I rap my knuckles against the cold metal frame of the swings. A hollow sound reverberates down the pole, and I open my mouth again. I don’t know what ruined the moment, but I want it back.
Maybe the moment was damned to fail. I mean, Brighton. In Hamilton. With me. It’s an equation that has no solution.
I look away from her, across to the other side of the park, and suddenly I need to see it again. I’m already off the playground sand and on the sidewalk before I call, “There’s somewhere I have to go. It won’t take long. You can either come or stay here.”
I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
32
Brighton
12:25 A.M.
12 HOURS, 35 MINUTES LEFT
He’s leaving without me.
It’s my fault too. He’d started opening up about his life, baseball, girls. So what do I do? Ruin it all. Could I sound more ridiculous? Oh, why don’t you date, Brighton? Well, you see, guys smell. Way to be eight. Does he think I include him in that category? Real smooth. He looked so embarrassed for me—though I’m more than embarrassed enough on my own.
I really mentioned burping and farting. Like that phone call from Mom wasn’t bad enough. I knew she’d have a meltdown tonight. I knew it.
He paces next to a trash can with his eyes fixed on something I can’t identify.
Just this once, Evy can handle Mom. They’ll be fine.
“Wait up! Please.”
As soon as I reach him, he’s off again, like he’s afraid our destination will disappear before we reach it.
“Where are we going?”
“Wait and see, Bright,” he says. Then adds, “Sorry.” He’s staring at something across the street.
“What? Why?” I look around for whatever’s inspiring his apology and come up with nothing.
“Called you Bright again. Accident, I swear.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
For the first time since he started on this manic mission to wherever, Jonah looks at me. His brown eyes settle on mine and stay there; my cheeks react with a blush.
“My dad used to call me that: his Rainbow Brite.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Every day.” It’s just a smidge more than twelve hours until his memorial. My stomach twists. My throat is constricting. I want to look away, but his eye contact is the only thing keeping me steady. “Tell me about your dad. Do you still see him a lot?”
“No, never. I wish I could hate him. Then at least it would be mutual.”
“Jonah, come on. You know your father doesn’t hate you.”
He kicks at a rock on the sidewalk and answers in a tight voice. “Yeah. He does. He blames me.”
“He couldn’t. He’s your dad.”
“He blames me.” He’s stopped walking and is pacing the same three squares of sidewalk. The emotions spill out of his voice and into his stride: furious, fast steps that change direction without pattern.
“Paul was my physical therapist. Mom met him because of me. Because I screwed up my right ankle sliding into home plate and couldn’t drive myself to appointments. Dad’s convinced I knew. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
My chest feels tender from talking about Dad, and my heart aches for Jonah. Not wanted? By his own father?
“He said I chose sides by not telling him—even though I had no clue. And that Mom and Paul were still a family, and a kid belonged with a family. He, on the other hand, was now a bachelor, and a teenager didn’t fit in his new lifestyle. I guess he doesn’t want me in the way while he bar hops. I doubt he’s out looking to find me a new mommy.”
I hug myself because I know if I touch him, he’ll stop.
“And then he sold the house without even telling me. Called me after he was in a hotel. I’m surprised he called at all. I guess I should be grateful. He coulda called from Florida and said, ‘By the way, I’ve moved.’”
“Why?” I gasp the word and cringe at the unfairness of it all. No wonder Jonah’s bitter.
“He and my mom agreed it’d be easier for me if I didn’t have to see the house packed up. They equated it to a body in a casket—it’s better I remember my home as a ‘happy place,’ not empty rooms full of boxes. Like I can forget their fights and only remember the good times.”
He stops pacing and looks at me. His face is all naked emotion. His eyes scream of need. My instincts demand I look away. Run away. I don’t want to be needed. Not like this. Not in a way that requires me to share more than space and conversation—a way that requires me to share me.
“Do you get this?” He swallows and drops eye contact, shoulders slumping. “Forget it. Your parents’ divorce was probably all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and no hurt feelings.”
I’m too stunned by Jonah’s story to sugarcoat my own. “My parents didn’t divorce. My dad died. Heart attack.”
He freezes on the sidewalk and lifts a palm to cover his face. “Crap.”
“Don’t—” I know what I should say: “It’s fine. I’m okay. You didn’t know.” Some variation of “Don’t worry, you’re off the hook” followed by a subject change.