Hello, Goodbye, and Everything in Between

by Jennifer E. Smith

  This is possibly the worst place in the world to be recounting the tale: standing on the Gallaghers’ front staircase with his parents asleep just yards away. Their clothes are dripping on the ugly gray carpet of the steps, and Clare’s teeth are still chattering; in the water, the moment the adrenaline had faded into relief, she’d started to shiver and hadn’t stopped since. Everything about her—from her nose to her toes—feels brittle and numb, so when Aidan turns around, she prods him forward again.

  “Sweatshirt,” she reminds him.

  “Right, sorry,” he says, walking up a few more steps before stopping once more. “It was pretty cool, though, right?”

  Clare nods. “Very, very cool.”

  In his room, Aidan digs through a pile of clothes at the foot of his bed.

  “Harvard or UCLA?” he asks, holding up two oversize hoodies.

  “The big question,” she says, then reaches for the blue one with UCLA printed in huge letters across the front.

  Aidan smiles. “Good choice.”

  “I agree,” Clare says, peeling off her wet dress and practically diving into the fleecy sweatshirt, which comes down nearly to her knees. “Got anything else for me?”

  He tosses her a pair of gray sweatpants. And then, for good measure, some woolen mittens, too.

  “I know you’re joking,” she says, tugging them on, “but I’m totally wearing them.”

  When they’ve both changed, Aidan studies her with amusement. She’s swimming in his sweatshirt, and though she’s rolled up the sweatpants several times, they still drag at the bottom. She claps her mittened hands together with a quiet thump.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Now what?”

  He considers this for a moment. “Hot chocolate, I think.”

  “Brilliant,” she says, and as he walks over to the door, he grabs the hood of her sweatshirt and rucks it up over her head.

  “Now it’s perfect,” he says with a grin.

  Downstairs, they pull the canister of cocoa and a couple of mugs from the cupboard, then heat up the milk. They do their best to be quiet, skidding around in their socks, being sure to close each cabinet with exaggerated care. When the hot chocolate is ready, they sit at the kitchen table with their hands cupped around mugs, reveling in the warmth before taking a sip.

  “I can’t believe we did that,” Aidan says after a little while.

  “You did it,” Clare points out.

  “Well, sure,” he says, puffing up with pride again. “I mean, if we’re being really technical about it, I guess I did save the unofficial town mascot, who has been flailing out there for years without anyone else to rescue him.”

  Clare hides her smile with her mug. “So modest.”

  “But you came after me,” he says, leaning forward on the table. “You forgot all about the rules for a minute. You didn’t think for a second about what an idiotic thing it is to do, jumping into the lake in the middle of the night. You just did it.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Yeah, but nothing,” he says, banging his palm against the table in his enthusiasm, which sets their cups rattling. “This is why you need to stop worrying so much about everything. Don’t get me wrong, I love the way your mind works, but when you shut it off for a minute, look what happens.”

  “I do really idiotic things?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “The way you’ve been so worried about your major, and what you want to do with your life, and all that—”

  “Right,” she says. “All those tiny little details.”

  “—that’s the version of you that sits back on the shore. But really, you should just be diving right in, you know?”

  Clare ducks her head. “Maybe.”

  “That’s what college is for—you’re supposed to try new things even if it means making mistakes. If you stop overthinking everything, maybe you’ll have a little more fun.” He sits back again, looking pleased with himself. “That’s always been my philosophy, anyway.”

  She laughs. “You might be on to something.”

  “Of course I am,” he says. “I’m kind of a genius when it comes to giving advice.”

  “And saving robots.”

  “That, too,” he says, smiling at her from across the table. He holds her gaze for a long time, long enough to make her wonder whether he’s thinking the same thing she is: that what happened back there in the water—what happened back in her basement, even—might have been enough to shift things between them yet again. That maybe the pendulum has swung back in the other direction. That maybe they still have a chance.

  That maybe it’s even something she wants.

  Almost as if he can read her thoughts, Aidan lifts his mug. “To you and me,” he says, and they clink glasses, the hot chocolate sloshing over the sides. Clare is about to use the sleeve of the sweatshirt to mop up the spill when Aidan holds up a hand to stop her. He points at the logo on his own hoodie.

  “Please,” he says, pulling his hand into the cuff at a purely theatrical pace, then rubbing at the spot on the table.

  “Such a gentleman,” Clare says, sitting back again.

  “Not at all,” Aidan says cheerfully. “I just wanted to make sure we use the right one as a rag.”

  They’re both startled by a voice behind them.

  “Very mature,” Mr. Gallagher says, his face twisted into a frown. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a nubby blue bathrobe tied over his plaid pajamas, and without his glasses, his eyes look fuzzy and unfocused. His hair, which is usually neatly combed, is sticking up at the back, so that he almost looks like a little boy just waking up from a nap.

  Clare glances back at Aidan, waiting for him to say something, but it’s clear right away that that’s not going to happen. His eyes are on the table, his arms folded tightly across the Harvard logo on his shirt, his jaw stubbornly jutted.

