“Well,” he says, sighing. “Am I a beach day buzzkill or what?”
“Oh, you stop that.” Then a sigh catches in my throat, too, because I don’t like what I have to say next. If I hate thinking about it, then I loathe talking about it. But I’ll do it for him. “I know I act like I don’t have a care in the world . . . but, Jonah, I’ve prowled the dirtiest back alleys of sadness, okay? And I know what it’s like to fight for your life on those mean streets. So if you need someone to vent to or someone to be quiet with or someone to talk your ear off, I can be that person. I’m not scared of the dark places.”
“Thanks, Viv.” He does look relieved, leaning back against his arms, so his chest rises toward the sky. “I thought you might bail if you knew. It’s . . . a lot, my family right now.”
“I’m a lot, too, Jonah.” Then I lean back, matching his posture exactly so that we’re stomachs up to the setting sun. “And you don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If I met a boy who was perfectly whole, in mint condition with no dings . . . well, I swear to God, I think I’d fall asleep on the spot. And you know that’s not easy for me.”
His eyes watch me from their corners until a sly smile creeps onto his face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He can’t shoo the smile away. “I’m just . . . really glad you’re here now.”
“I’m glad you’re here now, too, Jonah.”
So we stay there above the town, being here and being now, until the last possible moment. Until the last scrap of sunbeam lights our path back across the roof and through the door and into whatever happens next.
Later that night, I’m wishing Jonah had kissed me on the roof, even though we were talking about sad things—things that could wrestle your soul and pin it to the ground. It’s late, technically, but not by my standards—maybe 1:00 a.m. or so—and I’m working on sewing projects in my room because, well, what else am I supposed to do at this hour? I’m ripping a hem on an old dress, prepping it to become much shorter and cuter, and this can be fairly boring work. So I entertain myself by imagining many different scenarios in which Jonah is a sexually aggressive person, and it’s just getting good when my phone beeps. Oh, I hope it’s Jonah, and it is. He’s asking if I’m awake, which of course I am. Beep again. Look outside? I’m glittery with anticipation as I push my window up, and sure enough, Jonah Daniels is standing below, on the driveway.
“Hey.” Night wind shifts his hair, and he shoves his hands in his pockets—as if he walked all the way over here and chose this moment to get sheepish.
“Hey.” I try to sound casual, which is difficult when you’re yelling down to someone. “What’s up?”
“I can’t sleep. Even though I’m exhausted. So, uh, do you want to go on a walk? Down to the beach?”
“With you?” I ask, teasing him. He shoots me the look that says: Give me a freaking break, Viv, I’m trying here. So I grin. “Always. Be right down.”
I’m wearing a navy-blue nightdress with thin straps and little edges of off-white lace. It covers as much of me as any daytime summer dress, so I figure it’s just as well. I pull on an oversize cream cardigan, and I close my eyes, trying to decipher how it feels. It feels like I rolled out of bed and pulled on a sweater to walk to the mailbox. Close, but not exactly right. Faux pearls. I layer strands and strands of chunky, costume pearls around my neck, and yes, precisely—I am a girl who rolled out of bed to have an impromptu beach date with a boy.
I prance down the steps and see my mother’s form in the glow of the TV. She’s watching a French film with subtitles, one hand cradling a glass of white wine. Her head turns, and she finds my gaze over the back of the couch. A knowing smile twitches at her mouth. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m sneaking out,” I say, ruffling my curls. “Can’t you tell?”
“Oh, yes. Very subtle.” She examines me. “Same boy? Jonah?”
“Yes, same boy,” I huff, wounded.
“I want to meet him, Viv. I mean it.”
I turn fully, horrified. “What, like now?”
“Is he here now?”
“No.” It’s a flimsy lie—too reactionary. I’m usually better than that. “Maybe. Yes. We’re just going for a walk. He couldn’t sleep.”
“Then, yes, I’d like to meet him now.” When I don’t move, she pulls herself up, lengthening through her spine. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but Dr. Douglas said—”
“Fine,” I snap, unwilling to hear another word about it. I turn toward the front door, but I think better of it, swiveling back to my mom. “Can you . . . not ask about his parents?”
Her head leans slightly to the side, long hair pooling in her lap. I see her gathering the fragments: I spend all this time with his siblings, no mention of parents. He’s here late at night, unable to sleep.
“It’s really hard,” I say quietly. “And recent. Okay?”