. Then I see my camera positioned in front of me. My camera. The only way I have ever been able to get my thoughts out before. It worked for Mom, kind of, so maybe it’ll work now. For Cat. For Dad. I roll my eyes at how stupid it sounds, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. So I reach out and turn on then camera, take a breath, and start talking.
“Sometimes,” I say into the lens, “loving people sucks. It’s scary, terrifying really, but you have to do it. You have to take that deep breath and make the plunge, for all of its hurt and emptiness and confusion to come, because loving someone is worth it. I loved my mom,” I say, but I can’t look at the camera any longer. Instead, I focus my gaze on my light-blue-painted wall in front of me. I keep blinking and blinking, hoping the tears won’t come again. “She’s gone now,” I continue, “and now my dad is gone to me, too. It… hurts… to lose someone you love. When Mom died, I…” I close my eyes. Talk about making a fool of myself. “I didn’t know what to do,” I say, my voice hushed. “I felt empty, lost, hurt, and more than that, I felt confused. How could someone I love die on me like that? How could it hurt so much? And why couldn’t I have had a warning? I mean, I never even got to say goodbye…” Another pained breath. The tears keep threatening to come, but I fight them. I’m not going to cry. I’m strong. I’m strong. “And then I couldn’t stop wondering why the hell I bothered to love her in the first place, if all it did was leave me with tears and pain and a deep sense of confusion.”
I grit my teeth.
“That was my low point. How could I forget all of the happiness she brought me when she was alive, just like that? How could it suddenly be not worth it? How could a moment of pain change how I feel about my own mother? I didn’t know, and that was and still is the problem: I don’t know. But,” I say, “I wouldn’t trade loving her for anything else. Sure, the memories don’t turn into happiness as quickly as they say. Sure, you don’t just ‘get better’ one morning. Sure, it feels like you’re trapped and will never escape. But that doesn’t matter. It feels like that because you’ve loved someone, and that’s an amazing thing. That’s something important. And yeah, it hurts. It fucking burns. “But,” I say, “it hurts because it matters.”
I pause, my temples pounding, my head throbbing so hard I swear it’s about to explode. “There’s this girl who I’ve known for the longest time who, the other month, told me she loves me. And now? Now I’m afraid of her. Afraid of wanting her. Afraid of loving her. But why? For what? Because I’ll be broken again? Once again, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I just know… that I don’t want to put myself out there again. That I don’t want to lose anyone else.” I tighten my jaw. “But I’m done hiding. I’m done being afraid. So I’m taking the leap. Eventually, it will hurt. Eventually, I will fall off this cliff of happiness, at least for a while. And yes, it will feel like my heart is being ripped apart over again, but it won’t even matter, because I will have been with her.”
I close my eyes and look away, my whole body a mess of energy and mixed emotions. Then, without thinking, I turn off the camera, sync the recording to my computer, take a deep breath, and upload it.
***
“West!” Dad calls from downstairs a few minutes later. “Dinner! Now!” I sigh and stand up. Time to make him dinner. Again. I stumble down the stairs, my head throbbing, and turn into the kitchen.
But this time, Dad isn’t sitting on the table with his beer, waiting for me to do all his work for him. In fact, all of the beers are tucked in the corner of the room, near the recycling, and Dad is standing in the kitchen, wearing Mom’s old apron and holding up a spatula. I stare at him, and he forces a small smile as he holds out a piece of chicken.
“I made dinner,” is all he says.
Chapter 17
It hits me the second I swing open the front door on my way back from school the next day. Cat’s birthday. It’s tomorrow.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. It’s really her birthday tomorrow, isn’t it? And I forgot. I’ve been so focused on everything else that I completely forgot my best friend’s birthday. I haven’t even gotten her anything.
Yep. I’m officially the worst friend ever.
But after everything else I’ve screwed up, there is no way I’m ruining her birthday of all things.
In a flash, I throw my backpack inside, mumble to my dad that I’m going to get Cat a gift even though I know he can’t hear me, turn, and run back out the door. I’m many things, but “poor present giver” is not one of them. I’m basically the king of presents, and I plan to stay that way.
I climb into Dad’s old pickup truck, slam the door, turn on the ignition, and start driving. I almost hit our mailbox as I back out, but I don’t care. I press my foot on the accelerator and speed down the road to the supermarket, because that’s where all the true present-giving badasses go. One red light, one downed stop sign, and two near-dead old ladies later (I’m still not entirely sure how I passed the driver’s test…) I skid into the grocery store parking lot.
“This’ll be the best damn birthday present you’ve ever seen, Cat Davenport,” I mutter to myself as I push open the door, step out of the car, and walk inside the store. The supermarket itself is less “super” than it is a market, with its mere four cramped aisles of food. At the very least, however, it has what I need. The lights flicker above me as I walk, and I appear to be the only customer in here aside from the creepy old man standing in the corner. I go for the cake supplies immediately. Cat loves cake almost as much as I love ice cream. But even more than that, she loves cake when someone bakes it for her. I remember how her face lit up last year, when I made her the most kickass Dora the Explorer cake known to man, how she shrieked and danced and grinned at me. Just the thought of her looking so happy brings a smile to my lips.
