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chapter 6



I spend my night filming another vlog and thinking about Mom. When I get home, aside from commenting once again on my dad’s lack of contribution to the family, I run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut, pull out my camera, and begin filming. I try not to get upset about Harper, but the sadness just pours out of me.

My words come out in a jumbled mess. I sit on my bed and start talking about losing someone you care about, about death and hopelessness and being lost, and the next thing I know I’m staring into the camera, my heart pounding, my eyes fighting back tears, talking about Mom. “I remember when I was in fourth grade and my mom took Cat and me to the local playground,” I say. “It was a normal day—the sun was out, there was a nice breeze, and kids all around us were dancing and laughing and playing on the slides and swings. When we got there, Cat and I squealed about how incredibly awesome the whole place looked. Then, she ran to the playground. I turned to Mom before following her, though, not wanting to abandon my mom. When I hesitated, she said to go on, that we had the whole afternoon to play, that she’d be there waiting. So I raced after Cat, grabbed her hand, and we headed first for the sandbox, where we built a replica of cake and then destroyed it, a process that slowly devolved into a sand-fight. Next we ran to the swings, then the slide, and we laughed and played and laughed some more. It was a great day, full of life and more importantly, full of my best friend. But, after a while, I remember turning back to look at Mom. She was watching me, her eyes sparkling and trained on mine, a huge smile on her face. Then I asked her if she was coming too.”

I shake my head and grit my teeth. What am I even doing? Filming this? Spilling out all my inner emotions into a freaking camera? God, I really am hopeless. Pathetic. Maybe Dad is right; maybe I am a waste of space. I mean, it’s been six months. Shouldn’t I be past the crying stage? Shouldn’t I have moved on by now?

I take another hard breath.

I don’t know whether I should be.

I just know that I’m not.

“She just smiled and shook her head like she knew something I didn’t. Then, she knelt down in front of me and said, ‘I love you, West. Now go on and play with Cat. I’m always going to be with you, watching and smiling from here. And even when I’m not here here, I’m still going to be with you. In here,’ she said poking at the ribs near my heart. At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about, but I still remembered it, and I think that was her point. It’s like she knew she was going to die on me and said that so that now,” I say into the camera, “whenever I think about her death, I remember that day, and I realize I’m not so alone after all.”

I tap my heart.

Then, my hands shaking, I reach out and turn off the camera.

I don’t publish the vlog, though, and I know I never will. It’s not something that will ever go on my channel; it’s not funny. It’s just a video for me.

As stupid as it sounds, sometimes I just need to let out what I’m feeling. I usually ramble like this to Cat, who hugs and comforts me and makes me feel all warm and tingly again, but sometimes it doesn’t feel right to tell her. I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t. Talking to my best friend about love? That’s weird, right?

Point is, I don’t tell Cat everything. And since my therapist is a freaking idiot and my dad is useless, oh, and my mom is dead, I turn to my camera, the only thing that keeps me sane nowadays. I always feel my best talking into my camera, and I make a lot of vlogs I don’t post—they’re just there to make me feel confident again, happy and light inside.

I shake my head as I put away my camera. Jeez, I really am insane.

Strangely, though, as I finish the vlog and turn to my computer to distract myself with emails from Harper, I feel kind of… good. Relieved, even. Like for the first time in the six months since my mom’s death, I feel a little bit of closure.

***

The stars are out as I walk a couple of blocks down the road to Cat’s house. The night sky is midnight blue, and there are no clouds shielding the moon. Aside from the distant whistle of a slight breeze through the tree branches and the chirping of crickets all around me, the whole neighborhood is silent. I walk slowly, calmly, letting the cool air brush against my skin, taking in the distant scent of fallen, rain-glazed leaves. A shiver races up my spine, but it’s a nice shiver, a calming one. I should be freaking out now, with that video I made and my meeting with Harper tomorrow, but I feel oddly calm, like the night has stripped me of all fear.

When I reach the end of Cat’s street, I stop. Her house is three times the size of mine between its new coat of green paint, its three stories of floors, and its—wait for it—working doors. It’s practically heaven compared to where I live. The grass in Cat’s front yard is entirely green, and her family even has a garden that’s blooming with roses, marigolds, and flowers I don’t even recognize. It’s a nice house, warm and safe and comforting. I know it like it’s my own home, and maybe, in a way, it is my own; I’m sure I’ve spent more nights here in the last year than I have in my real bed. Hell, I’m here so much that the Davenports even nicknamed their guest room “West’s room.”

After a second, I turn my gaze back to the driveway where I lay eyes on Cat. She sits on the edge of her dad’s old red Mercedes, her long, slender legs hanging over the hood, her sparkling blue eyes trained on me. She’s dressed in ripped-jean short-shorts and an old white T-shirt. Moonlight pours down on her red hair, giving it a silvery glow. I let out a breath. If I weren’t her best friend, I’d think she looks really, well… attractive.

I push the thought away as soon as it pops into my head.

“Hey,” I say slowly, walking up to her.

