by Bourne, Lena
"Why?" I ask, propping myself up.
"I just do," he says, his jaw clenched, shadows collecting in his eyes.
"But you'll pick up when I call you?" I ask.
"Not tonight, tomorrow," he says.
"Tonight," I argue. "I don't care how late."
He runs his fingers down my cheek, cupping my chin. "You really are very pushy."
I grin and sit up, kissing him lightly. "I know."
He kisses me back, for a long time, until I'm sure it's already tonight, only the sun is still shining when he leaves.
"Promise me you'll call," I yell after him from the doorway as he's getting into his car.
"Alright, Gail, I'll call you."
Then he climbs in his car and drives off. I could still go to school, catch my last two classes, but my brain is foggier than a moor, so what would be the point?
My phone rings at two in the morning. I'd given up waiting at midnight, cried myself to sleep, certain all of it was just another lie.
"You called," I mutter.
"Well, I promised," Scott says, sounding very far away. "But it's late. I kinda just wanna sleep."
"When will I see you again?" I ask, wide awake suddenly, because I don't want him to stop talking.
"Friday?" he asks, and chuckles when I gasp. Friday's too far away. I can't wait that long.
"Can't you come here before then? Then I can come down on Friday." I'd pack my bags and leave school to be with him right now, and the thought sends my heart racing. I've fought my way clear of one insanity, just to plunge myself into another.
"Alright, Gail, whatever. Let's figure it out tomorrow," he says tonelessly. He wants to stop talking, and I'm not sure I'll ever hear from him again. My whole bed is shaking like there's an earthquake.
"OK," I mutter, because it's all I can manage.
But it takes me forever to fall back asleep, and I keep my phone off, so he can't break up with me over a text again.
CHAPTER NINE
"The weekend's no good for me," Scott tells me on Wednesday morning. "Maybe Thursday and Friday."
But I have to retake Professor Harvey's test on Friday, and I've yet to study.
"Come here tonight then," I suggest anyway. I'll make it work out. I need to see him. "Then I'll come on Friday, because that's when Thanksgiving break starts anyway, so we'll have almost ten days."
I'm rambling, because I can't stop picturing him going to see his Swedish exchange student girlfriend on Saturday night, and I don't even want to think it, or else I'll say something and drive him away.
"I have to study this week anyway," I finish, interrupting him as he tries to say something.
"So now you don't want me to come?" he says.
"You don't have to, if you don't want to," I reply. We haven't really spoken about anything, mainly because I'm too busy discussing plans.
"I do and I don't, Gail," he says, his voice fading in the middle of the sentence as he probably brings the phone to his other ear.
"What does that even mean?" I ask, because I'm done begging.
"I don't know," he says, his voice soft and distant.
"Well, figure it out." I say it too harshly, because the burning anger rising in my chest is nothing I can control. "Do you want to see me or not?"
He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly into the phone. "Gail. I do want to see you. I want to see you right now. I just don't know if I should."
"Just tell me why and let me decide then," I say, speaking louder than I intended.
"I want to see you too. Right now," I add more quietly.
"I can't actually tell you anything," he says, and I know his eyes are filled with shadows. "Besides, didn't you say you won't ask any questions?"
"You know what? Fine. I'll be there on Friday and then we'll have the whole next week to talk, or not, depending on your wishes and schedule."
I'm breathing hard now, and he's not saying anything. Raindrops are hitting my window, running down like tears, forming small rivers. But I'm done crying, because it won't solve this.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he says suddenly, and my breath hitches in my throat.
But I let him go, because I'm done begging.
I spend the next two days cramming for Harvey's test, until my head is so full of dates and convention clauses there's no room for anything else. This test is something I can solve. Whatever's going on with Scott, I may never be able to. Somehow, after all that studying it doesn't sound as important anymore.
But it comes crashing back, in all it's unresolved glory, as soon as I hand in my test and turn my phone back on.
Tonight's no good. Tomorrow? Scott's text reads. There's no voicemail message, no missed call. He didn't even bother trying to talk to me. I want to throw my phone at him.
I call him, my hand shaking. It goes straight to voicemail. "I'm coming tonight anyway. So call me whenever."
The phone slips from my fingers, because I press End Call so fast, and I barely manage to catch it before it crashes onto the concrete.
I stop by my house just long enough to collect my bag, which I packed the night before.
"You're leaving already?" Phillipa asks, standing in the doorway to my bedroom. "When will I see you again?"
I swallow against the prickly ball of tears lodged in my throat. "It's Thanksgiving. I have to be home with my Dad."
"So after the holidays?" she asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice to come if I try to speak. My mom made the best stuffing, and she never had the time to teach me. She tried to, last year, but back then I couldn't accept her diagnosis as final, and I couldn't stand any reminder of it.
"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I ask, blinking back the tears. "You could come to my house, if you want?"
Phillipa smiles, but shakes her head. "Holly's staying in town. We'll just do something the two of us."
"Good, that's good," I mutter, stuffing my laptop into my purse.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in gridlock traffic on the highway, and I wish I'd waited to leave.
