She Loves You, She Loves You Not...

by Julie Anne Peters

  I wait twenty, thirty minutes. Naturally, today of all days, her cell is off or she’s not answering. Maybe she’s with a, uh, client. It reminds me of sitting around anxiously waiting for Sarah to call. Will everything always remind me of her?

  I can’t wait anymore. I’m old enough to go buy my own shoes.

  Chapter

  10

  I have to drive through Majestic to get to the turnoff for Breckenridge or Dillon. The digital clock on the dashboard says it’s quarter to three. I hate shopping alone and wonder what time Finn gets off at the Emporium. Since it’s on Main Street, and I have to pass by anyway, I pull to the curb and stop.

  Nothing’s going to happen, I tell myself. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and God knows I need a friend. Finn’s working the front desk. A mom with three little kids is babbling away while Finn bags a bunch of picture books. Finn looks so serious. She rings up each sale on an old adding machine, concentrating on punching in the prices. One of the little kids toddles toward the door, and the mom shouts, “Come back here, Isaac!”

  I chase him down, sweeping him into my arms. He reminds me of Paulie when he was little, with his mop of reddish-blond hair and cherubic cheeks.

  The mom says, “Oh, thank you,” as she takes him from me. “You’re—” Her eyes slit. “Let’s go, kids.” The woman backs off like I’m a biohazard.

  I know loathing when I see it. Excuse me for contaminating your space.

  She grabs the book bag, spilling half the books, and Finn has to hustle after her to the door. I hear the woman say to Finn, “A guy’s been in a couple of times asking about the Concours.”

  Finn’s spine stiffens. “Does he want it?”

  “He keeps coming in to look at it.” The mom scans me out of the corner of her eye, shifting the baby as she shoulders the book bag.

  “But I put a deposit down,” Finn says. “A big one.”

  “Times are tough, Finn. If someone walks in with cash, we’ll have to sell it.”

  “But my deposit…”

  The woman ushers her kids out the door.

  Finn storms right past me, scoops up the cash box, and heads into the office. Without even saying hello.

  Nice. I turn to leave, and Finn reappears with the book cart. She rolls by me, looking pissed. “Hey,” I say to get her attention.

  She stops. Her anger is palpable.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “You heard.”

  I heard, but I have no idea what it means.

  “Why am I working my butt off if they’re just going to sell the Concours out from under me?” Her dark eyes go completely black, and she seethes. “You can’t trust anyone.”

  That’s the truth. Except I’m a trustworthy person. “First of all, what’s a Concours?”

  She looks at me like, You can’t be serious.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I say.

  “It’s a bike.” She takes off with the cart, pushing it to the rear, toward the health section, while I follow.

  “Don’t you have a bike?”

  “The Concours is a motorcycle.”

  What I know about motorcycles is zip. They’re dangerous, according to Dad. How could he know? He’s never owned one, never ridden one, as far as I know.

  Finn stops at the end of the aisle, grinds her fists into her eye sockets, and curses under her breath. “I want that bike. I need that bike.”

  “How much is it?” I ask.

  Finn lowers her arms and blinks at me like she forgot I was there. “Eight hundred. That’s all I have left to pay on it. How could they just sell it right out from under me?” Her eyes get moist, and she pushes the cart away.

  I almost run to catch up and say, I’ll give you the money. But I control myself—for once. I don’t have eight hundred dollars. After all the expensive presents I bought for Sarah, my savings are nearly depleted.

  It obviously means a lot to Finn, and I want her to have her bike. Even more, I want her to believe in trust, in me. Maybe there’s some way I could get the money. I’ll have to think on it, wiki how to rob a bank.

  “What time do you get off?” I say. “I was wondering if you’d go shoe shopping with me.”

  She peers over her shoulder down at my feet and then glances at her watch. Timber Toes passes the aisle, stops, and backtracks. “When you get done with that, Finn, would you mind cleaning up the children’s section? Those kids made a mess, as usual.” She fixes on me. Pointing a finger, she opens her mouth as if to say something, but then doesn’t.

