Speechless

  Andy helps Noah into the wheelchair, and everyone waves them off. Asha and Lou clean off tables while Dex juggles measuring cups and talks about all of the blue paint he picked up yesterday.

  “I’m closing tomorrow so we can get a first coat done,” he says. “I can count on you guys to help out, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sam tells him, leaning against me.

  I lean back and close my eyes. I could stay here forever and be happy.

  He pokes me in the ribs. “What are you smiling about, girlie?”

  I didn’t even realize I was. I open my eyes and smile wider. “Life’s just weird sometimes, that’s all,” I say, and then I yawn, and Sam grins.

  “Maybe we should get you home, too. Do you need to call your parents?”

  I check the time on my phone. “I’ve got a while.” I look up at him. “Do you…want to come over?” I ask, and yeah, I’m blushing a little.

  He looks at me for a minute and then says, “I…could do that.”

  Lou offers to give Asha a ride home. Before we leave, I grab Asha tight, hug her until she laughs.

  “You’ll be here tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She glances at Sam and then at me with a knowing look and says, “Have funnnn,” snapping her dish towel at my shoulder.

  In the parking lot, Sam impulsively picks me up and twirls me around and around as I shriek with laughter, kicking my heels, my gauzy skirt floating all around us. He sets me down, and I press my mouth to his, dizzy, breathless.

  When I pull back just to look at him, it’s like the world is spinning and standing still, all at once. And I’m happy.

  * * *

  Sam is the first boy to ever set foot in my room. Well, the first nonblood relative, at least. Mom and Dad have this whole “boundaries” thing going on, and I’ve never had a real boyfriend before, so it was never an issue I had to deal with. I manage to sneak him in through the side door, and then herd him straight into my room while I check in with my parents. They’re in bed—Dad’s already fast asleep, and Mom’s reading some thick book by the light of the muted television. When she sees me, she slides a bookmark between the pages and takes off her glasses.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she says with a smile. Thankfully that means she didn’t hear the second set of footsteps, either. “Did you have a good time?”

  “The best,” I tell her. “I’m pretty tired. Guess I’m gonna head to bed now.”

  I go over to kiss her good-night, and Mom touches the side of my face and says, “You look very happy. That’s all I care about, you know?”

  I smile back. “I know.”

  I’m a lucky girl. I really am. To have parents like this, ones who care enough to worry, who care enough to smother. I need to remember that.

  I slip back into my bedroom and close the door, and when I turn around, I see Sam, his back to me as he looks around the room. I’m suddenly totally self-conscious. Even though ever since The Great Purging there isn’t much to see.

  He faces me, my Nelly dog in his hands. Oh, God. That’s embarrassing.

  “I met your friend,” he says. He cups the back of Nelly’s neck and bobs her droopy head up and down. “Arf, arf.”

  “I think she likes you.”

  “Well, we’ve been bonding.”

  I let out a fake gasp. “Uh-oh. Does this mean I have some competition?”

  “She’s cute, but I don’t think so. There’s only one girl for me,” he says. His smile is like floodlights, lighting up everything.

  I all but pounce on him, and he laughs when we kiss. “Shh,” I hush against his lips, “we have to be quiet.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have as much experience in that arena as you do,” he says. He laughs again, soft and breathy, trying to stifle it by pushing his face into my shoulder. “Teach me?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I like you talking.”

  “Fickle, are we?”

  Instead of answering, I pull him down on the bed and swing my legs so I’m straddling his lap. My dress, of course, makes it awkward. I lean down and kiss him again, longer, slower.

  “You’re going to rip your dress,” he points out.

  Is he kidding me? “A girl has you in her bedroom, on her bed, and that’s what you say?” I shake my head, clucking my tongue.

  “What? It’s a nice dress!”

  “Hmm, okay, I changed my mind. Maybe no more talking. More—” I touch my mouth to his to finish the thought.

  “I can do both at the same time.” He punctuates each word with a quick kiss. “I’m—” Kiss. “Very—” Kiss. “Talented—” Kiss. “That—” Kiss. “Way.” Kiss kiss kiss.

  And that’s all we do. Kiss. Sam could try to unzip my dress, or run his hands underneath it, over my legs, but he doesn’t. Every time the straps slip off my shoulders, he carefully slides them back into place. He doesn’t try anything else, and I like that. How he doesn’t expect anything just because I invited him into my bedroom and shoved him on my bed.

  Eventually I start yawning between kisses, and he draws back. “I should probably go,” he says.

  “No.” I gently push him back into the pillows and lie with my head on his chest. “I’m pretty sure it’s imperative you stay.”

  “‘Imperative.’ Big word there for a redhead.”

  “Wrong stereotype. Blondes are the dumb ones.” I run my hand through his hair so it sticks up. “And brunettes are the judgmental dorks, apparently.”

  “I like how you call me ‘judgmental’ and ‘dork’ in the same breath.”

  “It’s one of my many charms.”

