Without Merit

by Colleen Hoover

  "You have a quote you want to put on the marquee?" he asks.

  I think about it for a moment and then say, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

  He points down to the box. "They're in alphabetical order if you want to go ahead and pull them out."

  I bend down and start pulling the letters I'll need out of the box while he continues to remove the words from the marquee. "Did you really not know I was gay?"

  I laugh. "I don't know what I thought."

  He bends down and puts the last of the letters in the box. "Does it bother you?"

  I shake my head. "Not at all."

  He nods, but he doesn't look convinced. And then I remember that he's probably still thinking about the letter I wrote and all the hateful things I said to him. "Utah, I'm serious. I don't care that you're gay. I know I said some mean things in that letter, but I was upset. I really am sorry for that. We were kids. I know that . . . I've just spent years building up a lot of animosity toward you."

  I pull out the last letter and place it on the ground. When I stand up, Utah stands up, too. He holds eye contact with me for a moment, and then he says. "I'm sorry, too. Really, Merit. I mean it."

  The sincerity in his voice makes me feel things and my God, I'm so sick of crying. But I do it anyway. Stupid tears start running down my cheeks, but I can't help it. I've needed to hear him say that for so long.

  Utah reaches for my hand and pulls me into a tight hug. My face presses against his chest and he hugs me like a brother should hug his sister and that makes me cry even harder. I wrap my arms around him and as soon as I do, I can feel all the anger I've ever felt for him evaporate with every tear I shed.

  "I'll be a better sibling," he says. "I promise."

  I nod against his chest. "Me too."

  He releases me and then says, "Let's finish this and go inside." We finish up the marquee and walk toward the front door. As soon as we open it, we see Luck at the kitchen table, looking down at a piece of paper in his hands.

  "You're a dick!" he yells.

  Utah and I close the door. "What now?" Utah asks, walking the box of letters back to the pantry. Sagan is seated across from Luck, who looks extremely pissed off.

  "I don't look like this!"

  Sagan laughs. "Don't ask me to draw you if you're going to argue with me about how I perceive you."

  Luck pushes back his chair and tosses the sketch at Sagan. "If this is how you see me, you suck as an artist." He walks to the refrigerator and Sagan is laughing quietly. I walk over to him and grab the sketch that pissed off Luck. I flip it over and immediately start to laugh.

  "Let me see," Utah says. I hand him the sketch of Luck and Utah bursts out in laughter. "Wow," he says, handing the sketch back to Sagan. "You holding a grudge or something?"

  Sagan grins and slips the sketch into the back of his sketchbook.

  "Actually, let me keep that," Utah says. "For blackmail."

  Luck walks around the bar and tries to snatch it from Utah, but Utah holds it up in the air. Luck tries to grab it again but Utah runs down the hallway with Luck close on his heels.

  "I like the marquee," Sagan says, pulling my attention back to him. I glance out the window at the quote I had Utah put up.

  NOT EVERY MISTAKE DESERVES A CONSEQUENCE. SOMETIMES THE ONLY THING IT DESERVES IS FORGIVENESS.

  I shrug. "I heard it from some guy."

  It's hard for me to look at him right now because so much of me still likes so much of him. And for some reason, the way he's looking at me right now is the hardest to accept. Like he's proud of me.

  Luckily, he gets one of his urgent phone calls again. At least this time he holds up a finger and says, "One second," while pulling out his phone.

  I don't give him his second. I just give him privacy as I make my way to my room. I've had enough for one day, and even though I slept through most of it, I'm already ready to sleep through the rest of it.

  When I get to my room, I realize just how literal Sagan was being when he said, "One second." He's knocking on my door almost immediately after I close it. When I open it, he's sliding his phone back into his pocket.

  I don't ask him why he's at my door or what he wants to talk about. I just start with the question that's been bothering me the most. "Why do you get so many phone calls?" He's always answering his phone, no matter what he's in the middle of. It's actually kind of rude.

  "It's never who I want it to be," he says, walking into my room uninvited.