  “Sure,” Finn says.

  Timber Toes adds, “Then you can go. That’s all I have for you today.” She strides off, making me feel invisible.

  Finn shelves a book from the cart, and I pick up the next one. She clamps my wrist. “Don’t help!”

  I put down the book.

  Finn’s voice softens. “I get paid by the hour.”

  In that case… I dump a stack of books off the cart onto the floor. “Oops,” I say.

  Finn cocks her head at me. “Alyssa.”

  “Finn.”

  She shakes her head, but she’s grinning. With my help (or hindrance), she manages to add another hour to her time sheet.

  When we step outside the Emporium, the brilliant sun is blinding. At home in Virginia Beach, the haze of humidity filters this kind of direct sunlight. “How long is the outlet mall open in Silverthorne?” I ask Finn.

  “No idea,” she says, yawning.

  She looks exhausted and smells kind of ripe. “Do you want me to just take you home?” I ask. “I can go shopping by myself.”

  We’re stopped on the plank sidewalk, and Finn is squinting, shading her eyes with a flat hand. “Does that gas guzzler have AC?” She points to the Mercedes.

  “But of course,” I say.

  “Let’s go.” She leads the way.

  As we get in and buckle up, Finn says, “Go through Frisco and then take a left at Summit Boulevard.”

  I swing out onto Main. “Do you have a car?” I ask.

  “It bit it after three hundred thousand miles. I sold it for parts and bought the mountain bike. I’ve been saving up for the Concours for months.” She grits her teeth.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Summit Boulevard connects all the mountain towns in this area. Traffic is heavy, but nothing like rush hour on I-264 in Virginia Beach. Everyone’s speeding, though. A car runs up on me and honks, which makes me freak.

  Finn says, “You can go faster than twenty-five, you know.”

  I hit the gas and almost crash into the car in front of me. I tell Finn, who’s bracing against the dash now, “I’ve only had my license a few months.”

  She says, “Turn off onto the service road… right… here.” She points.

  I steer off the highway and slow way down; let out a sigh of relief. There’s no one on the service road. Finn rolls her head around on her shoulders and reaches up to stretch. She must sniff her pit because she drops her arms fast. “Man, I could use a swim,” she says.

  “Is there a pool nearby?”

  “Caribou Lake.”

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  “I thought we were going to Silverthorne.”

  A choice between shopping and swimming? “Where’s the lake?”

  Finn gazes ahead. “Around this corner, you’ll see a turnoff. Right after the sign for Blue Spruce Road.”

  I see the Blue Spruce exit and then a small blue-and-white sign with an arrow pointing up. “Hang a left,” Finn says.

  The road is crushed gravel, wide enough for only two lanes. “How far?” I ask her.

  “Just keep going.”

  My eyes stray to her legs, her knobby knees. She has on baggy, khaki shorts and a green camo tee. Well-worn running shoes.

  God, it feels good to be with her, to be with anyone. I really need a friend. “Is Finn your first name or last?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  Dark shadows block the sun as we drive into a ca
nyon. The road narrows even more, and I ease on the brake.

  “Keep going,” Finn says. “It’s another two point six miles from here. You’ll want to slow way down on these hairpin turns in case someone’s coming in the opposite direction.”

  I press on the brake.

  “Even slower. How do I open the window?” Finn asks. She punches a button, and her door unlocks. The AC’s on, blasting ice-cold. I push the button on the driver’s-side door panel for all the windows to roll down.

  “We don’t need the AC,” Finn goes. “It’s cooler up here.”

  “Yeah, it’s only ninety-eight.”

  She sticks her arm out the window and breathes in the air.

  “How long have you known Carly?” I ask.

  She answers, “I haven’t lived here that long.”

  “How long?”

  “Can you see the river yet on your left?”

  I peer out my side window, but there’s no guardrail, and the drop-off is steep. I feel dizzy just looking. Finn grabs the wheel from me. “Suggestion: Try to stay on the road.”

