I nodded. Catherine was my everything. If something happened to her while I was at a stupid party, if she came to my house and I wasn't there, if she was hurt even for a second by some rumor, I'd never forgive myself. But I couldn't tell Sam any of that.
"Catherine is my best friend, too." My phone began to buzz. The closer we got to Oak Creek, the more the team texted about the party.
Sam read the messages. "See? It'll suck if you don't go."
"I'll talk to Catherine," I said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Catherine
I blinked my eyes just as the buses pulled into the parking lot. I stretched, hearing the football team stir behind us. We filed off the bus. Just as Elliott took my hand, Mrs. Mason stopped us.
"Let me know if your mom wants answers about tonight, okay? I'll have Mr. Thornton send a letter home. If she's still unhappy, he can call."
"It'll be fine," I said.
"You're sure? Catherine, if she's upset . . ."
"I'm sure. Thanks, Mrs. Mason. Good night."
Mrs. Mason smiled at me and then Elliott before turning her attention to Coach Peckham.
Elliott walked me straight to his car. The ground was wet from the freezing rain, the parking lot lights glinting off the puddles Elliott lifted me over like I weighed nothing. He was still limping, but not as much.
He started his car, and we waited inside for it to warm up. He took my hands in his, blowing his warm breath on them.
"Madison said there was a party tonight. Did you want to go?"
He shrugged. "I mean, yeah, but it won't kill me not to."
"So you want to go?"
"I've been to plenty of parties. They're all the same."
"But it's your senior year, and these parties are for you. To celebrate you. You're the star quarterback. You've turned this team around. They love you."
"I love you."
I looked down, trying not to blush. "I . . . made you something. It's stupid," I said, feeling a disclaimer was necessary.
"You got me something?" he asked, his brows shooting up. His grin widened.
I pulled a stack of cards out of the inside pocket of my coat and handed them to him, watching for his reaction as he read each of the envelopes.
"When you're lonely," he read. "When you're having a bad day," he said, flipping to the next one. "When you miss me. When we're fighting. When we just finished a great day. If we break up." His head popped up, and he frowned. "I'm tearing this one up."
"Please don't! It's four pages long."
He looked down at the envelopes again. "For now." He opened the envelope and unfolded the notebook paper, reading over my words.
Dear Elliott,
I don't have anything else to give you, so I hope this will do. I'm not good at talking about my feelings. I'm not good at talking about anything, really. It's easier for me to write it down.
Elliott, you make me feel loved and safe in a way no one has in a long time. You're brave, and you let the horrible things people say roll off your shoulders like nothing can touch you, and then you say things that make me think I'm the only one who can. You make me feel beautiful when you're the beautiful one. You make me feel strong when you're the strong one. You're my best friend, and I also happen to be in love with you, which is just the best thing I could've hoped for. So thank you. You'll never know how much better you make my life just for being in it.
Love,
Catherine
Elliott looked up at me, beaming. "This is the best present anyone has ever given me."
"Really?" I said, cringing. "I've been racking my brain trying to think of something to make, but . . ."
"It's perfect. You're perfect." He leaned over to kiss my lips, pecking them twice before finally pulling away. He looked down, his cheeks flushing red. "You're my best friend, too. I'm glad you wrote that."
I picked at my nails, already feeling exposed, but my curiosity was stronger than my hatred of feeling vulnerable. "Maddy said . . . she said she knew something you weren't telling me, but she wouldn't say what. It has to do with why you came here."
"Oh. That." He massaged the top of my hand with his thumb.
"Are you nervous to tell me?"
"A little bit. Yeah."
I breathed out a laugh. "Why? You weren't nervous to tell Maddy." I nudged him. "Tell me."
He rubbed the back of his neck, relaxing as the heater warmed the car. We were one of the last cars out of the parking lot. Everyone else was in a hurry to get to the party.
"Do you remember the first time you saw me?" he asked.
