by A. J. Pine
Zach pulls my head to his shoulder and lets me cry without spouting any of the bullshit we don’t know yet to be true—It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.
He rubs my back, though, and does say one thing. “Wyatt would hate this. Remember when Grandpa Al passed away two years ago? You and I were too freaked out to get up and say anything, so Wyatt got up there and told the story about Grandpa giving him the talk?”
A tiny bubble of laughter finds its way through the tears, because yes. No one could forget Wyatt standing up at a podium, in a funeral home, telling everyone how on his thirteenth birthday his grandfather gave him advice instead of a gift: Save it for the shower so your mother doesn’t have to buy you any more socks.
“Mom was the first one to laugh,” I say. “She’d just lost her second parent, and with one inappropriate but true memory, Wyatt had her crying for a whole other reason.” Zach nods and rests his chin on my head. “What would he say now to change the source of our tears?” I ask.
Zach sits up again so I can see him raise his eyebrows.
“First he’d rip me a new one for getting high and for getting Dad high, saying we aren’t all in if we have to cover up life to get through it. Then he’d take us cliff diving or something equally terrifying—after we sobered up, of course—during which I’d probably shit myself from fear, thus causing hysterical laughter from anyone present and everyone he’d tell when we got home.”
I smile. “Sounds fun.”
Zach sighs. “It would be,” he admits. “Everything with Wyatt was fun even if you didn’t want to do it.”
“Like pants-shitting cliff diving?”
“Like pants-shitting cliff diving.”
“You know this isn’t a problem for me, right, Z?” His eyes shift to the joint resting in the bowl. “I know it can be hereditary, but it doesn’t mean it is. This isn’t a habit. It’s just for now.”
I nod. Zach made it through four years of college living in a fraternity house and drinking as frat boys do. It wasn’t a problem for him, not yet, at least. But the possibility would always make me worry.
“Can I ask you something?” I start, not sure I want to continue, but Zach nods. I take a breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think he was reckless?”
Zach lets out an equally long breath. “I think he loved and believed in everything he did. I don’t think he didn’t value his life. I just—I don’t know—I just think he lived. You know? Until he didn’t.”
I stand up, smoothing out my dress even though it’s past midnight, and I’m minutes away from throwing it into a rumpled ball on my floor.
“That’s an acceptable answer,” I tell him, and he presses his lips together into a forced smile. I don’t know if it’s the right answer, but I’ll take it for now.
“Your friend?” he asks, and I know he means Spock. “Same guy we met at the convention. The musician, right?”
I nod. Zach was with me at the comic book convention, took the trip with me from central Illinois to Madison just so I could geek out over my favorite artists. Other than him knowing Spock dropped by when his band was in town, I never really told him anything else. I’m the good girl who makes good decisions. My party-boy brother trusts that.
I feel the tremble as I inhale, wondering how much he’d trust me if he knew the part I played in where our family is today. No, I think. Today isn’t about me. It’s about Wyatt and making sure everyone else is okay before I leave.
“I’m glad you have—a person,” he says, and I laugh a little at his word use, but then a lump rises in my throat. Even if Spock didn’t show up today, I had Jess and Adam. Sure, old friends from high school showed up to the memorial, but who was Zach’s person? And would Spock really be mine past today?
“See you in the morning,” I say, but Zach’s eyes are already drifting closed as he leans his head back against his headboard. I reach hesitantly for the joint sitting in the ceramic bowl, the end of it still burning. For a second I consider taking one drag, one breath’s worth of covering up a short stint of my grief. Then I shake my head, remembering who I was freshman year—the perky blond party girl who almost drowned in a baby pool because I possibly inherited an uncontrollable love of liquor from my mother. I snuff out what’s left of the joint, then flush it down the toilet for good measure. We’ll face the morning together, the four of us, sober.