On top of the standard cake supplies I grab Oreos, chocolate icing, and a packet of sour gummy worms, her favorite toppings. I also slip in a bag of cookie dough for myself because hey, a guy’s got to eat.
When I’m back home, I head to the kitchen, dump out the eggs and sugar and the rest of the groceries into a large white bowl, and begin my cake cooking expedition. Dad isn’t in the kitchen for once, and that I am thankful for. He’s probably passed out on the sofa in the family room, though, which is not exactly something I want to get myself into now. So I distract myself with cooking. Next I get out the butter, the Oreos, and start preparing the cake.
There is no way I’m screwing up Cat’s birthday, too, I tell myself as I work. There. Is. No. Way.
It takes a few hours of cooking mastery before the cake is finally ready, but when it’s done, the cake is, let’s be honest here, fan-fucking-tastic. It’s large, at least the size of my face, and it’s smothered all over with dark chocolate icing. Above the icing is a layer of sour gummy worms, and on top of those, I make a mini Oreo pyramid.
But the cake is not done yet. The best birthday gifts are also sentimental, so I head back up the stairs to my room. Pictures, I tell myself. I need pictures. Old pictures of Cat and I, of us smiling and having a good time, of Cat doing weird things and me taking photos of it. I’ll put them around the cake, on the plate, for her. When I reach my room I hear Dad muttering to himself in his own room across the way. For an instant, I strain to hear what he’s saying, but I can’t make out his words. I shake my head and shut my bedroom door. It doesn’t matter. I go back to looking for pictures of Cat.
It takes me a minute of throwing around clothes and old trinkets before I find a photo album of us. I smile a little as I pull it out and open it up.
I flip through page after page of photos, starting with when Cat and I were kids and we went to the bus stop for the first time, to when we were six and lost our first teeth and showed off our gap-toothed smiles to the camera, to when
we went skiing together in sixth grade and quickly learned we were not born skiiers. I pull out a few more pictures here and there, of Cat and me sticking out our tongues to the camera, posing in front of The Icecreamery as kids, and so on. Eventually, I make my way to the more recent pictures, smiling like an idiot all the way through. I feel something else, too, though; the beating of my heart. The buoyancy inside me. I look at the pictures of us, how close we were, how much we loved being around each other, and I start to feel… well…
I turn the page before I can finish the thought. These pictures are of Cat and me showing off our dorky Harry Potter Halloween outfits, Cat and me looking like Sumo Wrestlers as we joke-fight each other on the boardwalk by the lake, Cat holding my hand and telling me I’m the biggest badass of a friend anyone could ever ask for.
I flip the page. Next are pictures of us playing our epic games of whiffleball, which Cat always won, where we were laughing and smiling and not caring how stupid we looked. Another picture shows us on that trip to France we took with Mom last year, where we’re wearing fake mustaches and French painter hats, posing for the camera and grinning so hard. The next shows me and Cat doing our best fish impressions at the beach, our faces inches apart, our lips puckered like a fish’s. Then, I see one of Cat and me dressed up for our first Prom, our arms around each other, our faces so close and smiles so wide. By how happy we looked with each other, it seemed like we were going to Prom together, even though we went with different people.
I turn the page. My heart tingles, rising slowly upward in my chest. All of a sudden, I can’t think straight. I’ve completely forgotten why I was even looking at these pictures in the first place, because now it’s just Cat and me and our memories. And as I look at those pictures of us laughing and smiling and being dorks and not caring because we have each other, my eyes start to mist—and I just know.
I know like you know if you failed a Math test, or you did well in a job interview; I know because of that little instinct in the back of my mind screaming at me that “YES!! THIS IS THE RIGHT ANSWER!”
I know right then, as I stare at those pictures, that my quest for happiness, for love, was right in front of me the whole time.
I know that I, West Ryder, am in love with my best friend.
***
Before I realize what I’m doing, I bolt out of my bedroom, abandoning the cake and the photos and my dad and everything else, fly down the stairs, out the front door, and sprint faster than I ever have before to Cat’s house. It isn’t a long run, but I wouldn’t have noticed if it were a thousand miles long because I can’t stop smiling. My whole head is filled with Cat Cat Cat and me me me, and how did I not notice, how could I have missed that I’m in love with my best friend this whole time?
It’s midnight, so I run in tune with the crickets chirping in the distance, smiling as the wind ruffles my hair. A few minutes later I arrive at her front door, panting like crazy, my whole body so light I might as well as be flying, my heart skittering in my chest.
I’m in love with Cat. I’m in love with my best friend.
Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. This is really happening, isn’t it? I’m really in love with her?
Cat opens the door a minute after I ring the doorbell, yawning a little.
She frowns when she lays eyes on me. “West? Everything okay? It’s late.”
I look at her. She’s dressed in her Harry Potter pajamas and a pair of pink socks, and she holds her hands at her waist. Her hair is a mess, but it looks so adorable and perfect in its own little way. Dark circles surround her eyelids, but her blue eyes shine so brightly it still looks like she can take on anything.
