by Ginger Scott
“I bet they won’t even see me,” she says.
I’m doubtful because where we’re sitting we’re in pretty clear view. It’s hard not to notice people sitting on a roof in our neighborhood. The angles are steep, which practically puts us on display against the dark gray shingles.
“It looks like they’re all going out somewhere,” I say.
“Mmm, yeah. They’re meeting with a private investigator. My grandparents are paying for it. He was over the other day.” Her mouth falls into a perfectly straight line and she blinks slowly as she takes in the action below. They all pile into the van and I’m on edge, expecting Morgan to cup her hands around her mouth and yell at her sister to get away from the creep—that’s me—and join her family where she belongs. None of that happens, though. Morgan climbs into the driver’s seat while her parents ride as passengers. I join Eleanor in staring at the glow of the van’s taillights as they back out of their driveway and head down our street.
Mentally working out the right words to soothe what I imagine she feels—cut out, ignored, helpless, angry, guilty—I decide that nothing I say would help with any of that. I would just be spilling out words. So instead, I change course and ask something personal.
“Are you and Addy really close?” I take care not to use the word were. I stumble over my words a lot of the time, but not this one. It’s important that I leave Addy very much present and alive.
It takes Eleanor several seconds to answer me, though I can tell she’s rummaging through pleasant memories by the way she smiles at her hands as she kneads them in her lap.
“Addy does this thing where she puts on my cheer uniform, like, if I’m wearing the home one she puts on the away version. I have to pin it, and if I’m not there to get the pins in she just ties up the loose waistband with hair scrunchies, like this.” She pulls free the tie that was holding her hair up in a knot at the base of her neck and twists it around the bottom of my sweatshirt. It essentially turns my hoodie into a crop top that’s tight around my ribs.
“I think this might be my look,” I joke.
Her raspy laugh makes an appearance. She laughed like this during skee-ball. It’s simply the best sound in the world.
“Addy would approve,” she says through a wide smile. Her eyes blink as she turns her attention to her less crowded driveway, the blank spot where the van was parked probably the same spot she saw her sister last. “She wasn’t wearing my away uniform that Friday, when she disappeared.”
She glances up at me and I see the guilt threatening to ignite tears.
“Was she out of scrunchies?” I try to inject a little humor into our conversation to help her not fall apart. I can tell she doesn’t want to. It’s one of those things that people like me, people who have lost someone, recognize. And Eleanor, she isn’t ready to lose it. Not now.
She sniffles and puts on a practiced laugh.
“Probably. Those suckers are always getting lost,” she says, tugging the one on my shirt free and wrapping it around her wrist.
“Well, it’s probably because you go around putting them on men’s sweatshirts,” I say, leaning into her. I’ve grown bolder with little shows of affection. I’m careful, though. I don’t want her to think I mean anything that I don’t, or that I want something more than just spending time with her.
“How much time till sunset?” She flattens her palm on my thigh with a friendly slap as she asks me this question and I’m grateful I don’t tumble from the roof.
“Oh, uh.” I fumble my phone from my pocket, risking losing my grip due to my nervous hands. I eventually click the screen on to get the time. “Maybe half an hour.”
“Perfect,” she says, meeting my gaze and offering a smile and a nod as if she’s communicating something. I just don’t know what. “Tell me about that picture. The one of your parents.”
I suppose it’s fair that I talk about a raw topic since I made her share a little bit about her sister. I’m about to dive into how different the man I knew as Dad seems from that picture when my voice is robbed of power by the feel of Eleanor’s head on my lap. She’s spun to the side and flattened herself along the pitch of the roof, her hair spread over my jeans in all directions. At first, I can only see her golden lashes, but after a few blinks, she opens her eyes right on mine, and I’m hit with my kryptonite.
“Okay,” I breathe out, leaning back and tilting my head enough that I can see the wisps of clouds across the sky. They’re starting to catch the golden color of the sun as it drops. I have no idea how to pretend this is normal, but I can’t very well leave my neck craned like this through sunset. This angle also only makes the rapid pulse of blood racing through my body sound even louder.
I right my head and let the dizziness settle in my brain, willing myself not to look down at the beautiful creature staring up at me unless I absolutely have to.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that side of him,” I say.
“Well, he was a lot younger, so probably not.” Her voice almost tricks me into looking down, but I don’t fall for it. I chuckle at her comment and force my gaze straight ahead at the line of winter trees.
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that he didn’t seem like that kinda guy. He was always so . . . serious.” Dozens of memories of my father race through my head like a picture slideshow, and he’s serious in every single one. Even when we were celebrating and having fun, there was always an undertone to his expression. His brain was always working.
“You get that look sometimes,” she says. My brow grows heavy at that thought, which in a way proves her right, I suppose.
“Do I?” I still keep my face forward, especially now that it’s stoic and pensive.
A gentle laugh calls up from my lap. Damn her, I want to look. I spare a short glance and force a smile.
“Not all the time,” she says. I look up before I get trapped. “But sometimes, when you’re in intense thought. And when you’re quiet.”