On the way to my room, I pause outside Wyatt’s door, the muffled sound of sobs emanating from within. I should go in there, comfort her, tell her she’ll be okay. But in the back of my mind I hear that voice that reminds me that if she knew the part I played in all of this, she’d blame me. And she should.
Chapter Four
I wake to the smell of bacon and coffee, and my mouth waters. Nothing like having a dad who doesn’t mind bringing his work home with him. Before officially admitting I’m awake, I check the time on my phone. Already eight o’clock. And I slept through a text that came at seven.
Spock: There was only one bus leaving for Madison this morning. Didn’t want to wake
you and didn’t want to impose on your family. Have some things to take
care of back home, but I want to see you again, Zoe. Can I see you again?
I don’t respond right away, but I allow myself a small smile. Maybe it’s the intoxicating aroma of my dad’s handiwork in the kitchen or the sense memory of being in Spock’s arms last night, his lips on mine, but I think maybe he was right. This hope thing might be real after all, and for the time it takes me to brush my teeth and wash away my smeared eye makeup from the night before, I let it fill the empty spaces inside. I let myself believe that maybe I will get through this if I’ve got someone else in my corner.
When I get downstairs to the kitchen, my father spins away from the counter and hands me a crispy piece of bacon.
“How’s my bear?” he asks, and I sink my teeth into what feels like the first real food I’ve eaten in a week.
“Dad, are you . . . ?” I don’t smell anything other than his cooking, but the smile on his face makes me ask.
He gives me a small shush and looks around the kitchen that is still empty other than him and me.
“That was just yesterday,” he says. “I’m gonna take on today with nothing but the help of bacon.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I don’t push, though. Dad’s cooking, and that’s a good sign.
“How about you, honey? You haven’t . . . ?”
And here begins the dance. I check on him. He checks on me. And all would be well if we could leave it at that.
“Are you asking for yourself or for her?” But there isn’t time for my dad to answer before the her walks in. My mom—all business as she grabs the coffee he pours for her and sits down at the table, a stack of papers in front of her.
“Have some more of whatever you’re eating, sweetie. You’re too thin.”
She should talk. My mother is thin to begin with, but I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, on more than one account. Maybe it’s her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but her cheekbones are more pronounced and her chin a bit pointier. Even with a husband who cooks for a living, Mom hasn’t been eating much either.
She sips her black coffee and rifles through the documents in front of her.
“I’m going to see the lawyer in the morning, honey, so I won’t be by the diner until after lunch.”
My dad keeps his back to us as he busies himself with whatever he’s finishing up at the counter, but I see him nod.
“Lawyer?” I ask, pouring a cup for myself and finding my old place at the table, just across from Mom.
“You don’t think I’m letting that construction company get off scot-free, do you? I’m filing a wrongful death suit,” she says, her voice catching on the word death.
“What?” I ask. “Why?” And my mom’s hand shakes as she neatens the pile, before her eyes meet mine. Immediately I wish I could take it back, the accusation in my tone that says, Why c
an’t you just let it be? If this is what she needs, then I have to support her.
Mom’s eyes focus on me, yet I can tell she’s far away, somewhere else in her mind.
“Because someone needs to take the blame, Zoe. And someone needs to stop these kids—Wyatt’s friends—from doing anything like this again before anyone else gets hurt.”
Like I should have done.
I put my hand on hers, feeling her body tremble.
“I’m gonna get us some food, okay?” I ask, and she nods.
My dad fixes us both plates filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit, and despite my already dwindling appetite, I devour my food to show my mom I’m okay, to give her one less thing to worry about. I don’t tell her that this lawsuit won’t bring Wyatt back or that she already has someone to blame—me. Instead I do what I do best and keep it together so she won’t fall apart.
Wyatt confided in me, trusted me enough to tell me where he was going just a week ago. Why didn’t something click? Why didn’t worry make it past the part I loved to play, that of the cool big sister, the one who trusted Wyatt to always come home in one piece? He asked me to cover for him if Mom and Dad had any reason to question his whereabouts that evening, and I agreed simply because he asked. That’s how Wyatt’s charm worked. He asked, and I obliged even though a tiny voice in the back of my mind told me that no matter what I thought about Wyatt’s escapades before, jumping off the roof of a parking structure was more than just a thrill. It was exactly what I heard in whispered conversations throughout the day yesterday—reckless.
