I’ll Meet You There

  “Your little sister’s better than a guard dog,” I said, as another Katy Perry song filtered through her door and into the kitchen. “I thought I was gonna have to show her some ID before she let me inside.”

  Josh chuckled and grabbed a Coke for me and a can of Bud for himself. “Yeah, she’s cool like that.” He took a long sip, then looked off toward the front door. “When I first got home, there were some reporters. Wanted to know about the war.”

  “You didn’t want to talk to them?” I asked.

  He played with the can’s tab, twisting it around until it finally broke off. “Some guys are cool with reporters, talking to them all the time and stuff. We had a couple embedded ones for a while, and they were okay, I guess. I mean, it’s weird having someone take pictures of you right after some shit goes down, but I started to forget they were even there. Just part of the landscape. But I don’t want to talk about … I just don’t want to get into all of it. Especially with reporters who were never there.”

  I took a sip of my drink, watching him as he finished off his beer in one long gulp. Somewhere between walking down the hall and drinking the Coke in my hand, the annoyance I’d felt in his room had slipped away. I was starting to notice things again. Like how he had great hands—tan and strong looking. Or how he’d rub his stubble when he was thinking and the way he’d tilt his head down, then look up at me and smile.

  Dammit.

  “I love the Marines,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I was a punk-ass kid when I went in, and now I’ve had the chance to serve my country. I miss the hell out of it, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Really? Even after—”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Even after.”

  I thought of the picture tacked to his wall. The laugh I could almost hear.

  “You ever felt like you belonged somewhere?” he asked.

  I knew I didn’t belong in Creek View—it had always felt wrong, like a too-small shirt or seeing Christmas decorations in June. But then where did I belong? It was a hard question to answer. I only knew how to live my life in negatives; it seemed like everything I was could only be seen in relation to what I wasn’t. Like Josh said, I was “good,” but only because I didn’t screw up.

  He started whistling the Jeopardy theme song, signaling I’d zoned out for way too long, and I blushed. “Don’t rush me,” I snapped. “That’s a deep question.”

  “You’re totally stalling.”

  “Okay.” I drank the last sip of my Coke and pushed the sides in. The crunch of metal was oddly satisfying. “I’ve never been somewhere I belonged, but there are places where I think I could be happy. Like San Francisco. Well, do art museums count? Because I feel like I belong in them.”

  Josh nodded. “Art museums count.” He threw his can in the trash bin by the door. “I hear the Skylar Evans Gallery is pretty cool. And it’s free.”

  Did he realize how he was sometimes able to say the perfect thing? Because if he was trying to get in my pants, it was working.

  I gestured to the front of the house. “I’m getting Subway for Marge and—wanna come with?”

  Here I went again, asking him out. But it felt like I didn’t have any control. With him, I never knew what the hell I was gonna say or do.

  He smiled. “Yeah, sure. How ’bout I drive and we’ll get your car when your shift is over?”

  “You’re gracing us with your presence this afternoon?”

  “Get your ass to the truck, Evans.”

  I saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

  He shook his head. “We’re gonna have to work on that salute.”

  * * *

  The Subway closest to us was part of a truck stop ten miles up the road, in the same area as the Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and the gas station Chris worked at. It was always pretty busy, full of people stopping during their long treks up or down the highway. I sighed as the automatic doors slid open and I walked into a wall of cold air.

  “I bet there’s air-conditioning in heaven,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s just the perfect temperature—low seventies with a breeze?” Josh said.

  “Look at you, getting all philosophical.”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  We were halfway to the counter when a woman with two little boys stopped us.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Josh. “I don’t mean to bother you. But I just wanted to thank you for your service.”

  The Marines shirt he was wearing plus the prosthetic leg sort of screamed war hero, but from the look on Josh’s face, it was obvious he thought he was anything but.