“Hey.” She cocks her head to the side when she gets a closer look at me. “You okay?” she asks, frowning.

“Wha—” Automatically, I reach for my face, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Then I remember the pink around my eyes—the dried tears.

“Oh. That,” I say. I shake my head. “That’s… nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press it, either.

I take a step forward. “You still fixing that up?” I say to change the subject, nodding toward the car.

She gives a distant little half-smile. “Yep,” she says, patting the hood.

Cat has been working on that car for three weeks now. When her dad owned it, it used to be a great car, sleek and slim and luxurious, but the years of wear her dad gave it left it in its current state: peeling paint, failed engine, damaged interior, and scratches all over.

Cat drives her family’s truck, but her dad always promised her that if she could fix up the old Mercedes, it would be all hers. He loved the car, and so did she—so she took the challenge. Every night since, she’s been working on fixing it.

“It’s looking nice,” I say, which is a total understatement. Apparently, Cat is extremely handy, because the car appears a hell of a lot better than before.

“You think?”

“Yeah. Not long now,” I say and sit up on the hood beside her.

She nods but doesn’t look at me. “Maybe in a few months.”

For a minute, we just stare up at the stars together, with our thighs so close to touching, not meeting each other’s gaze. It’s perfect out, and the combination of the fresh air and Cat’s presence almost makes me forget—about my mom, about my dad, about Harper. I shift over to get more comfortable, and my side presses against hers. A shock of warm electricity flows through me at the contact, and I feel my muscles tense up. But I don’t move away. I just clench my jaw and turn back to the night sky. I get so lost in her warmth and the breathtaking beauty of the stars at night that I almost forget I’m touching her. When I realize what’s happening, though, I mutter an “Oh” and jerk away.

She grimaces. “You’re really smooth, West,” she says and laughs to herself—a distant, sad kind of laugh.

“Correction: I’m wonderful.”

“Correction: you’re an idiot.”

“Correction: you suck at corrections.”

She rolls her eyes. Then, as if she’s remembering something, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small photograph of her grandparent’s beach house, a big place in Florida overlooking the ocean, with a beach all to itself. “My grandpa always promised me I could spend a week there whenever I want,” Cat says, tracing her thumb along the picture as she holds it out for me. “You know,” she continues, and brings her gaze back out to the moon above us, “I keep dreaming that when this car is all fixed up, maybe I can take it there and stay for a week with a company of some boy I like, just us and the beach and the wind and the water and our shared warmth.” She says it like she’s telling me about a magical promise land, with that distant sparkle in her eyes, that vague smile flickering across her lips. Even in the darkness, I can see she means it.

Then, without thinking or even realizing what I’m doing, I reach out and push her hair to the side so I can see more of her face. The smell of her coconut shampoo wafts into my nose. I breathe it in slowly, savoring it. She turns to me as I do it, the smile still glittering on her lips.

Both of Cat’s parents are workaholics who never seem to be home, and since she, like me, is an only child, she has practically raised herself. I remember coming here when we were kids, and even back then she could make me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, could care for me and care for herself and put us both to bed even though her parents wouldn’t be back until early the next morning. She’s always been the responsible one, the smart one, the one I can count on no matter what because she’s just that great.

“Oh?” I say, quirking my eyebrow. “Is there a boy in your life I should know about?” I give her a playful push against her shoulder.

She rolls her eyes. “Just this idiot one, unfortunately.”

“Uh-huh. Now that I do not believe.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she breathes.

I shift closer to her. “Cat… you look really weird… what’s wrong?”

She just sighs, ignoring me. “What if I told you I had my sights set on one guy in particular?”

“Then I’d ask you who.”

She shakes her head, smiling a little. “But let’s just say you can’t ask me, or I can’t tell you, or something like that.”

“Oh,” I say, and I stare back out at the empty neighborhood before us.

“And what if… what if I was afraid to tell him?”

I frown. “Who are you talking about? If you tell me I can hel—”

“It’s a hypothetical,” she cuts in. “But just answer the question.”

I give her a dubious look. “Well, in my experience, hypotheticals are always real… but I guess I’d tell you to go for it. It’s always better to try and fail than to not try at all. And what’s the worst that could happen? The guy will turn you down and turn out to be a douche. He’ll just be missing out and you’ll find someone better. I know you will,” I say, meaning it.

“You really think anyone who turns me down is a douche?” she whispers, looking up at me. I’m consciously aware of how close her lips are to my own, and I really don’t understand why.

“Of course,” I say, then frown again. “…why?”

“No reason. But okay,” she says, nods, and goes back to studying the car like she’s hiding something on her features. “I think I’ll do that,” she finally says. “If this weren’t a hypothetical, that is.”

“Now are you going to tell me who this guy is?” I say.

“It’s no one, I told you.”

“Yeah, suuure.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes at me. “All right, fine. You caught me. The guy I’m secretly crushing on is that doughboy from the Pillsbury commercials! I’ve always known he’s hot stuff!”

“I KNEW IT!” I shout too loudly, and she shoves my arm playfully and we laugh and laugh until the whole night melts away.