Just Like Fate

by Cat Patrick

  “Wait, there it is,” Chris says, motioning to the left side. “The one with the truck in the driveway.” He scoffs. “See. I knew exactly where it was.”

  I pull to the curb, letting the engine idle as Chris checks for his wallet and keys. When he’s done—taking way longer than necessary—he clears his throat. “Do you think I can call you sometime?” he asks.

  There’s a weird twist of excitement and sadness mixed together as I look at him. “Are you hitting on me five minutes after I told you that my grandmother died?” I ask.

  He winces. “Wow, I’m a douche, huh?” He says it so innocently that I have to smile, even though I feel like a traitor for the gesture. Chris runs his hand through his hair, embarrassment painting his cheeks pink in the light of the streetlights.

  “You’re fine,” I say. “It’s me. I’m running a little high on the bitch-o-meter tonight. I’m not myself.” I look down. “I don’t know if I ever will be again.”

  “I really am sorry about your grandmother, Caroline,” Chris says in his most serious tone of the night. I mean to look at him, to thank him, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll give him the wrong idea. And I can’t be that selfish—not this time.

  “You seem really great,” I tell him. “I’m just not in a good place. My life’s a mess, and you deserve better than that.”

  “That’s possibly the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten,” Chris says, soft but playful. “So thank you for that.” He opens the door and climbs out. Under different circumstances, I would have given him my number. Just not tonight.

  “Well, Caroline,” he says as he holds up his hand in a wave. “Sweet Caroline. It was a pleasure meeting you—officially. Maybe next time I’ll get that number.”

  There’s a small panic that I may never see him again, and so despite my vow to not lead him on, I smile. “Tell you what, if I ever happen to randomly run into you when I’m not crying and miserable, the digits are all yours.”

  Chris grins. “I’ll hold you to that.” And then he closes the door and jogs up the driveway.

  SIX

  STAY

  I wake up on Saturday, the morning after the worst day of my life so far, and my sister’s asleep next to me. I don’t know when she came in, but I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind that she’s here. Whatever changed between us at the hospital seems to be still in effect, and having her here is like a silent peace treaty after years at war. Except that her presence reminds me of the reality that Gram’s dead.

  I don’t move; I don’t even feel like I’m breathing. I listen to the erratic drum of rain hitting the gutter outside, trying to force my thoughts away from Gram. They land on wondering whether the back window of my car is still cracked open from when Felicity thought she was going to puke after lunch yesterday. I wonder if it was cracked when I went to see—

  Gram’s dead.

  It hits me again: the helplessness and the heartache. I actually put my hand to my chest; I feel like I’ll never take a deep breath again. But still, I don’t cry. Why don’t I cry?

  I think of the way she looked just before she died. I think of standing by her bedside, listening to her talk. Those will be the last things she ever says. The thought makes my stomach tighten like a fist.

  To calm myself, I think of all the mundane things I still have to do. Like walking a cat. “Freaking Junior,” I mutter.

  “What?” Natalie says, her voice groggy.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly. I slip out of the bed. “Go back to sleep.” I gather my messy hair into a ponytail, shrug into a sweatshirt, and step into shearling boots before leaving my room.

  I skip my morning routine and head downstairs because what does a cat care about fresh breath? He sure doesn’t have it. And this way, I can pee in my own bathroom instead of the one with the stepstool for Judith. I always trip over that thing.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks from behind me. My hand freezes on the front door handle. She’s always been eerily quiet—she could make a career out of sneaking up on people.

  “Just down to Gram’s,” I say without turning around. For some reason, I don’t want to see my mom’s face—her sadness. “She told me to check up on Junior. I hope I can manage to get him out from under her bed.”

  “I need to add that to my list,” Mom says absentmindedly. Finally, because it’s getting weird, I turn around. She looks … empty. She’s fixated on an old water stain on the antique hall table. “We need to find him a home,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, surprised. “You can’t do that. Gram loved that cat.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find someone else who loves him just as much,” Mom says, eyes still on the stain. There’s no fire in her words: She says them like she’s programmed to do so.