  He cleared his throat a little and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  She put her hand on the boys’ shoulders. They were both staring at his prosthesis, and I couldn’t tell if they were freaked out or just fascinated. “You see this young man?” she said to them. “He’s a real American hero.” She looked up at Josh, smiling, while the boys leaned into her side, suddenly shy. “Our church is keeping all of you in our prayers. It’s just so amazing, what you’re doing over there.”

  Josh nodded and put his hand on the small of my back, gently pushing me toward the back of the truck stop, where the Subway counter was. He was just trying to get away, but at that moment, the only thing I knew or understood in the world was the heat of his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said to her. “Thanks a lot. It’s our job, but we appreciate the support.”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You take care of yourself now, okay?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She walked away, but there were others smiling at Josh now, and when we got to the Subway counter, the girl insisted on giving him a discount. Josh wasn’t beaming with pride—he’d grown quiet and distant, like he couldn’t wait to get back into the safety of his truck. Two more people stopped to shake his hand on his way out, and he thanked them. They’d all smile at me, like I was somehow deserving of praise too—one woman even hugged me and said she appreciated what “our military families” were doing. By the time I found my voice to try to explain, she’d already gone off to the convenience store part of the truck stop.

  “I wonder if she thought you were my sister or my wife,” Josh said.

  I blushed and kept my eyes anywhere but near his. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I usually use the drive-thru is how I do it,” he said as we walked back into the heat of the day. We got into the truck, and he started blasting his air-conditioning.

  “You don’t like it,” I said.

  I could see that he’d wanted to melt into the ground every time someone stopped him.

  He sighed. “It’s … it’s just kinda weird when people thank me. Happened at the airport too, because I was in uniform. This old lady came up to me and said, ‘Thank you for your sacrifice,’ and it was really, like, sweet of her, but … I mean, I want to say, ‘Don’t thank me. Just don’t pity me either.’ I can’t stand people’s pity.” He ran his hand over his head and looked over at me. “It’s nice, and I know they mean well. It just feels weird, being thanked for something you wanted to do in the first place. Does that make any sense?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.” I curled up on my side and looked at him. “But it’s okay to be proud of yourself, Josh. You did good. You know?”

  He stared out the window, at the endless highway. “I tried to. But some of the stuff that went down…” He shook his head. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

  “Subject change,” I said. “If you could go on vacation anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

  “Hawaii.”

  I made a face. “Really? But it’s technically in the U.S. You could go anywhere—Thailand, India—”

  “Nope. All I want to do is lie on a beach and drink more than I should. Plus, they speak English in Hawaii.” He looked over at me. “You?”

  “St. Petersburg,” I said immediately.

  “Ru
ssia?”

  “No, St. Petersburg, Florida. Yes, Russia! I want to go to the Hermitage. It’s one of the biggest art museums in the world, plus it’s in the czar’s Winter Palace, which is so freakin’ cool. But, actually, if I could have two places—”

  “No dice. You said one.”

  “Okay, but it’s too hard to choose between the Hermitage and the Louvre.”

  “Which is…?”

  “The museum of museums. It’s in Paris.”

  “Nope. You gotta choose.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  I sighed. “Well, Paris is more practical. It has the Mona Lisa.”

  He smirked. “That painting sucks.”

  “Josh!”

  “Oh, come on. That chick is ugly as hell. I don’t see what the big deal is about.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  The Paradise came into view, and he looked over at me. “Hey. Your mom find a job yet?”

  I leaned my head back against the seat, my good mood instantly gone. “No. It’s … no.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  It occurred to me that we were the same, in a way. Both of us treading water, pushing against forces we couldn’t control.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Help me eat these chips?”

  I held up the little bag of Lay’s I’d gotten at Subway. We put our hands in at the same time, and I jumped back with a nervous laugh.

  I wondered if he’d felt the same charge I had when our fingers touched. I snuck a look out of the corner of my eye. He threw a chip into his mouth, a little smile playing on his face.

  Yeah. He’d felt it.

