“We’re parked over by Finn’s,” I say. She nods.
“I’ll see you, Jeff,” she says, and we walk away, Cole trailing along behind, Lucas watching us go.
Finn’s is all the way back on the other side of the park, and I lead the way. I don’t seem to be able to shake off the dizziness of the handstand and the cartwheel and the flip, though, and as I step up onto the sidewalk, one foot slips, and I stumble and almost go down. “You okay?” Cole asks, hurrying to catch up. I nod, though I can feel a light sweat breaking out on my face and the tingling that tells me my blood sugar is plunging. It was the lemonade; I dosed for the whole can, and then Sarah drank most of it. I have way too much insulin in my system, and then on top of that, I went and jumped around, burning glucose. My entire life is a fucking chemistry experiment.
I weave through the crowd, Sarah and Cole close behind me, the faces and the bursts of light and the sound of the final blasts blending, mushing together into a mix of color and sound that I can’t really take in. I pat my pockets, but I don’t have my sugar tablets; they must be at home with my wallet. I check my phone: sure enough, my sugar reading is fifty-two and falling. By the time we reach the other side of the park and step onto the street in front of the grocery store, my knees feel like rubber, and there’s no way I can drive. I glance back, and only Sarah is there.
“Where’s Cole?”
She looks around. “He was just here.”
I curse under my breath. I don’t have the energy to look for him. I don’t have the energy for anything, actually. The fuel is being sucked out of my muscles and bones and brain, and all I want to do is lie down on the sidewalk. I spin in a circle, wondering what to do, and then he’s beside me, holding out a bottle of orange juice.
“You need this.”
I take the drink and gulp half the bottle at once.
“I’ll drive,” he says. I hand him the keys to the truck, and Sarah and I follow him across the street and down the driveway to where I parked beside the dumpster. I climb into the passenger seat, and Sarah gets into the back. I’ve drunk the rest of the juice without realizing I was doing it, but it will be a few more moments before it takes effect.
Low sugars have been part of my life since I was a little kid, but I still hate them. I rest my forehead against the window glass as Cole cautiously takes us down the driveway. I gaze out at the people looking up at the sky; parents holding on to their children, children holding on to their ice creams, and then I see Officer Lucas, standing at the foot of the driveway, watching us. Our eyes meet through the glass. Cole doesn’t see him. I glance into the back seat, but Sarah is occupied with her phone for the moment. I look back. He’s still watching me, and then Cole turns and we’re weaving around a food cart and a police barricade, picking up speed, leaving the park behind.
“Where do you live?” Cole asks Sarah, breaking the silence.
“Um, not far . . . over on Elm Street.”
“Do you want to go home yet?” I ask.
“Where else would we go?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need to get home,” Cole says. He’s probably worried about his mom.
“Why don’t we drop you off first?” Sarah says.
We don’t talk anymore as Cole drives us out to his house and parks at the end of his driveway. “You all right to drive now?” he asks me. I nod.
“Thanks.”
We all get out. Cole says goodbye to Sarah as she comes around to the passenger seat, and I circle to the driver’s side. She gets in and shuts the door.
“What are you doing?” Cole asks, taking my arm.
“Nothing. Just going for a drive.”
“With her?”
“Yeah, with her. Why not?”
“You know who she is?”
“Sure.”
“Who her father was?”
“Yeah, so what?” He stares at me. His hand is still on my forearm, and after a moment, I pull away. “What’s your problem?”
He shakes his head, turns without another word, and makes his way up the driveway toward the dark house. I watch him go, and then I get in and start the car back up. Cole can be a moody bastard.
“Where to?” I ask. I’m thinking maybe back downtown, to the diner.
“How about the lake?”
I glance at her and then, without comment, pull away from the curb.
* * *
It takes about ten minutes to get out to the lake, and we don’t talk much on the drive. I put the radio on and roll down my window, and we watch the night go by. When I pull into the lot, I hesitate for a moment, then drive over to the far side, under the trees. Where I parked when I came for the swim; where I parked when I came here with Rosie. I turn the car off. I’m not sure what we’re going to do, but Sarah undoes her seat belt and gets out. I follow her.
We cross the lot and step onto the beach. She bends down and slides her sandals off.
“I love the feel of sand on my feet.”
I kick my shoes off too. It’s surprising how cool the sand is at night. We walk down to the overturned rowboat. I hop up onto the hull and reach down to help her up. We look out at the water.
“What are you doing in the fall?” she asks.
“I’m going to Bucknell.”
“Where’s that?”
“Pennsylvania.”
There’s a train whistle in the distance. We sit quietly for a moment.
“It’s nice out here at night,” she says. “Do you come out here a lot?”
“Sometimes. When it’s warm. Sometimes in the winter, too.”
“Who comes with you?”
“Cole, mostly.”
“I bet you’ve brought girls out here.”
“Sure. A few.”
“A few,” she repeats. We sit quietly. The silence stretches on, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s not like with Rosie, when I felt like I always had to be talking or doing something.