  My hands clench the steering wheel tighter. I can hear the river, the rushing water. It smells fresh and clean. We pass a sign that says HIGH FIRE DANGER. NO CAMPFIRES. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW.

  “Stop,” Finn says.

  I slam on the brakes, giving us both whiplash.

  “Not in the road. Pull into the camping area, and park the car.”

  I see then that the road ends ahead. I steer onto the dirt and draw up to a horizontal log.

  “Oh my God.” I blink in case what I see is only a mirage. Through the trees, down a hill, is a magnificent lake seemingly suspended in midair. We both get out, and I lock the doors with the key remote.

  “Caribou Lake,” Finn announces.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I breathe.

  We walk down a well-trod footpath toward the water, and my stupid flip-flops slip on loose dirt. I almost take a header, but Finn catches my arm. She holds on the rest of the way down. She has a strong grip.

  Near the shore, Finn slows and says, “We’re at the summit of Caribou Mountain.” She outlines with her finger. “That’s the Continental Divide. Rivers flow to the Gulf of Mexico on the east side and to the Pacific Ocean on the west.”

  “Wow. Cool. How long have you lived here?” I ask again.

  “Six, seven months. I worked at Keystone during ski season.”

  “Doing what?”

  “What else? Waitressing. Ski business dried up, and I found Arlo’s.”

  “That was lucky.”

  She looks at me and makes a face. “You think?”

  I laugh. She smiles.

  Dazzling blue water fills the mountain crater to the brim. Finn’s eyes glaze over, and she inhales a long, deep breath. I watch her chest expand and contract. It’s impossible to tear my eyes away. “This way.” She motions. We follow the shoreline until it’s interrupted by a mound of boulders, a sort of peninsula. Finn climbs the first rock and extends a hand to me.

  At the top, the boulders flatten out. Finn sits, and I lower myself next to her. The stone is cool against the bottoms of my legs.

  The lake and the mountain air and, oh my God, is that a breeze? This has to be the most beautiful spot on Earth.

  “Do you visit Carly every summer?” Finn asks.

  I snort.

  She turns to me. “What does that mean?”

  “It means no.” I add, “I’m not here by choice.”

  She frowns.

  I don’t really want to talk about it. And I do want to. “My dad disowned me, and this is the only place I had to go.”

  Finn’s eyebrows arch.

  I push to my feet. “I thought we were going to swim.” I pull my shirt over my head, unzip my shorts, and start down the hill in my bra and briefs. The breeze feels fantastic. I’m sweaty all over and wish I had the guts to go skinny dipping. Finn pulls off her shirt and steps out of her shorts. Damn. Her body’s tight.

  Water laps over my toes, and I squeal. “It’s freezing!”

  “It’s not that bad once you get in.” She splashes into the lake, diving forward and under the water. I tiptoe in, gasping all the way. Plunge, I think. Get your blood moving.

  The lake water is clear and refreshing. And cold. It tastes a little metallic, but clean. Not salty like the ocean. I swim out fast, stroking up beside Finn. Compared to swimming in the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, lake swimming is easy. I stop and tread water.

  What if I never see the ocean again? What if I never see Grandma or Grandpa in Corpus Christi or my cousins down there?

  Last summer Dad took an extra two weeks off, and we drove through Nashville and Memphis. We had to hit all the tourist spots—the Country Music Hall of Fame and, of course, Graceland. But what I remember most is this one night we stopped to camp out. The weather was beautiful. The sky was illuminated with millions of twinkling stars, and the four of us rolled out sleeping bags and tried to outline patterns and shapes in the sky. Tanith had studied astronomy in school, so she knew the constellations. But Paulie saw things like T. rexes and werewolves. I spied palaces, two-headed unicorns, and witches with warts on their noses. Dad and Tanith eventually went to bed while Paulie and I stayed up for hours, making up stories about our stars and playing star wars. He could be a cool kid.

  “You okay?” Finn treads next to me. I focus on her face. She looks concerned, vulnerable. I rise up and dunk her with both hands.

