Whatever. Not my problem anymore. North Carolina, North Carolina, North Carolina, I chant quietly to myself as I head toward my seat. It’s a window seat that’s, fortunately, a few rows up from my parents. I guess by the time they booked our flight, there weren’t any seats left that were together. Unfortunately, my seat is next to two little girls, whose parents are sitting behind us. I guess they couldn’t get their seats together either.
But the fact that they’re letting two kids who appear to be no older than three or four sit together, while the two of them sit together, doesn’t really make that much sense. Wouldn’t it be a better idea to have one parent sit with each child?
“Sorry,” their mom says from behind me, almost as if she’s reading my mind. “They wanted to sit together.”
“They’re sisters,” the dad explains. “Not twins, but Irish twins.” He gives me a big grin and an expectant look, like he’s waiting for some sort of reaction.
I look at him blankly.
“You know, Irish twins?” he asks. “They were born only eleven months apart.”
I guess that’s supposed to be some kind of joke about how Irish people are always having sex or something? So they’re always having tons of kids are super close in age? I don’t really get it, but whatever. It’s actually kind of a prejudiced comment, when you think about it. Not to mention that this family definitely doesn’t look Irish—they have dark hair and dark eyes and olive skin.
“I’m Sophia,” one of the girls says.
“I’m Aleah,” the other one says. They’re wearing matching purple gingham sundresses, with purple shoes and purple bows in their hair.
“I’m Peyton.” I stow my bag into the overhead compartment and then push past them toward my seat.
I flop down and turn my iPod back on, cranking up the volume and trying to calm myself down. It’s not just the flying and the twins that are making me nervous. It’s everything. This wedding. Jace. My plan to run away.
Why didn’t I just get a Xanax or an Ativan the way normal people do when they’re all tense and on the verge of a nervous breakdown? It would have been so much easier. But I have this weird aversion to any kind of pill that makes you feel like you’re losing control. Although they say those pills don’t actually make you feel like you’re losing control; they just allow you to be calm, which obviously would be helpful right about now. Of course, I’d probably be freaking out about having some kind of weird reaction and/or allergy to the pill. Am I too anxious for anxiety pills? Hmmm. The thought is extremely alarming.
“Peyton?” One of the twins is tapping me on my shoulder. I quickly close my eyes and pretend to be sleeping. Tap, tap, tap. “PEYTON!” Then there’s a poke. And then, to my complete shock and dismay, one of those twins pulls my earbud out of my ear. What the hell?
I turn and glare at her, but she’s giving me the cutest smile ever. “Sowwy,” she says. “But you couldn’t hear me.” Then she holds out her juice box. “Can you open this for me?” She wrinkles up her little nose. “The straw is stuck.”
“Sure.” I take the juice box and deal with the straw problem.
I replace my earbud, but five seconds later, it’s yanked out again.
“Peyton?” the other twin says. “Can you help me? I lost my purple crayon. Purple is my favorite color. What’s your favorite color, Peyton?”
I sigh. This is going to be a long flight.
• • •
When the plane touches down in Sarasota, I’m even more relieved than I usually am when a plane lands. I’ve had enough of playing babysitter. Which is what I’ve been doing this whole entire time. Tying shoelaces. Coloring pictures. Answering questions about flying and what the pilot does. (I didn’t really know the answers, so I just kind of guessed. They’re kids; they don’t know the difference.)
“Well,” I say as we’re getting ready to debark, “it was nice meeting you, girls.”
I give their parents a pointed look, hoping they’ll at least thank me for taking care of their children while they read and relaxed. (I peeked over at them once, and the dad was reading Marley and Me. Marley and Me! It was so annoying for some reason. That book is, like, ten years old. He had to spend the time that I was taking care of his rug rats reading Marley and Me? Couldn’t he have picked something a little more current?)
But the parents don’t say anything. They don’t even give me a smile. They’re too busy pulling down their overhead luggage.
Ugh.
God, I’m in a bad mood.
“Can I meet you guys at the luggage carousel?” I ask my mom as soon as we’re off the plane. She’s wearing yoga pants and a pink Ralph Lauren short-sleeved polo shirt with huge Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses holding back her newly highlighted hair. She doesn’t need sunglasses. It’s nighttime. I’ve been resisting the urge to reach over and rip them off her head, maybe taking some strands of hair with them.
“Why?” my mom asks, shouldering her bag. “You have so much luggage. You should be there to pick it up.”
“I am going to be there to pick it up,” I grumble. “I just want to get a coffee first.” Coffee always helps my mood.
“Sure, honey,” my dad says, not because he’s taking my side, but because he wants to piss my mom off. “We’ll watch for your bags. You brought the Louis Vuitton luggage, right?”
“Yeah.” I wonder if I can sell it to pay off my credit card debt.
I wait in line at Starbucks, ignoring the much shorter line at the Dunkin’ Donuts, because I need something strong that’s going to, hopefully, jolt me out of my bad mood.
The line inches slowly forward, and I tap my foot impatiently, then pull my phone out and text Brooklyn in an effort to distract myself.
We still on?
She texts back immediately: Yes! Stop freaking out!!
