Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yeah.” He opens the car door and looks at me, smiling. God, I really like it when he does that.

  “I don’t know.” I smile back at him. “That might make it seem like we’re becoming friends.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Maybe we are.”

  Inside, AJ’s house is pretty and well decorated, but just as dated as the outside. The carpet is dark brown shag, and I don’t even want to venture to guess how long the wallpaper has been there, but the furniture is nice, and even though it’s a mishmash of styles, it all kind of works together. It’s cute.

  AJ sets his keys on the table in the entryway and drops his backpack on the floor.

  “Is your mom home?” I ask.

  “She’s at work. She gets home around six.” He gestures toward what I assume is the kitchen and says, “Do you want anything to eat? Something to drink?”

  I shake my head and set my keys on the table next to his. “Is anyone else home?”

  He looks down the hallway. “My brother, Kyle, might be here, but I doubt it. He plays soccer so he’s never around.”

  Of course. Why hadn’t I put the two together before? “Kyle’s your brother?”

  Kyle Olsen was the first freshman in years to make it onto the varsity soccer team. He’s really good. He’s also incredibly good looking. Because of his age, Olivia was worried about what the rest of us would think after she hooked up with him at a party last year, but over dinner the next night, we collectively listed his attributes on a napkin and unanimously approved him as the only freshman acceptable to date. Armed with the Crazy Eights’ stamp of approval, Olivia jumped in with both feet. But she was mortified when, in the days that followed, Kyle didn’t go out of his way to see her again and gave single-word replies to her many, many texts.

  AJ steps into the living room and I follow him. The walls are covered with framed photos of both of them, but Kyle’s definitely stand out, his action shots on the field dominating AJ’s formal school pictures. I note the photos of his mom with the two of them, and I wonder what happened to his dad, but I don’t ask. I’m going with divorce. Kaitlyn’s dad died when we were in third grade, and there are still pictures of him all over their house.

  “In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m well aware of the fact that my little brother’s a lot cooler and much better looking than I am.” He points at a close-up of his brother in a case-in-point sort of way and then grins at me. There’s that dimple again. I look at a photo of Kyle. He doesn’t have one of those. “I’ll probably need therapy someday.”

  I try not to take his therapy comment personally. “Hey, don’t knock it. You might enjoy paying someone to listen to you talk about your problems.”

  “I wasn’t knocking it at all.”

  I roll my eyes. “Besides, I doubt you’d need it. You seem pretty well adjusted.”

  He steps closer and leans in, like he’s telling me a secret, and the sudden gesture of familiarity takes me aback. He seems even taller now that he’s this close. He looks cute in his button-down shirt. And he smells good, like boy deodorant. “Everyone’s got something,” he says.

  “Do they?”

  “Of course they do. Some people are just better actors than others.” His words remind me of Abigail’s poem about acting “as if.”

  He’s still close, nearly touching me, and I feel an overwhelming impulse to tell him my “something.” If I stood here in his living room and told him about Shrink-Sue and my OCD and my sleep issues and my severe lack of adjustment—how, over the years, I’ve become an Oscar-worthy actress, so skilled you’d think I’d tricked myself into actually being one of the normal ones—would he understand? I bet he would.

  My mouth drops open and the single syllable “I” falls right out, as if my body’s ready to spill everything, even though my brain is telling me in no uncertain terms to zip it. He’s watching me, waiting for me to say more. “Can I get a glass of water?” I ask.

  Chicken.

  He raises his eyebrows. If he asks, I’ll tell him everything. The words are right there. They just need a little nudge, the tiniest bit of permission. But AJ says, “Sure,” and steps backward, breaking our invisible connection.

  I watch him leave the room, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I blow out a breath, shut my eyes tight, and dig my fingernails into the back of my neck three times. He just told me all about his stuttering, and that couldn’t have been easy for him. I should tell him about me. He’d understand. I’m sure he would.

  The water is running in the other room, and when I hear it stop, I use that as my cue to pull myself together. I open my eyes and quiet my fingers before he returns.

  “Here you go.” He hands me the glass.

  “Thanks.” His lips are full and they look like they’d be really soft. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

  “Follow me,” he says, and so I do, down the hallway, past two other bedrooms, and into his. He closes the door behind us.

  I’ve seen plenty of boys’ bedrooms, mostly at parties, but stepping into AJ’s room feels different, like I’m doing something scandalous. Kurt was the most serious boyfriend I’ve ever had, but his mom had a strict rule that girls weren’t allowed beyond the kitchen. One time, we snuck into his room anyway. I don’t remember feeling like this.

  I recognize some of the bands in the posters on his walls, like Arctic Monkeys and Coldplay, and I’m pretty sure the guy with the guitar is Jimmy Page. His desk is cluttered with mountains of loose papers, notebooks, gum wrappers, and empty soda cans. I can barely see the computer monitor and its matching keyboard.

  His bed is just a mattress and box spring sitting directly on the floor and pushed into a corner under the window. It’s neatly made with a navy blue comforter and white pillows, and I try not to stare at it.