  “I hope we didn’t wake you,” Clare says, but Mr. Gallagher doesn’t seem to hear her: He’s too busy staring at Aidan, his face gone slack with surprise.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” Aidan says, lowering his chin as he tries his best to hide his swollen eyes.

  “‘Nothing’ must have a pretty good right hook,” Mr. Gallagher says, but then his gaze lands on Clare, and he looks even more alarmed. “You two weren’t—”

  “No,” Clare says quickly. “We’re fine. There was just a misunderstanding at a party, and we got a little bit mixed up in it, but everything’s okay. Really.”

  He stares at her for a few more beats, trying to decide whether to believe her. She doesn’t blame him for being horrified to find them in the kitchen at five in the morning with a pair of matching shiners, and she wouldn’t blame him if he sent Aidan to his room and then marched her home right this minute. But a few more seconds pass in slightly startled silence, and then his shoulders relax, and he sighs, apparently having decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Do you need some ice or something?”

  “We iced them a bunch before,” she says, smiling brightly. “Really, it’s fine. Looks worse than it is.” She touches a finger to her eye. “I keep forgetting about it, actually.”

  He glances back to Aidan one more time, still trying to absorb all this, and then, finally, walks over to the stove and grabs the teakettle. While he fills it at the sink, Clare shoots Aidan a look. She can see that his mind is whirring as he tries to come up with an escape plan.

  But once the kettle is on, Mr. Gallagher pulls out a chair, and there’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Clare smiles politely while Aidan sits there fidgeting with the fraying drawstrings of his hoodie.

  “Must’ve been some party,” Mr. Gallagher says. “You two are out pretty late.”

  There’s no accusation in his voice; in fact, he looks just as awkward as his son right now, and Clare can tell how hard he’s trying.

  “Last night in town,” she says with a forced cheerfulness. “There was a lot to do. And a few last goodbyes.”

&
nbsp; “Are you excited about Dartmouth?”

  “I am,” she says, bobbing her head a little too hard.

  “Do you know what you’ll be studying yet?”

  “I have no idea, actually,” she says, glancing in Aidan’s direction with a little smile. Maybe it was his speech, or just the shock of the freezing-cold water, but somehow, she no longer feels quite so daunted by all that’s ahead. She might never be like Aidan: carefree and spontaneous and largely untroubled. But in her own way, she feels ready to dive in. And that’s enough for now.

  “I’m still figuring that out,” she tells Mr. Gallagher, and this time she kind of likes the sound of it.

  “Well, you’ve got time,” he says, his eyes shifting back to Aidan, who’s staring at his hot chocolate as if it might turn out to be a portal to some other room, some other place entirely. “If you’re at an Ivy, it almost doesn’t matter what you major in—you’ll have a lot of opportunities, no matter what.”

  Clare lowers her eyes, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “Hey, did you know that UCLA has this really cool summer program in sports management—”

  “Clare,” Aidan says in a low voice. “Don’t.”

  “All I’m saying is that there are a lot of opportunities at UCLA, too—”

  This time, Aidan sets his mug down hard on the table. “Clare.”

  Nobody says anything for a moment, and then Mr. Gallagher leans back in his chair, the back legs creaking. “I’m sure that’s true,” he says, just as the kettle begins to whistle on the stove, and he hurries over before it can wake anyone else.

  As he pours himself a cup of tea, Clare has an idea. “You know,” she says, avoiding Aidan’s eyes, “I just realized what time it is. I should probably call my parents and let them know I’ll be home pretty soon.”

  Aidan gives her a withering look, but Clare is already pushing her chair back from the table, pointing helplessly at her phone, as if she has no choice in the matter.

  She doesn’t go far, though. Just outside the kitchen, she hovers in the doorway, listening as Mr. Gallagher sits back down at the table. She waits there, because she wants to hear him apologize. She wants to hear him say he’s looking forward to driving Aidan to the airport in the morning. She wants to hear him admit how much he’ll miss his son.

  But instead, they sit in silence for a full minute before he says, “So you must be sad to say goodbye to Clare.”

  Aidan’s tone is curt. “Obviously.”

  “You know, your mother and I were long-distance for a little while when I was in the navy.”

  “I know.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Mr. Gallagher says, his voice sounding somehow faraway. “In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it was worth it. Usually the hardest things are the ones most—”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Do you?”

  Aidan heaves a mighty sigh. “I know you think I don’t know the meaning of hard work, but you’re wrong. The problem isn’t that I don’t try. It’s that we don’t always agree on what’s worth it. For me, Harvard wasn’t. So I didn’t try. Simple as that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Harvard,” Mr. Gallagher says, clearing his throat. “I was talking about you and Clare.”

  “So, what?” Aidan says, a challenge in his voice. “You don’t think I can do that, either?”

  His father’s tone is patient. “I didn’t say that. You two actually seem great together. I happen to think she brings out the best in you.”

  Aidan has no comeback for this, and from the next room, Clare can’t help smiling. There’s a short silence between them, and then, quietly, he says, “That’s true.”

  “So,” Mr. Gallagher says, “what’s your plan, then? Are you two staying together?”

  The answer comes swiftly, and it has a kind of force to it, a momentum that—even from the next room—is nearly enough to flatten her.

  “No,” Aidan says, the word vibrating in the stillness of the house.