"I'm going to Geneva on Sunday," Dad informs me over dinner. He's drinking a seltzer, but I can smell whiskey on him from across the table. The pizza we ordered is too salty and the cheese sticks to my teeth.
"For how long?" I ask.
"A week," he says. "But I was thinking you could come with me, and we can do Thanksgiving there."
There's hope in his eyes and I know he was dreading Thanksgiving dinner without Mom as much as me. Only, if I leave with him, I won't get to see Scott at all, so I'm not even considering it.
"I should stay. I have a huge term paper due after the break."
The hope fades from his eyes, the lack hitting me right in the stomach, until I almost tell him I'll come. But I can't not see Scott all week. I'd never last.
"There's always Christmas," he says and takes a bite of his pizza.
My phone's ringing upstairs, but I don't move. I'll finish dinner with my dad first, all else can wait.
But it wasn't Scott calling at all, it was Kate.
"I saw you come home like hours ago," she says after I call her back. "Were you going to call me at all?"
I'm still struggling with my disappointment that Scott hasn't called yet. I was sure he would.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't think you'd be home."
Which is true. Kate's been my best friend since before kindergarten, and I've not known her to be home on a Friday night for the past ten years.
"Oh, I'm home. So come over."
The cold, sad undercurrent in her voice makes it impossible to say no. Besides, what else am I going to do all night? Mope around and wait for Scott to call, that's what, probably crying if he doesn't soon.
I wrap an old cardigan around my shoulders and slip past the living room. Dad's got the TV on too loud, and his soda's sitting forgotten on the dining room table.
I slip out through the kitchen door without telling him I'm going out. He's drinking
again, I can smell the scotch from the kitchen and if I say anything, I'll yell.
I slip though the hole in the fence that separates my house from Kate's. There's a crisp scent of snow on the air, and a slight drizzle is hitting my face.
Kate's smoking a cigarette on the back porch, their vast living room sparkling behind her.
She holds the packet out to me as I approach. "Want one?"
I shake my head. I'll never smoke again, not after listening to my mom choking to death with lung cancer. Longing and homesickness fill my chest, and I gaze back toward my mom's window, dark now, nothing but the terrible abyss locked behind it.
"So, how come you're home?" I ask, fighting the images of raging black waves crashing against the cliffs, bidding me come. "I thought you'd be with that married boyfriend of yours, for sure."
Kate stubs her cigarette out, sending sparks flying. "Yeah, well, that's not ever happening again."
She struts into the living room and slams the doors closed as soon as I follow.
"How come?" I ask. I know her well enough to see through the clipped, short answers she's giving me. She wants me to drag it out of her. And I'm perfectly happy dealing with someone else's problems tonight.
She gets a wine glass for me and fills it to the brim.
"Because it's all over."
Her voice is hard, but the words stick in her throat and I know there's more.
I take a sip of wine and lean back on the sofa, because maybe I don't want to know after all. Maybe my own problems are enough to bury me all on their own.
"Turns out the bastard's not even married. He's been lying to me all along," she continues anyway.
"I thought it was just casual between you," I say. I'm pretty sure he's been lying to her about his name too, but I can't tell her that.
She sighs and ties her long, thick hair into a bun in the back of her head. "It was. In the beginning."
"But then you fell in love," I interrupt, because I never could keep my mouth shut and listen.
"Love? I don't know, maybe," she says, finishing off her glass of wine, and pouring another. "I thought it could be. But then he revealed all his lies. His name's not even Mark, for fuck's sake."
"It's Mike," I mutter.
Her eyes pop out of her head as she leans forward, glaring at me. I should've stayed quiet.
"How do you know that?" her voice is barely a whisper, more of a hiss really.
"Scott told me."
She screws her eyebrows up. "Scott? That gardener? I didn't know you still spoke to him."
"I do. On and off. Mostly off."
"I thought they seemed to know each other, at that bar. What else did he tell you?"
I shrug, crossing my arms across my chest and sloshing wine all over my leg. "Nothing much. They're brothers."
"Really?" Kate's eyes are popping out of her head again. I really shouldn't have mentioned Scott, because the longing and homesickness are amplifying in my chest now, taking my air.
"I didn't much like Mike, on the few times I saw him. Maybe it's better it's over," I offer, realizing too late it's probably the stupidest thing I could possibly say.
"I liked him. He was a lot of fun. But all those lies. I had to break it off with him. I don't even know who he is." She leans back and eyes me over the rim of her glass, the overhead light reflecting in the red liquid. "Only if you know his brother, you can find out some things for me."
I take another swallow of my wine, the acid burning my throat.
"Or not," Kate says. "I'm done with him, and good riddance."
I stifle a sigh of relief. I don't even know where I stand with Scott, so I can't exactly go snooping after his brother.
"So, you managed to get somewhere with the gardener then?" Kate asks. "Tell me everything."
I nod, feeling the color rising in my cheeks. There's no way I can tell her everything.
"I haven't even seen him in months," she goes on. "I think Brandon fired him like right after you left for school."
I jerk forward, sending more wine sloshing. "What? He never told me you fired him."
