I grin. “Does that mean you’re gonna inspect his package?”
“Sage!” Her tone is faintly scandalized, but she smiles back at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. They’re a pretty shade of hazel, flecked with gold and green. She relents. “Probably not tonight, but maybe someday, if things go well.”
Ryan and the UPS man, whose name is Joe, arrive at the same time. There’s a confusion of introductions and greetings, then Aunt Gabby goes off in her date’s truck. It’s silver, shiny, looks new, so that tells me he’s fiscally solid. I’d like for her to find someone and be happy, but it also scares me because bringing a new person into the life we’ve built together could be pure chaos. I imagine Joe the UPS man telling me what to do, and I get a little queasy. But I’m jumping too far ahead. There’s no way Aunt Gabby would let him move in here after one date. Like me, she’s slow and cautious, so by the time she gets serious enough for such a big step, I’ll probably be off to college anyway.
So yeah. Things are fine.
“Hey, you okay? I feel like I lost you for a minute there.”
While I don’t share all my thoughts with Ryan, he knows enough about me to understand this. Sheepishly, I confess my moment of mini-panic. He settles me against him with quiet surety because we’ve done this a hundred times. Maybe he isn’t interested in romance, but he’s a world-class hugger. I put my arms around his waist and lean my head against his chest. Ryan McKenna is safety.
“Better?” he asks after a few seconds.
“Yeah, I’m good. I was just being dumb.”
He lifts a shoulder. “We all have moments where we wig out over nothing.”
Like you did over Shane? But I don’t say that out loud because Ryan and I seem to be back on the old footing, and I want to enjoy the night. I make the popcorn and bring a huge bowl out to the soft gray sofa, where he’s already waiting with the movie on the menu screen.
I recognize the title immediately and cut him a surprised look. “Crazy, Stupid, Love? I thought you hated romantic comedies.”
“I hear it’s not just a romantic comedy. And I remembered you really wanted to see it.”
The movie … is awesome. I’m so riveted by Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone, Steve Carell, and Julianne Moore that I don’t even notice when the dynamic changes. There’s usually a comfortable distance between us, some kicking, maybe, or a popcorn fight, but the next time I look up at Ryan, he’s right next to me and his arm is around my shoulders. This is not standard operating procedure; while Ryan hugs, he doesn’t cuddle.
I’m cuddling with Ryan McKenna.
What does this mean? If I knew crap about boys, I’d have some clue how to play this. But they’re a giant mystery to me, so I’m frozen. Eventually, my heart stops thundering, and I decide he’s still in comfort mode because I was freaking out over the idea of UPS Joe ruining my life. Ryan can be pretty protective. So I take this as a gesture of friendship and lean against him.
By the time the credits roll, I’m laughing and crying at the same time. It’s messy, but I can’t hold it in. “I wanted them to get back together so bad. Do you think they will?”
“You do know it’s a movie, right?”
I scowl. “Don’t interrupt my emotional ramblings with relentless logic.”
This is one game he won’t play with me. He doesn’t talk about book or TV people as if they’re real, speculating about their lives after the story ends. In my opinion, if Ryan has a fault, it’s his lack of imagination. He’s practical to the point of pain sometimes. At least, it bothers me a bit when he reins me in and reminds me this stuff’s not real. It’s not that I don’t know that but sometimes I like a world somebody has created so much that I want to stay in it a little longer, dreaming of the possibilities.
He doesn’t reiterate his position—that a work of art is exactly what it is, nothing more or less. You can’t add to it any more than you can draw mustache on the Mona Lisa. To which I say, Yeah, but you can wonder why she’s smiling. You can write a story about it. But this is a bridge that Ryan can’t cross; his brain just isn’t wired that way. It’s also probably why he rocks at chemistry, and I do not.
“Hey, I liked it,” he says, smiling. “You could tell he’s still crazy in love with her, regardless of how many women he slept with.”
“You’d think if he really loved her, he wouldn’t want anyone else.”
“Sometimes sex is just about wanting not to feel alone. Or it can start that way, anyhow.”