  “I’ll take care of him,” I protest, staring intently at Mom—needing her to look at me.

  “Albert’s allergic to cats. And Judith’s afraid of Junior. He’s not living here.”

  “No, I meant with me at Gram’s.”

  Mom’s eyes snap to attention.

  “You understand that you’re moving back home now that Gram is gone, right?” she asks. “There’s no way I’d let you live there without parental supervision. And regardless, selling the house is on my list too.”

  “You’re going to sell the house?” I ask so quietly it’s almost a whisper. Then, a little louder, “How can you even think about that right now?”

  Mom crosses her arms; I know I’ve hurt her feelings. “Believe me, I don’t want to,” she says. “But those were her final wishes, Caroline. She wanted Teddy to tell me.”

  Mom looks away, and I imagine that she’s thinking about the fact that she didn’t get to say good-bye to her own mother. That, in a way, Gram chose her grandchildren over her daughters.

  “Don’t stay over there too long,” she says in a faraway voice before turning away.

  “I won’t,” I say after her, but she doesn’t hear. The door to the kitchen is already swinging back into the hallway.

  I jog up the steps to Gram’s house and try the door—she always left it unlocked—before realizing what I’m doing. I sigh heavily and walk around to get the key from the magnetic thing under the drainpipe on the side of the house. I go in, lean my back against the door, and take in the house that, for the past five years, has been my home. I look at the brightly painted walls, the dark wood floors. The eclectic furniture. Her handpicked art collection. It’s like I can feel the space missing her. I miss her in it.

  The sound of my phone makes me jump.

  “Hello?” I say quickly, heart pounding.

  “Hi,” Simone says, and I can tell right off the bat she’s using her sympathetic voice today. “How are you doing, Linus? Is everything okay? I mean, no, of course it’s not okay. But, like, how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say before she continues vomiting words. “Or at least I will be.” I hear her sigh on the other end of the line, relieved.

  “Sorry for being such a freak,” she says. “I just don’t really know what to say. …”

  “There’s no right thing,” I say. “Honestly, I wish people would just not talk about it right now. I realize that sounds awful, but it’s not like I’m not already thinking about her. I only just woke up and it’s already too much. I mean last night when we got home, it was just … ugh. I wish someone would talk about something else.”

  “Like what?” Simone asks tentatively.

  “Like anything!” I say, finally walking through the entryway and into the house. I weave through the living room and find myself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water like … usual. “Tell me about the party last night,” I say before drinking half the glass in one gulp.

  “For real?” Simone asks, unsure.

  “Yes!”

  There’s a pause when I picture my best friend’s internal debate over whether it’s selfish or helpful for her to divulge all the juicy details she’s dying to share. In the end, her inner gossi
p wins out. She takes a deep breath, and then, like she’s never spoken before and it’s some great release to do so, she says everything at once.

  “Felicity met some guy in a sweater-vest and he actually danced with her despite the fact that she was wearing those suspenders again—I mean, what is she thinking?—and it was geek love by the end of the night. Gwen left early after some girl called her a hooker, which was totally uncalled for, but between you and me, those four-inch heels aren’t doing her reputation any favors.”

  Simone takes a quick breath—only enough so she doesn’t pass out but not long enough for me to react—before she dives in again.

  “I met a guy named Ed who seemed really great and I know what you’re going to say but I’ll tell you anyway: I made out with him a little.” I can’t help it—I laugh.

  “You’re a professional kisser,” I say, thrilled by the normalcy of the conversation. “You kiss guys the second you meet them.”

  “I do not!” Simone protests, but she laughs, busted.

  “You do too,” I say. “It’s like your version of a handshake. It’s a tongue-shake.”

  “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” she says. “You’re disgusting.”

  “I speak the truth,” I tease.

