He narrows his eyes. “Ha, ha. I’m just saying that while you guys are busy tying bows, some of us have real work to do and we need to be fed.”
Daniel is going to the new house to install light fixtures. The rest of us have wedding-related tasks to undertake. Earlier in the week I helped Sarah design the wedding program on my computer. She picked up special paper from a craft store and promised to buy me a new ink cartridge if I used my laserjet to print a hundred and fifty copies. Tonight, Mom is going to fold them. The rest of us are making favors: tying Hershey’s Kisses into hundreds of little tulle circles.
“I hate not to cook if Becky is coming by,” Mom begins, “but if we’re going to get everything done tonight, it’s probably better if we just order pizza. What do you guys think?”
“I’m fine with that,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I agree.
“Well, call your brother first and ask if he and Becky plan to eat. If they are, make sure pizza is okay. If it is, pull out the number for Guido’s and call in our order. They still deliver, don’t they?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Anything else?” Daniel teases, heading toward the kitchen.
“If there is we’ll let you know,” Sarah calls.
With Daniel safely out of sight, we turn back to Sarah’s dress.
“It’s gorgeous,” Mom says. “I love it.”
“Me too. I’m so excited,” Sarah confesses, smiling as she gazes at it. “But it’s really not safe in here.”
Mom carefully tucks the satin dress back into the garment bag. “I can put it in our room.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. If it’s in yours Daniel will be tempted to peek.” She zips the bag just as the front door opens.
“Thanks for answering your phone!” Daniel yells from the kitchen.
“We were coming up the street,” Phillip replies as he and Becky enter the foyer.
Becky is a year older than me, a year younger than Phillip. We were never really in the same circles, but coming from a small town, it’s hard not to know everyone. She’s on the quieter side, which is why it surprises me Phillip is even interested in her. He tends to gravitate to busty blondes who giggle a lot. Becky’s hair is straight, mousy brown, and she’s on the petite side. The first night we went to dinner with her, though, I noticed something: she’s a powerful little thing. First, in the parking lot, Phillip nearly tripped over himself to shut the truck door for her. He held doors open as she walked through, let her sit down first, let her order first, kept asking if she needed anything . . . it was almost chivalrous—something I never thought in a million years I would say about Phillip. He didn’t make one snarky comment the entire night—he didn’t pick on anyone or tell any off-color jokes. He didn’t belch, or release other, more obtrusive noises. (Honestly, though, how long is that going to last?)
The boy is completely whupped.
“Hi Becky!” Sarah and Mom and I call. She turns toward the front room, offering a shy wave—her cheeks turning pink.
“Hi.”
“Becky, do you like pizza?” Daniel asks.
“Sure.”
“Great! I’m starving. What do we want?”
“Just order four larges,” Mom tells him. “Get at least one pepperoni and one plain cheese. You guys can battle over the other two.” She pulls the garment bag off the door.
“Is that your dress?” Becky asks Sarah.
“It is, but we have to hide it because Daniel is being nosy.” She moves Joshua to her other hip.
“Come on,” Mom says. “We’re taking it to my room. We’ll show you. Jaden, do you mind making some tea?”
“Yeah, okay.” I hang my dress on the stair railing as I pass. Melissa and I make our way to the kitchen, while Sarah and Becky follow Mom to her room.
“I’m not doing pineapple,” Phillip says. “Pineapple is a fruit. It doesn’t belong on a pizza.”
“You don’t have to eat that one,” Daniel replies, punching a number into his cell phone with his thumb.
I open the cabinet and pull out Mom’s pitcher. Daniel heads out the front door, cell phone pressed to his ear.
“We’re more than halfway there,” I inform Melissa. “We’re up to one-fifty.”
“That is awesome!” she cries. “She is gonna flip out.”
I smile, grabbing two tea bags from the canister on the counter.
“Who’s gonna flip out?” Phillip asks.