I should have stopped Wyatt. I could have stopped him.
But I didn’t.
Now he’s gone, and none of us will ever be the same. But if I look after them, my parents and Zach, I can give back some of what I took. “Dad, why don’t you make me a plate for Zach? I’ll bring it upstairs and make sure he’s all right.”
My mom puts her hand on my cheek. “You always do take care of us, don’t you? What are we going to do without you for ten weeks?”
I swallow hard. “I—I don’t have to go, Mom. I can stay.”
“No way, Z.”
I look up to see my brother in the kitchen’s entryway, blond hair sleep tousled and his eyes reddened with, well, the possibilities are plenty. Exhaustion? Falling asleep high? The evidence of his grief? I’m going with all of the above.
“He’s right,” my dad says, handing a plate to Zach and finally fixing one for himself. “We are going to be fine, Zoe.”
“Yep,” Zach says. “Just fine.”
But the repetition of the word fine is enough to tell me my family is a bunch of actors too.
“Promise me you’ll eat,” my mom says, and I snag a piece of Zach’s bacon just as he sits down.
“I’m eating,” I say as I force down the extra food and paint on a smile. “I’ll be okay, Mom.”
Her smile says she believes me. So I swallow down the bacon and with it the guilt. Right now it’s a lawsuit. It won’t bring Wyatt back, but it keeps her from looking for other options to deal with her grief. What if the truth drove her to something worse? If my mother started drinking again after two decades of sobriety, she might not come back from a slip like that.
“You’re always so strong,” she says. “I’m so proud of you.”
I get up from the table and kiss her on the cheek. I’ll be strong for her. For Dad. For Zach. If me being okay means they will be okay, then I’ll cover up the pain so they don’t have to worry.
When I get back to my room, I open up Spock’s text again.
Yes¸ I reply.
For the short time he was with me, the hurt wasn’t in charge. It didn’t seep from my pores and threaten to swallow me whole. So yes, of course, he can see me again.
Chapter Five
One Month Later
“So this is okay, right?” Spock asks, parallel parking my car without a hint of effort. Never mind that it’s a tiny Scion. I’ve only ever parked it in parking lots and driveways. I’m predicting lots of needless city driving when Spock’s not around as I troll my little nook of Chicago for end spots.
But he’s not asking about the parking spot.
“Huh?” I ask, pretending I haven’t spent this morning’s drive overanalyzing pretty much everything.
“Your first weekend in your new place and me crashing on the floor? I’m not a total asshole.” He pauses for a beat. “Am I?”
I ponder the question but exit the vehicle before answering. I want to gather my thoughts without having to look at him—without having to remember that the last time I saw him, he kissed me and then went home to Madison to figure out his next move since leaving the tour. Turns out Pleasantville had no trouble replacing him for his stint in small-town Illinois . . . and the rest of the gigs thereafter. Spock never told me if he wanted to go back, only that he wasn’t.
We’ve talked plenty since my brother’s memorial, about anything and everything except for Wyatt (my rule) and us (an unwritten rule we both follow). Not once have we ever addressed the elephant in the room, or in our case, across the state line. Other than saying we wanted to see each other again, I think we’ve both been waiting to figure out what it’s like to see each other without the heightened drama of us both losing something—him, his music and me, my brother. It didn’t feel right to invite him back to my parents’ house, not while Mom went full steam ahead with this lawsuit, Dad worked overtime at the diner, and Zach spent more hours than necessary at the gym. Everyone threw themselves into their own distractions. Only now could I throw myself into mine.
