Like Never and Always

  My heart skips a beat. “I am?”

  “Yeah. I feel like an asshole for asking, but … have you changed your mind about us?”

  “What do you mean?” There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach.

  “Don’t mess with me,” Clay says quietly. “It’s not funny. You know damn well I’m wondering if you want a real relationship now.”

  22

  What did we have before?

  I swallow the question. He’s waiting for an answer, and I don’t know what to say. If I want to stop this—whatever it is—this is the perfect opening. Immediately I decide it’s too soon and that Mr. Frost will be worried about the breakup. But if I’m honest with myself, that’s an excuse. I just don’t want to, because Clay’s concern seems sincere and from what I can tell, he’s always completely honest. No secrets, no shadows.

  I’m not ready to lose that.

  It could be desperation and loneliness talking but the only time I’m anywhere close to happy in my new skin is when Clay is nearby. There are tons of reasons why this is a bad idea, selfish, self-indulgent, and possibly codependent, but I don’t have it in me to cut him loose. He shifts in the passenger seat, likely uncomfortable with the long silence; his long fingers tap out a staccato rhythm against his thigh.

  “Would it be okay with you?” I ask finally.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Are we this dedicated to answering questions with questions?”

  I sneak a look to find him smiling reluctantly. The dimple plays hide-and-seek in his left cheek. His jaw is shadowed, dark stubble against his summer tan. In profile he’s beautiful, and … I can’t let myself be distracted. With effort, I focus on the highway.

  “Fine, I’ll show my hand first. If you want to take things to the next level, I’m game. But … if we date for real, I have to pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say automatically while my mind is whirling.

  Every time I think I understand Morgan’s life, another layer peels away, leaving me with onion tears pooling in my eyes. What the hell is he talking about? But I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t care if Clay borrowed some money. Her spending habits suggest that she has no sense of scale and that fifty bucks, even a hundred, would be pocket change. The more baffling question is the phrase “if we date for real.”

  “You might be fine with it,” he mutters, “but I’m not. I can’t keep three grand if we’re rewriting the agreement. I’m not a man-whore.”

  Agreement? Three thousand dollars? Holy shit. The only thing I can figure is that Morgan hired him as her fake boyfriend, though for what reason, I can’t fathom. Does it have to do with her secret past with Nathan or is it intertwined with the investigation of Creepy Jack? Most frustrating, there is nobody I can ask. Unless …

  I have to frame this just right.

  With a quiet laugh, I murmur, “Didn’t you think I was crazy for suggesting this?”

  I’m banking on that. There’s no way Clay would’ve gone to Morgan and asked for money in exchange for dating services. She’s pretty and tons of guys were after her, so it’s not like she had no other options. Logically speaking, she must’ve propositioned him.

  “A little. But … I know how you feel about attachments.”

  “They only hurt you in the end.” I’m quoting Morgan. This is why she cultivated mystique at school and didn’t let people close.

  I’m one of the few who knew her at all, but I didn’t realize she’d go this far to present a normal image. With this much context, I don’t need Clay to explain. Morgan wanted a partner for dances and double-dates, so she could hang out with Nathan and me without feeling like a third wheel. Everything else was a front. And I bought it, even if I suspected it was a physical thing. Yet Clay seemed genuinely upset when I first woke up in Morgan’s body; I remember the feel of his tears on my skin.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he’s saying. “But I can’t spend six months with someone and keep it all business. I’m not wired that way. So … sue me, I care about you. Lately you’re making me think it’s not just me. But … it’s up to you where we go from here.”

  I’m quiet too long, so he adds, “Look, I get it if you’re not into someone like me.”

  “Someone … who quit school to take care of his family? Someone who works his ass off?” I’m a little pissed that Clay doesn’t seem to think he’s good enough for me.

  Morgan.

  Whatever.

  “We’ve definitely got a princess-and-pauper vibe going.”

  “I don’t care about that.” It’s not my money anyway.

  “It’s harder to dismiss on my end.” He’s trying to be cool but his jaw is clenched. “I’m not a charity case. Three thousand may be chump change to you, but it was enough to pay the back taxes on the shit box we call home, plus keep Nathan in shoes and shirts until graduation.”

  Oh man. I recall Clay saying that his mom has been gone for two years. I wonder how long it’s been since the woman took care of their bills? No wonder he was willing to fake couple-up with Morgan. It had to seem like a miracle from above.

  His pride is at stake, so I can’t be insensitive. “Can you do installments? I get that you don’t want to feel bought and paid for, though you have to know I don’t feel that way.”

  Since I just found out about the money changing hands.

  “No need. I sold the Corvair. Insurance paid out the total value of the car and then I found a collector willing to buy it on salvage title. So I have money now. If you want to be my girlfriend for real, you need to take what I owe you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Write me a check.”

  “Seriously? You don’t have anything else to say?”

  God. I’m so confused that I hardly know what’s happening in my own head minute to minute. But he deserves something.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with us,” I tell him honestly. “But I’d like to find out. No deals, no rules. Let’s just … be together and see how it feels.”