  No pause, no hesitation, no waffling.

  That’s it. Just: no.

  Clare feels herself go numb as she tries to absorb this, the conversation in the next room oddly muffled by the static in her head. Already, they’ve moved on to something else—she hears Aidan say something about his flight tomorrow—and their voices are softer now, less accusatory, which is exactly what she’d hoped for.

  Only she can’t listen anymore.

  Instead, she crosses the darkened dining room and escapes into the foyer, where she sits down at the bottom of the stairs they’d climbed together only a short while ago, hugging her knees to her chest.

  It’s her fault. It makes no sense for her to be caught off guard by this. They’d decided—she’d decided—to break up, and whatever else might have happened since then was clearly all in her head. The couch, the lake, all those big moments—none of it mattered, because of one simple fact: They’d never decided to un –break up.

  She feels her eyes prick with tears, more out of humiliation than anything else. How can she have been stupid enough to let her guard down now? After she’d done such a good job convincing Aidan they should be apart, good enough to make him spit the word like a bullet: no.

  She takes a deep breath, willing herself not to cry. Maybe it was hearing it said out loud for the first time, or maybe it’s just that she’s tired, and sad, and the night behind her feels like a hundred nights all rolled into one. But whatever it is, she lets it sweep over her now, hunched on the staircase as the clock in the hallway chimes in low, rounded tones.

  She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting there when she hears footsteps. She lifts her head to glance toward the dining room first, but then realizes they’re coming from above, and she twists to see Riley at the top of the stairs.

  Her hair is mussed and tangled, and she’s wearing a pair of blue-checked pajama pants with an old Chicago Bears T-shirt. Clare opens her mouth to say something, but Riley puts a finger to her lips as she makes her way from one step to the next, expertly avoiding the creaky spots.

  “Hi,” she says when she gets to the bottom, dropping down beside Clare. She rubs at her eyes and yawns. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re talking,” Clare says, and she can feel her lip quiver as she does. She takes another long breath to steady herself. “Aidan and your dad.”

  It’s only now that Riley seems to register that she’s upset. She tilts her head, looking at Clare with concern. “That’s a good thing,” she says with an encouraging smile, and Clare wipes at her nose with the back of her hand.

  “I know,” she says, and then all at once, she can’t help it anymore: She feels her face start to crumple, and the tears arrive in a rush. “I’m really happy,” she manages to say, the words coming out in a sob, wet and muddled.

  For a moment, Riley just stares at her, and Clare blinks back, neither of them quite sure what to say. And then, just like that, they both burst into laughter. Clare cups a hand over her mouth, realizing how loud they’re being, but Riley doesn’t even bother. She’s still waking up, and the whole thing—finding her brother’s girlfriend crying on the stairs in the early hours of the morning—is too much for her.

  “Well, you definitely look really happy,” she says, still laughing, and then—when Clare’s smile begins to slip again without warning—Riley slings an arm around her shoulders and gives her a little squeeze.

  “Yeah, I know,” she says, letting her head rest against Clare’s. “I’m gonna miss him, too.”

  The Car

  5:42 AM

  In the driveway, everything feels eerily similar to the way the night started: the blank stare of the garage door through the windshield, Aidan beside her with a hand on the keys, the car filled with uncertainty and nervous anticipation.

  If this were a board game, they’d have made a full circle by now, finally reaching the end, though from where Clare is sitting, it’s hard to tell whether they’ve lost or won.

 
“So he’s driving me to the airport,” Aidan says, letting his hand slide off the keys as he looks over at her. His voice is filled with such undisguised relief that it’s almost enough to push the earlier no out of her head.

  “That’s great,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap so that she doesn’t accidentally reach out for one of his. “I’m so glad.”

  “I mean, I don’t think he’ll be waving a UCLA flag anytime soon, but I guess he’s trying,” he says. “He said he was sorry for putting so much pressure on me that I felt like I had to lie. And then I said I was sorry for actually lying. And then he said he was sorry for how he reacted to my lie. And then I said I was sorry for how I reacted to how he reacted to my lie. It was kind of like a game of dominoes, only with apologies.”

  “That’s great,” Clare begins, but Aidan rushes on, clearly unable to contain his excitement.

  “He even said he’d think about coming out for Parents’ Weekend, which probably just means he’ll go golfing while Mom goes to all the events with me, but I’ll take it,” he says, laughing. “I mean, it’s crazy, right? A few months ago—even just yesterday—I never would’ve imagined any of this would be…” He trails off, looking over at her with shiny eyes. “Thank you. Really.”

  “For what?”

  “For being so spectacularly unsubtle about forcing us to talk,” he says. “And for mentioning the sports-management thing. Turns out, he was really interested in that.”

  “Something you have in common,” she says. “Imagine that.”

  Aidan smiles in spite of himself. “So what now?”

  Clare isn’t sure how to answer that. Part of her just wants to go home and collapse onto her bed amid all the boxes and suitcases until they have to leave. She’s having a hard time shaking the heaviness that has settled over her, and if they’re going to have to say goodbye soon anyway—if this is indeed the end—then maybe they should just put themselves out of their misery now.