  She yanks me under by the ankle and blows bubbles at me underwater. I grab for her ankle, but it slips away as she propels up and out of sight. I push off the bottom with my feet and break the surface.

  She dunks my head.

  I pop back up and splash her.

  She splashes me back. We laugh, and then our eyes catch and hold. I have this overwhelming desire to kiss her. I’m thankful when she dog-paddles away. “Race you,” she says, flipping over and taking off.

  I’m twice the swimmer she is, and I catch up easily. Without warning, she starts choking and flailing her arms. She sinks, and I feel her kicking, clawing at me. Is she faking? If not…

  To pull her up, the first thing I grab is her braid.

  She coughs and spits out water, yanking her braid away.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She flaps back toward the shore, still coughing. I swim up beside her and snake an arm around her waist, ballasting her on my hip, the way I learned in lifeguard training. We reach shallow water where we can stand, and Finn unhooks my hand from her body as she inhales a deep breath.

  I slick back my hair. My eyes train on her wet bra, her nipples, and I can’t help staring.

  She sloshes awkwardly to shore.

  We gather all our clothes and, atop the boulder, get dressed wet, which isn’t easy. I trip and hobble around, falling over as I’m pulling up my shorts. Finn gets done first and sits, drawing her knees to her chest. I want to wring out her braid because it’s dripping. We don’t speak for a long minute, and now it feels weird between us.

  What happened? I didn’t do anything.

  Out of the blue, Finn says, “Why did you get disowned?”

  I turn to her slowly. “Because I’m gay. Duh.”

  She seems stunned. Like she didn’t know.

  This ice floe seems to spread between us, so I lean away. She says, “When did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you were…” She can’t even say it.

  “A lesbian?”

  She nods slightly.

  “I’ve always known. Haven’t you?”

  The change in her eyes goes beyond shock. More like absolute terror.

  Oh my God. She hasn’t acknowledged it yet. How could she not know?

  Finn gets up and mumbles, “We should go back.”

  I think, You should come out.

  We don’t speak again as I put the Mercedes in reverse and nearly plunge off the cliff. Finn reaches over for the wheel, bu
t I correct in time. We start down the mountain. She says, “You should downshift. It’ll be easier on the brakes.”

  “What’s downshifting?” I slam on the brakes to hug the first curve, and Finn tilts to the left, like her weight will shift an SUV. I skid onto a wide gravel area, my heart pounding. Finn moves the gear knob down a couple of notches from drive to D2 or D1. “Downshifting,” she says.

  I smile weakly. “Thanks.”

  She asks, “Do you want me to drive?”

  Do I ever. I shift into park and get out. We change seats.

  Merging onto the road, Finn asks, “So, when did you tell your dad?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She glances over.

  “He caught me in the act with my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.”

  Finn’s eyes expand.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t pretty.”

  She downshifts for a hairpin curve.

  “My dad’s a homophobe,” I tell her. “Plus, I’m like his darling little daughter who’ll always be five years old and doesn’t even know how to spell s-e-x. Let alone l-e-s-b-i-a-n.”

  I’m back in that moment when Dad caught us. The horror on his face. The revulsion. The moment he decided his little girl was garbage to be thrown away.

  We need to change the subject because I don’t want to start crying, and I definitely don’t want Finn to feel sorry for me. “What are you?” I ask. Besides a closeted lesbian. “Like, part Asian? Native American?”

  “Inuit,” she says. “Half.”

  “What’s Inuit?”

  “It’s like Eskimo.”

  “Really? Cool. Where are you from?”

  She doesn’t answer immediately, so I try again. “Where are you—”

  “Canada.”

  Canada. Sweet. I almost say, You know, they have lesbians in Canada. In fact, you can even get married there.

  We reach the service road, and Finn shifts into drive. She checks her watch.

  “Are you late?” I ask.

  “No. Just need a little shut-eye before I go to work.”

  “What’s your third job?”

  She stifles a yawn. “Bartending.”

  That means she’s at least twenty-one. Finn turns into the Emporium lot and parks.