31.
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
—“STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING,” 1923
We settle ourselves into the red vinyl booth, Trevor on one side, Kat and I on the other, and after ordering a breakfast for dinner, Kat clasps her hands together on the table, leans forward, and says, “Okay, spill it. What happened with the gallery girl? Did she ever come? Was it Julianna?”
The whole thing rushes back at me for the first time since Trevor kissed me. “No,” I say. “It wasn’t her.” I tell her the same lie I told him, and the weight of it drags me even lower than I already feel.
Kat reaches across the table for my hand. “Shit. God, I’m really sorry, P. I know how much you were hoping for it.”
Her tone is genuine and sympathetic, and I don’t say anything because I can feel the tears ready to spring up if I do. Trevor must see it, because he excuses himself to the bathroom, which I appreciate.
Kat sees it too, and once he’s gone, she shifts into pep-talk mode. “Hey—maybe they got a chance to work it out on the other side and they’re living happily ever after out there somewhere.”
I force a smile. “Maybe so.”
“What are you gonna do with the journal?” She asks.
“It’s gone too,” I say. “I lost it when I went chasing after her.”
She frowns. “Really? You were guarding that thing with your life. How’d you lose it?”
I shake my head, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know. I just did.”
“Huh. That’s too bad.”
We’re quiet a moment, and then Kat squeezes my hand again. “Maybe it’s better that way. It’s actually kind of fitting. You found it by chance, and now you lost it by chance. Maybe now chance will send it where it should be.”
I nod, but can’t muster any enthusiasm or response. Who knows what Julianna will do with it. Maybe I should’ve given it to Josh instead, so at least he’d know she really had fallen in love with him too.
Kat leans her elbows on the sticky table, then thinks better of it and sits back against the booth. “So what else? What happened with you guys to make things so awkward?” She glances over my shoulder and I turn to see Trevor, who’s weaving his way back to the table from the bathroom.
Kat gives me a mischievous smile when I turn back around. “Did you hook up and it was bad or something?”
I sigh. “Bad. I’ll tell you later.” I try to think of something to change the subject to quickly. “So where did you go, anyway?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” She smiles.
“About what?” Trevor asks. He slides into the booth and our legs brush, just for a second, his skin against mine, and we both pretend not to notice.
“About her mom and her speech,” Kat says without missing a beat. “It’s gonna be bad when she gets home.”
I chance a look at Trevor. “My mom’s a little . . .”
“Crazy,” Kat finishes through another mouthful of French toast.
“I was gonna say strict, but that’s a better way to put it.” I fiddle with my napkin. “This is gonna be a big deal, if she finds out. Especially if she finds out I left her a Googled speech.” My mouth goes dry. “Oh my God. I still have to write the real one.”
“We should go home then,” Trevor says. He looks at his watch, then at me, but only for a moment. “We can make it back by morning if we leave now, and you can get home, pound some caffeine, and get it done. Maybe she won’t find out.”
Worry over what will be waiting for me at home closes in, and I want to say no, let’s not go back. I don’t want to face my mom, or my speech, or the scholarship committee. And I don’t think I can stand to ever set foot in Kismet again and chance seeing Josh. Not with what I know now.
“He’s right,” Kat says. “Let’s get you home.”
After we pay our check, we point the Silver Bullet north and drive in silence. I lean my head against the passenger window and watch the night go by. The rain is gone, leaving the sky mottled with patches of clouds and darkness peeking through the places where they’ve broken apart, but I can’t see any stars. Sadness creeps in from the edges all around me, and when we pass the last lights of town and begin backtracking over the miles we traveled only hours earlier, it feels like admitting defeat.
Trevor glances over at me, his expression soft in the glow from the dash. “You can go to sleep if you want. I’m fine driving.”
“Thanks. But I don’t think I could sleep right now.”
He nods and is quiet a moment, but surprises me with what he asks next. “So, would it have been worth it if you’d found her?”
I don’t answer right away. I want to tell him the whole thing, every last detail about Julianna and what she said, and how it’s all even more sad than we knew before we came.
“Maybe not,” I say. “Maybe the whole idea of finding her was better than the reality of it would’ve been anyway.” I pause. Think about all the things we hope for and dream about, and how often they turn out to be different from what we thought. Like that kiss, and what I did.
“I don’t know about that,” Trevor says, his eyes on the road. “I think a lot of things get even better the closer you get to them.” He smiles but doesn’t look over at me. “And at least you tried, you know? That should count for something.”
“It should,” I say. “It should count for something.”