“What do you and Cole talk about when you come out here?” she finally asks.
It’s a good question. What the hell are we always talking about? We’ve been talking to each other since we even learned how; it’s kind of amazing that we still have anything to say.
“Nothing much, I guess. We talk about life. Work. Cole’s dad died last year. He talks about that a little bit, and his mom. His mom’s having a hard time with it.”
“Did he graduate with you? Is he going off to college too?”
“He graduated, but he’s not going to college yet. He got in, but he deferred. He’s going to stay home and help with his mom.” There’s another pause. “What about you? Did you go to college?”
“No. Dad got me the job at the insurance agency right after high school.”
“Oh.”
“It started out as the most boring job in the world, and it’s just gotten worse.”
“Why do you stay?”
“At the job?”
“The job . . . the town . . . New Jersey.”
“I’ve stayed because I’ve stayed,” she says. “I’ve got Dad’s house, and . . . I’ve stayed.”
“Do you live there alone?”
“Yeah. Mom left years ago, years and years. It was just me and Dad. And then he died, and it was just me.”
I look at her Red Sox shirt. “You still have that boyfriend?”
“No. That’s not it. That’s not why I stay, though it was for a while. I thought I was in love.”
“Huh.”
She looks at me. “Have you ever thought you were in love?” she asks.
“No.” Rosie had said it, whispered it against my chest in the back of the truck, but I didn’t say it back.
“Never? Not even once? Would you even know it if you were?”
“Cole’s in love with someone, a girl we graduated with. He follows her all around and talks about her all the time. He writes about her. He writes about everything, though. He’s a poet.”
“A poet. Huh.” We’re quiet for ano
ther moment. “You’ll see,” she finally says. “It’s not so easy. It’s not so easy to make decisions.”
“I guess not.”
“Did you make the decision to go to Bucknell?”
“Yeah. I mean, I sort of did, though it was also my dad and my coach, I think.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever decided anything.” She slides off the hull, into the sand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“There’s another beach, a smaller one around the side of the lake, right? It’s been years . . .”
“There is.” I slide off the boat and we walk, side by side, across the sand to where the woods begin, and we step into the shadows of the trees. It’s very dark here at night. We go slowly, picking our way along. There are a few scattered firecrackers in the distance, kids setting off their own now that the big show is over. Sarah stumbles over a tree root, I reach out without thinking, and she casually wraps her arm around the back of mine and takes me by the bicep as though it were the most normal thing in the world, as though we do this all the time and she doesn’t have to ask. We don’t speak for a few minutes, and before I know it, we’ve reached the little beach. She lets go of me and walks ahead. There’s a lot of gravel here, but there are also sandy patches. She walks down to the water, dips a toe in, and then steps in with both feet. She looks back.
“It’s not too cold.”
I walk down the beach behind her. She’s waded in up to her calves and is looking out at the lake.
“It’s sort of beautiful here,” she says.
I’m watching her, looking at her look at the water. There’s something that doesn’t seem real about being here with her. And then, before I know it, I’m reaching out. It’s not something I mean to do, but it’s not something that I don’t want to do, either. It’s sort of like it’s something I was meant to do, and I don’t have any choice in it.
I take one end of the white ribbon that’s tied in her hair. She doesn’t turn around, but there’s something about her that goes very, very still. I hold it for a second, and then I pull as gently as I can. The bow falls away as if it had never really been there, the ribbon falls from her hair, and she turns around. We look at each other for a couple of heartbeats, standing in the water. She’s studying me.
“Are you scared?” she finally asks.
I didn’t realize I was until right at this moment. My heart is beating too fast. It makes me feel foolish, like I’ve never been with a girl before, but I nod.
She raises her eyebrows. “I like that you told me the truth.”
“Are you scared?” I ask.
“I’m always scared.” She steps toward me, and before I can say anything or move or even take a breath, her lips are on mine. She still tastes like lemonade.
When we stop, she leans back, her eyes searching my face. Then she takes me by the hand and leads me out of the water and up the beach. I let her pull me along. She stops at a patch of sand, up near the tree line, and she sits and pulls me down beside her, and before I can think of something to say, she kisses me again and pulls my shirt off and reaches for my belt, and by the time she’s pulling the Red Sox shirt off over her head and wriggling out of her shorts, I’m self-conscious that I’ve never been naked with anyone before. Even with Rosie, I kept a surprising amount of my clothing on.
It’s not like with Rosie. With her, neither one of us knew what we were doing; we were just determined to do it, and even when I was embarrassed by how quick it was, there was part of me that wanted it to be like that. With Sarah, though, I lose track of the time. I’m not watching myself, I’m not thinking about myself, I’m not worrying about the sound we’re making and whether it carries across the water.
I’m not thinking or worrying, but I am noticing everything, like the way her hair feels exactly the way I thought it would, soft and fine, and how it smells when it falls over my face and how soft the skin on her neck just under her ear is. I never noticed things like that with Rosie. Then again, I never wanted Rosie the way I want Sarah right now. Like I want to devour her so that there’s nothing left.