My biggest fear is that Brooklyn is going to back out of our plan. She’s given no indication that she’s going to, but that doesn’t mean she won’t. She could get strep throat. Or food poisoning. Or a broken ankle. People are always cancelling things. Especially me. I’m a huge canceller. I hope that isn’t going to make it more likely that Brooklyn is going to cancel on me. Like cancel karma or something.
When I get to the front of the Starbucks line, I decide to switch it up and order an iced mocha. Skinny, because if I’m going to see Jace tomorrow, I don’t want to be all bloated. Of course, all those hamburgers I’ve been eating for the past two weeks aren’t going to help, but whatever.
I don’t need to impress anyone. Once I’m in North Carolina, I’ll meet a new boy. One who will bring me flowers all the time and take me out to fancy dinners and buy me tons of presents like jewelry and iPads and all sorts of stuff. And not in a skeezy way, either, the way guys do when they’re feeling guilty or want to show off how much money they have.
Actually, no, forget that. I’m not going to get all caught up in materialistic displays of affection. In fact, it’s better for me to find a guy who doesn’t have money. No way do I want to repeat my mom’s mistakes. Plus I get the feeling that Jace and his family are kind of well-off. And I need the anti-Jace.
But anti-Jace can still bring me lots of presents. Flowers that he’s grown himself. Little notes he’s written on beautifully colored paper. Cookies he’s baked, and books he’s found in used bookstores that he wants me to read because they remind him of me.
Who needs Jace Renault? This is me, totally over him, la la la. This is him, disappearing from my mind.
“Skinny mocha latte,” the barista calls out, and I pick up my drink, cheered by my new attitude and impending caffeine rush.
Brooklyn texts me again, and I check my phone.
Can’t wait to c u! NC BAYBEE!
I smile and slip the phone back into my bag, then start to make my way through the crowd and over to the baggage carousel where my parents are waiting.
But a few seconds later, I stop short.
Because moving through the airport, coming from the other way, is J
ace. He’s wearing a cool-looking silver T-shirt, and his hair is pushed back from his face, and he’s slouched over with his hands in his pockets and, oh, my God, he looks so hot and what am I going to do if he sees me?
I don’t have time to run the other way. I don’t have time to do anything. My heart is beating fast and the room is spinning and my face is flushing and I don’t—
Oh.
Wait.
That’s not Jace. It’s some guy with a lip piercing and spiky hair who actually looks nothing like him. Well. Okay. Good. False alarm. I mean, I didn’t want to see him anyway.
I keep walking through the airport, my heart finally slowing to its normal rate. I guess that whole thing about Jace disappearing from my mind needs a little work. Sigh.
Friday, June 25, 10:07 a.m.
Sarasota, Florida
The night before the wedding, I can’t sleep at all. I know it’s ridiculous. I know it’s lame. I know it’s totally stupid. I know it’s because of Peyton.
I toss and turn and toss and turn. Finally at around three in the morning, I give up. I play around on the Internet for a while, but the Internet is boring. I try to read a book, but I can’t keep my mind on it. I try to work on my graduation speech, but I’ve already gone over the stupid thing so many times that if I work on it any more, I’m afraid it’s going to end up being worse. Finally, I drift off to sleep at about five a.m. after watching a bunch of reruns of The Office on Netflix.
I’m woken up at ten the next morning by my mom knocking on my door.
“Jace?”
I roll over and blink at the clock, wondering what’s going on. My mom never wakes me up, because she thinks I’m the perfect son and therefore trusts me enough to set my own wake-up time. (Which is actually true. I am the perfect son. And I do know when to wake up. Never before eleven, har har har.)
“Yeah?” I call back.
“Someone’s here to see you.”
Peyton. It’s the first name that pops into my mind. She has to be in Florida by now, right? The wedding’s tonight at seven, so her flight probably got in last night. Maybe she came to my house to—
“It’s Evan,” my mom says. “He seems a little . . . worked up.”
I sigh and swing my legs over the bed, then pull a sweatshirt on over my shorts and T-shirt. When I get to the door, Evan’s standing on the porch, his hands in the pockets of his khakis, his feet shuffling back and forth. His eyes are darting all around, which makes me nervous. I have no idea what’s going on with him, but I have enough to be dealing with. Graduation, a wedding, seeing Peyton . . .
“Hey,” I say.
“Hello!” he says, immediately pasting a smile on his face. “There’s my best friend in the world!”
Oh, Jesus Christ. “What have you done?” I ask immediately.
He looks wounded. “I can’t believe you would ask me that.”
“Really?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You really can’t believe it?”
“No,” he says, raising his chin in the air. “I can’t. I’ve been nothing but nice to you, for my whole life even—”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I interrupt him. “All I said was that it can’t really be surprising to you that I would question what kind of scrape you’ve gotten yourself into that would necessitate you showing up on my doorstep at ten in the morning unannounced.”
His look of outrage deepens. “I don’t get myself into scrapes!”
“Really?” I ask. “What about the time you signed up to sell wrapping paper for the senior fundraiser and then ended up spending the money yourself?”
