The mailbox was nearly empty today, just a catalog, a bill from the cable company, and a red bug crawling across a college brochure. Were all ladybugs lucky, or did it need to have a certain number of spots? I tried to remember as I gently nudged it off the envelope and onto the mailbox post.
I tossed the mail and paper on the Russos’ counter. The plants were still damp from yesterday. It occurred to me that Gyver’d been in my bedroom recently, but I hadn’t seen his since elementary school. Would it be like Ryan’s—the smell of sweat and a shrine to all things athletic? Not likely. Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped off my flip-flops, stepped through the archway connecting the Russos’ kitchen to their dining room, and crossed to the stairs.
The floor plan was identical to ours. I knew which door at the top of the stairs led to the bathroom and the master suite. I stood in front of the door that would’ve been mine if this were my house. In this house, it was his.
And it was just like him—slightly disheveled, but more attractive because it wasn’t orderly. The walls were green beneath the music posters. I touched the corner of the Radiohead one from the concert we’d attended last year. Ticket stubs everywhere. There were spools of blank CDs on his desk and burned ones scattered about. Favorite and local bands were interspersed with Gaiman, Auster, and Bradbury novels in a wide bookcase that took up most of the space under the two windows facing his bed. A few photos were stuck on the corkboard and on his bureau. Some of the pictures were of Guyver and me; some were of family; most were from concerts he’d played in or attended. I resisted the urge to edit the photos, taking out the ones where I looked hideous or had braces. I couldn’t look at his bed without imagining him on it and blushing, so I turned my attention to his desk.
More ticket stubs. Wristbands from clubs. His laptop with band stickers on the cover. An external hard drive to back up his music. There were sticky notes and paper scraps in his undecipherable handwriting. Sheet music—mostly printouts of songs he was learning, but also a few pages that were covered with pencil marks.
I picked up the top sheet, a smudged mess of notes that didn’t make sense to me. The notes only reached the third line of music bars, and there was an angry slash across the page. The second sheet was full, not just of notes but lyrics as well. Lyrics that were incomprehensible, just a couple of legible words: sweet, soft, held, kiss, mine. A love song? By Gyver? I blushed and studied it, picking out additional words: the, for, first, now. Nothing revealing. At the top, in all capitals—which he used when he was trying to be neat—he’d printed: “FOR M.A.”
For ma? Gyver didn’t call his mother “ma.” No, there were periods there; definitely M period, A period. My hand shook as I replaced the paper and backed out of the room. I closed the door and leaned on it. The hallway felt small, like the walls were tightening. Gyver—the boy who’d visited every day in the hospital, whose voice chased away my fear, and whose hands knew just when to hold me—wasn’t mine. I couldn’t swallow and I felt sick—but this time I couldn’t blame it on the chemo. I couldn’t blame it on anything but my own stupidity.
Back in my own room an hour later, I was still studying the yearbook. There were four girls with the initials M.A. attending East Lake. A fifth graduated last June, but Maggie Arturo had been on the squad and was a Hillary clone, definitely not Gyver’s type.
Mindy Adler was attractive, but she smoked … and not just cigarettes. That wasn’t Gyver’s thing. Maddy Appiah made it clear she didn’t like boys. Michaela Abbot was a cute soccer player, but she’d been a freshman last year; I doubted they’d met.
Not that I’d needed sixty minutes to figure this out. Or even sixty seconds. Meagan. Meagan Andrews. Her activities were listed beneath the yearbook photo with her glossy brown hair neatly tucked behind a headband and Lacoste polo shirt: student council, eco club, jazz band. She had a carefree smile on her face. The same smile she’d given Gyver at Iggy’s. It felt like it was mocking me. I slammed the cover so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I’d never realized how much I disliked her.
Stupid! I’d almost thought … He’d said, “We’re just friends” to Nurse Hollywood; but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Though that was in the hospital, where I’d been drugged and delusional. This was real life. And there was Ryan to think about—though I really didn’t want to right now.
And in real life, Gyver and I didn’t make sense—not as a couple. What would the Calendar Girls say? Plus I’d agreed to Hil’s stupid stay-single pact. And my mother, with her dreams of Most Attractive Couple, Most Popular, and all those other superficial superlatives she’d received her senior year! I couldn’t expose him to their scrutiny.
Trade his friendship for something riskier? Could I even handle a relationship right now on top of everything else? He’d probably be better off with stupid Meagan; she didn’t come with as much baggage.