  JOSH

  Marge comes up to me after work today with a bottle of Jack and two glasses and she says we’ve gotta talk. So we go outside and sit in the back of my truck and she pours us both a double and she drinks hers all at once. Then she tells me some really fucked-up shit. About her Army son and how he didn’t die in Fallujah like we all thought. Like she told us. He offed himself. Came home to Ohio all messed up in the head and fuckin’ slit his wrists in the bathtub. Jesus, Marge, I say. Like an angry prayer. Jesus Christ. And I don’t know what else to say, because there’s no magic word to bring him back, so I just hold her hand while she cries and I’m so angry at him. This dude I never met I just want to drag him up from hell and beat his ass. Because it’s guys like him that make everyone freak out over guys like me. And now Marge is worried I’ll do the same, like I’m some fuckin’ coward who can’t handle his shit. I can handle it. I can. I tell her that, too: Marge, I’ll be okay. And she says, I hope so, sweet pea. I really hope so. Which is not what I needed to hear. She goes back inside, and I get in my truck and drive. Don’t know where I’m going, I just keep driving and driving. For some reason I end up at Walmart and I go inside—why I don’t know—but I go inside and I’m walking up these aisles full of shit nobody needs, just looking for the chip aisle because I have to eat. I mean I’m here I have to do something and the lights are so bright and “Single Ladies” comes on and I’m in the middle of an aisle full of bath towels but I see us all dancing and smiling and fuck this place and suddenly I know why her son did what he did and I just stand there in the towel aisle and close my eyes and breathe. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. The song ends and a Walmart ad comes on: Don’t forget the Fourth! Celebrate our nation’s freedom in style with a new GrillMaster … I lean my head against a towel and laugh because that is the only thing you can really do. That or what Marge’s son did. I gotta get out of here. I walk back through the store and out the door, past the greeter with the Support Our Troops button. Go back to my truck, get in, roll down all the windows, and gun it. I hate the part of me that understands Marge’s son. I don’t know what went down for that dude in Fallujah, what he saw, who he killed, but I have some pretty good guesses. I imagine him sitting at home by himself and seeing shit that isn’t really there and just wondering what the point of things is. I can picture him trying to mow the lawn or fill his gas tank or buy more milk because the milk in the fridge is expired and him thinking, Why the hell am I doing this? He’s tired and the nightmares won’t stop and nobody understands, they just want him to be like he was before he left but he can’t be, he can’t ever go back because you can’t unsee what you saw. Maybe he wasn’t a coward—maybe he knew that the war was never going to stop and all he was doing was bringing down the people around him. Maybe he thought it would be a relief and not just for him: for everyone.

  chapter eleven

  A day off.

  For once, it felt good to have the sun beating down on me. Its red light pulsed behind my closed eyes and my mind collaged strange amoebalike sculptures out of it. Fire creatures. I was lying on a thick beach towel next to Dylan, the air heavy with the scent of her suntan lotion—a tropical vacation in a bottle. An old boom box she’d had since she was a kid was softly playing Jack Johnson. According to Dylan, it wasn’t summer without his guitar and that low voice mixed in with the sound of the creek tumbling by us.

  “This feels so good,” I said.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I wondered if I could put this sensation in Marge’s collage. The heat, the delicious drowsiness of it. The way sparks of light were going off like fireworks behind my eyes, and how my skin was melting into the sand and my problems were like a distant itch I couldn’t be bothered to scratch.

  “Sky.” Dylan’s voice was hesitant, and I lifted up my hand to shade my eyes, then looked over at her.

  “Yeah?”

  She sat up, this perfectly tanned blond goddess in a flowered bikini. With her bug-eye sunglasses and sparkling lip gloss, she looked like a model for Seventeen. You’d never know she’d had a baby in January.

  “Your mom was hanging out at our place yesterday for a little while—when you were working.”

  I sat up. “That’s good! I’ve been telling her for weeks to go visit your mom.” Maybe this was a sign that things would go back to normal. “Did your mom give her advice about jobs? Or … about anything else?”