  "Come in, I guess."

  Sagan walks around my room, looking at everything. He pauses in front of my trophy shelf. "When did you start collecting these?"

  I walk to my bed and take a seat. "I stole the first one from my first boyfriend. He broke up with me in the middle of a make-out session and it made me mad."

  Sagan laughs and then picks a few up and inspects them. "I don't know why I like this about you as much as I do."

  I bite my cheek to hide my smile.

  Sagan sets the trophy down on the dresser and faces me. "You want a tattoo?"

  My heart skips at the thought. "Right now?"

  He nods. "If you swear you won't tell anyone."

  "I swear." I try not to smile, but I'm way too excited.

  Sagan nods his head toward his room and I follow him across the hall. He pulls the desk chair close to the bed and motions for me to sit in it. He starts messing with a box of tattoo equipment that he pulls from the closet.

  "What do you want?"

  "I don't care. You pick."

  He looks at me and arches an eyebrow. "You want me to pick the tattoo that's going to be permanently etched into your skin for the rest of your life?"

  I nod. "Is that weird?"

  He laughs quietly. "Everything you do is weird," he says. But before I can reflect too much on that comment, he says, "It's my favorite thing about you." He pulls out a piece of transfer paper and a pen, then places it on his dresser and begins drawing something. "You have five minutes to change your mind."

  I watch him sketch my tattoo for the next five minutes, but I can't see what it is from where he's positioned. When he's done, I still haven't changed my mind. He walks to the bedroom door and locks it. "If anyone sees this, you better lie and say you got it from someone else."

  I try to peek at it when he walks near me, but he hides it. "You can't see it yet."

  My mouth falls open. "I didn't say I'd let you tattoo something on me before it gets my approval."

  He grins and says, "I promise you won't hate it." He has me pull my arm through my sleeve. "Can I do it right here?" he asks, touching the top right area of my back. "I'll make it small."

  I nod and then close my eyes, waiting anxiously for him to begin. He's sitting on the bed with all the tattoo equipment set up beside him. I'm facing the other direction, which is actually a relief. I don't really want to have to watch him the whole time. I might be too transparent in my thoughts.

  He transfers the tattoo onto my skin first, then hands me a pillow to hug over the back of my chair right before he starts. The initial sting is painful, but I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on breathing. It's actually not as painful as I thought it would be, but it certainly doesn't feel good. I try to focus on something else, so I decide to make conversation with him.

  "What does the tattoo on your arm mean? The one that says, 'Your turn, Doctor.' "

  I can feel a rush of warm air meet my neck when he sighs. Sagan pauses a moment until my chills subside, then he begins the tattooing process again.

  "It's a long story," he says, trying to dismiss it again.

  "Good thing all we have is time."

  He's quiet for so long as he continues tattooing me that I assume he's not going to elaborate, like always. But then he says, "Remember when I told you the flag on my arm was a Syrian Opposition flag?"

  I nod. "Yes. You said your father was born there."

  "Yeah, he was. But my mother is American. From Kansas, actually. I was born there." He pauses talking for
a moment while he concentrates on the tattoo, but then he continues. "Do you know anything about the Syrian refugee crisis?"

  I shake my head, grateful he's finally in a talkative mood. This tattoo hurts a little more than I imagined and I need a distraction. "I've heard of it. But I don't really know much about it." Much meaning nothing.

  Sagan says, "Yeah, they don't really teach about it in schools here."

  He's quiet for a few more painful seconds, but then he moves to a different spot of my shoulder and I feel some relief. He begins talking again. I do nothing but listen.

  "Syria has been ruled by a dictatorship for a long time now. It's why my father moved to America for medical school. A lot of other countries around Syria are also ruled by dictators. Well, several years ago, something called the Arab Spring began. A lot of citizens in these countries began to hold protests and demonstrations to try and overthrow the dictators. The people wanted their countries to be less corrupt. They wanted them to run like more of a democracy, with checks and balances. The protests were successful in Tunisia and Egypt and the leaders stepped down. A new form of government was put in place. After that, the people of Syria and other countries were hopeful that it could happen in their countries, too."

