Next to Me

by Allie Everhart

  "But then you came along," he says, "and things started to change. I actually saw a real smile on her face instead of the fake one she always gives me so that I'll leave her alone. When I ask her about you, she lights up, almost like she did when I used to ask her about Ben."

  "Ben?"

  "Her brother," he says. "Callie's mom would sometimes send her down here to get donuts or pastries and Callie would always tell me a funny story about Ben." He shakes his head. "She loved that kid. And he loved her. Whenever I'd see them in town, he was glued to her side, holding her hand. He was a really sweet kid."

  Was?

  "I need to refill some coffees." He takes the pot and goes into the dining area.

  I'm left trying to piece together what he said. His use of the past tense. Callie needing counseling.

  She almost never talks about her family. She said they're living in Chicago, but they've never once come down here to see her. I'm with her all the time and they've never even called her phone.

  Something happened to her parents, and her little brother. That's her secret. That's what she's been hiding from me. It has to be.

  "So you know Callie's parents?" I ask Lou when he appears back behind the counter.

  "I did," he says, using the past tense again. "Her mom liked my coffee. She'd stop by a few mornings a week, sometimes with Callie if she could get the girl out of bed." He chuckles. "She used to sleep until noon. Typical teenager."

  Callie rarely sleeps past seven. Is that because she can't sleep?

  "So you said she's been struggling. For how long?" I don't want to tell Lou that Callie kept this from me. I don't know why she did, and until I find out, I don't want Lou knowing this. It might embarrass Callie, or hurt her.

  "She's struggled since the day it happened," he says. "It was in May, right after she got home from college. It's now what...almost July?" He stops to think. "Yeah, so it's been a little over a year. She spent all of last summer locked up in that house, only coming out when she needed groceries. One day I saw her at the store and asked her if she'd work here a few hours a day. She said no, so I called her house every day until she finally said yes. And she's been working here ever since."

  So she didn't go to college last year. She lied about that. She lied about her family. What other lies did she tell me and why did she do it? Why would she keep this from me?

  He waves at someone behind me. "Nash, I have to help some customers."

  "Yeah, go ahead."

  "It was good seeing you." He lowers his voice. "And thanks again for all you've done for Callie. She needed someone like you to come into her life. She needed someone to save her from herself."

  He walks away and I take my donuts and coffee and go out to my truck. On the drive home, my emotions are all over the place. I'm devastated that Callie lost her family, but also angry that she didn't trust me enough to tell me. I've shared so much with her, told her things I haven't told anyone else, like my thoughts about my mom after I found those photos. And Callie's shared nothing in return. She's had more than enough opportunities to tell me what happened to her family and yet she chose not to.

  When I get home, I find Callie already at my house, going through boxes.

  "Hey." She comes up to me. "I decided to get an early start. Were you out getting supplies?"

  "Yeah. And these." I hand her the box of donuts.

  "You went to Lou's?"

  "I stopped there after the hardware store." I sink down on the couch, dust flying everywhere.

  She sits next to me. "Did something happen? You're acting strange."

  I let out a long sigh, my eyes on the table in front of the couch. "When were you going to tell me?"

  "Tell you what?" I already hear the nervousness in her voice.

  "I talked to Lou."

  "About what?" Her breaths come out fast and uneven.

  When I turn and look at her, I see the pain in her eyes. I've seen it come and go for weeks now, but didn't understand why it was there.

  I'm angry she didn't tell me the truth and I want to be mad at her. But I can't. This isn't about me. This is about her. She kept this a secret because of some reason I have yet to find out, but I don't think it's because she doesn't trust me. I think it's something else.

  "I know about your family," I say, then quietly ask, "Why didn't you tell me?"

  She bolts up from the couch, flings the front door open, and runs away. I get up and go outside and see her at her house, fumbling with her keys, trying to get the door open.

  "Callie, wait," I say, hurrying over to her.

  She finally unlocks the door and goes inside, slamming the door behind her. Before she can lock it, I push it open.

  "Get out!" she screams, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  "We need to talk," I say calmly.

  "You already know everything, so just leave!" She steps back, her arms braced across her waist, her body shaking.

  "I don't know anything. I only know that they're gone. Lou said some things and I had to guess what they meant. He assumed I already knew. I didn't tell him you never told me." I watch her, tears rolling down her face, her body trembling. I reach out to comfort her. "Callie."

  She jumps back. "Don't!" She takes a breath. "I don't care if you're mad at me. I didn't want to tell you. And don't say I owe you an explanation because I don't, okay? I don't." She sniffles. "You have no idea what it's like. You don't understand until it happens to you. So just go. Please, Nash. Just go." She wipes her face with the back of her hand.

  "I DO understand. I lost my mom just a few years ago. Even though she wasn't my birth mom, she's the only mom I ever knew, and I loved her, and was devastated when she died."

  Callie nods, sniffling, her eyes on the floor.

  "And I lost my best friend back in high school. I told you about her, remember?"