  “Okay.” He settles a hand on my neck, sifting through the long hair until his warm palm rests on the nape of my neck and then he just … strokes. I didn’t know I was knotted there until Clay started working out the kinks.

  It’s a real effort to keep my eyes open. Damn. I want to lean forward and stretch like a cat, have his hands all over me. As delicious tingles start, I nudge him away.

  “Don’t distract the driver. We’ll be at the mall soon.”

  So maybe that’s an overstatement. The needle noses upward on the speedometer, though I’m careful not to exceed the posted limit. Twenty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and as soon as I park, Clay reaches over and touches my cheek.

  “You sure? I mean, you told me before there was no point in starting with someone when you’ll be off to Europe for university in a few months.”

  Damn. I haven’t contemplated Morgan’s future, mine now. I don’t want to study art in Paris, which was her dream. My ideal school is Johns Hopkins, though my parents probably couldn’t have afforded it. That’s no longer an issue, but I don’t have the academics I need on record anymore. While the knowledge is still in my head from those classes, like the rest of Liv’s life, I have no way to prove it was real.

  That I was somebody else.

  “We have almost a year,” I point out. “That’s long enough to make some memories. And I won’t let you break my heart.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m the one who’ll only be a shadow in your rearview mirror when you drive off.”

  If anyone had told me that Clay could be this vulnerable, I’d have said they were insane. But I take him seriously because his expression is unmistakable. “Then … are you sure?”

  He laces our fingers together, lightly rubbing his thumb against my skin. “Are you crazy? Life’s rarely offered me anything good without immediately following it with a kick in the face. Y
ou’re the only beautiful thing that’s ever been mine, free and clear.”

  My heart dips. Not me.

  Morgan.

  But he said I’ve been throwing him. And the way I act made him ask if I was trying to make him fall for me. So maybe it’s Liv he likes; he just doesn’t know it.

  How could he?

  I should tell him.

  I can’t tell him.

  My pause makes him think I’m hesitating, so he adds, “If it wasn’t clear, yeah, I’m sure.”

  Then he’s kissing me, or I’m kissing him. Either way, it’s the best way to make me stop caring about anything but Clay’s mouth and Clay’s hands. Clay, who never actually hooked up with Morgan. That means he’s mine, not hers, and this is okay. Right? His lips are hot, rough, and soft at the same time, and it’s all brand new. He likes it when I sink my hands into his hair, and he tries to pull me into his lap, across the gear shift and emergency brake.

  I whimper because I’m still sore and the angle is bad. Right away he realizes it’s not a good noise and lets go. “Damn. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. The VW isn’t made for this.”

  “That’s probably why your old man bought it for you. Hard to get down and dirty in a Barbie car. In fact, I feel kind of wrong just picturing it.”

  “In a good way?” I tease.

  Clay grins, and my heart does this flippy, clenching thing. Then he bounds out and races around the car to open my door for me. “No comment. Come on.”

  23

  When Clay looks at me like that, I am butter, and he’s the sun. Asking a sensible question is almost beyond me. “Where are we going?”

  “To walk around. Wasn’t that the point of driving over here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He takes my hand, threading our fingers together, and I’m conscious of each point of contact, almost giddy with it. The Anderson Mall is probably nothing compared to what Morgan saw abroad but it’s fine by me, even if the anchor stores are Sears and JCPenney instead of Saks or Nordstrom. We window shop, joke around, and tease each other about trying on ridiculous outfits. Clay surprises me by walking into a shop that sells suits.

  “Pick one out for me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I need something to wear to the dances this year, right? I mean, that’s assuming you want me to take you.”

  To Homecoming, the Winter Formal, and prom.

  “Of course,” I say.

  I’ve never selected clothes for a guy, so I’m excited as I follow him into the shop. The sales guy takes a look at us and goes back to his phone, freeing us to roam around. After five minutes of browsing, I settle on dove gray in fine fabric and offer him a white shirt and lilac tie to try on. I’m already planning my dress to match that dreamy purple.

  Clay looks dubious but since he asked me to do this, he likely doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. And when he comes out, he looks better than I imagined. Even the tousled curls and scruff add to the impression of sexy elegance. I give him two thumbs up while inviting him to spin around with a twirl of my fingers.

  “Are you ogling me right now?”

  “A little.”

  “Sweet. You sure I don’t look like a jerk in this?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re completely pulling it off.”

  At my words, Clay takes another long look in the mirror, then nods. “Okay. I’ll get everything and keep it nice for … October?”

  “I’ll check the school calendar online when I get a chance.”

  He takes everything off and changes back into his usual apparel. I can tell that the bulk of the clothing budget goes to Nathan because Nathan’s stuff always looks brand new, whereas Clay has been working the same two pairs of jeans for years, and his tees are threadbare, cotton worn until it feels like whisper-thin velvet. I like the feel of how it curves over his chest and shoulders a little too much, which is why I’m pretending to brush some lint away.

  “Want to get something to eat?” he asks.

  At first I nod, but then I realize I have no idea what I can eat at the mall food court. He leads me to a Japanese stall that specializes in sushi, then he looks over the menu. “Can you make this without the shrimp?”