I feel like I’m about to fall into the deep end of a pool without a swimsuit. Ryan and I have never talked about this stuff. Ever. Obviously, I’m a virgin, as I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Which means I’m sixteen and never been kissed, let alone … other stuff.
“You know that how?” Grinning, I add, “If you say she lives in Canada, I’m calling bullshit.”
He searches my face, brown eyes serious behind the hipster glasses. “No, not Canada.”
So there is somebody. Why didn’t he tell me? Shock rockets through me with hurt hot on its heels. A normal person might get mad, but I’m afraid of anger, so I never let myself go there. My therapists don’t realize they’ve trained me to suppress it, but I feel better that way. Safer. I’m really, really determined to be good. Positive. Worthy of a second chance.
So I manage a smile, shoving away the bad feelings. “Who? Where? When? Damn. I sound like a journalism lead.” He laughs, as I intend him to, and it eases the tension. “Seriously, Ry, you can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”
“Her name is Cassie.”
So he’s not gay. There’s another little pang, as I remember how much I liked him last year. Strangling that, too, I put on my attentive face, encouraging him to continue.
“And she’s twenty-one.”
Holy crap. What do I even say? I mean, it’s kind of skeevy. Why is this Cassie messing around with someone Ryan’s age? Not that he isn’t awesome. But still.
I’m guessing he interprets my expression correctly because he explains, “It’s not her fault. When we met last year, I told her I was eighteen.”
“So she thinks you’re nineteen now? Why aren’t you in college?”
“I’m saving up.”
“Wow. So your entire relationship is based on lies. And sex, I assume?” He looks so miserable that I don’t say more, even though I so could. I thought Ryan was better than this—he’d never lie to a girl to get her to sleep with him. But as it turns out, that’s exactly what he’s done. Hurt and discomfort pushes up toward my throat. I really want to yell at him.
But I won’t. I can’t.
“That wasn’t why,” he starts, but it’s a weak effort, and he gives it up.
“I don’t understand at all, Ry.” Then something horrible occurs to me. “Why do you put your arm around me so much at school? And walk me to my classes?”
“I never said we were going out,” he tells me quietly. “I just didn’t deny it when people asked.”
“To hide this … whatever it is. Did it ever occur to you that if you have to cover it up that maybe it’s not okay?”
“Yes.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair.
This … this is huge. It was one thing when I thought the misunderstanding about us just happened. Knowing he did it on purpose—and for such a shady reason—makes my stomach cramp. I can’t get mad at him. So I embrace pain and sadness instead; I can deal with that duo better. That only ever hurts me. And that’s fine. I’m used to it.
I swallow hard. “Why involve me? What’s the point?”
His dark eyes are pools of hurt. “You know how they are at JFK. If you’re never seen with a girl, they assume you’re a closet case, and you saw how that turned out for Jon Summers.”
“Damn,” I whisper.
Jon killed himself last year. He came out at school, which was a brave thing to do, but people didn’t take it well. They bullied him until he eventually left to be homeschooled, but that didn’t fix it. His house was vandalized repeatedl
y, until he got ahold of some of his mom’s pills. When I found out, I felt so horrible. I wished I’d done more, but he refused to see anyone after he left JFK, and sometimes, it’s impossible to know how bad somebody feels until it’s too late.
Ryan goes on, “Best-case scenario, they assume I’m not gay, but I’m such a loser that I can’t get anyone to go out with me. That doesn’t end well for me either, Sage. Or I can choose to be a douche and brag about the older girl I’m banging. Provided anyone believes me, that would hurt Cassie a lot.”
“So you threw me under the bus instead?” Maybe it’s wrong, but I don’t care at all why Ryan did this. Fury boils like acid in my throat. But hurt and anger war within me, so I choose the pain again and hug it close. The barbs sink in. Ryan has been my best friend for three years—the one person I trust. And now this.
“How did you see this playing out, exactly? You string her along until you actually are eighteen and then say, ‘By the way, baby, funny story, I’m actually five years younger than you’?”