  "So the tattoo is somehow related to Syria?"

  "Yeah," he says. "It's what many believe started the revolution. The Syrian ruler, Bashar al-Assad, studied to be an ophthalmologist before his father died and he took over as the new leader of Syria. Bashar's nickname is Doctor. Well . . . a group of school kids spray-painted graffiti on a wall at their school with the words, 'Your turn, Doctor.' They were essentially saying what many in Syria had been quietly hoping. That the Doctor would step down, just as the leaders of Egypt and Tunisia had, in order to allow for a democracy in Syria."

  I hold up my hand to pause him. I'm soaking all of this in but I have so many questions. "At the risk of sounding stupid, what year did this happen?"

  "Two thousand eleven."

  "Did the Doctor step down after that?"

  Sagan wipes at my tattoo again and then presses the needle against my skin. I wince when he says, "He did the opposite, actually. He had the children responsible for the graffiti imprisoned and tortured."

  I start to turn around, but he puts a firm hand on my shoulder. "He had them arrested?" I ask.

  "He wanted to make a point to the people of Syria that there would be no tolerance for opposition. He didn't care that they were just kids. When the parents started demanding the release of their children, the government didn't listen. In fact, one of the officers in command said to the parents of the children, 'Forget your children. Just make more children. And if you don't know how to make more, I'll send someone to show you.' "

  "Oh my God," I whisper.

  "I didn't say it would be a good story," he says, continuing. "Once the Doctor imprisoned the kids involved, people in the city of Daraa took to the streets. Protests and demonstrations started happening, but instead of being met with compromise, the government used deadly force against them. A lot of people died. This sparked nationwide protests. People demanded the Doctor step down. But he refused, and instead, he used military force to crack down even harder on the protestors. The violence escalated and soon turned into a civil war. Which is now why there's a refugee crisis. Almost half a million people have died so far and millions more have had to flee the country to save their lives."

  I can't speak. I don't know what to say to him. I can't reassure him because there isn't anything reassuring about that story. And honestly, I'm embarrassed I didn't know any of that. I see the headlines online and in the paper but I never understand any of it. It's never directly affected me so I've never thought to even look into it.

  He stopped tattooing but I don't know if he's finished, so I don't move. "We moved to Syria when I was ten," he says, his voice quieter. "My father is a surgeon and he and my mother opened a medical clinic there. But after living there for a year, when things started to get bad, my parents sent me back here to live with my grandparents until my father could get his visa to return home. My mother was due to give birth to my little sister so she couldn't fly at the time. They told me it would just be three months. But right before they were due to fly home . . ."

  His voice trails off. Since he's no longer tattooing me, I spin the chair around to look at him. He's sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, looking down. When he looks up at me, his eyes are red, but he's holding his composure.

  "Before they came home, communication just stopped. They went from calling me every day to complete silence. I haven't heard from them in seven years."

  I cover my mouth in shock.

  Sagan is sitting stoically, staring at his hands again. Both of my hands are pressed against my mouth in disbelief. I can't believe this is his life.

  This is why he answers the phone with such urgency, because he's always hoping it will be news about his family. I can't imagine suffering through seven years of not knowing.

  "I feel like such an asshole," I whisper. "My problems are nothing compared to what you've been going through . . ."

  He looks up at me with completely dry eyes. I think that makes me the saddest, to know that he's so used to his life that it doesn't make him cry every second of the day.

  He puts his hand on my chair and says, "You aren't an asshole, Mer." He turns me around. "Hold still. I'm almost finished."

  We sit in silence as he finishes up my tattoo. I can't stop thinking about everything that's happening with him. It has my stomach in knots. And I really do feel like an asshole. He read a letter I wrote, complaining about my entire family and our trivial issues. And he doesn't even know if his family is alive.

  "Done," he whispers. He cleans it with something cold and then he begins to bandage it up.