I arched a brow. "When you were punching the tree?"
"Yeah." He looked down at his scarred knuckles. "I don't want you to think I'm weird or some creepy stalker." He turned, put on his seat belt, and shifted the car into reverse. "It'll be easier just to show you."
We drove to his aunt's house, and he pulled into the drive. The house was dark, the garage empty.
"Where are they?" I asked.
"Out with Uncle John's boss. They shouldn't be too much longer."
I nodded, following him downstairs to his room in the basement. It looked nothing like it did the last time I was there. It was a regular bedroom, with a full-size bed, a dresser, a desk, and decorations on the wall. The green shag rug had been replaced with an earth-toned modern one.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a new built-in.
"Uncle John made me a bathroom so I didn't have to shower upstairs."
"That was really nice."
Elliott opened a drawer in his desk, taking out a cardboard box with a lid. He stood for a moment with his hands on the lid and then closed his eyes. "Don't freak out. This is not as weird as it seems."
"O-okay . . ."
"Remember when I wanted to show you the most beautiful thing I'd ever photographed?"
I nodded.
He picked up the box and carried it to his bed. He lifted the lid, struggling to gather whatever was inside, and then placed a stack of photos, all black and whites and various sizes, on his quilt. He spread them out. Every single one was of me--this year, my freshman year, and very few of them were taken when I was looking at the camera. Then I noticed some photos of me when I was in middle school, and one where I was wearing a dress I hadn't been able to fit into since the sixth grade.
"Elliott . . ."
"I know. I know what you're thinking, and it's creepy. That's why I haven't told you."
"Where did you get these?" I asked, pointing at the photos of me from years before.
"I took them."
"You took these? They look like magazine photos."
He smiled, fidgeting. "Thanks. Aunt Leigh bought me my first camera the year I took this one," he said, pointing at the one of me in the dress. "I'd spend all day outside taking pictures on that thing, then I'd come home and spend all night editing on Uncle John's old computer. Halfway through the summer, though, I decided to climb this huge oak tree to get a shot of the setting sun. The people who owned the yard the oak tree was in came outside, and I was stuck. They were sad and having a moment I didn't want to disturb. They were burying something. It was you and your dad. You were burying Goober."
"You were watching us? You were in the tree?"
"I didn't mean to, Catherine, I swear."
"But . . . I sat out there until well after dark. I didn't see you."
Elliott cringed. "I waited. I didn't know what else to do."
I sat next to the photos, touching each of them. "I remember seeing you walking around the neighborhood and mowing lawns. I saw you looking at me, but you never talked to me."
"Because I was terrified," he said with a nervous chuckle.
"Of me?"
"I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."
I sat down on the bed, one of the photos in my hands. "Tell me more."
"The next summer," Elliott continued, "I saw you sitting on the porch swing. You saw something in the yard. It was a baby bird. I
watched you climb almost to the top of the birch tree just to put it back in its nest. It took you half an hour to get back down, but you did it. In a pink dress."
He tapped a photo of me sitting on the steps of our front porch, lost in thought. I was eleven or twelve and wearing my dad's favorite dress. "This is the most beautiful photo I've ever taken. I could see it on your face. The pondering of what you'd done, the wonder, the pride." He breathed out a laugh, nodding his head. "It's okay, you can make fun of me."
"No, it's . . ." I shrugged one shoulder. "Unexpected."
"And a little creepy?" he asked. He waited for my answer like he was expecting to be punched at any moment.
"I don't know. Now I have photos of me and my dad I didn't know existed. What about here?" I asked.
"You were helping your dad fix a broken board on the porch."
"And here?"
"Admiring the Fentons' rosebush. You kept coming back to the really big white one, but you didn't pick it."
"I thought that house looked familiar. I've missed it since they tore it down. It's just a pile of dirt now. They're supposed to be building a new one."
"I miss the lights on the street. Seems like more go out every year," Elliott said.
