Scott lets go and I’m back to standing alone in the dark.
“On that last day he said it would be bad if I talked you into forgiving me because you’d learn to let people get away with hurting you as long as they apologized. But he also said if I let you be, then if you came back, it’d be okay.”
“Is that why you said before we can’t be friends?”
“Partly. It’s complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated, but…”
Just say it.
“I really miss you.”
My voice cracks but I keep going—it’s okay for him to hear me like this. I’m safe.
“You were my best friend, Scott. And I… I want it all back. I really, really… miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he says, but his voice sounds like acceptance, not hope. “Or at least who you used to be. It’s been a long time. We’re different now.”
“Not that different,” I say. I want to add more, to turn this around, but I can’t think how…
“I don’t know. I’m having trouble imagining this Parker Grant who’d get caught kissing me in a dark room and laugh at the crowd and keep on kissing.”
“You don’t think that sounds like me?”
“About other stuff, sure, but that’s not what you did. I guess you’re saying you’ve changed. I’ve changed too.”
“So tell me.” I bend my arms a bit at the elbows and fan out my fingers, the way I used to for him to take my hands. “We have time before class. We can start catching up.”
“I can’t.” He doesn’t take my hands. I don’t know if it’s rejection or if he didn’t see them wiggling. I push them down flat on my jeans. He says, “I didn’t know why Stockley wanted to get here early, so I arranged to meet someone.”
“Oh. Okay.” I step back. “Who?”
“Someone from Jefferson. Nobody you know. It’s for homework.”
“Oh… you should have said something—”
“I was going to, but you were on the bleachers, and then you jumped right in about the van in the driveway… I’m pretty late so I can’t walk you back; I have to run. I’ll see you in Trig, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Sorry,” he says. I hear his footsteps jog away across the field.
Leaving me to struggle with what just happened. We had what sounded like a good conversation, as good as I realistically should have hoped for, but I still feel like I got slapped.
He changed his mind and said we could be friends—and it’s perfectly fine for a friend not to hug me, or to run off to some other friend they had plans to meet. And he’s still so… so Scott in every way. So why do I feel hollowed out and churning inside?
Did Scott say we could be friends just to stop these conversations, and me from showing up at his house and sending him notes to meet up when he has other plans… to stop me from being this crazy stalker like Marissa who can’t let go of something that’s never going to happen…
God, I think I’m going to throw up.
TWENTY-FIVE
Longest weekend ever. I survived through a combination of doing a ton of schoolwork and hanging out with Petey. Sheila actually played cards with us a few times, then she went out most of Saturday with Faith and Lila and Kennedy and returned insufferably cheerful. I’m really glad she had fun and was happier than I’d ever seen, but my own mood wasn’t compatible with that kind of energy. I put on the best face I could.
Nothing from Scott. I don’t know what I expected, but something. I finally texted him Sunday night about being my running guide. All he texted back was Let’s talk tomorrow.
Which all seems miles from here, sitting with Sarah in the Junior Quad. She’d walked the line all weekend between asking about things and not nagging me, but now we’ve run out of material and we’re sitting in silence waiting for patients. Which guarantees we won’t get any.
I’m wrong. Again. I’m honestly getting sick of it.
“Hi.” A girl sits across from us. “Do I need an appointment?”
I’ve heard her voice in class but don’t know her. Jeffersonian. Confident. Loud. Usually people we don’t know are either timid or overly loud to compensate for the inferior position of seeking help, so I’m already figuring she’s the second type. We’ll see.
“Drop-ins are welcome,” Sarah says. “I haven’t seen you around. I’m Sarah, this is Parker—”
“I know Parker—we have classes together. I’m Trish Oberlander.”
“U.S. History?” I say, trying to recall. “And…?”
“English Lit. I hear you guys give out advice.”
“We listen,” Sarah says. “Advice only if you want some.”
“For advice you don’t want,” I say, “that’s my department.”
That’s good for a laugh all around. Maybe I can salvage the morning after all.
“So I have this friend—”
“Oh, um…” Sarah interrupts. “We don’t do that. I mean, if we’re really talking about you it just gets weird pretending we’re talking about someone else—”
“It’s definitely someone else.”