“I needed that money—otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to afford my prom ticket! And besides, I paid it back.”
“What about the time you ended up involved in that vitamin pyramid scheme? The one where you almost got arrested for trying to sell diet pills to all the girls at school?”
“How was I supposed to know you had to be eighteen to take them?” he protests. “And besides, I got decked in the face because of that, remember?” He rubs his jaw, remembering.
“Yeah, because you can’t just go around asking girls if they want to buy diet pills! Of course they’re going to get pissed.”
“That wasn’t what—”
“Enough!” I hold my hand up. And then I start to feel bad. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought all that stuff up.”
Evan nods. “You shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “That stuff was in past, and I’ve really changed. Especially since I got together with Whitney.”
I gape at him. “You guys have only been together for a few weeks.”
“A few weeks is enough time. People can change like that if they’re motivated.” He snaps his fingers.
“I guess,” I say doubtfully. “So then what are you doing here so—” I’m cut off by the sound of a yelp coming from the yard. I frown. “What the hell was that? If the neighbor’s dog gets into my mom’s flower beds again, she’s going to flip.”
I look around, but I don’t see the dog anywhere.
“That’s kind of what I’m here to talk to you about,” Evan says, looking sheepish.
“My mom’s flower beds?” I ask with a laugh.
He shakes his head, and then I get it.
“Oh no,” I say. “Evan, please don’t tell me you—”
“I got a dog.” He steps to the side, so that I can see where his car’s parked in the driveway. There’s a dog in the backseat. When it sees us looking, it immediately starts whining and crying.
“Oh, Evan,” I say, my stomach dropping. “You didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t take care of a dog,” I say. “You’re too . . . ” I’m about to say “irresponsible,” but I’m pretty sure that would piss him off. “. . . impulsive.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jace,” he says, and rolls his eyes like it’s completely out of the realm of possibility that he would be considered impulsive. He puffs his chest out. “You’ll be happy to know, then, that the dog’s not for me. It’s for Whitney.”
“Okay.” I peer at the dog gingerly. It definitely doesn’t look like the type of dog you’d get someone as a present. Dogs that are presents should be clean and friendly looking, with their ears perked up and a big red bow around their necks. This dog looks . . . well, kind of scruffy. But whatever. If Evan’s happy, I’m happy. “That’s nice, Evan,” I say. “I’m sure she’s really going to like it.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” he says. I close my eyes and wait for it. “She’s allergic to dogs.”
“Why in the world would you get her a dog if you knew she was allergic?”
“Well, obviously I didn’t know she was allergic when I got her the dog.” He shrugs. “But what’s done is done.”
“So take it back.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got it from the shelter.”
“And they won’t take it back?” Not that I really blame them. If I’d gotten rid of a dog that looked like that, I wouldn’t be excited to take it back either. I know that’s a horrible thing to say. But it’s true. Then I have a thought. “You didn’t pay for that dog, did you?”
“Well, you have to give them an adoption fee, Jace,” he says. “Shelters subsist on adoption fees and donations. Which reminds me, when was the last time you did any charity work?”
I look at him incredulously. “When’s the last time you did any charity work?”
He nods. “Good point.”
“Okay, so what are you going to do with him?” The dog is pawing at the inside of the window now, his front legs leaving muddy prints on the glass. “Is that how you tried to give him to Whitney?” I ask. “Because he’s all dirty.” She’s probably not even allergic. She probably just didn’t want a dirty dog.
“I never even got him to Whitney’s,” Evan says. He starts throwing his keys up in the air and then catching them. “I just told her I was coming over with a s
urprise, and she jokingly said ‘I hope it’s not a puppy, because I’m allergic.’ ”
“And what did you say?”
“I said, ‘Of course it’s not a puppy, I would never bring you an animal without asking your permission first.’ ”
“Okay,” I say, “so then bring it back.”
He sighs. “Jace,” he says. “I just told you the problem with that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“The problem is they said all sales are final.”
“All sales are final?” I shake my head. “That makes no sense. It’s an animal shelter, not a Sears.”
“Fine, they didn’t say that.” He stops throwing his keys up in the air and looks at me seriously. “But I can’t take him back, Jace. No one wants him. And if no one wants him, they’re going to put him to sleep. That’s why I got him. He was on a list, you know, of dogs on their last chance.” He lowers his voice at that last part, like he doesn’t want the dog knowing about the last chance list.
“So then what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to find him a home.”
“Good for you.” I give Evan a good strong pat on the shoulder and then start backing into my house before he can try to involve me in whatever crazy scheme he’s come up with to find a home for this dog. I can’t help anyway—I don’t know anyone who even wants a dog, much less a dog that looks like a big mess.
“But,” he says, following me into the house, “I can’t find him a home today.”
“Why not?”
“Because it takes a long time for a dog to find a home! That’s how he ended up at the shelter in the first place.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you got him. And anyway, why can’t you keep him at your house?” I walk into the kitchen, then open the refrigerator and pull out the orange juice.
“Can I have some of that?” Evan asks, plopping himself down at the breakfast bar.
“That depends,” I say. “How soon after you drink it are you going to leave?”
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