I pull in one side of my mouth, a little disappointed in myself because I am serious. I don’t mean to be. It’s a default because most of the time I don’t know how to act. I’m more uncomfortable in my surroundings than I am serious, I think. But to everyone else, I suppose I look a lot like my dad did most of the time. Detached.
“You also look like he does in that photo a lot of the time. Happy?” I can’t tell whether she’s trying to ease my bruised ego or if she’s being sincere. I look down at her again because sometimes people need to see eyes to understand true meaning. Hers show something very honest, and incredibly gentle.
“You haven’t seen me that much.” I wasn’t expecting to say that, but those are the words that come out. I’ve thought them often over the last few days that Eleanor and I have grown closer. I’m her solace, and I’m okay with that, but she and I weren’t much of anything before she wandered into my garage.
“I see you now.” She smiles up at me and I reflect her expression as best I can, nodding.
“That you do,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
I get stuck on her image just like I feared I would. Small hairs tickle her face as the breeze picks them up. Her cheeks are peppered with dust from heaven, and her skin is soft like cotton sheets. I find myself moving my focus from her eyes to her lips, over and over again, noting details I’ve never been granted access to before. Her front teeth scrape against her bottom lip naturally, and a tiny mole or birthmark dots the space just above her lip on one side—a beauty mark like famous women before her; like Marilyn Monroe.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend, Jonah?”
I’m frozen on her nose as she asks this question, and I’m glad I’m not looking her directly in the eyes when she does. My eyes widen. I know it’s obvious; my eyes stretch enough that I feel it at my hairline.
“I guess, maybe one or two. Really more like dates gone bad. I never really clicked with someone, I guess.” My voice cracks during my response. Of course it does. I squint and spare myself meeting h
er eyes.
“I’ve had a few . . . boyfriends,” she says through quiet laughter. She rolls a little on her side, looking out toward the street and the dimming sky. Somehow her position feels more intimate like this, her cheek resting on my thigh, hands nestled under her chin. I’m struck by it, and without thinking I reach forward to catch the stray hairs blowing across her face. It’s a tender touch that sweeps them behind her ear, my fingertips grazing her cheek with a feather light brush. Unfazed, her eyes drift shut then open on me with a slight shift of her head.
“You aren’t missing much. For me, at least, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Being with someone.” There’s an emptiness to her words and a depth to her eyes as her stare lingers for a few extra seconds. I’m wounded by what she says, and I can’t help but feel shot down before ever getting in the air.
Also, she’s never picked anyone worthy of her time or attention. I’ve watched her dates pull up at the curb and they’re douchebags, every single one of them.
“I could see that, I guess,” I mutter. I’m thinking out loud.
“Hmm?” She sits up, stretching her arms up over her head and bringing her legs in to hug her knees.
“Your comment, about it not being all it’s cracked up to be. I can understand why you’d say that, based on . . . your history.” By the end, I’m slurring, desperate for a way to erase my words from existence. They just keep coming, despite the nonverbal cues I’m getting—falling eyelids, dipping chin, slumping shoulders. I let some of the bitterness into my head and I’m not getting any of this right. I can see in her eyes that I’m not. She’s instantly guarded.
“I’m not making sense. Just ignore me,” I say, still earning a scowl. I swallow the dry knot of regret choking me and push on.
“Hey, I almost forgot. I got you that invite to the poker game, for Thursday. My grandpa says he isn’t spotting you any cash, though, so if you need, I can give you some of mine. I have forty bucks, and—”
“Explain what you mean by history.” She’s pulled her feet in closer to her body and is hugging her legs tighter. I can’t help but think it’s a move to somehow inch herself a little farther away from me.
I roll my neck and blow out a heavy breath before letting my face fall into my hands. Rubbing my eyes, I groan. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“Oh, you meant it in a good way? I mean, it’s my history after all. Go on.” She holds out a palm, sweeping the air between us. She’s clearly overreacting, and I know it’s because she’s exhausted and heartbroken, but she keeps pushing. I’m bound to make this worse.
“It’s just . . .”
Here I go, making it worse.
“You don’t really pick the best guys. Sometimes they don’t even walk you to the door. And you—”
“You watch me come home from dates?” She stands as she says this, and I look to either side of her, panicked that she’ll lose her balance. That dose of adrenaline mixes in my system along with the instant burn of feeling caught being creepy, and my chest feels as if it’s been excavated and filled in with concrete.
“Not always. I’ve just noticed sometimes. And I didn’t mean anything about you. It’s the guys. It’s always the guys.” I’m too frazzled to get the right words out, and my stumbling attempt has only resulted in Eleanor walking away.
“Please don’t go,” I call after her.
“I’ll see you later, Jonah.” It’s clear by her tone that she has no plans to anytime soon, and later might mean never again.
“Fuck!” I breathe out, probably loud enough that she heard it. Add this to the words and outbursts I can’t put back inside. I press my palms to my eyes and rest my head against the brick. The sky is close to pink now, and two minutes ago, I’d be in awe. Now, I just want it to be night and then morning—a fresh slate and a chance for a redo.
I pull my phone from my pocket to send Eleanor a text that I can only hope clears up the muddy words I vomited out a moment ago.
