“Then why is it here?” I ask. I know Caleb always kept a change of clothes in his locker, the Caleb he would become at three p.m. But something about this piece of him out on display, not in his house with his mother, doesn’t sit right.
She shrugs. “She showed up and wanted to cut the lock, but Max knew the combo, so he was with her when it opened.” She points to the wall. “That’s all that was in there.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, other than pencils.”
It’s a T-shirt from a fundraiser for the new athletic center, from the year before. I have the same one. Only mine says Whitworth on the front left corner, under our school name. His says Evers. We all bought them and wore them on game days, and other times as well.
“She gave it to the school?”
“She gave it to Max. Apparently she changed her mind, and didn’t want the things inside his locker. And Max didn’t know what to do with it, so he gave it to Caleb’s coach, like a tribute or something.”
“And now, here it is,” I say.
“Here it is.”
Here it is, staring me in the face, like the last time I went to his house. The last time I saw his room, until this week.
—
That day on the hill after cross-country practice was not the last time we spoke. I had showed up at Caleb’s house the next day, after the breakup, hating how we left things—the anger in his expression, the nonchalance of his cutting words. Everything we had been, reduced to this.
Mia had let me in, and I climbed the flight of stairs alone.
“What are you doing here, Jessa?” Caleb’s arm blocked the doorway to his room. There was a mess behind him, items scattered across the floor, the room in disarray. Music was playing, something loud and grating, uncharacteristic of the Caleb I thought I knew. And it turned out I did have something to say.
But standing in the stairway, it was impossible to force out the words. It was too dark, and he was too angry. The state of his room seemed to signify that. “I left my project.” It was a report that I’d been working on for the last week, articles cited, all stuffed into a folder and left at the foot of Caleb’s desk the week before. I’d avoided asking for it back, like that alone would be the final break. But I needed it. I needed to turn it in.
He shut the door in my face, but I heard his footsteps moving across the carpet on the other side. He opened the door with the folder in his hand, pushing it toward me.
“Caleb,” I said. A year, just gone. His face impassive. A segment of my life that was forever over, and permanently closed.
“Hey, Mia,” he called, his voice booming off the walls. “Come say goodbye to Jessa.”
I clenched my teeth together, and gave him a look I hoped he would remember, and regret.
So we would not be like him and that girl on the ski slopes, meeting up, kissing cheeks, laughing at time gone by.
I turned around, keeping my eyes on the steps, so sure this would be the last time I descended this stairway.
“By the way, Jessa,” he said, his voice falling in an unfamiliar cadence. “I know.”
I paused, my steps faltering. And then I kept moving. I kept going.
—
The memory has me on a mission. Because I realize there are parts to Caleb’s life I didn’t know at all.
After an awkwardly silent lunch, where Hailey talked about classes, and I nodded in reply, both of us pretending I was okay, I take a detour, swinging by the school library and logging onto a computer before heading back to class. I think about that town name in Pennsylvania, the tickets behind Caleb’s clock, and I remember the girl in the ski gear. Caleb didn’t believe in social media accounts. (Lame, he said, for people who don’t have better things to do.) I cringed when he said that, because he was of course implying that I did not have better things to do. Still, I’m glad I have accounts set up now. It makes the search easier. I type in Ashlyn Patterson, and there are suddenly more Ashlyn Pattersons than I thought possible.
Scanning through the images and locations, I see one that could possibly be her. Her profile is set to private, but her school is listed. She’s a senior at a big public high school in northern New Jersey. It doesn’t account for the ticket to Pennsylvania, but it’s possible, I think, that they were using this location as a common meeting spot for some reason. Though it’s not exactly the most central location.
I send her a message. I cut right to the point: When was the last time you saw Caleb Evers?
Hailey’s with me when I see Max by the lockers Monday after school. I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s been looking for me, but we end up walking stride for stride on the way to the parking lot.
“I wanted to talk to you. About yesterday. I wanted to apologize,” he says.
He’s walking backward, and Hailey and I keep moving. Hailey wants to know if I’m driving home—now that cross-country season is over, she’s ready to leave right after school as well. I don’t answer Max, and Hailey doesn’t acknowledge him, in a show of solidarity, I’m guessing. She doesn’t even know what cause she’s supporting, but Hailey’s like that, and I’ve always loved her for it.
“I have to go to Caleb’s house,” I tell Hailey, letting that be a response for Max as well.
“Will you let me help you at least?” Max asks, still keeping stride with us in reverse.
“Eve doesn’t want that,” I say. I don’t want that. It’s a delicate balance, me in that room. If he’s there, tearing things apart with his own motivation, I might miss something. I might lose something. I feel like Caleb is a mirage, and every time I think I have him, that I can track the path of him—his motives, his journey—he flickers and fades, and I was wrong.
Someone calls to Hailey, and she looks at me. “That’s my ride. Or, it was supposed to be my ride.”
“I’ll call you tonight?” I say. It’s a question. I’m asking her.
“Later,” she says. She squeezes my arm, gives Max a look, and spins around.
I focus on Max, really looking at him, and I say it point-blank. “Was he cheating on me?” I ask. He knew Caleb better than anyone. Better than me, I’m realizing now. This, at least, would be an answer that would give things more shape.
He looks surprised by the question. “No.” Then he opens his mouth and closes it again. “I don’t think so.”
My stomach falls. “You don’t think so?”
“He didn’t tell me everything.” I see his throat moving. He lowers his voice. “I didn’t tell him everything.”
But I remember Caleb’s words that last day, as I walked down the stairs. “Are you sure? Because he knew, Max. He knew.”
He looks up at the sky, as if it will absolve him. “Not from me, Jessa. Besides, there was nothing to know.”
“For you, maybe.”
He shakes his head. “It was the moment. It wasn’t you.”
It feels like a line, and I wonder who else could possibly be blamed for it. “You’re the one who stopped me,” I say, “if I’m recalling correctly. So I think you get a pass.”
“I didn’t at first. Not fast enough.”
“You did.” I remember the embarrassment. I remember thinking to myself, Oh, so this is mortification. Yes, now the word makes sense.