Ryan can’t even glare at me, though I suspect he wants to. “It seemed simple at first. Age is just a number, right? But then we were hooking up, as she has time, because she works two jobs and she thinks I do, too. Then there was the sex—” He trails off, seeing that’s not a good tack to take with me. “And I thought I was in love with her, okay?”
“Thought?”
“It’s complicated. At first, it seemed harmless to let people think we’re together, Sage. It was easy. It gave both of us some cred, you know?”
The rage pushes. I shove it down, trembling as I listen.
“At school and on Friday nights, you feel like my girlfriend. Most people think you are. So the line started to blur. It’s just physical now with Cassie … and everything else…” Ryan takes both my hands. “Sage, you’re everything else.”
I’m so angry I can hardly speak. The feeling is fire, and it’ll burn me up if I don’t lock it down. I’m so scared. I can’t feel this. I close my eyes and breathe, willing it away. It’s better to be sad and hurt. I’ll take the damage rather than inflict any.
When I finally speak, my voice is quiet and calm. “Are you asking me to be with you? While there’s a girl who still thinks her hardworking, nineteen-year-old boyfriend loves her?”
To make matters worse, I know why he’s moving on me now. He was fine keeping Cassie and me in our respective roles, until it looked like I might be interested in someone else. Now, suddenly, Ryan wants to promote me to full girlfriend status. I guess he doesn’t want to lose the “cred” he mentioned before. He’s my best friend, but at the moment, I don’t like him very much.
“Did it ever occur to you that I wondered if something was wrong with me?” I ask quietly.
His eyes widen. “What—”
“You never made a move, but nobody else asked me out, either. Other girls date all the time. But not me. Of course I worried about why. I try to be positive, but sometimes? It felt pretty crappy.”
I can see the pain in Ryan’s eyes, but it doesn’t make mine go away. “I’m so sorry. That’s a hundred percent my fault.”
“Because it was easier for you. That’s really selfish.”
“Let me make it up to you.” He leans in, but I turn my face, so his mouth glances across my cheek. Ryan McKenna will not be getting my first kiss.
“If you’re unhappy with this girl, you need to break up with her. She’ll probably be furious and ashamed, but that’s better than letting her think the relationship failed because of something she did.” I pause, weighing my next words. But, yeah, I mean them, though it means I’ll effectively be alone. “Once you do that, plus some hard thinking, I could consider being friends with you again. But right now? I need some time.”
His mouth twists. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Since I didn’t even know we were dating, that strikes me as funny. “I guess I am.”
“You promised you wouldn’t judge me,” he says softly.
“That was when I thought you might be gay. I can’t support you being a liar.”
He flinches, but doesn’t dispute my assessment. When Ryan leaves, he takes a chunk of me with him. We’ve been through so much together, shared everything—I thought—but he had this whole other life that I never even suspected. It makes me feel stupid and disposable, like a paper towel he used to clean up his mess.
I don’t sleep much that night, and it’s not because of the Dream.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday morning sucks so hard, I have no words.
Somehow I managed to hide my colossal bad mood from my aunt. She makes a point of doing stuff with me on a regular basis, which is more than my mom ever did. This weekend, we made falafel and flatbread, then gave each other pedicures. Which might sound boring, but it was exactly what I needed after the drama with Ryan.
To distract her from my life, I asked all kinds of questions about UPS Joe. The date went well, I guess, and they’ll be doing it again. I joked, “Tell me if you need me to have a sleepover some night,” and to my amusement, Aunt Gabby turned bright red. The teasing carried us until bedtime.
Then I overslept this morning and didn’t have time for more than a ponytail. No makeup. And I’m in my usual Crappy Weekend outfit: pink-and-black-print skirt, black leggings, pink tank, black shrug. The idea is that the pink will cheer me up. Mostly I remember Ryan saying I look like a hydrangea in this. My life has Ryan McKenna’s stupid size 13 shoes all over it. I’m realizing I don’t have many other close friendships; I let him eat up all my time, though we weren’t even dating. God only knows what would’ve happened if we had been. We might’ve merged into a mecha-something or fused consciousness like the Borg.
