“How old are you and how old is he?” asks Dr. Laura.
“We’re both in college. I’m a sophomore and he’s a junior.”
“Well,” Dr. Laura says, “in my opinion, that is way too young to be in a serious relationship. But if you do make the choice to do so, you need to give yourself the chance to really get to know the person, and there’s no way you can do that when he’s hardly ever around.”
“Okay,” Sarah says. But she doesn’t sound convinced. And then she does something that makes me groan. She says, “But we see each other at least once a month.”
“Yes, but once a month does not allow you to really get to know a person,” Dr. Laura says, firmer this time.
“But we talk on the phone every day, sometimes for hours.”
I squirm in my seat, wanting to yell at the radio and tell Sarah to stop contradicting Dr. Laura. Dr. Laura doesn’t like that, and now Sarah’s really going to be in for it.
“Well, miss, if you want to spend your college days holed up in your dorm room with a cell phone talking to some guy you’re most likely not going to end up with, then that’s your business.”
“But I haven’t met any guys at college who are even close to being as good as Brant.”
Jace guffaws. “Brant!” he says. “What a tool name. She should dump that loser.”
“You would say that,” I mumble, before I remember that I’m supposed to be asleep.
“What?” He glances at me.
“Nothing.”
“No, what did you say?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just that you would think it was stupid to have a long-distance relationship. I mean, isn’t that what you decided?”
I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He shakes his head and frowns. “That’s not what I said. I never wanted—”
“Stop,” I say, realizing my mistake. I shouldn’t have even brought this up. The last thing I want is to get into some big explanation of our relationship, where Jace tries to tell me why he ended things, and how it has nothing to do with me and blah blah blah. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Peyton—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That figures.”
“What does?”
“That you don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “You never want to talk about anything.”
“Ha!” I push Hector gently back into the backseat, then reach down and pull the lever on my seat so that it shoots up. “What a crock! I’ll talk about anything, anytime, anywhere.”
“Oh yeah?” he challenges. “Then why are you running away?”
“That,” I say, “is none of your business.”
He nods in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
I reach over and pull the lever on my seat again, sending it back down. “You know what?” I say. “Don’t talk to me.” Then I reach up and push the button on the radio, turning it off. “And I don’t want to listen to this anymore. It’s giving me a headache.”
I lie back down, waiting for him to say my name, to tell me he’s sorry, to try to talk to me again. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even turn the radio back on. He just keeps driving.
• • •
A couple of hours later, my bladder is dangerously close to overflowing, and so I’m the one who’s forced to break the silence. I pretend that I’m just waking up, that I haven’t been just lying there the whole time, trying to fall asleep. I made a big mistake when I turned the radio off because after that I had nothing to distract myself.
“Do you want to stop soon?” I ask, reaching up and stretching, as if I was sleeping and not just giving him the silent treatment.
“Fine,” Jace says. “There’s a Bojangles coming up in a few miles.”
“Sounds good,” I say nonchalantly, even though I’m about to explode.
Jace pulls off the highway at the next exit, and drives an agonizingly slow two miles to Bojangles. When he pulls into the parking lot, I rush out of the car and into the restaurant, hoping he can’t tell it’s because I really have to go to the bathroom, and instead thinks it’s because I’m sick of him and can’t wait to get out of his presence.
When I come out of the bathroom, Jace is standing in line, and I step in behind him, scanning the menu, looking for the cheapest items.
“Have you ever had Bojangles before?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “We don’t have them in Connecticut.”
He nods. “It’s good. Like KFC, only better. But when we stop tonight in North Carolina we can go to the grocery store and stock up so that we don’t have to keep eating fast food.”
“Sounds good,” I say, trying not to let him in on the fact that we’re definitely not going to need much food tonight, since I’m going to be ditching him as soon as we get to North Carolina.
The line inches forward. “We’ll have two number twos,” Jace says. “Cheddar cheese on both, one with a Sprite, one with a Diet Coke.” He turns to me. “That okay?”
I nod, then rummage in my bag for money. The food does sound good, and my heart does a little dance over the fact that he remembered I like Diet Coke, but I wish he’d picked something a little cheaper. I thought the South was supposed to be cheaper than the Northeast. Haven’t they ever heard of the Dollar Menu? Disgusting, greasy, artery-clogging food for a buck?
But when the cashier adds everything up, Jace hands over his debit card without even asking me. “I got it,” he says. “Don’t worry about it, you can get me back later.”
I think about protesting, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll take me up on it. And I need to save my money. So instead I just say, “Thanks,” and put my money back in my bag. Hopefully, whenever I get him back, it will be someplace a little cheaper.
We take the food over to a table in the corner and dig in.
“It’s good, right?” Jace asks. He opens a little cup of ketchup, and sets it on the table between us so we can share.