ME: I’m really sorry that came out so wrong. I only meant that you deserve a better boyfriend. That’s all. Nobody’s been worthy and that’s probably why it hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be. Having a boyfriend, I mean.
I hesitate before I hit SEND and consider adding more. I want to tell her I’m not a loser who stares out my window at her, but aren’t I really? I want to tell her that I would never let her walk to her door alone after a date, and I would always be early and always have her home on time. I stop myself, though, because as pathetic as my confessions sound they also sound like a job interview. I’m just lucky she wants to sit in my garage and up on the roof sometimes. I can be satisfied with that. And if she’s gotten what she needs to find her strength in these dark days and decides she’s done with my company, then I have to be satisfied with that too.
I make my way along the roof, never fully standing because now that the sun is nearly down, I’m even less sure on my feet. I leap from the middle of the ladder onto the ground and decide to leave my shortcut out in case I’m lucky enough to experience a repeat tomorrow. A short text in response buzzes at my side, and for a beat, it gives me hope.
ELEANOR: It’s fine. I’m just tired.
I know it’s not, and I know she is.
And that message was more of an ending than a beginning.
Twelve
Eleanor has kept to herself. I guess I’ve done the same. No texts sent either way, and no late-night visits to the garage. I don’t even know what I’m doing on the Bronco at this point, other than fumbling around with wires and constantly checking my periphery, hoping she’ll show up. I spent the last two nights under the hood for no other reason than to make sure she saw the garage lit up and open for her if she wanted company.
It’s the same tonight, only now there’s an empty chair at Grandpa Hank’s poker table that she should be sitting in. He’d be irritated by a no-show under other circumstances, but I’m pretty sure everyone in this garage can read the anguish on my face as I pace around the tight space and constantly monitor life across the street.
“Maybe Hank Junior here can take the young lady’s spot until she shows?” Dale’s suggestion makes my stomach lurch. I don’t know poker very well, but I’m also pretty damn sure Eleanor isn’t coming.
“I think that’s an excellent idea. Jonah, come on, have a seat,” my grandpa says, patting the open chair next to him.
I roll my neck and let my gaze fall on the empty space, reluctantly dragging my feet toward it. I plop down in the chair and instantly feel like a child at a kid’s table. I think maybe my chair is shorter than the others. It seems to amuse them all, tight smiles held back with sucked-in lips, waiting to burst. Dale can no longer hold it in when I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table, which is basically at chin-level.
“Okay, ha ha,” I say, standing and dragging the stunted chair away from the table.
“It’s Hank’s fault. Don’t blame us,” my grandpa’s buddy, Gary, says through a gritty laugh. “He switched it out while you were moping around the driveway.”
“Nice. Real nice, Gary. Thanks for that color commentary. I appreciate it,” I mutter, flipping open a normal-sized chair and pushing it close to the table. I’m a little more motivated to get good at this game now that they’ve pissed me off. None of these guys like losing, even though it’s only twenty or forty bucks a night.
“Deal me in,” I say, resting my elbows on the table again, this time like an adult.
Grandpa smirks at me from the side of his mouth, probably thankful I got the lingo right and didn’t embarrass him. He runs me through a refresher course while he deals; three of a kind beats two pair, a full house beats a flush, and if I get a flush these old bastards are going to assume I’m cheating.
The first seven or eight hands go by with me dropping a couple of bucks and folding each time. I endure their razzing, and get called a few terms I’ve never heard before, my favorite being gollumpus. I Googled it when grandpa cracked open a new case of be
er from the garage fridge and handed out cold ones to everyone, including me.
“Clumsy?” I cock an eyebrow at Gary, who tagged me with the term.
“I don’t know. We always called dumb shits that name in the army. And no offense, Jonah, but you’re playing like a dumb shit,” he says. The table erupts in a round of coughing-laughter. These unhealthy assholes think they’re so funny.
“Yeah, yeah. Just count your chips, Gary,” I fire back. I open my beer and shoot my grandpa a quick glance for permission.
“I gave it to ya, didn’t I?” he says.
I look over my shoulder at the closed door that my mom never steps through when the garage is full of these men. I’m a rule follower. Always have been, and even when I stray outside the lines—like the time I helped Jake TP the house of his eighth grade basketball coach—I always find a way to go back in and make it right. I woke up at five in the morning that day to clean up his yard before he saw it.
But there comes a time when following rules starts to feel all wrong. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately, since the stupid fight with Eleanor, and maybe before that. I’m about to graduate and I’m supposed to go off to school somewhere and have this great college experience. Left to my own devices, I don’t think I’m prepared to be very adventurous at all. I’m not even that excited about the prospect of a dorm room, or a roommate. Especially not a roommate.
Drowning in my self-pity, I crack the tab and tip my head back while taking a massive gulp. I drain a third of the can and slam it down on the table as a show of commitment.
“You all right now?” Grandpa asks.
I nod at him and pour every bit of energy I have into making the most statuelike, impossible to read face I’m capable of. It’s not like I’ve only been a rookie, losing these first few hands. I’ve been studying too. And I realize a lot of this game has to do with math, and math . . . that’s something I can kick Gary’s ass at.