“Yeah,” I say, “everything’s fine. Sorry to wake you, it’s just…” I step forward, not taking my eyes off her, her lips, the tiny traces of freckles that dot her nose. I’m not sure how to tell her. Tell her that I love her. That I know it for real now. That I want to be with her forever and ever.
But I know I have to.
“Why do you love me?” I say instead, taking a deep breath and watching her closely.
“What?”
“Why. Do. You. Love. Me?”
Cat shakes her head. “West, no, c’mon, we agreed to forget—”
“Cat,” I say. “Please just answer me.” I grit my teeth. “Why do you love me?”
“You really want to know?”
“I do.”
She sighs. Turns. Looks at me. Her eyes linger on mine for the longest time before she says anything, taking me in, studying me. She’s so beautiful, I realize, as the moonlight pours down on her. Perfect even though she just rolled out of bed—perfect to me.
I love her. I need her. We know each other inside and out, and she is my everything. She has been my everything since the beginning.
“I love you, West Ryder,” Cat finally says, “because you’re you. Because you’re smart and funny and weird and so goddamn charming”—she smiles distantly—“and you aren’t afraid to be you. I love you because we mesh, because you’re weird and I’m weird and we’re all weird together. When I’m around you I can’t stop smiling and yeah, that’s incredibly cheesy, but it is entirely true. I love you because I feel lonely when I’m not talking to you, not with you. I love you, West, because you are the one for me.”
She stops then, draws in another breath, and steps closer to me. It’s only a fraction of a movement, but it makes my heart skip a beat.
Her words seem to echo throughout the neighborhood. I love you because you’re you.
“And you, West? Why are you asking this?” She says it so carefully it’s like she’s testing a frozen pond to make sure it supports her weight.
I give a little half-smile. “Can’t a guy ask a question without ulterior motives?”
“Some guys, maybe. But you sure can’t. I know you too well for that.”
There’s a long pause, and I can’t stop staring at her. I feel so invincible now, because I love her and I finally, finally know it. I don’t know how to tell it to her, to possibly put all she means to me into words. I can’t, though. Words can’t ever express how important Cat is to me, or how much I love her. “You know,” I say quietly, “how every winter that creek down the street would freeze? And you’d always race down to it and when it was solid enough to walk on, you’d get all agitated? Well, I remember asking you what was wrong, because we could play on the ice and wasn’t that a good thing? But you just shook your head like you knew something I didn’t, and you told me that was the problem.”
“It makes no sense, yeah,” she says, looking at me uncertainly. “But I was eight.”
I step forward again. I notice how her lips curl at my movement, how her eyes light up for the tiniest instant. “I know it makes no sense,” I whisper. “But you and the creek…. It’s the same as here. With me and you.”
“Huh?”
I don’t answer her this time. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to tell her.
“What’s the matter, West?” I open my eyes. Cat’s are locked on mine, and she looks a mix between worry and a growing sense of curiosity.
“The matter? This is the matter. All of this. I’m frickin’ in love with my best friend. I’m…” I take a deep breath and all of a sudden, it hits me. Just like that. “I’m in love with you, Cat,” I whisper. “And it’s like the creek because that’s the problem: that I’m in love with you.”
As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, Cat’s face lights up, and I see her suppressing a smile. She moves even closer to me now, her hips touching mine, and I feel her warmth against my body, her hands flickering, just slightly, back and forth and back and forth at her side. She’s so close I could give in to temptation right now and touch her, kiss her, get lost in her closeness and her love.
I hold back.
Barely.
Finally, Cat opens her mouth to speak. I’m afraid she’s going to say something scolding, or disappointed, or whatever the hell they say on TV when a character tells anothe
r character he loves her, but instead Cat just smiles. “You are so weird,” she says simply.
My stomach tightens. “Yes?”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she reaches a hand out. I don’t move as she traces the side of my face, my cheek, my smile with her fingers. My whole body tingles at her touch, and I just look at her, breathing in, breathing out. I feel so tight, and every single muscle in my body freezes up the instant her skin connects with mine. In that instant, all I want is for her to keep going, to keep touching me, to hold me, just hold me, until the world melts away. “Tomorrow is my birthday,” she says.
“Yeah. I know.”
She stops tracing, but her finger does not leave my skin. I’m so aware of her touch, of her closeness to me. I smell her vanilla shampoo, hear each of her soft, satisfied breaths. “My seventeenth birthday.”
“I know…”
She glances up at me, her eyes now leveling with mine. They look so serious, like one touch will shatter them.
“Seventeen and in love,” she says so softly I swear she’s talking to herself. She sighs, and I can’t move, can’t look away from Cat. She keeps standing there, not moving, and all I want is for her to kiss me, to hold me, to never let go. My body wants it so badly that it both terrifies and exhilarates me, that I realize both her warmth and her lips are what I’ve been waiting for this whole time. She’s my best friend and look where we are. Here. At midnight. Wanting each other. Needing each other.
But as I look into her eyes, as I remember all the time we’ve held hands and laughed and smiled like it was nothing, like we didn’t care and didn’t want to care, it doesn’t even matter to me.
Because I love her.
“You know what would be a good birthday present?” she says finally, and presses her side to mine.
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