“Sarah,” I say. “We’re buying her that two hundred and fifty dollar pink mixer she registered for.”
“That’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he replies. “A two hundred and fifty dollar mixer? That’s pink? I swear to God. Weddings make people stupid. I mean, honeymoons? Guys don’t need honeymoons. And diamond engagement rings? Who the hell came up with that idea? Ring companies, that’s who. Like if I don’t buy a diamond I don’t love her enough? The bigger it is the more I love her? It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Stop whining. This isn’t about you. But if you haven’t gotten them a gift yet and want to contribute I will gladly accept your money and put your name on the card,” I tell him.
“So if I give money I won’t have to go shopping for cookie sheets?” he asks.
“They need cookie sheets,” Melissa says.
“They need everything,” I add, “but yeah. Pretty much.”
“Saves me a trip. How much?” He pulls out his wallet.
“Well, you can make up the difference and give a hundred,” I say, throwing out a number.
“Are you for real?” he asks, eyeing me strangely. “You act like I’m made of money or something.”
I force my eyes not to roll. “Please. Your truck is paid for, you don’t pay Mom and Dad rent. You mean to tell me you can’t fork over a measly hundred bucks for your own brother?”
“I was thinking more like twenty.”
“You are such a Scrooge.” I wrinkle my nose. “Seventy-five.”
“Fifty,” he counters, pulling out a crisp, fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and passing it on to me.
I snatch it before he can change his mind. “Done.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thief.” He reaches behind him and sticks his wallet in his back pocket. “Put Becky’s name on the card, too. It’ll be from both of us.”
“Are you for real?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. “You’re taking her to a wedding and you’re covering her gift?”
“Uh-oh! Someone’s getting serious,” Melissa sings, teasing him.
“Can it,” he replies, lifting both of his middle fingers to the sky as he leaves the room.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Becky,” my mom says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni pizza. “We usually don’t order pizza on a week night. It’s just that things are so busy with the wedding and the new house. . . .”
“No, this is great,” she assures us. The dining room table is covered in candy and tulle and ribbon and paper, so we stand around the kitchen, eating our pizza off plastic plates—or, if you’re Daniel, hanging over the sink.
When Dad arrives he joins us in the kitchen. Because we have company, he ignores his cell phone when it rings, asks everyone, specifically, about their day, and rags Becky about her wanting to date Phillip (typical, father-like “What is a nice girl like you thinking?” banter). As we finish eating, Mom gathers our dirty plates and napkins.
She stops beside me and examines the scar on my forehead. “It’s looking better,” she says quietly.
I nod.
She smiles. “Do you need anything?”
I take a swig of my bottled water, studying the linoleum, and shake my head.
“Well, while you ladies are doing your wedding stuff, I’m going to watch golf,” Dad announces.
I clear my throat. “Um, Dad: if you aren’t busy tonight . . . I still have that thing with my sink faucet.”
“I know. It’s on my list,” he says, reaching
for the Pepsi bottle, pouring a refill.
I sigh, exhaling as he leaves the room. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be living here forever. My eyes dart to Daniel, standing in the doorway, watching me, cautious. My jaw tightens, smarting from the pressure. I toss him a dirty look, then turn away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I lie in bed staring at my ceiling. Occasionally, I glance over at the clock on my nightstand, surprised only a few minutes have passed since I last checked it. I roll onto my side and stare at my mirror, where the postcard of downtown Hamilton is stuck in the bottom corner. Though I can’t make out the image, I’ve memorized the scene. In fact, I’ve studied the photograph so much it interferes with my memories of that day. Now, when I picture me and Parker sitting at that table, it’s early in the morning and foggy, sun waiting to pierce the clouds.
I bury my face in my pillow, suffocating myself, wanting it all to just go away.
I’ve closed my eyes, drifting to sleep, when I hear the faintest, tap, tap, against my window. My eyes fly open. I remain absolutely still, fully awake, heart pounding, holding my breath, waiting to hear the sound again.