  She nods again. "Yes. I remember." Her eyes lift up to mine. "How did it...." She looks back down at the floor. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have—"

  "It was a motorcycle accident. She and the guy she was dating were both killed. I know it's not the same as losing your family, but Becky was like a sister to me. We were friends since we were kids. And when she died, my world pretty much ended for a while. I didn't think I'd ever be the same. And I'm not. Her death changed me."

  Callie stands there, no longer crying, her arms at her sides, waiting for me to continue.

  I look down, then up again. "I told you about Becky because...I don't really know...I just had this feeling that I should. But you're one of the few people I've shared that with. I don't tell many people about her."

  "Why?"

  "For one, it's hard to talk about. And the other reason is that I don't want people trivializing her death. After she died, people made comments about how she should've known better than to get on a motorcycle. Like she deserved to die. Or they said it was her time, like it was predetermined."

  "If you understand how hard it is to talk about, then why are you trying to force me to talk about this?"

  "Because you need to talk about it. Lou said you've barely left the house since it happened except to go to work."

  She huffs out an angry breath. "Lou never should have—"

  "Lou cares about you. He wants to help you, but he doesn't know how. Callie, shutting people out of your life will only make this worse. If you do that, you'll never be able to move on. After Becky died, I had my family there to help me get through it. My parents treated Becky like a daughter and my brothers treated her like a sister. She was part of our family, so when she was gone, we grieved together. It just took me longer than them to get past my grief." I pause, unable to say why it took me so long. That's something I'll tell her later, when I'm able to. "Callie, please talk to me. At least tell me what happened."

  She goes over and sits on the couch. "It was right after my sophomore year of college." I go and sit next to her as she continues. "We were all supposed to go to the Wisconsin Dells for vacation. Ben was
so excited. He'd never been, but I told him all about it. I told him we'd play mini golf and ride on the duck boats and drive go-karts." She smiles a little. "When you're five, that's like the best vacation ever. For weeks, he'd been calling me at college and telling me how many days were left before the trip. He counted the days." Her smile drops. "I moved down here the day before it happened. I'd just finished a really tough week of finals and I was exhausted. I just wanted to spend the week sleeping, eating junk food, and watching TV, so I told my parents I wasn't going on the trip. They were okay with that, but Ben wasn't. He cried and begged me to go. I told him I couldn't, that I was too tired, but that I'd go some other time. And so my family left without me. They made it just past Chicago when a van crossed the median and hit them head-on." She pauses. "And that was it. They were gone."

  "Callie." I put my hand over hers.

  She yanks it back. "Are you happy now? You know the whole story. Now get out of here."

  Maybe this isn't the time to ask, but I need to know. I need to know what other lies she told me.

  "Are you really from Chicago?"

  "Yes," she says quietly. "We moved there after my mom married Greg. I went to junior high and high school there. We lived in the suburbs. My parents were teachers and had summers off, which is why they bought this place. But they only had two summers here."

  "Where are you originally from?"

  "Ohio."

  I glance around the room, noticing the knitting basket with a half-finished scarf inside, the plastic bin of toys in the corner, and the book that she yelled at me for touching.

  "Whose book is that?"

  "Stop asking questions," she spits out, her anger rising. "I've already told you everything. Now get out."

  "Is that your stepdad's book?"

  She narrows her eyes at me. "Go. Now."

  "Is that your mom's knitting?"

  "We're done here." She stands up. "And I'm done working for you. You'll have to find someone else."

  "Why? Why can't you—"

  She storms down the hall into her room and slams the door. I go after her and try to open her door, but it's locked. "Callie, get out here and talk to me. You're not quitting. I won't let you."

  She doesn't answer, but I hear her sniffling. She's crying again. Dammit. I didn't want our conversation to end this way. I was hoping she'd open up to me after I told her about Becky. Callie and I both lost people we love, and that should bring us closer, not farther apart. I'm someone she should be able to talk to about this. I've been there. I understand. It's been years since I lost Becky, but I still miss her every day and wonder what she'd be doing if she were alive. And I miss my mom. Within just a few years, I lost two of the most important people in my life, so I understand loss. I lived it, and still struggle with it sometimes.

  I hear meowing and look back and see Cat coming out of the bedroom behind me. The door is open just a sliver but I go over and open it and see a twin bed covered in little kid bedding with cartoon footballs and basketballs printed on it. Stuffed dinosaurs are piled up in the corner of the room. And toy cars are lined up on top of the dresser like a kid had just been playing with them but then left to go do something else.

  This room hasn't changed since her little brother died. The living room hasn't either. All her family's things are still out like they left them. Callie hasn't packed them away. She's living in the past. Waiting for them to return.

  Cat comes up to me and rubs against my leg, then sits by my feet. I pet him quick, then focus back on Callie.

  I knock on her door. "Callie, open the door."

  She doesn't answer. I try again and she still doesn't answer, so I turn to leave but then stop, deciding to tell her the rest of the story about Becky. I don't want to do it because it hurts so much to even say the words out loud, but maybe in some way, they'll help Callie.

