The older boy raises his chin a little, but I can see a tiny spark of fear in his eyes as he digs around in his pocket and fishes out a handful of crinkled one-dollar bills. His eyes still locked on me, he chucks them at his brother. I dismiss him with a bored expression and settle back in my seat. I don’t know whether there’s such a thing as karma, but if there is, I have to wonder if this particular event will help or hurt mine.
There’s only a handful of passengers on the bus tonight. The kids in front of me, a harried-looking lady in hospital scrubs and a couple of men, both wearing dark suits and dark hats and dark frowns, like maybe they’re heading to the 1920s to stage a bank robbery.
The bus crosses the causeway and turns right. Outside my window, a familiar pine blinks in and out of view. It comes over me all at once, the feeling I always get when I see that tree. Though I wasn’t with Owen at the time, I can see everything inside my head in full Technicolor and surround sound, from the one time he described it to me.
Dan Webb was having an exhibit at some gallery in Orlando, a rare gift for art fans in Florida. Owen was in his Toyota, pulling out of town. In his passenger seat was a small segment of a two-by-four that he intended to use for the artist’s autograph. Lame, Owen told me, but he’d thought it was fitting.
He said he hadn’t even seen the little girl who ran out in front of him.
He said the girl hadn’t seen him, either.
Her injuries landed her in the hospital, paralyzed from the waist down. It paralyzed Owen as well. He spent half the summer holed up in his room, avoiding everyone, leaving unfinished projects to gather dust in the garage, ignoring my texts and calls and knocks on his door. I didn’t see him for weeks on end, until the very end of summer, on Labor Day weekend. It was probably nine o’clock at night when I heard a tapping on my bedroom door. Figuring it was Dad, I didn’t even sit up in bed or open my eyes. I flopped my forearm over my face and croaked, “I just barely took it, so it hasn’t started working yet. The world is safe.”
The door opened. “What hasn’t started working yet?”
Owen.
In one jerky motion, I sat up. Yup, an Owen-shaped shadow was framed by the light in the hallway. I swallowed, suddenly thankful that the room was dark. I’d had the flu for a week straight and hadn’t slept in almost as long. Hadn’t taken a shower in days. So while, yes, Owen was probably suffering from secondhand BO right now, at least he couldn’t see me.
“Dad’s Ambien,” I explained slowly, because I didn’t know what else to do but answer Owen’s question. I coughed a little and waited a moment for Owen to reply, and when he didn’t, I went on, just filling the space with words. “Evidently, I have the sort of flu that makes sleep impossible, because I’ve barely slept all week. Which is unfortunate because school starts in two days, which means orchestra tryouts start in three days, which means if I’m going to make it past fourth chair, I need to sleep. So: Ambien, even though it did super-weird things to me last time I took it. I actually got out of bed and showered and got dressed and made an Oreo sandwich. Like, two pieces of bread and Oreos inside? Bizarre, right? And I had no memory of it whatsoever. Dad teased me about it for a month.” I paused for a beat. Still no reply. I said, “So.”
“So.”
Awkward silence.
I filled it with another round of coughing.
Owen still hadn’t moved from the doorway.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you okay?” I blurted. “What are you doing here?” The end of my sentence was swallowed up in a loud explosion of boos and shouts that came from the living room, where Dad and Rusty and what sounded like a hundred of Rusty’s friends were watching the Gators’ season opener. Pretty sure they were all drunk.
Owen shut the door, muffling the commotion a little, and then he walked across the room with painful slowness, shoulders hunched. He sat on the very edge of the bed. Fumbling around for a moment, he turned on the reading light beside the bed. I blinked a couple of times and stared at him. He looked terrible. Pale skin. Hair everywhere. Dark smudges under his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he said, “I heard you were sick, so I came to check on you. I was worried.”
It was the concern in his voice that killed me. Visceral stab, right in my chest. Because here he was, trying to machete his way through a forest of guilt, and yet he was still worried about me. “Who told you I’m sick?” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s a small town.”
This was true. Nothing happened in New Harbor without someone leaning over, listening with one ear and then gossiping about it to the entire universe. Lately, most of the gossip had been about Owen. Things like I heard he’s been going to a shrink, and The McAllisters are paying the girl’s medical bills, and so on. I didn’t know how much of it was true. I was afraid to ask. So I asked the simplest of questions. “How are you holding up?”
His voice sounded defeated as he said, “I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry, Owen. I’m so, so sorry. I know you think it was your fault, but that girl ran across the street without even looking.”
In an exhale, he said, “She’ll live her life in a wheelchair because of me.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated in a whisper, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. I was starting to feel the effects of the Ambien. My arm felt floppy, like someone had snuck into the room when I wasn’t looking and stolen all my bones.
I turned toward Owen. The room tipped on end.
Whoa.
It’s strange that, even though my recollection of what happened next has never been clear, I remember the fuzziness of it like it’s a dream I’ve been trapped inside for the past couple of years.
I went into another coughing fit.
Owen stood up. “I should let you sleep.”
