“He …” I pause again. “He just does the typical stuff, I guess.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Jeff looks disappointed. Maya squints suspiciously.
They watch me through another few seconds of videogame gun noises, then she takes Jeff’s hand and tugs him away. “I’m bored. Let’s check what’s going on upstairs.”
Digg gives them a curt wave, then turns back to me. “Little brothers suck, huh?”
I smile noncommittally and check my phone.
27
Jonah
11:34 P.M.
MY LIFE IN PAST TENSE
I trudge up the stairs and rap my knuckles on Jeff’s bedroom door. “Carly.”
“Go away, Jonah.”
The thing is, I didn’t feel anything when she kissed Felix. Maybe because I knew it was her being petty. Maybe because I was too surprised to be jealous. Or maybe …
I take a deep breath and knock again.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” says Sasha.
Walking away now is tempting. I can say I tried and go back downstairs and get blitzed, or just go out to my car and leave. Maybe I can drive around until I find Brighton. If she called someone from Cross Pointe for a ride, they can’t be here yet. And maybe she’ll listen to me.
Not likely.
I look at the door again. I’ve seen Carly and Ana in these situations so many times. But this fight isn’t about a shirt that was borrowed and stained or snooping through someone else’s text messages. I don’t feel like participating in all the screaming and name calling that the Santos girls go through before they get to their “I’m sorrys” and hugs.
But ours isn’t the sort of history I can shrug off. Or want to shrug off. Years and years of friendship before it changed to girlfriend and boyfriend. I’ve texted her first thing in the morning every day since I’ve had a cell phone, and except for the rare fights we’ve had over the past two years, I’ve ended every night with her voice breathing, “sweet dreams” in the phone at my ear. My stomach twists when I think of a lifetime of mornings and bedtimes without her. And without her, the only action my phone will see will be Mom calling to ask me to pick up diapers or tell me when to be home for hellish family dinners.
I knock harder.
“Carly, I know you didn’t come all the way over here just to kiss Felix. Come out so we can talk.”
The door opens a crack, and one of Carly’s red-rimmed eyes peers out. “What do you have to say?”
“I’m not doing this through a door and with an audience.” Sasha’s standing on Jeff’s bed to see over Carly’s head. “Let’s go outside.”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s only going to tell you more lies,” says Sasha.
“Carly. Please.” The door opens some more, and I put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”
“Fine. But don’t expect me to believe a word you say.” She shakes off my fingers, then turns and leads the way down the stairs and through the front door like it was her idea.
I follow her outside, but I’m moving slower.
“What are you doing?” She’s backtracked from the driveway to where I’ve paused on the lawn. Unless Brighton’s ducked behind a hedge in some twisted version of hide-and-seek, she’s really not here.
I can’t win. Whether I lie or I tell the truth, whether Carly believes me or doesn’t. So the question that remains is simple: How much of my pride do I want to maintain?
“I’m looking for Brighton.”
She pulls her shoulders back and meets my eyes with a gaze that’s all cool anger. “Want to know how I knew you were cheating? You could never handle being alone for most of the week. You hate being alone.”
This stuns me because it’s not true anymore. I did. I hated being alone—and it used to be I never was. Days started with texting Carly, eating breakfast in her kitchen or in her car on the way to school. Classes/hallway/lunch were one nonstop group conversation, and afternoons meant playing baseball with Marcos on the days I didn’t have practice with the team. Then homework, dinner with my parents, followed by video games with the guys or a shift at work with Carly, a movie or some TV with making out or more if her siblings weren’t around, and a phone call before I went to bed.
Maybe loneliness is an acquired taste, or maybe it’s like plunging your hand in ice water—it hurts like hell in the beginning, and then you go numb. Either way, I’m good at being alone now. An expert.
“For the last time, I’m not cheating. I’m looking for her—so she can tell you we’re not sleeping together and you can tell her that I’m not the one who’s gone around telling people we are.”
I brace myself for an argument. Another twelve rounds of “you’re lying/am not.”
But when Carly opens her mouth and asks, “Why are you here?” the sentiment isn’t anger, it’s disappointment.