I’ve turned away from Josh to look at Ms. McAllister. She’s watching him with an expression of pride and endearment which reminds me of the way I’ve seen Mrs. Leighton look at him. But I don’t think Ms. McAllister’s expression is as much about his answer as it is about the fact that he answered in the first place.
“And does she get that chance?” she asks Josh while I desperately focus on the poster of literary terms on the wall and wait for absolution. When it comes, I barely hear it.
“She does.”
***
Josh
It’s Wednesday before I see her again outside of school, and even there she hardly looks at me. Nothing has really changed except that, before last weekend, I felt more like a victim in all of this and, now, not so much.
It’s already eleven. I’ve been in my garage for hours, but I haven’t done much of anything. I reorganized the same tool chest twice and now I’m sweeping up sawdust. I don’t have the energy to do anything worthwhile, but I have a list that’s just getting longer and I have to get started at some point. I’ve had more time over the last six weeks than I’ve had in months, and I haven’t accomplished crap.
I go inside, make another cup of coffee and carry it back out, resolving to start the initial cutting for the matching end table I promised I’d make Mrs. Leighton. And maybe I’m more tired than I thought, because when I open the door, the first thing I see is a set of pale white legs capped with black steel-toed boots swinging from the workbench.
“You know you’re an addict. Caffeine’s a bitch to break.”
“Guess I won’t break it then.”
She nods and I want to ask her why she’s here but I’m glad she is, and for a few minutes, I want to pretend that everything is back to the way it used to be. Maybe that’s what she wants, too.
“It’ll stunt your growth, you know.”
“Didn’t know you were worried.”
“Only about some parts,” she smirks.
I smile for a minute, but it’s weak, and I realize that I don’t want to joke with her. Especially not like that. It makes me think of everything that happened that night and everything that’s gone wrong since, and as much as I want to pretend everything is the way it was before, I’m just not a good enough liar.
“Helps keep me awake,” I answer, not taking the bait.
“Why not just sleep?”
“Haven’t been sleeping well,” I say honestly.
“Maybe that’s because of the caffeine. Vicious cycle.”
“You don’t drink it. Do you sleep well?”
“Point taken,” she says faintly.
“Thank you.” This conversation is so civilized, it’s twisted.
She hops off the counter and walks over to me. The bruise on her face has faded, but it’s not covered with make-up now, like it is at school, and I can still see it. I have to fight the urge to run my fingers over it and then run to Kevin Leonard’s house and give him four more just like it.
“Here. Let me try it again.” She reaches for the cup in my hand.
“If you’re going to try it, you should at least put some shit in it first.”
“Sounds appetizing.”
“I drink it black. You won’t. Your taste buds are opposed to anything that isn’t sweet.”
“Give it, jackass.” I let go of the cup and she takes a mouthful while I watch her face contort at the bitterness. “Still gross.”
“You get used to it,” I shrug, taking the coffee back from her. She relinquishes it and shudders as if she’s trying to expel the taste from her mouth. I have to try not to smile.
“I’d rather not.” She scrunches up her nose and goes back to sitting on the counter. Her legs start swinging again and I know how easy it would be to stay in this place and forget everything that’s happened. But we’ll always end up back where we were, because nothing’s been resolved, and I’m not the one with the answers. Maybe, for once, I need to stop letting her dictate everything just because I want to keep her. I can’t forget what she did and I can’t expect her to forgive what I did and I don’t know where we go from here.
“It’s not the same,” I say, watching her write her name in the dust on the counter next to her. “We can’t act like nothing happened… just pretend that it’s all good.”
“I know it isn’t,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine with something I might actually believe is hope, “but, maybe.”
She ends up staying for the next two hours. She measures and marks the wood for me and I cut. We don’t talk about us or Kevin Leonard or Leigh or lost hands or lost people or long agos. We talk about furniture and tools and recipes and art competitions and debate. It’s familiar and comfortable. There’s something still hanging over us that we can’t ignore forever, even if we do ignore it tonight. But, maybe.
It’s after one in the morning when I drive her home since she ran to my house. We sit in the truck, staring at her front door, because things shifted just a little bit in the other direction tonight, and neither of us is ready to let go of it yet. I reach my hand over and lay it, palm up, on the seat between us and she doesn’t hesitate. She lays her left hand on mine and I close my fingers over it.
CHAPTER 52
Nastya
I’m not sure how long we sit in Josh’s truck, holding hands, surrounded by darkness and unspoken regrets. But it’s long enough to know that there are no stories or secrets in the world worth holding onto more than his hand.
CHAPTER 53
Nastya
I think a lot about all the little things that happened the day I was attacked and how any one of them might have changed everything. I wonder how many thousands of variables played a part in him finding me that day and if there are as many at work in my finding him.
***
Clay picks me up at eight in the morning, wearing a long-sleeved button down shirt and dress pants, and not even remotely resembling the artfully unkempt mess I’m used to seeing. I doubt I look much like what he’s used to seeing either. I look more like Emilia today than I have in months. I don’t know if it feels right, but it doesn’t feel as wrong as it used to.
I look Clay up and down and c**k my head to the side in appreciation.
“You too,” he says, opening the car door for me. I’m not even sure why he’s bringing me. He said he wanted me to see what I sat on my ass so long for; but I’ve seen it all already. I doubt it will look much different hanging on a wall.