You stand. “It’s fine. I’m gonna hang out with the guys. Later.”
I watch you walk away. You don’t look back. Your hands hang at your sides and you drag yourself along, zombie-like. No rock-star swagger. What’s happening to you? For days now you’ve had dark circles under your eyes. I’ll wake up in the morning with texts from you that were sent at three, four, five in the morning. Telling me you’re depressed, that you have to get out of town, that you hate all the fakes at your school. I want to believe you didn’t mean what you said. But I think you did, Gav.
When I get back to work, Matt is leaning against the counter, drinking a glass of ice-cold milk. I don’t even like milk, but the stuff we sell is downright delicious.
“Spill,” he says, looking at my dejected face.
And I do. Even though he’s my ex and it’s maybe not appropriate, I pour out every worry, all my frustrations. I forgot how easy he is to talk to. I tell him things I can’t even tell you or Natalie. But especially not you. Like how I think you might be having Peter spy on me at school.
“Your boyfriend’s creepy,” Matt says matter-of-factly.
“No he’s not!”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Do you know how long Gavin was watching you before he came up to say hi today?”
I don’t think I want to know the answer to this. You’ve admitted that sometimes you “keep an eye out for me” when I go places with my friends, but you don’t tell me you’re there. Once, you slept outside my house in your car late at night, just to make sure I’d be okay. You didn’t want to wake me up because I had a big test the next day, but you’d had this horrible dream about me dying in a fire and so you’d gotten into your car, just in case. We got doughnuts and coffee for breakfast before you dropped me off at school. I thought it was sweet, but when I told Nat and Lys, they just rolled their eyes and said crazy in several languages.
“Dude. He was there at least an hour,” Matt says, “standing over by Carl’s Junior.”
I shiver. I don’t want to believe him, but that sounds like you these days: you have a flair for the dramatic.
“What am I supposed to do?”
I look over my shoulder, just to make sure you haven’t come back. If you ever heard this conversation …
“Break up with his ass.”
“No. I love him.”
You’re the only person who loves me. If we broke up, who would be left? Things are hard with us right now, but my life would be ten times worse without you. Sometimes the only thing that gets me through what’s happening at home is knowing I’ll be going on a date with you later in the week or just knowing you’re out there, missing me as much as I’m missing you. I may not matter much to my mom and The Giant, but I’m everything to you. And it’s addictive, being someone’s everything. Letting them be yours. You’re the only drug I take.
Still, it would be nice not to have to walk on eggshells with you all the time—I have enough of that at home to deal with. I never know when I’m going to set you off. And that slut comment really hurt.
“Look,” Matt says, “I know I’m your ex and all, so this might sound weird coming from me, but … him checking up on you like this, the way he won’t let you hang out with other guys—that is some hard-core possessive shit right there.”
I’ve told him about the time I got a ride to rehearsal from Andrew, one of the guys who’d been in The Crucible. You came to the house as a surprise, but we’d already left. You were so angry that you wouldn’t speak to me for days. It wasn’t until I climbed through your bedroom window with nothing on under my dress that you forgave me.
When I finish closing up with Matt, I go outside to wait by the front entrance of the mall for my mom. Only the minivan’s not there; you are. You’re leaning against a streetlight, looking miserable. When you see me, you straighten up and take a tentative step toward me.
“Hey. I asked your mom if I could pick you up. I felt bad about … about everything.”
“I thought you were hanging out with the guys.”
“Yeah, I was, but you were upset and I … I dunno, I guess I just didn’t want to leave things like that.” You move closer. “You’re not a slut. And I can’t believe I fucking said that. I will regret that until the day I die.”
I bite my lip. “That was a really shitty thing to say to me.”
“I know. I’m, like, the world’s biggest asshole.” You grab my hips and tug me closer to you. “Forgive me? Please?”
I can’t look at you. I focus on the cars that are scattered around the parking lot, the red light at the corner. The streetlight beside us that’s spilling a pool of fluorescent light onto the sidewalk. All I can think is, I gave up New York for you.
“I don’t know, Gav.”
How can you be the boyfriend who gave me four hundred dollars when The Giant demanded rent and be the boyfriend who calls me a slut?
“I will seriously do anything to make this right,” you say.
“I mean, that’s the kind of thing The Giant would say to my mom. It’s super fucked-up.”
“I know,” you say, soft. “I can be crazy jealous. And I’m sorry. I’m just so scared I’m gonna lose you.”
“Well, calling me a slut isn’t a good way to keep me.”
“I know.” You hang your head. “This isn’t an excuse, but lately I’ve been feeling so fucking low. You’re, like, the only good thing in my life.” You look up at me, eyes glistening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Break up with his ass, Matt said. I flirt with the idea, just for a second. You slide your hand to the back of my head, pulling me closer.
“Grace.” You whisper my name like a prayer, a cure.
And though everything in me is telling me to walk away, I let you press your lips against mine. The parking lot is dark and you pull me into the backseat of your car.
Gentle kisses become more and, for the first time, I realize I’m not in the mood.