  “So this is where you write?” Every time he steps on stage to play a song, he begins by saying, “I wrote this in my room,” and it always makes me wonder what it looks like. In my head, I have this picture of him sitting at a desk with his guitar on his lap and his notebook in front of him. But there’s no room on that desk for even the smallest pad of paper.

  He holds his arms out to his sides and says, “Not much to see, but yeah. This is it.” He struts over to the corner of the room and lifts his guitar off the stand, and it sort of floats along with him, as if it’s part of his body. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts playing. I’m not familiar with the song, but it’s soft and melodic, like a tune I’d put on my In the Deep playlist.

  I’m not sure where to go. I’m dying to sit next to him, but that feels too awkward, so I finally settle on leaning against his desk. On top of a stack of papers, I spot a tortoiseshell guitar pick. I start fiddling with it to distract myself.

  Actually, I like this spot. From here, I have a perfect view of his hands. I stare at his fingers, mesmerized by the way they slide up and down each string, and I begin to picture them sliding up and down my body instead, tracing the curve of my hip and slipping over the small of my back. I watch his mouth move, too, enjoying the way he unconsciously smiles and licks his lips as he plays. He glances over at me. I suck in a breath. And before I know it, I’m taking slow, cautious steps, moving in his direction.

  When I’m standing right in front of him, I wrap my hands around the back of his neck. “Don’t stop playing,” I say as I rest my elbows on the edge of his guitar and bring my mouth to his. His fingers continue to glide along the strings, his notes still filling the room as his tongue slips slowly over mine in perfect synchronization with his song. My fingers move through his hair. I ease him closer. Then the music stops.

  “This is all the stuff I’m working on,” he says.

  His words jolt me back to the room and I realize he’s holding up a clipboard bursting with paper, and I’m still standing next to his desk, at least six feet away from him. I cover my mouth and catch my breath, as AJ drags his thumb through the pages. “There’s a lot of cra
p in here, but the ones on top might actually have potential.”

  It sounds like an invitation to join him, so I slip his guitar pick into the front pocket of my jeans, and with shaky legs, I walk toward his bed and sit. I’m still trying to breathe normally and block out that kiss that didn’t actually happen, but it’s even harder now that he’s this close. And when his lips still look so insanely soft.

  “May I?” I ask, pointing toward the clipboard. He gives me a single nod as he hands it to me. I can’t imagine offering up my three notebooks and letting someone have their way with them, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He goes back to playing.

  AJ plucks and strums next to me while I read page after page. Some of his songs are funny—humorous observations on mundane things like microwave burritos and car washes—and some are much deeper, far more intense, and not funny at all. I go from laughing to chills and goose bumps and back to laughing again.

  “Stop it,” AJ says. He looks amused as he watches his fingers pick at the strings. He’s still filling the room with notes.

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re being too nice to me. They’re not that good.”

  “They are,” I say, flipping to another one.

  AJ stops playing. He holds his hand out. I give him the clipboard and he drops it on top of the comforter, slightly out of my reach.

  I expect him to start playing again, but instead he shifts position and lifts his guitar over his head. “Here,” he says as he loops the strap around my neck.

  I try to push the guitar away. “No way. I don’t have a clue how to play this thing. I liked listening to you.” I reach behind us, feeling for the clipboard. “Play something you’re working on,” I say, but he stands up and grabs my arms, and I freeze in place. I hold my breath. I look at him. I don’t move because if I do, he might move his hands.

  “Right now I’m working on teaching you to play guitar,” he says.

  He adjusts it in place and shows me where to put my fingers, saying things like, That string. Good. Now index finger on that one. Not so flat. Bend your fingers more. Use the tips, not the pads. Better.

  “That feels weird.”

  “Then you’re doing it right.”

  It feels like my hands can’t stretch far enough.

  “Now strum.”

  A sound comes out. It actually resembles a chord.

  “Good, now move this finger here.” He lifts my finger off one string and moves it to another. “Now strum again.”

  Again, that sounds like a chord. It even sounds like those two chords work well together.

  “That’s good,” he says. “Now play both of them.” I move my finger back to the first string, play the chord, move it again, and play the next one. And then he shows me how to play another, and I put the three together, over and over again. AJ returns to his spot on the bed, watching me.

  “See?” he says. “Told you. Piece of cake.”

  “I’m not bad.” I play my three little chords again, this time with a little more shoulder and a bit of attitude.

  “Okay, this next one is trickier.” He climbs onto the bed, and now he’s on his knees, right behind me. I feel his thighs brush against my hips. “Scoot back a bit,” he says, and I do.

  Oh, please let this be real.

  He moves in even closer, resting his chest against my back and reaching around me, looking over my shoulder, repositioning my hands.

  “There, that’s easier.” He says it like he’s a teacher and I’m his student and this is totally normal, just part of the job. His voice is low, but he’s so close to my ear, I can hear him breathing. “Pinkie here. Okay, try that,” he whispers. I strum, and when I do, it sounds like a real note.

  “Now play the other three and add this one.”