  “Well, you know what they say … you have to kiss a lot of frogs to meet your prince,” she says good-naturedly. Simone’s always known who she is; I love her for that. “And besides, it stops at kissing,” she says. “It’s not like I’m letting them cop a C-cup on the first date or anything.”

  “Simone!” I squeal, equally embarrassed by and in love with her forwardness. “You’re so bad,” I say, shaking my head. “So, how did it end with Mr. Wonderful Not Wonderful?”

  “You really want to know?” she asks in a way that makes me nervous.

  “I don’t know—do I?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m home … at Gram’s,” I say. I can practically hear Simone hesitate—like I just threw a pail of water on her fire—so I quickly add, “Why? Where are you?”

  “My house,” she says, “but I have an errand to run. I’ll pick you up and you can go with me—I’ll buy you hot chocolate afterward. Salted caramel hot chocolate.”

  “That’s unfair,” I say, drooling like one of those dogs in the science experiment. “Why do I feel like this isn’t going to end well?”

  “It’ll be fine, Linus,” she says. “I’m just messing around. The guy gave me his sweatshirt and then texted me this morning, wanting it back. Classic ploy to get to bathe in my awesomeness a little longer,” she says, laughing at her own joke. “Anyway, I’m going to drop it off, then we can go hang out. I’m not into the guy—I just want to rip off the Band-Aid and it’ll be done. But then I get to see you and give you a big hug and we can talk about … whatever.”

  “You don’t want to go alone, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. I’ll be your breakup buffer. Just so long as you promise not to mention death,” I say. “Or funerals. You have to promise not to talk about anything serious whatsoever.”

  “Done.”

  “I need like an hour. I have to go find the cat and walk him.”

  “You know that’s completely deranged, don’t you?” she asks. Simone walked Junior with me once and we made it one block in fifteen minutes—Junior was crouched low to the cement, terrified the whole time. Eventually I had to pick him up and carry him back like a baby. Or, I guess, like a cat.

  “Yeah, but it was Gram’s thing,” I say quietly. “Anyway, I have to shower. I’m still wearing my pajamas.”

  “Pajamas are infinitely better than what Felicity leaves the house in on a daily basis,” Simone says. “You should just wear those.”

  “But what if we run into Joel at the coffee shop or something?” I pause, surprised to admit my crush on Joel so easily. Simone gasps.

  “Well, aren’t we taking off the training wheels? Are you actually ready to go for it with Joel Ryder, Linus? It’s not like it’s a gazillion years late or anything.”

  I smile, blushing slightly. “I don’t know about going for anything. But I think my unspoken admiration doesn’t have to be so silent anymore.”

  “Well,” Simone says, “speaking of Joel … he was there last night.”

  “What?” I ask, gripping the phone and suddenly nervous. “Joel was at the party?”

  “Yep. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.” She kisses the phone and hangs up, leaving me exhilarated and anxious. Just perfect for trying to lure a skittish cat from under a couch.

  I coax Junior out with a mangy mouse toy before snapping him into his leash. I walk him up and down the block in the opposite direction from my house. Then I run up the stairs and shower with my own shampoo, not borrowed baby shampoo from Juju, and search my real bedroom for clothes that aren’t pajamas. It all feels so normal until I walk down the hall and turn the door handle that leads to Gram’s room.

  I step inside: It smells like lavender, mint, and rose, and the air is still, like it’s waiting for something. Waiting for her. Invisible fingertips run up the back of my neck and I shiver even though the heat’s on. She left it on.

  The room is like its own planet, so far away from my own. I walk over and touch the quilt draped at the end of Gram’s bed, soft after years of use. I run my fingers along the smooth wooden footboard, then the top of the low dresser.

  “I love you, Gram,” I say quietly into her space. “If you can hear me, I just want you to know that.”

  Nothing happens—nothing changes. But it feels like she heard me anyway. I leave and head downstairs to wait for Simone. For stories of Joel and kissing strangers and hot chocolate. For anything but empty bedrooms with smells that’ll fade over time.

  For anything but thinking about Gram.