"Me too. But it makes the stars easier to see."
He smiled. "Always looking on the bright side."
"What were you doing in my backyard that day?" I asked, pointing at a photo of the old oak tree. "The first time I saw you, when you were punching our tree."
"Blowing off steam." I waited for him to continue. He seemed embarrassed. "My parents were still fighting a lot. Mom hated Oak Creek, but I was falling for it more every day. I'd asked to stay."
"The day we met?"
"Yeah. I don't know. I felt sort of at peace around that oak tree, but that day . . . nothing was peaceful. The longer I sat at the base of the tree, the longer I tried to be calm and mindful, the angrier I got. Before I knew what I was doing, I was throwing punches. It felt good to finally blow off steam. I didn't know you were home from school, though. Of all the times I'd imagined us meeting, it was never like that."
"Do you do that a lot? Blow off steam?"
"Not so much anymore. I use to put my fist through doors pretty often. Aunt Leigh threatened to stop letting me visit if I broke another one. She taught me how to channel my anger in a different way. Working out, football, taking pictures, helping Uncle John."
"Why do you get so angry?"
He shook his head, seeming vexed. "I wish I knew. It just happens. I'm a lot better at controlling it now."
"I can't imagine you that angry."
"I try to keep it reined in. Mom says I'm too much like my dad. Once it's out . . . it's out." He seemed unsettled at the thought.
He sat on the bed next to me, and I shook my head in wonder. There were so many different expressions in the photos--all mine. Angry, bored, sad, lost in thought--so many captured moments of my life.
"Trust me, I see at eighteen that it wasn't okay for me to take pictures of someone without her consent. I'm happy to give them to you. I've never shown them to anyone else. I just . . . at ten, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I believe that still. That's why I told Madison I came back."
"Because you think I'm beautiful?"
"Because I've loved you for almost half my life."
I turned to look in the mirror that hung on the wall behind his desk. My tawny hair had grown out ten inches since Elliott had taken his first picture of me. I looked like a young woman instead of a girl. My eyes were a boring green--I was perfectly ordinary, not the spectacular beauty he described.
"Elliott . . . I don't see what you see. And I'm not the only one."
"You think that's why insecure girls like Presley and her friends bother you so much? Because you're plain? Because you're boring? Ordinary?"
"I am plain and boring and ordinary," I said.
Elliott stood me in front of the mirror, forcing me to look at myself again. He was a whole head taller than me, able to rest his chin on top of my head if he wanted. His bronze skin was such a contrast to my peachy hue, his straight, dark hair like typed words on a cream page against my tawny waves.
"If you can't see it . . . trust me, you're beautiful."
I looked again. "Fourth grade? Really? I was all knees and teeth."
"No, you were flowing blonde hair, delicate fingers, with at least ten lifetimes in your eyes."
I turned to him, sliding my hands under his shirt. "I miss how light my hair was when I was little."
He stiffened; my hands on his bare skin took him off guard. "Your . . . your hair is perfect the way it is." He was warm, the solid muscles of his back tensing under my grip. He leaned down, his soft lips pressing against mine. I took a step back toward the bed, and he froze. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Getting comfortable?"
He smiled. "Now you're talking in question marks."
I giggled, pulling him toward me. "Shut up."
He took a few steps, his entire body reacting when I parted my lips and searched his mouth with my tongue. When I leaned back, Elliott went with me, catching both of us with one hand on the mattress. His chest pressed against mine, and I reached down to lift the bottom hem of his shirt. When the cotton fabric was halfway up his back, the front door closed.
Elliott jumped up, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's Uncle John and Aunt Leigh," he said.
I sat up, embarrassed. "I should get home anyway. You should go to the party. I want you to go."
He looked deflated. "Are you sure?"
I nodded.
"I'll take a shower, then walk you home. Want some hot chocolate or anything while you wait?"
I shook my head.
"I'll just be a second."