  I’m not sure I can do this when I can feel his chest rise and fall against my back, but I go for it. The last note feels awkward, and it takes me a few tries to get it right, but eventually I get all four chords to work together, and it sounds a lot like music. “That’s really good,” he says. “How does it feel?”

  His breath is warm on my neck. “It feels incredible.”

  “Want to play it one more time?” he whispers in my ear. My fingers are glued to the strings and I can’t move them. I shake my head, because I don’t want to play it one more time. I want to bring my hand to his cheek because it’s right there, and I want to turn my head a little more to the left and kiss his lips because they’re right there too. He’s quiet. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

  He’s not. Teaching moment complete, he scoots out from behind me and sits by my side again, this time leaving slightly more space between us. I miss him instantly.

  “Thanks.” I give him his guitar, and he takes it without putting up a fight this time.

  “That wasn’t so horrible, was it, Sam?” he asks, as he feeds his head through the strap.

  Sam. I’m still not used to hearing him say my name.

  “No. It wasn’t.” I’m all buzzy. To clear my head, I stand and walk around the room, shaking out my hands, giving all my attention to the posters on the wall. On his desk, behind a big stack of papers, I see the top half of a silver picture frame. I pick it up.

  It’s AJ and a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Both of his arms are wrapped tightly around her waist and his chin is on her shoulder. She’s pretty. Not in a glamorous way or anything, but in that natural, sporty kind of way.

  I hold up the frame and ask, “Who’s this?”

  AJ gives a quick glance in my direction, fingers still on the strings, but when he sees what I’m holding, he stops playing. “Um…that’s Devon.”

  He sets his guitar on the bed and stands, combing his fingers through his hair as he approaches me. “We broke up last summer. I didn’t even remember that was still on my desk.” He waves his hand toward the stack of papers it was hiding behind as proof.

  I stare at the photo again. “Do I know her?”

  “No. We met at one of Kyle’s tournaments. She went to Carlton.” Our rival high school, one town away. “She would have been a senior there, but her dad’s company transferred him to Boston last July.” He crinkles his nose. “That was kind of the end of us.”

  She’s a year older than him. Interesting. They’ve been broken up for more than three months and her picture is still on his desk. That’s interesting, too.

  “We stayed in touch until school started, but then, I guess we got busy with other things. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

  “She’s pretty.” I say, running my finger along the silver frame, wondering if blurting is allowed or frowned upon in situations like this. I want to know about Devon. I need to know about Devon.

  I feel that familiar swirling in my mind, starting like a whirlpool, spinning slowly, steadily, but preparing to build and speed, fed by information and the need for more information, until it’s a full-on maelstrom.

  “How long were you together?” I ask, against my better judgment.

  “Almost a year.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  I study the picture again. Her blond hair hangs down past her shoulders, her bangs swept to the side. There’s something about the way she’s squinting her eyes, like they’re doing more than smiling, and I wonder if AJ said something that made her laugh right before the shutter snapped.

  The questions keep coming. I can’t stop staring at the two of them. They look so comfortable together, so happy, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever feel that relaxed with another person. Will a guy ever look at me the way he’s looking at her in this photo? Kurt never did. Brandon never even thought to. AJ and Devon were a real couple. You can tell.

  I look up at him. “Did you love her?”

  He studies the photo in my hands. Then his eyes fix on mine. “Yeah.”

  “Do you still?” The corners of his mouth turn down, and I can’t tell i
f I crossed the line or if he’s simply giving his response some serious consideration.

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s honest. I’m not upset by his answer. It’s sweet, actually, and the information is satisfying in the way I need it to be.

  I glance over at his bed, trying not to think about my next question. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to ask it, even though AJ’s standing there, patiently waiting for me to speak.

  “Did you bring her to winter formal last year?” I ask instead, and he gives me a funny look.

  “Yeah.” After a brief pause, he asks, “Who did you go with?”

  “Kurt Frasier.”

  “He seems nice.”

  “He’s a dick.”

  “Oh.”

  “Worst school dance story ever.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re just trying to change the subject.”

  “Yes. Desperately.”

  That makes me laugh.

  I drop the picture frame back behind the papers where I found it, but it barely leaves my grasp before AJ reaches for it and stuffs it into a drawer.

  “Actually,” he says, “don’t tell me. It’s a really bad idea for wimpy musician guys like me to want to physically harm jock football players. You’ll tell me he was mean to you, and because I’m your friend”—he brushes his elbow against my arm—“I’ll see him at school and feel the need to defend your honor, and an hour later I’ll be in the ER getting stitches in my eyebrow or something.”

  I smile. “We’re friends, huh?”

  He takes a tiny step toward me. Close but not too close. Friends-close. “Can we be?” he asks.

  Two weeks ago, I was okay with being his friend, but that’s not what I want anymore. I like him. I like everything about him. The way he plays. The songs he writes. The things he says. The way he makes me want to speak out, not hold my words inside. That dimple. Those lips. I have to know what they feel like. Maybe this is like blurting? Maybe I’m not supposed to think about it; I’m just supposed to do it. But I want him to make the first move.