“Right. See you later, Kim,” you say, letting me pull you away.
We go to Denny’s and you keep your arm around me the whole time, making sure I don’t feel left out with the band and their girlfriends. Then we go to your house, sneaking past your parents’ room.
You open your old-school record player and put the Beatles on—Abbey Road. “Because” comes on and you take me in your arms and dance me around the room as you sing along.
“Love is all, love is you.”
We collapse onto your bed and it is a perfect moment, just breath and lips and the feel of your body against mine.
For a little while, we are infinite.
TWENTY-FOUR
Halfway through my shift at the Honey Pot I’m dripping sweat. It’s Black Friday and instead of decorating the tiny tree in my bedroom or eating Thanksgiving leftovers, I’ve been stuck here all day, fueling shoppers. As soon as there isn’t a line, I’m whipping through the notecards I made for my AP World History test on Monday. We’ve moved on from the medieval plagues to the Renaissance. I love seeing the cause and effect, the way dots connect over long spans of time. This happened because of that. Like us. If you hadn’t tried to kill yourself, we wouldn’t be together right now. It’s weird thinking you had to go through that pain for us to fall in love.
You saunter up during a lull in the evening, when people are hungry for dinner, standing outside Hot Dog On A Stick (winner of the worst uniforms ever).
“Hello, beautiful,” you say.
I look up and grin, already scooping up oatmeal raisin cookies into a bag for you.
“What brings you here?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“Oh … you know. I was just in the area.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What a coincidence.”
“Indeed.”
“Matt,” I call into the back as I take off my apron covered in dough, “I’m going for my fifteen. Can you man the store?”
“Only if you bring me back a hot dog on a stick,” he calls.
“She’ll be too busy,” you snap, and grab my hand, pulling me away from the shop.
“Gav, that was rude,” I say.
“Do you know he checks out your ass when you take the cookies out of the oven?”
I smile and bust out some Rent in my not-so-great voice. “They say that I have the best ass below Fourteenth Street, is it true?”
“This isn’t a joke, Grace. If I see it again, I’m gonna have to do something.”
I almost laugh. “Do something? What is this, West Side Story? Baby. I’m sure you’re just imagining—”
“I’m not.”
“Well, then take it as a compliment. I mean, you want a girlfriend with a nice ass, right?”
You don’t say anything. You just frown and lead us toward some benches in the center of the mall near the huge Christmas display. I decide to drop it, which is what I decide most of the time now when you get overly jealous. I don’t want to ruin the few minutes we have with petty fighting. There are only a few pockets of time we can carve out for each other during the week. Things with your band are ramping up and you’re playing shows a few times a week now on top of your full class load and your job at Guitar Center. I have my insane workload from my classes and the Honey Pot, not to mention my chores and babysitting, and whatever else my mom and The Giant decide to throw my way.
“It feels so good out here,” I say as I plop down. Working at the Honey Pot is like being in a furnace. The oven never stops running.
You nod, distracted. You fiddle with your car keys, won’t look at me.
“What’s up?” I quickly scan through the day—I can’t think of anything I’ve done to piss you off. I try not to feel anxious, to acknowledge the cold knot in my stomach.
You readjust your fedora, then look down, clasping and unclasping your hands. Whenever you got all antsy like this, I know something’s wrong. God, I get enough shit at home. Why can’t things be simple with you? Nat and Kyle never fight. They just have fun and are cute and normal.
“Someone posted a picture of the scene you did with Kyle in class,” you say. “I saw it this morning.”
“Oh yeah? I think we did pretty good. I mean, you can’t go wrong with Barefoot in the Park—”
You snort. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Huh?”
I play dumb, but I know what you’re talking about. My face warms and I turn my gaze from you to Santa and his elves. A little girl is sobbing on his lap and one of the elves is doing a silly dance to get the kid to smile. Why does no one care that she’s miserable and wants to get off that creepy dude’s lap?
“How was it? Was he good?”
“Gavin. No. Nothing’s going on. We tried it with a stage kiss and everyone said it looked too fake. Even Nat, and she’s his girlfriend.”
You look up, your eyes pushing against mine. “Doing a kissing scene with one of my best friends—that’s kind of slutty, don’t you think?”
My eyes widen. “What?” I whisper.
“Slutty,” you repeat. “Which makes you … a slut. Right? You have a boyfriend, in case you forgot.”
Slut. The word jabs into me, hard and fast. I sit there for a minute, my eyes on the shiny Christmas ornaments that hang from the ceiling, the fake snow in the store windows. Slut. Bing Crosby’s singing about a white Christmas and there’s a sale at the Gap and I can’t believe this just happened. I can’t.
“How could you say that to me?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
You look away, the faintest bit of shame in your eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m fucking tired and I saw Matt looking at you and … it’s just too much, Grace. I’m losing it.”
“I have to go,” I say.
You nod, lips set in a thin line. “As usual.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “It’s my job. I can’t leave Matt stranded there.”
You stand. “It’s fine. I’m gonna hang out with the guys. Later.”
I watch you walk away. You don’t look back. Your hands hang at your sides and you drag yourself along, zombie-like. No rock-star swagger. What’s happening to you? For days now you’ve had dark circles under your eyes. I’ll wake up in the morning with texts from you that were sent at three, four, five in the morning. Telling me you’re depressed, that you have to get out of town, that you hate all the fakes at your school. I want to believe you didn’t mean what you said. But I think you did, Gav.
When I get back to work, Matt is leaning against the counter, drinking a glass of ice-cold milk. I don’t even like milk, but the stuff we sell is downright delicious.
“Spill,” he says, looking at my dejected face.
And I do. Even though he’s my ex and it’s maybe not appropriate, I pour out every worry, all my frustrations. I forgot how easy he is to talk to. I tell him things I can’t even tell you or Natalie. But especially not you. Like how I think you might be having Peter spy on me at school.
“Your boyfriend’s creepy,” Matt says matter-of-factly.
“No he’s not!”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.