So, yeah, Monday morning, and I’m alone. There’s no Ryan waiting for me at the double doors. Though I know this is the right move, it still sucks. Which makes me even surer this is the best decision because maybe we’ve gotten codependent. But this feels like the first day of school all over again; in my head, I’m thirteen, nobody likes me, and they’re going to find out where I lived before, what I’ve done. Crap. Ryan isn’t the only one keeping secrets, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. I ride past the students milling in the parking lot, the few perched on cars, and lock up my bike along with a couple already secured to the rack. Come winter, I’ll be the only one still riding. It doesn’t get easier inside the building. The usual groups are clustered around their lockers, but now they look like aliens with their craning necks and curious eyes. It’s like they’ve never seen me before. I slide past them, heading for my locker, where I pull up short. I glance to either side, wondering if this is a joke. Then I imagine this is how other people feel when they find my pink Post-it. But this one is bright blue and it’s written in black Sharpie. It says, You are the silver lining.
I love that phrase and the fact that it came from John Milton. “Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud / Turn forth her silver lining on the night?” So somebody out there thinks I’m the bright side of a dark cloud. I take down the note and stick it inside the cover of my binder. Feeling someone’s gaze, I glance around, hoping to catch the person who wrote it, but there’s only Ryan, watching me from his locker across the way. From his expression I can tell he saw the Post-it, maybe even read it, but he didn’t leave it there.
I turn away without speaking to him and the girl next to me notices. Lila’s not goth, but she wears a lot of black, and she’s a pro at rolling her eyes. She thinks everyone except her has an IQ of seventy-five. “So, are you two done?”
God, I don’t even know how to answer that. It isn’t what she thinks, but I still care about him, and I won’t dump his secrets in the lap of the first person who asks. Soon enough, gossip will hit that we’re “over.” Awesome. All the break-up bullshit, none of the making-out.
“For now,” I say finally. “Sometimes it’s good to take a break, get some perspective.”
“Somebody cheated.” She smirks. “But you both look so squeaky clean
that I can’t guess who’s the injured party.”
“Good talk, Lila. See you later.” Though we’ve been locker neighbors for two years, this is the most she’s ever said to me.
She laughs. “That was almost sarcastic, Princess. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She doesn’t mean it in a bad way. I get it; I’m a joke to most people. The people at JFK think I never get down—that I don’t have shitty days and dark thoughts. I’ve just learned not to follow them down the hole. I’ve seen what lives in there, and it’s pretty awful. Depression threatens. I can’t bail on all my activities, but I’m no longer enthused about the meetings because it will be beyond awkward, dealing with Ryan. I’m just grateful I have a few things of my own, like my part-time job at the Curly Q.
My classes blur together, until it’s time for geometry. Despite my emotional turmoil, I resolve to pay closer attention, except there’s no point. Because Mackiewicz slaps a pop quiz on the front desk in each row.
He’s smiling; that’s never good. “Let’s see how well you can apply these theorems.”
Right. The day only needs this.
The quiz is OMG-hard, so that means I’ll soon have another circled F. Awesome. Even failures should have a friend. I’m sure when I explain to Aunt Gabby that I only failed the second quiz for symmetry, she’ll be good with it. I read over both pages, but it makes no sense to me, so I wind up writing nonsense in trying to “show my work.” For all the good this quiz will do me, I might as well be doodling penguins all over the paper. When I walk out at the end of the period, I hear the doom song from Star Wars in my head—and that’s totally Ryan’s fault. Before I started hanging out with him three years ago, I didn’t know Han Solo from Luke Skywalker.
“Tough one,” Shane says.
Huh? I’m faintly astonished that he hasn’t bolted in trying to beat the jocks acting like they aren’t waiting for a chance to screw with him. I could’ve told him there’s safety in numbers, but he seemed to be in full-loner mode. Maybe he wouldn’t have listened. But he’s here now. Talking to me.