“Hey.” I lean toward her and she looks up. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I know,” she says, nodding like she’s trying to convince herself. “But I don’t care what you say. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gives me a heart-pounding smile. “And you know what else you’re going to do tomorrow?”
I remember to breathe. “What?”
“You’re going to kiss me.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she says.
I finally step out and shut the door. I lean down, looking at her though the window. “Tomorrow then.”
Harper nods. “Tomorrow.”
32.
Harper
I don’t remember driving home. I don’t remember bringing the groceries into the house. All I can think about is something Kale said to me in the car, and I’m trying to figure out why it’s bothering me so much.
I snap awake when Uncle Jasper comes through the back door, shedding his shoes on the mat. I have a can of soup in one hand and a bottle of orange juice in the other, not at all remembering how they got there.
“Are you okay?” Uncle Jasper eyes me, grabbing a pencil from the mug on the counter.
“Um … yeah.” I nod and put the orange juice away. “Just thinking about something.”
“Would this something be Kale?”
I put down the can of soup and turn around. “Is this the part where we have that weird and awkward talk about the two of us …”
“Dating?” he finishes for me.
He can’t hold back his all-knowing grin. I fight not to roll my eyes, because Grace says I do it too much. She’s probably right.
“I don’t know what we are,” I admit. “And I have no idea why I’m having this conversation with you.”
I turn back and finish putting the groceries away. For some reason, I put the orange juice in the cupboard, and I quickly take it out before Uncle Jasper notices. Seriously, what is wrong with me?
“Look, Harper. It’s been no secret to me that you both have had—” he debates “—something between you for a while now—”
I turn around. “What? How long have you known? I didn’t even know.”
“I wasn’t me, it was Holly,” he says. “She saw something since you guys were eleven. Or so she claimed.”
“She really said that?”
He nods. “She did. And I never believed it until this summer. I’ve got to say, it’s been amusing watching you two pretend like nothing is going on whenever I’m around.”
I think of Kale kissing me right here in the kitchen before Uncle Jasper almost walked in on us, and my cheeks warm. He saw right through us. Of course he did. He always does.
Uncle Jasper clears his throat and returns his attention to the paper. “I’m sorry, I won’t say anything else. That’s something between the two of you and it should stay that way.”
“I think you’re the only parent to ever say that.” I realize what I just said, and Mom pops into mind because Uncle Jasper isn’t my real parent. But he pretends not to notice for my sake and I love him for it.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” He smiles just as the phone rings.
I flinch, unable to stop myself from thinking it might be Mom. Speak of the devil and she shall come. She’s the last person I want to think about right now. Uncle Jasper stands and starts for the hallway.
“It’s just the phone,” he says, looking at me with his eyebrows raised. He’s still looking as he picks it up. “Hello?” I wait, hoping it isn’t her. “Oh, how’s it going, Jacob?” There’s a short pause and he laughs. “I hear ya. I had an old Camaro in my garage last week. How’s that Mustang working out for you?”
Now that I know it isn’t Mom, I stop listening altogether. Uncle Jasper can talk to his old friends about cars all day.
I slip past him in the hallway and head up to my room. Once the door is shut, all I can hear is the shifting grass outside, growing tall in the field next to the house. I can just make out the small creek at the bottom of the hill, where in a few weeks I won’t be able to see it until fall.
Then it hits me again—what I was thinking of before Uncle Jasper came inside. The very thought drops into my stomach, hard and unwelcome because I’m scared to find something I’m not even sure exists.
But I have to know.
When Kale and I were sitting in my car in the parking lot, he said something that got me thinking: “Only the past can answer that.” That meaning Kale’s future. I knew the truth before now, but am only now grasping what it truly means.
The past is Kale’s future. There’s no way to tell the future, but the past is something I can find out.
I pull out my laptop from under my bed. It starts up slow since I haven’t turned it on in a while. My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance at the screen. It’s from Libby.
So have you guys kissed yet?
It’s like she knows even when she’s hundreds of miles away. I send back a winking face just to screw with her. I turn back to the computer and try to ignore the growing fear in my stomach. I don’t know what I’ll find, and I don’t know what to expect, but I need to know. I can’t go another minute being in the dark.
I open Google and search Kale’s name tagged with World War II, something that looks out of place in the same sentence. There’s one match at the very top of the screen. It’s too easy. Why does the Internet have to be this easy? I click the link, hoping it’s not him and the heading is wrong.
It’s a long article about The Battle of Hürtgen Forest, and there’s a small section where Kale’s name pops up. My eyes are the only things moving, scanning the words faster and faster until I’ve read it all. I read them again, just to make sure I’m reading it right. Because this is the very thing I’ve been dreading. I’d hoped it wasn’t going to be this way.
Because it’s Kale.
And if history proves to be true, he’s going to die.
33.
Kale
I head upstairs, trying to ignore the growing ache in my stomach. Trying to steer my thoughts away from leaving.
I need to stay.
I want to stay.
I pause at the bathroom door. The light filtering in from the glass tiles invites me in. The bathtub sits quiet, a constant reminder of the comfort it gave me during the past year. The only thing that makes me feel safe.
I move into the bathroom and run my fingertips across the cold porcelain.
Without thinking—like a hard-to-break habit—I step inside and slowly lower myself down. The cold seeps through my jeans and T-shirt, freezing the back of my neck. This is a different type of cold. Not the cold I feel deep in my bones that calls me away from here. It’s a cold I can touch. Something my body warms. Something to hold onto when there is nothing else. Anchoring me.
I sink deeper, pretending there’s water to slip into, remembering the baths I once took when I was young. Memories I can barely hold onto. It’s been too long since I’ve seen Mom’s smile, or heard Libby’s voice when she’s happy.
I stare at my shoes pressed against the other end of the tub.