  We lie there for a while, but even as tired as I am, I’m too wired for sleep. My head is buzzing with everything that’s happened. And I do mean everything; the weight of the last month settles over me like a blanket.

  “You asleep?” Sam says softly. I wonder if he’s thinking about everything, too.

  “Not yet.” I snuggle against his chest. “Tell me a story?”

  “Hmm. Did I ever tell you about how Dex got Rosie’s?”

  “No! I wondered how he ended up there.”

  “It was his mom’s place. She died a few years ago—cancer, I think—and she left it to him. He was living in Toledo with Lou, and so they moved up together to take it over.”

  “Do you think they’re going to get married?”

  “Dex and Lou? I don’t think they believe in marriage.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “I dunno. Some people don’t need that, you know? I think they just believe in being together.”

  That makes sense, I guess. Actually the more I think about it, it’s kind of romantic. The fact that they don’t need a piece of paper for their relationship to mean something. I slide my arm around Sam and nestle into his chest, closing my eyes, half-asleep. Yes. Yes, I can definitely see how being together would be enough.

  day thirty-five

  When I open my eyes and stretch, Sam’s chest still serving as my pillow, it’s light outside.

  Oh, shit. Shit! Light!

  I shake Sam awake and hiss, “Oh, my God, you really have to go, like, right this second.”

  He rubs at his eyes. He never even took off his glasses. “Right now?” he mumbles sleepily.

  “Unless you want my father to castrate you on sight, yes.”

  This is enough to fully wake him. He tumbles out
of bed, hopping around as he yanks on his shoes. He starts for my door when I grab his elbow and jerk him back.

  “Are you crazy? You cannot go down there!”

  “How am I supposed to get out?”

  I look around wildly, channeling my well-honed Jason Bourne instincts, and then my eyes land on the window. It’ll have to do.

  “You can climb out my window,” I explain. “There’s the tree, right there. Climb down it and hey, you’re home free!”

  Sam stares at me like I’m insane. “What am I, Spider-Man?”

  “It’s totally easy! I’ve done it, like, millions of times.”

  Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I did it once, last summer, when I was grounded and Kristen convinced me to sneak out so we could drive over to the lake and get drunk with Warren and Joey. I almost twisted my ankle in the process. Totally not worth it.

  But what other option is there? A broken foot would be far preferable to whatever my dad will do to Sam if he finds him in my room.

  He goes to grab his jacket and the green-and-silver scarf Asha knit for him, stuffed at the foot of my bed. As he tugs it out, he frowns and pulls at something else.

  “Your sweater must’ve got caught in here,” he says, tossing it to me.

  I look down at the soft pink fabric in my hands. “This isn’t mine.”

  It’s Kristen’s. A sweater she lent me ages ago and I forgot to return. How did I miss this?

  Sam comes over and kisses me softly, and I’m distracted from the memory. “I can walk to Rosie’s from here. Meet you there later?” he says.

  I nod, and then watch as he crawls out my window, giving me a salute before reaching for the nearest tree branch. I hold my breath and don’t let it out until he’s scaled all the way down to the snow. He lands on his knees but gets up quickly, waves up at me with a grin and runs off. I wave back as he disappears around the corner.

  I shut the window and lean against it, staring at the pink sweater in my hands. Everything feels so close to perfect—but this is a glaring reminder of why it’s not. Of everything that’s still unresolved. Not every chapter of my life is going to have a happy ending, but they all do need endings, regardless.

  So…so maybe it’s time to make that happen.

  * * *

  I could drive to Kristen’s house with my eyes closed. Of course I wouldn’t—hello, dangerous!—but I’ve made the drive so many times before that it’s just ingrained in me. Her house is only blocks from mine. Go down Patterson, turn left on Woodcliff, third house on the right.

  I sit in the driveway and stare at her house for a while. I haven’t been here since New Year’s. Obviously. It’s so big and inviting, the hedges perfectly trimmed, Christmas lights still strewn in the tree in the front yard. Looking at it, you’d never know what happened here. How much my life changed right inside.

  Except that night didn’t change my life. I changed it. I have to stop acting like I have no control over these things. Like I’m letting them just happen to me. These are my choices. For better or worse.

  I ring the doorbell and wait, huddled in the cold, the folded-up sweater in my hands. Winter can be over any day now, thanks.

  While I’m waiting, I realize maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea. What if Kristen isn’t even home? What if she’s at—oh God—Brendon’s? What if—

  Before my thought process can go any further, the door opens and it’s Kristen.

  We stand there and stare at each other. She still has bobby pins stuck in her hair, some of last night’s makeup on her face and she’s wearing a too-big University of Michigan sweatshirt and grubby pajama pants. She looks out of her element. Even though she’s standing inside her own home.

  I wait for her to slam the door in my face, but she doesn’t. She just looks at me and says, “What do you want?” in this brittle voice, like she’s ready to crack.

  It’s so not what I was expecting.