“It is,” I say, dipping a fry in the ketchup. He goes for it at the same time, and our hands brush against each other. “Sorry,” I say, flustered. It’s starting to feel a little hot in here.
“I knew you’d like it,” he says.
“How?”
“Because everyone does.”
“Oh.” I keep eating, not sure what to say.
After a few minutes, he puts his sandwich down and regards me over the table. “So, seriously, are you going to tell me why you were running away?”
I sigh, “No. So stop asking me that. And I’m not running away anymore, so you can stop being so dramatic about it.” I cross my fingers under the table, hoping he buys my lie.
“You’re the one who was making it all dramatic back in your hotel room.”
“Only so you would wipe the smarmy look off your face.”
He opens his mouth, like he’s going to protest the fact that he’s smarmy, but then he changes his mind. “Fine,” he says.
I take a bite of my chicken sandwich, although I’m suddenly not really that hungry anymore. I’m thinking about my mom. And about what happened. My eyes start to get all hot and prickly, and I blink hard. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
“Sorry,” Jace says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I don’t say anything.
He sighs. “Seriously, I’m really sorry, Peyton. I know you had your reasons, and it’s not really any of my business. But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Somehow, the fact that he’s suddenly being nice about it is making it even worse. And that he’s not pushing me to talk about it is somehow making me want to talk about it. Because the thing is, no one knows the whole truth. Not Brooklyn. Not my dad. Not even my mom knows that I know. It’s kind of too horrible to even say out loud.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You were just trying to be nice.”
He nods, then takes another fry. “They have really good milkshakes
here,” he says, probably because he thinks I want to change the subject. “You can even get a chocolate peanut butter one.”
Chocolate peanut butter is my favorite, and the fact that he remembers this makes me lose it. I start to cry, right there at the table.
“Peyton,” Jace says, his voice softening. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just . . . the reason I wanted to leave home, it’s just . . . it’s really horrible.”
He doesn’t say anything, and then after a second, he moves over to my side of the booth and wraps his arms around me. I melt into him, leaning my head against his shoulder. We stay like that for a few moments until I lean back, wiping my eyes.
“Peyton,” he whispers into my ear, “I need you to know that I’m really sorry. About everything.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about what happened with my parents, or what happened with me and him. He pushes my hair out of my face and he’s looking right into my eyes and I really, really want him to kiss me.
But then a man walks down the aisle and sits down at the table next to us and starts slurping his soda noisily, and the moment is broken.
Jace pulls away and then, after a second, he moves over to the other side of the table. And I miss him. I don’t want him to be back on his own side of the table. I want him over here, with me. Feeling that connection with him, for the first time in a long time, felt good, and I’m not ready to have it taken away.
Which is why I say, “Okay. I’ll tell you why I was running away.”
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He just nods, and I’m reminded of one of the reasons I liked him so much—he’s completely nonjudgmental.
“Okay,” he says, his eyes on mine. He leans back in the booth. “I’m listening.”
And so I start to talk.
Saturday, June 12, 1:02 p.m.
Greenwich, Connecticut
“He’s an asshole,” Brooklyn declares. We’re at the beach, lying on our towels and soaking up the sun. I kind of hate the beach, but Brooklyn loves it, so every once in a while, I do my duty as a best friend and go with her. I slather myself with sunscreen, get nervous that everyone’s judging the way I look in my bathing suit, and try to avoid the water so that I don’t get stung by a jellyfish or some equally disgusting sea creature.
“I know,” I say, flipping through the new issue of Cosmo. All the articles are about how you can please your man in bed. Which obviously I won’t be needing, so I don’t know why I’m even reading this stupid magazine in the first place. “I just don’t understand how I could have been so fooled by him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he made me feel like he was such a nice guy, and then to not even respond to a text that I sent him? I mean, that’s just common courtesy.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Brooklyn says. She doesn’t move from where she’s lying on her lime-green towel, her face pointed up at the sun. “He completely blew you off after Christmas, are you forgetting that? How can you be surprised that he’s not responding to your text?”
I decide to ignore this fact, and just keep on with the conversation we were just having. “Not to mention that he’s going to be seeing me in a couple of weeks. Isn’t he worried that I might go crazy on him or something? Like, what if I start to scream at him and make a big scene in front of all the guests? What if I scream, ‘Jace Renault, you are a horrible womanizer, and I am here to say that in front of God and your family!’ ”
“Do you plan on doing that?” Brooklyn asks, her voice tinged with worry. She props herself up on one elbow and looks at me, her eyebrows raised over the huge black sunglasses she’s wearing.
“Of course not,” I say, even though the idea is kind of tempting.
“You know what you need,” Brooklyn says, pulling her sunglasses off. Her eyes light up with excitement. “You need a new guy!”
“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not. The last thing I need is a new guy. Guys are trouble. All they do is cause misery and heartbreak.”