"Not me, Brandon." She slams her hand across her mouth, her eyes wide again. "Oh, maybe he saw you with him and that's why. I didn't quite get why he would want to fire him, he never gets involved with managing the servants, but that would make perfect sense. Brandon's so into you."
I shake my head, mostly to get the memories of Brandon coming onto me all summer out of my mind. I can't believe Scott didn't tell me he lost his job. Why would he keep that a secret?
"I'm not into him," I whisper.
"Yeah, he's starting to get that, I think," Kate says, leaning back again. "But you could do a lot worse than Brandon. And then we'd be family for real."
My phone's vibrating in my pocket, but I can't answer it in front of Kate, not if it's Scott.
I finish off my glass of wine and set it on the table, holding my palm over it when she moves to refill it.
"I should go," I say. "It's been a long day."
"Already?" she whines, her lips pouted.
I get up and wrap my cardigan tighter around me. My phone's stopped vibrating and I have to call Scott back right now, can't wait a minute longer.
"We can do something tomorrow," I suggest, though I'm not sure I'll be able to.
"Sure. But we're leaving on Monday to spend Thanksgiving in Long Island," she says. "How long are you staying home for?"
"Next Sunday, I guess."
And then I'm jogging across the lawn, clutching my phone. I'm barely through the hole in the fence and already dialing Scott's number.
CHAPTER TEN
"Can I come over?" I breathe into the phone the second Scott picks up. All my annoyance at him melted away the moment I saw it was really him calling. It shouldn't be like that. He shouldn't be able to change my mind so fast, just by calling me. But I can't fight it.
"If you want," he says, and the annoyance is back, because his voice is soft and hollow, and there's no trace of a smile anywhere in it.
"You'd rather I didn't." I say it like a statement, because it's not a question.
He sighs and something rustles in the phone, but his voice is louder, happier, when he says, "I want you to come over, Gail."
I'm packed and in my car inside of ten minutes, parked in front of his house within twenty. The lock on his front door is still not fixed.
He comes down the stairs from the attic just as I'm about to knock on his door.
"Still haven't given away the cat, then?" I ask.
"Nope, no luck yet." He eyes me up and down as he descends the stairs. "I thought you'd be wearing something tight and slinky. But you're not even in heels, Gail."
I smack his arm as he reaches out to wrap it around my waist. His eyes are green like new spring grass, light reflecting in the dew. "I thought I'd go for something more casual today."
I'm still wearing my old cardigan, because I forgot to change in my haste to come here.
He pulls me toward him, the buckle of his belt digging into my stomach. But he doesn't kiss me. "You know, I think I prefer you casual. Heels and little black dresses never did a whole lot for me."
I frown, feeling my eyebrows knot together. "You're lying. It does plenty for you."
His lips curl into a smile. "Yeah, maybe. But there's a time and place for everything."
"Like this?" I stand on my toes, lean forward and kiss him. His lips are chapped, but hot like a nice, sweet latte. The chilly air in the hallway melts away, replaced by the warmth of a high summer evening on a beach, the sky purple and lilac with the setting sun. Hours pass, maybe days before we finally stop kissing and I follow him into his apartment.
He's holding me, standing by the bed, his eyes soft and blue. I want to kiss him again, but I don't want to stop looking into his eyes to do it.
"Let's just go to sleep today," he says. But I'm not tired anymore, not sleepy.
"I didn't actually pack any pajamas," I tell him later, as I'm digging
through my bag, watching him change by the table from the corner of my eye.
He's pulling on a white shirt, the shadows accentuating the dips and valleys of his stomach. "That could be like the hottest thing a girl's ever said to me."
His stomach disappears under the shirt and he tosses one of his sweatshirts at me. I stumble forward trying to catch it. I can't believe he doesn't want to do anything more. But then again, not having sex tonight is like we're a couple for real.
I change while he's in the bathroom, wait by the door so I can brush my teeth too.
He's already under the covers when I come back out.
"I'm not actually all that sleepy," I say, climbing in, settling so close my whole side is pressing into him.
He hands me the remote. "You can watch some TV. I want to sleep. Haven't gotten much of that lately."
He flips over so he's facing me and wraps his arm around my stomach, burying his face in the side of my arm.
I turn on the TV, flipping through the channels. Titanic is on Showtime, the ship breaking and people screaming. My breath hitches in my throat, which is suddenly tight like an invisible hand is choking me. I'm not in Scott's apartment anymore. I'm lying beside my mom, watching a movie with her for the last time. Only I didn't know it was the last time then. But I do now, because she's buried and we'll never watch a movie together again. A sob escapes my trembling lips, I can't help it. And I can't change the channel.
Scott lifts his head. "What's the matter now, Gail?"
"I watched this with my mom, just before she died," I whimper, tears streaming down my cheeks.
He looks over at the screen, then back at me. "So change the channel, if it bothers you."
"It's that simple, is it?" I shriek. "My mom's dead. I can't just change the channel, that's not going to fix anything."
He reaches for the remote, but I snatch my hand back so he can't take it. His eyes are soft and brown, like a blanket, brimming with pity. "You don't have to do that to yourself, Gail. Watching this movie isn't going to bring her back."