  Simone turns down the heater when I jump in the passenger seat of her silver car, then she gives me a hug that lingers longer than usual. When she pulls back, dark brown eyes on mine, I remind her of her promise.

  “No serious talk,” I say.

  She smiles deviously, then, “Did I tell you that this guy Ed kisses like a dog licking himself?” We both totally lose it; there’s a point when I actually wish I’d stop laughing because my stomach muscles hurt from overuse. It wasn’t the funniest thing she’s ever said, but all of the tension of the past week pours out of me. It’s healing.

  “You have no idea what I’m picturing right now,” I say when we’re finally over it and on our way.

  “Whatever you’re picturing, this guy was worse,” she says. “Oh, hey! It’s my song!” She turns up the radio and Electric Freakshow’s latest blasts throughout the car. We both sing along at the top of our lungs, but when it gets to the part I don’t know, I take a deep cathartic breath and let it out.

  “Thanks for this,” I say, looking at her. She’s in a tight pink sweat suit, and her wild hair looks more model than matted. She glances at me, then back at the road.

  “You’re welcome,” she says, navigating onto the highway. “Now grab my phone and check his text from this morning. I need you to read me the address.”

  I co-pilot us to a neighborhood across town using the Internet GPS that never quite catches up to where we are. “It’s 2026,” I say as she begins slowly inching down the street.

  “Evens are on the left,” Simone murmurs as she continues to creep forward. “That’s 2020,” she says, pointing to a yellow house with black shutters and accelerating a bit more. “2022 …” We pass a brick house with trim that needs a paint job. Then she pulls over on the opposite side of the street. “There it is.”

  I grin at her. “Good luck.”

  Simone sighs, then turns to grab a boy’s sweatshirt wadded up on the backseat. I reach to switch between radio stations.

  “I’ll be thirty seconds and then it’s hot choc-o-latte time,” she says before shutting the door and jogging across the street. In the emptiness of the car, the new station whisper
s out Electric Freakshow’s song again. It’s barely loud enough to hear:

  “… are all just magnets for fate; stumbling, skipping, running at our pace …”

  I whisper along, looking over as Simone takes the front porch steps. She rings the bell, looking back once to give me a thumbs-up, and then talks briefly to a cute guy who doesn’t look at all like a dog kisser to me. I guess that’s why you really can’t judge a book by its cover. She hands over his sweatshirt and gives him an awkward hug. As she jogs back to the car, he watches her go.

  “Sammy’s?” she asks as she gets behind the wheel.

  “Where else?” I ask, my mouth watering again thinking about Sammy’s famous salted caramel hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. “I need a scone, too. I haven’t eaten anything since …” My words fade as I think of the last meal I ate. I need a distraction.

  “You didn’t tell me about Joel,” I say quickly. “At the party?”

  “Oh, right!” she says, smacking her leg. “He asked about you.”

  “Liar!”

  “Truth,” she says. We’re still parked, and I’m sure Ed is wondering why we haven’t left yet. Simone goes on. “So Joel was all, ‘Where’s your sidekick?’ and I was all, ‘Dealing with family drama,’ and he was all, ‘Bummer.’ And then some girl barfed on the dance floor, which cleared the party faster than a raid.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Believe it, sister,” Simone says, checking her reflection in the rearview. “Your little lover boy might just have eyes for you, too.”

  I don’t say anything else; I just take it all in. Simone shifts gears, and over her shoulder, the hookup house catches my eye. There’s a different boy leaving, and from this vantage point he looks even cuter than the first. Blond hair, blue-eyed college random. I nearly smile at him, but Simone peels out like she’s driving the getaway car at a bank heist and I almost topple into the backseat.

  “Mony!” I yell as I straighten up. She apologizes, and I look back at the house once again. I see the guy stop on the sidewalk, shield his eyes from the sun, and watch after us. There’s a flit in my chest that feels like missing something. Then as quickly as he’s there—the staring, stirring boy—Simone takes a turn and he’s gone.