By the time I do start thinking again, I’m lying next to her in the sand, looking up at the sky, wondering where the stars that were out earlier have gone. Eventually I sit up. For a moment I wonder whether she might be asleep, but then she reaches out and runs one fingernail along my back, scraping off the sand, drawing curving, looping lines back and forth across my spine. She gently pokes the sensor on my side.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a blood-sugar monitor. I’m diabetic.” I reach out for my shorts and take my phone from the pocket, tapping on the sensor app. A healthy 143, nice and level.
“Checking your email?”
“Checking my blood sugar.”
“Feeling okay?”
“Feeling like I want to do that again,” I say.
She laughs. She has a great laugh. “Well, you’re honest.” She pulls me back into the sand.
Afterward we lie there together, her head on my shoulder, and she goes to sleep.
I look up at the sky and wait for it to rain, but it never does.
Nine
— Cole —
I’ve barely slept in three days, and when I climb out my bedroom window into the very early morning light, I have to pause for a moment to make sure I’m steady.
I stand straight and take a few deep breaths. It’s still cool, though I feel the heat of the day lurking, waiting to come on. Looking down, I see the layer of green on the surface of the pond and how badly the grass needs to be mowed. I glance back. No light on in Mom’s window, but still, I’m not taking any chances this morning. Her sleep patterns are as unpredictable as her anxiety, and this is not a morning when I can stay home with her. I make my way to the edge of the roof, put on my backpack, and very gingerly reach over the side, find the trellis, and lower my weight onto it.
Why haven’t I been sleeping? Fear of what I’m going to be doing this morning, I’ll admit. Fear of flying is a hard one to shake, and I’m heading to a flight. My dad isn’t here to strap me into a seat the way Matt’s was. If I do take a plane out to California in the fall, I’ll probably have to be medicated for it.
That’s not the only thing, though. It’s not even the main thing. The main thing is that I’m furious with Matt, and my anger won’t let me rest.
I’m just over halfway down when I feel the wood begin to bow under my weight and the trellis starts to pull away from the house. I let go with one hand, look down, and decide to go for it. I drop into the tall, wet grass below, landing feet first and stumbling, falling onto my side. My left ankle twists, and I have to bite my lip to keep from calling out. I pause for a moment, resting on one knee, feeling like I might start crying.
It’s stupid, I know. My ankle doesn’t hurt all that badly, not after the initial impact. I just have these moments, more of them lately, when I feel . . . I just feel lonely. I feel like I’m the only person in the world and like I always will be. I blink my eyes, don’t let myself rub them, and stare hard at the grass in front of me. I can spot three types of clover and name two of them. I get to my feet, adjust my backpack, glance up at the damaged trellis, take one tentative step on the ankle and then another.
Matt’s truck is parked behind my car in the driveway. I limp up to the driver’s-side window, and he rolls it down.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“Did you get my texts?”
“Yeah. I thought we were going to meet there.”
“I told you I’d pick you up.” He takes out his phone and swipes at the screen. “Oh, I forgot to send that one. Whatever. Get in.”
I look at my car. I sort of want to drive by myself, but I go around to the passenger side of the truck and get in.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Matt takes my backpack and looks inside, then shakes his head. “Lucky I brought some too.”
“How much did you promise Eddie, exactly?”
“Well, like I said, I thought you had more . . .”
“Are we giving him all of this today?”
“Yeah.”
“But I thought today was just, like, a down payment.”
“It is.”
“I don’t have much left in the house.”
“Well, we’ll just have to get more.” Matt puts the truck into reverse and backs down the driveway. I wince as he drives over a branch, imagining the loud crack carrying through the morning air and waking Mom.
We drive in silence until we get out to Route 21. Matt looks like he woke up about five minutes ago; his hair is rumpled, and there’s a coffee stain on his T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved in a few days.
To hell with this; he doesn’t get to just show up like nothing happened.
“What happened the other night?” I ask him as he accelerates out toward the edge of town, nothing but terrifying open sky in front of me.
“With what?”
“With that woman.”
“Her name’s Sarah.” I don’t say anything. “Look, Cole, why are you pissed off about her?”
I shake my head, the anger of the last three days kicking in again. “It’s just . . . it’s fucking insensitive is what it is.”
“I don’t get it, dude. You don’t even know her.”
“Matt . . . it’s like I told you when you were sitting in that chair at graduation. There are some things you just don’t do. It’s disrespectful.”
He seems to think about that for a moment. “Look, I know sitting in the chair was wrong, and to be honest, I have no idea what I was doing. I was out of my head. I think I took some allergy medicine or something, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. But dude, the woman isn’t a memorial, you know? It’s not like I’m fucking with those chairs, or with the Monument. She’s just a person. She wasn’t even there, she—”
“She’s connected to it. She’s part of it. She was his daughter.” I stare out the side window. He doesn’t get it. He’s never going to get it.
“Do you not want me to see her?”
“You’re seeing her?”
Every Moment After Page 14