Behind my bathroom door, the water from the leaky faucet drips into the sink basin.
I throw back my covers and jump out of bed, tiptoeing toward my window, the cool floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reach out, hand shaking, pull back my curtain, then lift one of the blinds.
Nothing.
I twist the blinds completely open and search outside. The moon illuminates the front yard and the cars parked along the streets, proving that everything is quiet: as it should be. I sigh and return to my bed, crawling under the covers, pulling the comforter all the way to my chin.
I shut my eyes as tightly as possible and force Parker out of my mind. Instead, I focus on the one sound that does exist, and that I can hear. The one noise that, no matter what, I can always count on: drip . . . drip . . . drip. . . .
* * *
Prom, which my mom ultimately decided I could attend, signifies the unofficial end of the school year. Forget the important final exams left to review and study for. With summer vacation fast approaching, no one cares. Even some of the teachers have given up. Ms. Tugwell, for instance, resorts to giving us a complete Jane Austen video tutorial, playing the BBC classic Pride and Prejudice and the Kate Winslet version of Sense and Sensibility over the course of the final weeks. My lips turn up into an almost smile when I realize Parker spared himself five hours of Mr. Darcy. Somewhere, wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he’s breathing a sigh of relief. I know it.
It’s on one of these mornings that Ms. Tugwell stops in the aisle beside me, flipping through a stack of papers. She pulls out a packet—my essays, paper-clipped together—and places it face down on my desk. I pick it up and examine the evaluation sheet on top. Jaden McEntyre, Parker Whalen: A+.
I glance over at Parker’s seat. It remains empty.
Then yearbooks arrive, and a new crop of issues springs up. We pass them to friends and classmates in our study halls and during lunch. Instead of listening to a review of indefinite integrals in calculus, we tell classmates to “Stay Sweet” and “Don’t Ever Change!” Leaving something witty for them to remember us by—something lasting. I urge them to “Have a Great Summer,” then sign my name.
On the seniors’ pages, I’m voted Best Smile and Most Likely to . . . yes . . . Change the World. Savannah gets a nod for Most Likely to Forget Where She Parked Her Car.
The minutes and hours tick by, easing us closer to the inevitable: that final day of school, when the bell will ring, dismissing us forever.
During the last week of school, and just a few days before graduation and the wedding—after my locker is purged of trash and left half empty—I decide to use a chance moment alone in the office to sneak back into Ms. Stevens’ office.
Sure enough, the key to her file cabinet protrudes from the tiny hole.
You should really think about hiding that.
I turn the key and pop the lock open, pulling on the handle of the long drawer until Parker Whalen’s file comes into view. I quickly slide Parker’s senior photo out from under the silver paperclip.
I deserve this much, at least—to have a real picture of him. The drawer clicks as it latches shut.
I study the photograph, Parker’s stoic expression, the boy who pitched my life upside down. I’ve found myself in a vast amount of trouble these last few months for something that didn’t work out. Still, there’s a reason fate partnered us together for our English project. There’s a reason we became friends. That we kissed. That what happened happened. Because I just can’t go on believing that it was all for nothing.
And so I tuck the photo safely away, sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans.
* * *
“Looks like he already stopped by,” Savannah says, nodding toward my car. “He’s early, today.” I refuse to look, moving instead to the picnic table that has, in the last few weeks, become ours.
“It’s red. So it’s probably another rose,” she continues, shielding her eyes, squinting at the parking lot as we sit down at the picnic table. I kick off my sandals and feel the cool blades of grass pricking at my toes, ignoring her.
“You’re going to talk to him, right?” Ashley asks.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, shrugging as I open my lunch bag and pull out my sandwich and Sun Chips.