  I extend the sweater toward her. “I found this in my room,” I explain. “I wanted to give it back. Sorry I didn’t wash it, I—”

  I stop, aware I’m rambling. It’s not like it matters if I washed it or not. Kristen frowns at the pink sweater like she doesn’t know what it is. Or if she wants to accept it.

  But eventually she reaches out and takes the sweater from me. “Oh,” she says. And then she says something I never, ever thought I’d hear: “Thanks.”

  When it becomes apparent she isn’t going to immediately slam the door in my face, I decide to be brave. Go big or go home, right? “I’m not sorry for what I did,” I say. No preamble necessary—she knows what I’m referring to. “I mean, I wish I’d done some things—a lot of things—differently, but not telling the cops. It was the right thing to do.”

  I’m not expecting her to apologize, or for her to even agree—but it still needs to be said.

  Her face goes hard. “Warren and Joey will probably go to jail. You ruined their lives,” she accuses.

  I don’t know yet if there will be a trial. If there is, and I have to testify, I’ll do it. Happily. I’m not scared of that prospect anymore.

  “They did that on their own,” I reply. “I think you know that.”

  For a second I think I see something register in her eyes, a truth hitting home, but her expression glosses over again a moment later. Maybe one day she’ll be able to admit it to herself. Maybe not. Today is not that day, and I know now that what she thinks doesn’t matter. Not as long as I know the truth about my own culpability. As long as I have Noah’s and Andy’s forgiveness. As long as I’ve forgiven myself—I’ve only just started to, but I’m getting there. Where Kristen believes the blame lies is no longer my problem.

  “Congratulations on the Snow Princess thing,” I tell her, and to my own surprise, I actually do mean it. “I’m glad you got what you wanted.”

  I walk to my car without looking back, and as I drive away, I’m hit with a sudden wave of sadness. But it’s a distant kind of sad—like when you look at your Barbies and realize you don’t want to play with them anymore, because you’re growing up and you’ve moved on, and in your heart you know it’s time to make room for other things.

  * * *

  Noah’s words keep running through my head. Hate is easy, but love takes courage.

  He was right. Hate is too easy. It was easy, back when I used to spend so much time and energy spreading nasty rumors about people—if I was a better person I’d say I felt guilty when I did it, but mostly it made me feel, stupidly, like I had importance, or superiority, or something, when really I was just…pathetic. It’d be easy to hate Kristen, too, for not being the best friend I thought she was. It’ll probably always hurt a little, but that’s okay. I can deal.

  I still hate Warren and Joey for what they did, and I’m not ready to forgive them yet. Maybe I never will be. But I can’t let it control my life.

  The truth is, the person I’ve been hating more than anyone is myself. It is so easy. So easy to look in the mirror at all my imperfections and think of all the ways I fall short of someone like Kristen. To struggle with geometry equations and underlying meanings in novels and know I’ll never be smart the way Asha is. To realize how much I’ve screwed up and to obsess over all of the terrible ways I’ve wronged so many people.

  But.

  But even though I know my flaws are many (many many many), and there are always ways I could be better, and I should never stop working for that—I also need to give myself a break. I can cu
t myself some slack sometimes. Because I’m a work in progress. Because nobody is perfect. At least I acknowledge the mistakes I’ve made, and am making. At least I’m trying. That means something, doesn’t it?

  And just because I have room for improvement doesn’t mean I’m worthless, or that I have nothing to offer to, like, the world.

  Or to Sam.

  I’m thinking about this when I push through the doors into Rosie’s, ignoring the Closed sign. As soon as I step inside, Dex tosses me a paintbrush and says, “Nice to see you, Chelsea. Now get to work!”

  Lou rolls her eyes. “Don’t be such a slave driver.”

  “You better be repaying us with food,” Andy says as he runs a foam roller over the wall by the counter. “I’m thinking burgers.”

  “Veggie burgers,” Asha adds from beside him. Andy gives her a look, and she dips her roller in the blue paint and says, “Someone has to represent the voice of the nonmeat eaters, okay?”

  “Yeah, all one of you.”

  I look past them toward Sam. He’s standing in a corner, detailing the trim with a small brush.

  I want to run up to him. I want to tell him exactly what I’m thinking—what his grin does to me. How I didn’t think my crazy, upside-down, discombobulated life could ever make as much sense as it does right now. That hate is easy, but sometimes love is easy, too. When you find it.

  But then Sam turns around, eyes lighting up when he sees me, tilted smile spreading over his face, and it’s like he knows everything. Everything.

  And I don’t have to say a word.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone at Harlequin TEEN, most especially my wonderful editor, Natashya Wilson, and also to my agent, Diana Fox, whose insight and advice for this book was invaluable as always.

  Thanks also go to Jen Dibble, Gabriella Marroque, Alexis Kuss, Krista Benson, Lisa Behrens, Sarah Dunworth, Olivia Castellanos, Shoshana Paige and Kaley Wagner for the support, suggestions and, above all, friendship.