“I invited you,” I say, letting out a breath. “If anyone’s the asshole here, it’s me, though I’m not exactly sure why yet. I’ll let you know when I figure that one out.” So now the elephant is going to sleep on my floor on my first night in a new city, in my new place, with a new roommate, before I start this new program, one I got into based on my artistic talent, which could end the summer with me getting noticed by an editor. No big deal and totally no pressure. I’m a college graduate now, so I can handle the whole adult thing, right? At least the proverbial Dumbo will drive me crazy enough to distract me from all of the new.
We meet at the trunk of the car, already popped open to reveal three boxes and a suitcase. That’s it—my life for the summer the size of a compact car’s trunk.
He looks at me, eyes raised expectantly, his floppy, adorable hair already sticking to his forehead in the Chicago humidity.
I heft out the suitcase, and Spock wraps his arms around one of the boxes.
“I have a buddy in the suburbs. I could stay there.”
I look at him, his lean, toned arms flexing as he holds a quarter of my life. His gray T-shirt rides up as he settles the box in place against his torso, enough to tease me with a patch of skin just above his hip where his green cargo shorts rest. Despite the narrow, tree-lined street, the shade does nothing to protect me from the perspiration breaking out on the back of my neck.
My head shakes before the word leaves my mouth. “No.” At first it’s the only word I can muster. In my head I’m screaming, Tell him how you feel about him or cool it with the slack-jawed, bug-eyed, cartoon stare. Because I’m not sure how I feel other than knowing the forced distance we’ve placed between us is not working for me. So, here we go, I guess.
I clear my throat. “Who’s going to help me find the cool hipster coffeehouse if you’re out in the suburbs sipping on Gloria Jean’s or Caribou?”
He laughs, and we start walking to the short flight of steps that leads to my door.
“Pffft,” he starts. “I’d be living it up in a grocery store Starbucks. No way you can beat that.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I won’t try to woo you with my French press.”
He raises a brow. “You have a French press?”
“Nah,” I say. “Just wanted to see how you’d react, if you were one of those coffee snobs. Jess and Adam had this thing for shitty hospital-grade coffee, and I
kind of got used to it. Plus, I grew up in my dad’s diner. I’d probably be disowned if I started drinking lattes.”
Spock nudges the not-quite-closed wooden door of my new apartment with his hip, and it pops right open with an unapologetic creak. So much for the safety of a second-floor walk-up if my roommate’s a little lax on the whole door-closing-and-locking thing.
He shrugs and walks in.
“Not a coffee snob,” he says. “For the record.”
“Noted,” I say, rolling my suitcase over the threshold.
“Maybe you’ll take me to your family’s diner sometime,” he says. “You know, if you ever need a wingman for an author signing closer to home.” He puts the box down on the scuffed hardwood floor. “I can fangirl right along with you. Maybe I’ll even scream, ask her to sign my chest?”
This makes me giggle. I’m already giddy at the thought of him coming with me to a book signing today. I think about Spock in my hometown, having him there under different circumstances, and my smile grows wide, but only for a second.
Then the thought sends a wave of nausea through me followed by a slap of guilt. It’s too early to think about home being anything other than the absence of Wyatt, so I push away thoughts of the place I left. I’m someplace new where I can start fresh.
“Hello?” I call, but no one responds. Great. I have a roommate who doesn’t just forget to lock the door, she forgets to close it. My boxed-up life will probably be stolen—by burglars who want comic books and Doc Martens—by week’s end.
“What is that?” Spock asks, and I hear as soon as he says it.
An intermittent buzzing sound comes from one of the bedrooms . . . the one I assume is not mine. Oh shit I hope it’s not mine. This roommate is climbing the charts from flighty to, uh, a little midday hand-solo, maybe with lightsaber assistance and the front door wide open.
“Maybe we should come back later?” he asks, biting back a grin.
He’s probably right, but we inch toward the door anyway, like we can’t stop ourselves from finding out if we’re right, if my roommate, who knows I’m moving in today, is getting herself off before the new girl arrives.