  "Wait," I say, turning around. "I want to see it first."

  He shakes his head. "Not yet. I want you to keep the bandage on until Saturday."

  "Saturday? It's only Thursday."

  "I want you to anticipate it a little longer," he says with a smile. I like that he's smiling after the heaviness of the conversation. Even if it is forced. "I'll apply lotion every few hours until then."

  I like the idea of that, so I reluctantly agree. "At least tell me what it is."

  "You'll see what it is on Saturday." He starts cleaning up his mess. I stand up and roll the chair back to the desk. He walks his box of supplies to his closet.

  As I watch him, I'm overcome by an overwhelming sense of compassion for him. For what he's going through. I walk to him and slip my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest.

  I just need to hug him after hearing all of that. And based on the way he wraps himself around me and accepts the hug without question, he must have needed it, too. We stand like this for an entire minute before he presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Thanks for that," he says, releasing me.

  I nod. "Good night."

  He smiles appreciatively. "Good night, Merit."

  Chapter Fourteen Are you excited about today?"

  "Yes!" Moby yells from the hallway.

  "How excited?"

  "So excited!"

  "How excited?" Utah says.

  "The most excited!" Moby yells back.

  Normally, that exchange would make me roll my eyes this early in the morning. But that was before last night, when I started to like Utah as a brother again.

  My father still doesn't know I dropped out of school, so I force myself out of bed. I brush my teeth, fix my hair, put on clothes and go through the same routine I go through almost every other morning. I would just tell him the truth, but I'm not so sure I want to deal with the aftermath right now. It feels like a lifetime has been crammed into the last few days.

  I'll give it another week before I tell him. Maybe two.

  Or better yet, I'll tell him I dropped out when he finally explains why my mother is taking placebo pills.

  When I walk into the kitchen, Honor
and Sagan are sitting next to each other at the table. She's laughing at something he just said, which makes me a little relieved to see her smiling. Maybe she'll stop being so mad at me now that I've made up with Utah.

  Or maybe not.

  As soon as she sees me, her smile disappears. She refocuses her attention on the smoothie in front of her, moving her straw around.

  At least Sagan smiles at me. I smile back and feel ridiculously cheesy when I do.

  "Merit, taste this," Utah says. He shoves one of his smoothies in my face and tries to stick the straw in my mouth.

  "Gross," I say, swiping his arm and the smoothie away. "I'm not tasting that crap."

  "It's good." He holds it out for me again. "I promise, just taste it."

  I take the smoothie and taste the damn thing. Sure enough, it tastes like someone took a bunch of vegetables, blended them together and threw tasteless vitamins in the mix. I wince and hand it back to him. "Disgusting."

  "Sucker," Sagan says.

  The back door opens and my father walks in. "Something is wrong with that dog," he says, washing dirt off his hands. He dries them on a towel. "Has he been that lethargic since he showed up?"

  I shrug. "He looked better yesterday." I walk past him and out the back door. I can hear Sagan following me. The three of us make it to Wolfgang's doghouse, and I kneel down and touch him on the top of his head. "Hey, buddy."

  He looks up at me with the same lack of enthusiasm he's had since he showed up Sunday night. His tail twitches again, but he makes no effort to stand up. Or lick me.

  "Has he been acting like that all week?" my dad asks.

  I nod, just as my dad squats down. He runs his hand down Wolfgang's back and it's honestly a sight I never thought I'd see. My father and this dog . . . together again.

  "I thought he was just depressed," I say. I feel bad for not making more of a fuss about his temperament, but I don't know anything about dogs.

  "I called the vet yesterday," Sagan says. "They said they could squeeze him in tomorrow but I don't think he can wait that long."

  "Which vet?" my father asks.

  "The one out on 30, near the Goodwill."

  "That's close to work," my father says. He slips his hands beneath Wolfgang. "I'll drop him off on my way in, see if they can check him out sooner." My father nudges his head toward the gate on the side of the house. "Merit, go open that gate so I can get him to my truck."