Your lips, your hands, your skin—I don’t want any of it. Suddenly I feel claustrophobic, that word—slut—pushing up against me as your hand slides up my skirt and pulls at my underwear. Who is this girl, lying in the backseat of a car that smells like McDonald’s and sweat? Who is this boy who smells like cigarettes and won’t look her in the eye? This is my great epic romance? This is what I spent my whole life dreaming of?
I sit up, fast. “Gavin, I can’t. I can’t.”
You stare at me, confused. “You can’t what?”
I gesture helplessly at the backseat, at us. “This.” The words burst out of me, words I didn’t know were there until I said them. “I don’t know who I am anymore!” I literally wring my hands—people actually do that. Not just in movies.
This, I realize, is the problem. It’s not your jealousy or our different worlds or my parents’ rules—it’s that I’ve become a dandelion. You blow on me and I scatter in a million directions.
“You’re my girlfriend,” you say, your voice sharp.
You’re right. That’s all I am anymore. I’m Gavin Davis’s Girlfriend. All that seems to matter is keeping you happy. Seeing you. Finding a way to be together.
“I want to be more than that,” I whisper.
You push off me and I scramble back and pull my knees up to my chest, leaning against the door. Your hat is on the floor, your hair curling around your ears, and even now I want to run my hands through it.
You zip up your pants, then open the door and slide out. You lean in to look at me.
“I’m taking you home.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” You slam the door.
And I feel—relief. I won’t have your hands on my skin, pushing into those dark corners of myself I can’t acknowledge in the daylight.
We’re silent the whole way. Ten agonizing minutes.
You pull off on a side street, a block from my house. “We need to talk.”
I’ve already opened my door, shivering as cold
autumn wind flows past me. It smells like dirt and campfires.
“Gav, I’m tired. I just want to go home.”
“Why do you have to be such a fucking bitch?” you say.
I get back in the car and slam the door. “Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole?”
“I’m just watching out for you. Grace, you have no idea what guys think about. What fucking Kyle thinks about. He’s trying to take you away from me—”
“He’s my best friend’s boyfriend! And he’s one of my best friends. There is nothing going on.”
You shake your head. “Baby, you trust people way too much. You don’t know how guys think—”
“Why can’t you just trust me?” I growl.
“It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s them.”
“This is bullshit,” I say.
I move to get out of the car but you grab me then and pull me against you, rough. I push you away, my palms against your chest, but your grip tightens, bruising.
“Gavin, stop—”
You kiss me so hard our teeth hit and you force my mouth open and then I taste you, cinnamon and cigarettes. I keep trying to push you away, but you hold me tighter and somehow I’m kissing you back, my palms against your cheeks. You sigh, your grip loosening. I love you, I love you, you say when we come up for air, and I don’t know whose tears are on your face, mine or yours, because we both start sobbing and I climb on top of you because I need to be close, I need to remember what we have, and this—you inside me, a part of me—is the only thing that makes sense.
What happens is not tender. It’s punishing and fast and it feels so good. You burn through me, a fire scorching everything in its path. When it’s over we’re both slick with sweat and I’m sore and bruised.
“So that’s what make-up sex is like,” you murmur against my neck. “Maybe we should fight more often.”
I lean my forehead against yours. “I hate fighting.”
“I know. Me too.” You sigh. “This whole college–high school thing is harder than I thought it would be. It kills me, not being at school with you. I feel like I’m not a part of your life and it drives me nuts.”
“You are the biggest, most important thing in my life,” I say.
“Promise?”
I nod. “Promise.”
You run your hands through my hair, twisting the locks around your fingers. “I’m sorry. About everything.”
“I know.” I slide off you and back into the passenger seat, searching for my underwear. “I have to get home. My mom’s going to be pissed I’m so late.” I grab my bag, then open the door.
“Grace?”
“Yeah?”
“Nobody in the world loves you as much as I do. You know that, right?”
I nod, kiss you once more, then get out of the car. I don’t know what just happened. I’m shaking and I’m scared and confused. I do know that I used to feel safe with you—and I don’t anymore.
TWENTY-FIVE
Every year, Nat, Lys, and I have a Christmas sleepover at Nat’s house where we exchange gifts, watch Love, Actually, and eat Christmas candy. This year, we’re buying one another books, even though Lys doesn’t read unless it’s for class (we put it to a vote and majority ruled). Nat and I have extra fun shopping for her.
We get her a torrid romance novel (The Flame and the Flower—classic historical romance) and a picture book (I Want My Hat Back because she’s morbid and when she read the book to Sam, the ending made her laugh so hard she cried).
Lys gets me the Kama Sutra.
“Weirdo,” I say, laughing as I swat at her with the book.
Nat gets me a fancy edition of Leaves of Grass because she knows how much I love Walt Whitman.
She gets an annotated Anne of Green Gables from me and Fifty Shades of Grey from Lys. Nat, of course, is scandalized.
“Did you buy our books at an actual bookstore? Like, you had to hand them to someone?” I ask.
Lys grins. “Oh, yeah.”
Soon, she’s twisting her body into all kinds of weird shapes as I read the directions out loud from the Kama Sutra like it’s a naughty game of Twister.
