His forehead is wrinkled. I’m hit by an urge to reach out and trace the creases, so I fold my fingers more tightly into my palm. The pain is a welcome distraction, brings some clarity.
This is insane. I barely know him. My family doesn’t discuss these things. We don’t talk about my dad in public. And if we do, it’s with big smiles, a polite “I miss him very much,” and a quick change of topic. The tears and mourning—Evy and Mom save those for dramatic scenes within the privacy of our house. Usually taking a positive event—Christmas, graduation, prom—and tainting it with tears and “I wish Dad were here. Don’t you wish Dad were here?”
“You’re not fine,” he says, giving me a long, searching look. He turns his face to the stars. “But you will be.”
His fingers flex on the step beside mine. They’re so close I feel their heat in the air around my fist. Lying there, beneath the weight of the whole sky, I feel lighter.
“So will you,” I answer.
33
Jonah
12:43 A.M.
TOO LATE TO GO BACK
She’s trembling slightly, causing her curls to quiver against my shoulder and making me feel even more useless. God, I want to touch her—bury my fingers in her hair, feel the skin of her neck, learn how her hand fits in mine. But I won’t. She clearly didn’t want to be held on the driveway, and instead of accepting the hand I’m holding open, she balls up her fist and moves it farther away.
If I sit next to her any longer thinking of all the ways I can’t touch her, I’ll go insane.
“You’re cold.”
“No, I’m okay—” she protests.
“And we’re pretty much dry. We might as well go.”
It was the wrong thing to say. I can tell as soon as I pull away and push myself off the low step. Her face goes straight to a neutral smile, and she resorts to her old standby of agreement.
“Sure.”
It’s not until we’re back on the sidewalk that I actually pause to look at the house. It’s so small compared to Paul and Mom’s McMansion. It doesn’t have vaulted ceilings or chandeliers. There isn’t even a second floor. It’s a simple two-bedroom ranch, but until Mom and Dad started fighting every night, it had always seemed big enough.
“It’s a nice house,” she says.
I study her face—she means it.
“The shutters used to be green. And Mom had tons of flowerpots everywhere. I was constantly tripping over them when I walked home after Jeff’s parties. I swear she used to place them across the path as a sobriety test.” I turn my back on the house. “It’s hard to imagine someone else living there. It still feels like mine.”
“But you have a new house now. In Cross Pointe.”
I snort. “That is not my house. Cross Pointe will never be my home.”
I freeze for a second as a new thought shivers down my spine: it will be Sophia’s. She’ll feel about that house the way I feel about this one. But with a couple of important differences—and I’m not thinking about her allowance this time. No matter what I hate about Paul, I can’t accuse the guy of not being borderline-obsessively crazy about his daughter. He’d never curse her out and pull a Houdini like my dad.
“You know, Jonah.” Brighton’s voice cracks the fuzz that’s forming around my thoughts. “If you focused even half the energy you spend hating Cross Pointe on not hating it, you might wake up one day and realize what a great town it is.”
I don’t bother pointing out how lame she sounds. She knows—there’s embarrassment in the way she’s suddenly fascinated with her curls and won’t look at me.
I’m better at awkward silence; I’ve had more practice. She doesn’t last thirty seconds before continuing, “I get that you’re doing a whole angry-loner thing, but why didn’t you join the baseball team? Jeff said you were really good.”
I can’t answer this question while standing still. Talking about baseball makes my stomach twist. It makes my palm itch for the feel of dust and leather and stitches. I start across the park to my car. “I could’ve. I could’ve walked on to the team and made the current pitcher look like a water boy.”
“You’re too good for them?”
“I am.” I grab a handful of leaves off a tree and shred them as we continue across the park. Each rip makes me want to destroy more. “But it was more about my damn ankle.”
“It didn’t heal right?”
“It’s fine. But if I hadn’t gotten hurt playing baseball, Mom would never have met Paul and I’d still be living back here. And my teammates—my friends—were already upset I was leaving and ruining what should have been our best season yet. How could I make that worse by playing against them?”
She reaches out like she might touch me. Her hand trembles in the air around my arm, but then she pulls it away and tucks it behind her back.
“Imagine how well the Cross Pointe team reacted when they found out my stats. Or when the coach tried to recruit me and I said no.”
“What’d they do to you?” Brighton’s voice is protective. Of me. My lips twist into a smile at the idea of her facing off with the players.