Jerking to my feet I said, “Please don’t leave yet.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded a little weird, like I was speaking underwater. So I got really close to him and spoke loudly, making sure he could hear me. “I’ve missed you.”
A firestorm of emotions filtered through his expression, pain and relief and guilt and longing, and he said, “I think the Ambien is making you loopy.”
I held up a finger. It wobbled in the air. “Quite possibly,” I said, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. I felt euphoric, strangely optimistic, all my problems just melting away. “But I have missed you, and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Evidently Ambien Grace was a rather Honest Grace.
Didn’t matter. It seemed right, telling him how I felt.
He hung one hand on the back of his neck and looked at me. This was good. This was good! One hand clamped behind his neck meant he was happy or pleased. Two hands laced together behind his neck — that was a bad sign. I didn’t know when I’d learned the meaning of his gestures, but I had.
Seizing the opportunity, I sort of staggered toward him and grabbed his free hand, collapsing on the bed and pulling him down with me. “Staaaaay,” I said.
God, it felt good to be near him again.
I scooched close to him. He looked surprised, but he didn’t protest or move away. We stared at each other. I felt so weird. Invincible. Like I could do almost anything. Take first-chair violin. Get an A in geometry.
Make out with Owen.
I closed the distance between us and kissed him with all I had in that moment, with a stampede of emotions, with everything I’d felt before we’d gotten together and everything I’d felt since.
Except that I was the only one doing the kissing. Owen was dead still.
I backed away. “Sorry! I’m sorry! You’re still messed up from everything. I totally understand. I just —”
He cut off my words when his lips crashed back on mine. His breathing was shallow, rapid, and my hand snaked along the waistband of his shorts.
The sound he made.
It w
asn’t innocent.
None of my thoughts were innocent. They were a lifetime of watching Owen and thinking about Owen and wishing for Owen. I started to float away. It was the best sensation I’d ever had, spiraling into nonexistence as I melted against Owen. All I knew was his body pressing up against mine and his palm sliding behind my back to draw me even closer. All I knew was his shirt, fisted in my hand, as I inhaled the scent of laundry detergent and soap and Owen Owen Owen.
I was somewhere beautiful.
I was somewhere perfect.
I was kissing Owen.
I was soaring inside my own body.
I was thinking that we were getting carried away.
I was trying to concentrate on my words:
Owen, I’m not ready for this.
I was telling Owen.
I was telling him.
I was saying
Owen
we
need
to
stop.
Twelve
And then everything went black.
Thirteen
When you’re a virgin for fifteen years of your life, it’s pretty easy to tell when you suddenly aren’t. And even if you don’t remember it when you wake up the next morning, and even if the boy has long since gone, the tale is crystal clear.
Girl gets loaded on Ambien.
Boy takes advantage of girl.
Girl hates him forever.
The end.
Fourteen
There’s this pizza place downtown that Janna and I used to haunt on the weekends, holing up in a corner booth to eat and laugh and tell stories about anything and everything. I’d always bring home leftovers, a slice for Dad and three for Rusty, and also an order of breadsticks, just because I liked the way they made the house smell.
The woman who worked behind the counter used to eye Janna and me suspiciously over her glasses, because during the summer of our eleventh year, the two of us had come here three nights in a row, each time sliding a handful of quarters into the ancient jukebox in the corner of the room, entering “I’m Too Sexy” exactly twelve times, and then sitting down and watching the customers slowly decompose to the tune of Right Said Fred, twelve times in a row.
Today, though, as I wait at the counter for several minutes, the woman — or any employee, for that matter — is nowhere to be found. In front of me, next to the register, is an abandoned cup of soda and an order of breadsticks, and behind me, a growing line of tourists and locals. A man wearing a Red Sox cap and a scowl steps up beside me, rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Five minutes. I’ve been waiting for a full five minutes, and I haven’t seen a single employee.”
“I’m sure someone will be right out,” I say, glancing behind him. I recognize a couple of the people in line — Logan Davis and Sawyer Simon. I’ve always liked Logan. He’s one of those people who look happy all the time, even while he’s talking. It’s hard to dislike someone who appears cheerful every living, breathing second of the day. Also, he has one of the most beautiful skull-and-crossbones tattoos I’ve ever seen, if a skull-and-crossbones tattoo can actually be beautiful. The first time I saw it, I went directly to Dad and spent months persuading him to let me get a small tattoo on my foot, only to chicken out the second I stepped into the tattoo parlor.
Standing next to Logan is Sawyer Simon, Andy’s twin brother. While the Simon brothers were technically in utero at the same time, Andy and Sawyer are polar opposites, in both appearance and demeanor. Andy is … well, Andy — a half-missing ear and a bumbling grin. But Sawyer, he’s the shining star of New Harbor High’s track team, Coach McAllister’s protégé and record holder for the 400-meter sprint and, of course, one of the best-looking guys in all of Florida. However, he’s fully aware of these things, which makes him wildly unappealing to me. Today, Sawyer’s wearing low-slung shorts and a tank top, a pair of aviators parked on top of his head. He’s leaning to the side, flashing an unlucky female tourist one of his practiced heart-lurching smiles.