  I look over his shoulder and see that leaves rice, cucumber, and avocado, all good as far as I know. The girl nods, and then he adds, “Make sure everything’s gluten-free, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  “Then … two orders of that … and I’ll have a couple boxes of this.”

  Smoked salmon, cream cheese, cucumber … mmm, that sounds delicious. But Morgan is lactose intolerant and she might be allergic to fish. Definitely shellfish. I need to get a list of food allergies from Morgan’s doctor ASAP. Maybe tomorrow at the appointment …

  As we eat, I fight the feeling that I shouldn’t be doing this. I mean, this is a step Morgan never would’ve taken but that makes me even more determined to continue. If I don’t carve out a little space in her life, I’ll go insane trying to investigate Creepy Jack. Plus, maybe Clay can help. Morgan even said I could trust him, which means she thought he was a solid guy, even if she wasn’t into him.

  I don’t want to contemplate the downside, but the doubts creep in. What if this isn’t permanent? What happens when I finish what she started? Instead of closure, could it be something else? There’s no guarantee, as every minute I live as Morgan is a moment I’m not meant to have. The phrase “borrowed time” has never resonated so much.

  The logical part of me says this is ridiculous; human bodies can’t just vanish into sparks of light, so I won’t cease to be after completing her mission. Yet I can’t let go of the idea that she could come back and then I’ll really be … gone. I mean, this is her life. Her body. What if she’s just taking a break somewhere, letting me drive for a while?

  “Want something else?” he asks.

  I polish off my water and then reply, “I’m good.”

  Afterward, we walk around for a couple more hours, just … being, as I said before, and seeing how it feels. The answer is amazing. I had no clue how smart Clay is. Not about academics, but he knows about cars, music, and surprisingly, World War II history. I’m listening to him dispel a commonly held American misconception.

  “You know how they always make such a big deal about D-day?”

  I nod. “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s bullshit. The actual turning point of the war was the Battle of Stalingrad. Americans talk about how we waded in and saved the day, liberated the French and kept England from being bombed to rubble, but if you look at it from this perspective…” He goes into lecture mode, correcting all of the biased history I’ve been taught.

  It’s kind of adorable.

  “If the Soviet Union hadn’t held out as long as they did, we’d be living in a much different world. And you know what made that possible?”

  “Please tell me.” I hope I don’t sound amused because it’s his enthusiasm that makes me want to smile, not disinterest in the subject.

  “The T-34 tank.” Clay expands on this war machine’s merits, listing specs about the size of the ammo and sloped armor. Eventually he notices I’m not saying much. “Boring?”

  “No … but what got you interested in World War II anyway?”

  “Well, my dad was a fighter pilot buff. He collected memorabilia. Mom sold it after he died.” That’s the first time I’ve heard Clay sound bitter. “Then, in junior high, our history class did a unit on the Holocaust, and I was kind of … transfixed by it. What we learned was just so horrible, death camps and ovens, mass graves and genocide. I started digging into it and the more I learned, the more I realized that the teacher didn’t have her facts straight.”

  “How did that go over?”

  He gives me a crooked half smile. “Me putting the truth on the test instead of what she was teaching? I got a D in history that grading period.”

  Before I know it, I’m checking my phone to find that it’s eight already and we still have
to drive back. Mrs. Rhodes has called twice and messaged me once. So far nothing from Mr. Frost. But as I’m looking, a message pings from DL. He said he would be busy … but I guess he’s thinking of Morgan right now. Tempted to delete it entirely, I change that contact to CJ.

  I’ve got the shakes, bad. Since Clay’s got his arm around me, he feels it. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I should get back, though.”

  I don’t want to. This feels like a magical interlude in between the awful that I don’t want to deal with. But I can’t just vanish with Clay. There are scary questions that demand answers. Plus, Nathan’s still around, and he owns a permanent piece of my heart, even if I’m hurt and angry. I don’t know how I’ll feel about this move with Clay when I see his brother again. All at once, doubts and fears rush in like bat wings, fluttering about my face until I can’t see or breathe.

  “You look pale. Want me to drive?”

  “Please.”

  I pass him my keys, though anyone can drive with the push button as long as the fob is in the car. We walk a little faster. He’s spot-on about sensing the mood has changed, but he doesn’t pester me with questions. Instead he just tucks me into the VW and heads for Renton. I don’t speak until we’re nearly to the freeway exit.

  “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Clay’s soft voice contains an unmistakable promise, husky with tenderness.

  I want to kiss him again.

  And I’m so tempted to spill everything.

  But when he parks in front of his peeling orange house, I can see Nathan on the porch. The light is on overhead, creating a golden glow around him. He kicks out for a lazy, creaky swing and I can’t whisper that crazy truth, not with Nathan fifteen feet away.

  Just a little longer. Just until I’m sure.

  After a toe-curling kiss, I drive off with an unsettled feeling. The silence I held and the words I bit back taste of bitter melon, the essence of white lies for someone else’s good.

  24

  Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t scold me when I get back, though I do receive a frown. But she only says, “Your father’s on his way. Dinner will be on the table soon.”