  Dylan took a swig of her Diet Coke. “You mean about Billy.”

  I nodded. He’d started sleeping over every night. It had gotten to the point where I was mostly working graveyards, just so I didn’t have to hear them.

  Dylan wrinkled up her nose. “Are they still … you know?”

  I stood up and looked out at the creek. The sun was bouncing off the water, sending shards of glass our way. Scrubby trees lined the bank, their boughs heavy with dust from the nearby fields. There wasn’t much of a beach—just a strip of dirt and rocks, but it was ours.

  “It’s so disturbing, Dyl. I can’t even … I know my dad’s gone, but it’s just so wrong.”

  “I guess your mom probably hasn’t gotten laid since—I mean, you know, for a long time. Are they loud?”

  My stomach turned. “Yeah.”

  I walked over to the creek and waded in, gasping as the water numbed my legs. Pebbles cut into my feet, but I kept going. Even though it was over a hundred degrees, the creek got most of its water from melted snow that came down from the high mountains surrounding the valley. Even in the summer, they had snow on their peaks.

  I looked back at Dylan. “So, what did The Moms talk about?”

  Our moms became The Moms a long time ago. Like us, they were best friends. A unit. Or at least they were until my mom dropped off the deep end. Again.

  “Well, that’s what I sort of wanted to ask you. I don’t think your mom’s planning on going back to work, Sky. Like, ever. Or for a super long time.”

  I sank deeper into the water, tried to focus on the sting of it.

  “What’d she say?”

  “I mean, it was more the way she was talking. Like, well, like Billy was maybe helping her out.”

  Fuck Billy.

  “How? All he does is buy beer.”

  Maybe that was why she was with him—because he was promising to help her somehow. We’d covered all the
bills last month, but just barely. I knew this month there’d be no Taco Bell checks, and I still wasn’t sure how we were going to scrape by. If we were going to scrape by.

  Dylan shrugged. “All I can say is that this is the first time I’ve actually been happy that you’re leaving.”

  I stared down at the water, letting the sunlight on the surface blind me a little. Part of me felt sick, like I wanted to throw up the bag of Ruffles I’d just eaten. The other part of me was outside my body, seeing a girl in a black bikini standing in a slow-moving creek. Observing. Waiting.

  “You are leaving, aren’t you?”

  I wondered what my dad was thinking right now. If dead people could think. It always felt like he was close by when I was at the creek. Not just because we’d scattered his ashes here. Some of my best memories were of him teaching me how to swim in this water. Watching him fish. Or eating soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with him and my mom, all of us squeezed onto our ratty picnic blanket. Sometimes, if I remembered hard enough, the creek still had that old magic.

  Dylan sat on her knees, her lips pulled into a frown. “You’re not thinking about staying here, right? Because that would be ten kinds of insane.”

  Maybe Billy was saying he’d take care of her when I was gone. Maybe all of this—Billy, the drinking—was because she didn’t want to be alone.

  “She’s scared,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  I waded farther into the water.

  Hi, Daddy, I thought. I trailed my fingertips along the surface. I pushed the if only’s out of my mind. He was gone, and I was alone, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

  “I haven’t been thinking about this whole thing the right way,” I said. “I thought she was depressed about the job. But she’s not freaking out just because we’re broke. Not working at the Bell means that her whole life is going to change when I leave. Nothing will be the same, except for the trailer.”

  After Dad died, I’d thought that was it, that there was no way I could leave Creek View. Mom had been in a bad place and it seemed like she’d never be okay on her own. But then she got better, and I started to believe that it was possible. By the time sophomore year rolled around, I knew I was getting out. I’d pushed away thoughts of my mom spending her nights alone, with nobody to keep her company. I’d told myself she could go hang out with Dylan’s mom. When I felt guilty, I’d reminded myself that going to college was what my parents had always wanted for me—and that when I graduated and got a good job, I’d be able to take better care of her.