Seeing Sawyer in action is like watching a shocking sports replay on TV, the sort of replay that shows a player getting a nasty injury — taking a hit that leaves a bone jutting out of his leg or whatever. You don’t want to look at something like that, but you just can’t help yourself.
That’s Sawyer: the sort of guy you watch through parted fingers, half disgusted yet half curious.
He glances up, notices me there and mashes his lips together. After a few ticks, he gives me a nod and a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Pretty sure it’s always bothered him that he has zero effect on me.
Still.
He makes me uncomfortable.
And so when I awkwardly turn back around, I knock over the soda on the counter with a fantastic clatter. Like, sticky brown liquid everywhere, dripping off the Formica and splashing onto the floor. I’m grabbing some napkins, attempting to mop up the mess when Janna comes bursting through the double doors that lead to the kitchen, wearing an Island Pizza apron and a harried expression, a stack of pizza boxes teetering precariously in her arms.
Oh shit.
Shit shit shit.
Janna doesn’t see me at first. Only the mess I’ve made. “Great. Just what I need right now,” she mutters under her breath, surveying the spilled soda as she deposits the boxes on the counter. Then her eyes trail up to meet mine. Recognition shoots across her features, and then something else — something I can’t quite put a finger on. Regret, possibly. Or disappointment. Whatever it is, it causes her to freeze.
Several seconds tick past.
“You work here?” I blurt, and then I groan inwardly. Obviously she works here.
Red Sox Guy clears his throat impatiently. I glance toward him and give him a quick apologetic look. When I turn back to Janna, she’s still staring at me. The thing about Janna is that she concentrates on only one thing at a time, and she concentrates all the way.
Currently, she’s concentrating on wishing I wasn’t here.
“I’ve been working here for a couple of weeks now,” Janna says finally. She’s wearing a silver ring on every one of her fingers, thumbs included. Her explosion of curly auburn hair is held into a bun by a pair of chopsticks. It’s all very Janna, and it makes me miss her, even though she’s standing right in front of me. “So you’re back,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, without as much conviction as I would’ve preferred. “I mean — yeah.” My voice is shaky, totally off-balance, and it hitches in my throat.
Janna flashes a frown that lasts about as long as a movie frame. “Sorry about your dad,” she says, her eyes shooting away from me, a talent she’s perfected over the past two-plus years.
I start to ask who told her, but then I realize that the information probably came from Owen or her father. It bothers me that I’ve become a conversation piece in their house. “Thanks,” I mutter.
Silence prevails.
Feeling the need to shove words into the empty space, I say, “So how’ve you been?”
Janna shrugs. “Busy. We’ve been short-staffed here for the past few days because the lady who works the counter is sick,” she says, and then she presses her lips together like she’s told me too much.
I nod, cross my arms and then uncross them, and then cross them again. I want to apologize. I want to tell her what her brother did to me. I want to explain how horrible the past couple of years have been. I want to admit that I’ve been here for almost three full days and I’m still terrified and alone and confused, but before I can say anything at all, Red Sox Guy grumbles, “While this reunion is lovely, the rest of us might want to eat.”
Janna’s eyes meet mine, and we share the smallest of looks — a tiny glimpse of us the way we used to be — but then it evaporates. She grabs the top pizza box, all business, and says to me, “Meatball?”
I did, in fact, order a meatball p
izza, because the meatball pizza here is absolutely, unequivocally my favorite meal ever. In fact, if you sprinkle the meatball pizza on top of the meatball pizza, I’m pretty sure you can travel back in time. “Of course,” I say, my tone matching hers.
After I pay her, and after she hands me my pizza, she gives me a small, courteous wave. And I realize: the past two years, with all their tragedy and pain, haven’t changed us one bit. We’re still just acquaintances.
Fifteen
Sometimes I think that Dad knew what had happened to me Labor Day weekend, and that was why he had a heart attack.
That it literally broke his heart.
He knew something had gone horribly wrong with Owen and me that weekend. This much was true. I was a zombie the entire hour and fifteen minutes home, refusing to speak, staring blank-faced out the passenger-side window of Dad’s car as he drove through Bradenton and over the Skyway Bridge. When we got home, I walked straight to my room, locked my door, turned on my computer and typed Ambien and sex into a search engine, looking for answers. Looking for anything, really, because I couldn’t remember any of it. Not a single, solitary moment.
Online, I found dozens of stories resembling mine.
Owen texted me around noon — just a Hey, is your flu on the mend? sort of text — not even acknowledging what he’d done. It was a slap in the face, really, and it proved to me that his accident had completely changed him. That I didn’t even know who he was anymore. So I blocked his number. I threw away all of his pictures. I cried into my pillow.
My sorrow was so loud.
It was a bass speaker, pounding in the house, shaking the windows, crashing open the front door.
Dad must have heard it.
I kept telling myself that I’d confront Owen. But then school started, so I promised myself I’d do it after I got situated in my classes, and then after I tried out for orchestra, and then after my biology test, and then after the weekend, and then after the end of the month. After. After. After.
The Leading Edge of Now Page 6