He gathered some clothes and then disappeared behind the door of the built-in his uncle John had made. The water from the shower hummed, and steam began billowing from the top of the door.
I sat on Elliott's bed, next to the pictures of me. There were so few where I was in a field or walking on the sidewalk or even in my yard. In most of the pictures, I was sitting on my porch swing, the windows of the Juniper watching over my shoulder. Never did I smile. I was always deep in thought, even when my father was in the shot, nearby.
The shower turned off, and the faucet turned on. A few minutes later, the door opened, and Elliott appeared, wearing an Oak Creek Football hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and a wide grin, his dimple sinking into his cheek.
"You smell good," I said, hugging him again. Body wash and mint surrounded me when he locked his arms at the small of my back. His hair was still damp and fell all around me when he bent down to kiss my lips. He took my hand and headed for the stairs but then stopped and kissed me again.
"What was that for?"
"It took me six summers to get up the nerve to talk to you. Two more summers to get back to you. No more, okay? I'm done missing summers with you."
I smiled.
"What?" he asked.
"I like that you end your sentences in periods now."
He held my hand in his, my cold skin comforted in the confines of his warmth.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's get you home before it gets too late."
We walked together to the Juniper, counting which of the streetlamps were out and which were still burning. Elliott looked up, agreeing that it was easier to see the stars when it was darker.
We passed the Fentons' dirt plot, and Elliott stepped through the iron gate this time, walking me all the way to my front porch.
"Have fun tonight, okay?" I said, keeping my voice low. The Juniper was dark, and I wanted it to stay that way while Elliott was so close.
Elliott twirled a strand of my hair. "I wish you'd go with me."
For the first time in my life, I wanted to go to a party. I would have gone anywhere if it meant I could spend another hour with Elliott. I swallowed those feelings and shook my head. "I'd better go inside." I kissed his cheek.
"Happy birthday."
Elliott nodded and then took my cheeks in his hands. He pressed his full, warm lips against mine. His mouth moved differently, this time with more desire. The act of sharing a secret and my acceptance had changed things, had broken down a wall. His lips parted, and I let his tongue slip inside, allowing a delicate dance as he pulled me closer.
Our breathing puffed up into a white cloud above us. Elliott took a step closer, gently backing me against the door.
"I should go," I whispered between kisses.
I reached behind me and turned the handle. The latch clicked, and the hinges creaked. I took a step back, and Elliott followed, stepping inside.
We stood in the doorway, tasting each other, lost in being so close. It was in that moment that I thought seriously about packing up to be with him, leaving everything frightening and draining behind.
"What the hell is going on here?" Duke yelled, yanking me back by my coat.
"Whoa, easy," Elliott said, his hands up.
"Go, Elliott," I said, panicked.
"Are you . . . ," Elliott began.
"Just go! Go!" I yelled, pushing him back through the threshold. I slammed the door in his face.
"Catherine!" Elliott yelled, banging on the door.
"Get out of here, you mutt!" Duke growled.
I held up my finger to Duke, begging him to be quiet. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just shhhh," I said, my hands trembling. I touched my palms to the door. "Elliott? I'm okay. Just . . . go home. I'll see you tomorrow."
"You're not okay!" Elliott said. "Let me in, Catherine. I'll explain."
Duke grabbed my arm, but I yanked it away. I took a deep breath, twisting the lock bolt. "You can't come in. I'm okay, I promise. Just . . . please go home. Please leave."
"I can't leave you here," Elliott said.
I swallowed and looked over my shoulder, seeing the rage in Duke's eyes. "Elliott, I don't want you to get hurt. I promise I'll see you tomorrow, and I promise everything will be fine. Please trust me."
"Catherine," Elliott said, his voice desperate and muffled.
I walked over to the window and tapped. Elliott met me there, pressing his hands against the glass. I forced a smile, and Elliott looked around for Duke, who'd stayed just out of sight.
"You have to leave," I said.