“Ohhh,” I say, “this one’s called The Lotus Blossom. Sit backward on top of your partner and wrap your legs around his waist—”
Nat plugs her ears and starts singing “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” By this point I’m rolling on the floor, tears streaming down my face as Lys turns into a contortionist. She cries out as she topples over and she laughs so hard her face turns bright red. Lys has the best laugh—it’s like a baby’s belly laugh. It comes from somewhere deep inside her, an endless well.
We eat pizza and drink way too much Pepsi. We paint our nails bright red and dig into the dozen cookies I snuck out of the Honey Pot and I seriously almost pee my pants when Lys pretends to give a candy cane a blowjob.
It gets late, that hour when it’s time for confessions. I take a breath and tell them what you called me—bitch, slut—I tell them how you were watching me while I was at work.
“What. The. Fuck.” Lys stares at me. It’s weird seeing someone with so much rage on their face wearing flannel pajamas with rainbows all over them.
“He actually said those things?” Nat asks.
I nod. “He didn’t mean it, but—”
“That is so not an excuse,” Lys says. “I could seriously chop off his dick right now.”
“Um. Don’t?” I say.
Nat leans forward. “This is serious, Grace. That was exactly how my dad used to be with my mom before she left him. And after the name-calling came the hitting.”
“Gavin would never hit me!”
I tell myself the bruises on my arms from that night in your car were an accident—you didn’t mean to hold me as hard as you did. You just didn’t want me to go.
“Yeah, my mom used to say that, too.”
“And don’t think we’ve forgotten how insane he was at the bowling alley,” Lys adds.
“Or how you ditched the cast party to hang out with him,” Nat says.
“Okay, that’s old news now. I told you, he knows he screwed up,” I say. “He wouldn’t be like that if Summer hadn’t been so—”
Nat raises a hand. “Hold up. It doesn’t matter what went down between him and Summer. Even if she did screw around on him, that doesn’t mean he gets to treat you as though you’re her.”
“There is, like, no excuse for saying that shit to you,” Lys says.
I know they’re right. I think I told them because a part of me knew all this, but needed to hear it.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say.
“Do what Matt said you should—break up with his ass,” Lys says.
I shake my head. “He doesn’t mean to be like this.” They just look at me. “I love him. Like, so, so much.”
You beautiful, sexy, talented, stupidly crazy boy. My enigmatic, fucked-up rock god. I can’t give you up. I won’t.
“Grace. He called you a slut,” Nat says. “I get that you love him. I do. He’s an amazing person. But his jealousy, the watching you—it’s scary.”
“Creepy,” Lys adds.
“Besides,” Nat says, “not to be harsh, but you guys are probably gonna break up once you move to New York. Long-distance relationships don’t last, everyone knows that. I mean, do you guys have a plan?”
I can’t look her in the eye, so I study my nails, rubbing my thumb over each finger.
“Yeah, we do,” I say, soft.
“And…,” Nat says.
I finally meet her eyes. “I’m staying in California.”
She stares at me. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I didn’t apply to NYU. Just schools around LA.”
Lys looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Russian. “But … New York is … what?”
I shrug. “I can wait a few more years. I’ll get there eventually. And there are some really good theatre schools in LA. USC, UCLA, Fullerton…”
The doorbell rings. I
t’s a little after eleven.
“Who the heck is that?” Nat growls.
“Maybe it’s Kyle,” I say, relieved there’s a distraction.
“He knows better than to interrupt girl time,” she says.
I really wish you hadn’t called me a slut. I can’t imagine Kyle ever doing that to Nat. Or Nat putting up with it if he did.
Lys and I follow Nat to the door. Her mom is already in bed and her brothers and sister are hanging out in the den. She stands on her tiptoes and looks out the peephole.
“Oh, brother,” she says.
I’m pretty sure Nat is the only teenager in the world who uses expressions like that.
She turns to me. “It’s your boyfriend.”
I catch the note of reproach in her voice and I shake my head, voice lowered. I promised them I wouldn’t see or call you.
“I swear to God I turned off my phone.”
The bell rings again.
Nat glances at me and I make a split-second decision. I grab Lys’s hand, pulling her into the hallway beside the door.
“Good girl,” Nat whispers.
The door opens and I watch you and Nat in the mirror on the opposite wall. You’re wearing a black leather jacket and your fedora, pulled low. I move away before you catch me looking.
“Hey. I need to talk to Grace,” you say.
“Um. We’re kinda busy right now,” Nat says. She keeps the door half shut, one hand on the knob. Like she might slam it in your face any second. I know she wants to.
“I need to talk to Grace,” you repeat, speaking slowly, as though Nat’s native tongue isn’t English.
“Look, I’m sure whatever it is can wait, like, twelve more hours—”
You sigh. “Natalie. I’ve had a really long day, so can we stop playing games? I want to see my fucking girlfriend. Please.”
I have to make sure you’re okay. You sound exhausted. Something must have happened. I walk down the hallway and come to the door.
“Hey,” I say.
You scowl at Nat before turning to me. “Can we talk for a minute? Out here?”
I look back at Nat, as if I need permission.
She purses her lips. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then we get her back.”
You don’t answer her. You just turn and start walking across her front lawn to where your Mustang is parked out front.