“You should, Jaden. I mean, the guy was just doing his job,” Savannah reminds me. A balmy breeze wafts between us, tousling my hair. I close my eyes, gazing toward the sun, face tingling as it warms. “So yeah, you got a gun to your head and banged up a bit,” she goes on. “The dude is totally into you. And I’m sorry, but an undercover cop? Do you even realize how sexy that is? You are officially stuck between the pages of a trashy romance novel.”
Ashley laughs, covering her hand with her mouth, snorting. “I can totally see Jaden sprawled across the cover, wrapped in his arms, assets glaring back at us.”
“Officer Whalen, no! Please don’t arrest me,” Savannah purrs, voice high. “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” Ashley replies in a low, male tenor.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I say, struggling to conceal my smile.
“Jaden, come on,” Savannah whines. She pulls her blonde hair back in a ponytail, securing it with an elastic. “It’s obvious you’re in love with him. You’ve been miserable since that day.”
“I walked into the middle of a drug bust, Savannah. There were guns.”
“I’m not talking about that day. I’m talking about the day after you talked to Parker. When he said you two couldn’t be together. You aren’t upset about what happened, or with him being a cop. That’s not what bothered you: the idea that you were in love with him, but he didn’t love you back? That’s what hurt you. And instead of being relieved it was a ruse you’re moping around here like your best friend died. Dude. I am totally here. And Parker obviously still wants you or he wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.”
“I don’t know what you guys expect me to do.”
“We want you to talk to him, Jaden,” Ashley says, mouth full, potato chip bag crinkling as she digs inside. “Call him. Leave him a note. Tell him you forgive him. It’s not difficult.”
I sit up straighter. “I did forgive him. I told him I forgave him that day at the hospital.”
“Then you told him to leave you alone,” Savannah reminds me.
“Which lasted all of three weeks,” Ashley points out. “If that.”
“Seriously. I don’t see how you can forgive him for luring you into a death trap, and I mean, we are talking total hostage crisis, but not forgive him for the little white lies he told because of his job. He wasn’t just lying to you. He was lying to everyone,” Savannah says.
“It’s not that easy. I don’t know who he is anymore,” I mumble, peeling my sandwich crust off and tossing it for the birds. It lands in a
pile of thick, green clover. I brush the crumbs off my hands.
“So get to know him!” Savannah growls, eyes wide, voice growing louder. “God, Jaden! You are going to screw yourself into a corner if you don’t talk to him. This is like, a crossroads. You’re always going to look back and wonder if things could’ve been different, and this love story is going to turn into a tragedy. Your tragedy. You two deserve a chance to be happy together, and the only thing keeping you apart right now is you.”
I lean back, blinking at her, dazed. “God. When did you get so . . . insightful?” I mutter, brows furrowed. “And harsh.”
Her shoulders relax, and she sighs. “I’m working on it. The point is, he still loves you, Jaden,” she says, quieter. “And whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, you love him. He’s ready. He’s just waiting on you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I sigh, feeling the exhaustion in my arms and legs, the headache throbbing behind my eyes. That’s the ironic thing about sleep: the nights I need it most, I barely doze. I roll out of bed just as my clock switches to 7:17. In the morning. On a Saturday. But not just any Saturday: Wedding Day. I study my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, checking for any unexpected, pre-wedding breakouts, examining my scar, which almost disappears with the right concealer.
In the bathroom, I grasp the little wrench perched on the edge of my porcelain sink. I fix it around the thin, copper pipe. Three full turns, and water splashes into the basin.
After emerging from the shower, clothed and warm, towel wrapped around my wet hair, I venture downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen, trying not to make noise as she removes the frying pan from one of the bottom cabinets.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table.
“Not today, I couldn’t,” she replies. “I thought I’d put on some eggs and bacon. Maybe pancakes for everyone.”
“Pancakes sound good.”
I’d be happy with a bowl of Cheerios, but for Mom it’s not about the food. It’s a distraction. Something to keep her busy. She’s whisking the batter when: “Knock Knock!” a voice calls through the side door. I jump out of the chair and rush to open it.