“Yeah, but think about all the fun you’re missing out on,” she says, grinning. “You could make a pact with yourself that you aren’t going to get emotionally attached. You’d have a good time, and maybe you’d even get over Jace.”
“You think?” I ask doubtfully. The thought of making out with some guy I’m not that into doesn’t seem like the way to get over Jace. But maybe it would be. Don’t they say that once you hook up with a guy, your hormones take over, making you emotionally attached to him? It’s, like, the curse of being a woman.
“Oh, definitely,” Brooklyn says, nodding. “It’s hard to be upset about someone when you’re making out with someone else. Now, who do you want to have a crush on? This is so fun!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out our yearbook.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Can’t I just wait until I go away to college? Then I’ll definitely be able to forget about him.”
“That’s a year away!” Brooklyn says. “Way too long. Plus it’s not that fun.”
“But it’s summer,” I point out. “How am I supposed to get a crush on someone now?” Having a crush on someone during the school year sounds a lot easier. That way you can lust after them in the halls. You know, from afar. I throw myself back onto my towel and close my eyes, watching the imprint of the sunlight flash and move on the backs of my eyelids.
“Good point,” Brooklyn says, flipping through the pages of our yearbook. She pushes a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. “Maybe we should start going to more parties. Or maybe you should get a summer job at a place where lots of guys will be working. Like a sporting goods store.”
“Oh, yeah, because that’s not depressing or anything,” I say. “Spending my summer dressed in some dorky polo shirt trying to sell people golf clubs.”
“Think of all the flirting you could do! Actually, forget about the customers—think about the other employees! They’d all be guys.” She bites her lip. “Maybe we should both get jobs there.”
My phone starts ringing, and I know it’s ridiculous and pathetic, but every time it rings, I think maybe it’s going to be Jace. Which is so stupid. If he was going to respond to my text, he would have done it. I mean, it’s been three weeks. I glance down at the caller ID, but the call is from a number I don’t recognize. I pick it up.
“Hello?” There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and my heart slides up into my chest. Jace? “Hello?” I try again.
“Hello,” a bright female voice chirps in my ear. “This is Maria Valerio from Visa, how are you today?”
“I’m fine,” I say, my heart sinking. It’s just a stupid telemarketer.
“Is this Peyton Miller?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I’m not—” I start to tell her that I’m not interested, but before I can, she cuts me off.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Miller, I’m calling because your account with us is currently thirty days past due, and we’d like to offer you a chance to rectify the situation before it gets put on your credit report.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as Brooklyn holds up our yearbook and points at a picture of Matt Swift. I shake my head. No way. Matt Swift is cute, but he’s also really stupid. One time when I told him my grandparents lived on Cape Cod, he told me he always wanted to visit that state. “I’m not interested.”
I’m talking to both Brooklyn and the lady on the phone. Brooklyn frowns and then goes back to looking.
But the lady on the phone says, “You’re not interested in what, Ms. Miller? Paying your bills on time?”
“I’m sure I would be able to handle paying my bills on time,” I say, rolling my eyes, not sure why I’m still on the phone. “But I don’t want a credit card right now, thank you.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you opened an account with us,” she says, getting all snotty.
“I didn’t open an account with you,” I say. I’ve been looking for someone to take a
ll my Jace rage out on, since he’s not calling me back and letting me yell right at him. Maybe this lady will fit the bill. I hate to get all angry at some random, but honestly, she started with me first.
“Yes, you did,” the woman says. “And your account is currently thirty days past due, almost sixty, which will affect your credit report when this information gets sent to the credit bureaus at the end of the month.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask as Brooklyn holds up another picture. But I shake my head at her and then stand up and move away toward the snack bar so that I can hear the lady on the phone better.
“Your Capital One Visa,” she says. “You have a current balance of ten thousand dollars, and with late fees and back payments, you owe us five hundred and twenty-eight dollars in order to get your account back up-to-date.”
“But that’s impossible,” I say. “I don’t have a Visa. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
All the picnic tables at the snack bar are taken, so I sit down on the curb of the sidewalk. The pavement warms my skin through the bottom of my bathing suit, and I slide my feet into the sand and wiggle my toes.
“We did receive one payment from you when you first opened the account,” she says, totally ignoring the fact that I just told her I don’t even have a stupid credit card. “But since then, there’s been nothing, despite a bevy of letters and phone calls.”
“But I haven’t received any phone calls!” I say. “And how did you get this number, anyway?”
“This phone number was provided to us by DataTrax, a company that allows us to find phone numbers of people who have skipped out on their bills.”
“But I haven’t skipped out on my bill,” I say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Are you saying that this account isn’t yours?”
Is this woman for real? “Yes.”
“So you didn’t open it?” Her tone is skeptical, like she’s used to people running up big bills and then trying to pretend they didn’t do it.