  "There's something else I didn't tell you," I say, leaning against Callie's door. "About Becky. It's something I've only told my dad, but as long as I'm telling you everything, I might as well tell you this." I take a breath. "The day Becky died, I was supposed to take her to work. She worked at the mall a few hours a week. She didn't have a car but I did, so I always drove her wherever she needed to go. But that day...I didn't. Becky and I had been fighting because she was dating this guy who I knew was no good for her. They'd only been out a few times but he slept around and I knew he'd cheat on her. And I didn't want her ever getting on his motorcycle. When I didn't show up to take her to work that day, she called me and I told her we can't be friends if she was going to keep dating that loser. I didn't mean it. It was just something I said to get her away from him. She said we'd talk about it later, then asked if I'd please take her to work because she didn't want to be late. I told her to have her mom take her and then I hung up on her. Turns out her mom was out of town that day and her dad was at work. So she got a ride from that guy. On his motorcycle." I drop my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I blame myself for her death. My dad's told me a million times that it wasn't my fault, and I've tried to accept that, but the truth is Becky would still be alive if I'd just taken her to work like she asked. And I live with that guilt every day. So like I told you before, we all have issues, Callie. You're not the only one."

  There's nothing but silence on the other side of the door. She's not going to talk to me. She's going to hide out in this house like she did before we met.

  Cat is meowing at my feet. I pick him up and get an idea.

  "I'm taking your cat," I tell her. "If you want him, you'll have to come over to my house and get him."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Callie

  He took my cat? What the hell? Who takes someone's cat? I shove my bedroom drapes aside and see him walking across my lawn holding Cat, along with his food dish and a bag of cat food. He's really taking my cat!

  He doesn't really want Cat. He's only doing this to lure me over there. So what am I going to do? Should I go over there? Take Cat and then leave? Or should I keep working for him? I don't feel right just quitting on him, but if I keep working for him, he'll keep trying to get me to talk, and I have nothing to say. My family is dead and how I deal with their death is none of Nash's business. He doesn't need to help me or save me or get me to talk. What we have together isn't going to last. Before I know it, the summer will be over and he'll be gone.

  I don't want him to go. It'll be just another loss I'll have to get over, which is why I haven't taken our relationship any farther, or defined it, or given it a name. He's not my boyfriend. He shouldn't even be my friend. I have nothing to offer him. And yet he still wants to help me, because for some reason, he cares about me.

  I care about him too. My heart ached for him when he told me about Becky. He carries that guilt with him every day, just like I carry the guilt over not being with my family the day they died. Why am I here and they're not? It's not fair. I don't understand it, and that's what keeps me in the same dark place, unable to move forward.

  At eight-thirty, I consider going to Nash's house. This is when I'd normally go over there to work, although the past few weeks I've been over there all the time. It keeps my mind from going to the places I don't want it to go, so I guess that's one reason I should keep working for him. Another is that it's an excuse to see him, because if I don't see, I'll miss him. The thought of never talking to him again gives me that hollow, empty feeling I had before I met him, and I hate that feeling.

  And reason number three? I don't want Nash to be all alone after telling me about Becky. Even though it happened years ago, by telling me the story, he had to relive all those memories and I know what that's like. I live with my own painful memories every day. I surround myself with them, and I don't know why. But I do know that being alone with those memories makes them even more painful. Sometimes just having someone else around makes them easier to handle, which I only know because of Nash. Ever since he started spending time with me, the memories haven't consumed me like they did in the past.r />
  Before I can talk myself out of it, I make my way over to his house, greeted by his overly loud country music. I used to hate country music but it's starting to grow on me, and from now on, whenever I hear it, I'll always think of Nash.

  I'm not ready to talk to him, so I just get to work, returning to the box I was going through earlier. It contains a mix of items, mostly junk; a broken magnifying glass, some reading glasses, an old wallet with nothing in it, and more newspapers. Why would Mr. Freeson keep these things? Is it because he had nothing else in his life? He had no family, no friends, so he clung to his possessions? Is that going to be me someday? Am I going to be just like Mr. Freeson?

  "Hey, Callie," Nash says, walking past me and out the door, as if the incident at my house didn't happen. He returns holding boxes of tile and goes right back to the kitchen.

  I go in there and see Cat perched on top of the wooden crate Nash uses as a chair. Damn Cat doesn't even acknowledge me. In fact, he seems happy and content being here with Nash.

  Nash also doesn't acknowledge me. He's kneeling down on the floor, setting the tiles in place.

  "Aren't you going to say anything?" I ask.

  "About what?" He reaches up to the counter and grabs a handful of tile spacers.

  "Um, nothing. Never mind."

  "You said you didn't want to talk." He places the spacers between the tiles. "So we won't talk."

  "But you still want me to work for you?"

  "That's up to you. I can't force you to."

  "Okay, well, I'm going to keep working here."

  "Good. I could use the help."

  "And um...I don't think we should continue what we've been doing. I think it's best if we keep this relationship strictly professional."

  I'm thinking he'll disagree and give me some flirty comeback, then get up and kiss me, reminding me why we should keep that part of our relationship going, but instead, he just continues working on the tile.

  "Nash, did you hear me?"

  "Yeah. Got it. Strictly professional."

  My heart sinks, that empty feeling washing over me. But it's what I said I wanted, and it is for the best.