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“Please, Kenzie,” she begs, and the look in her eyes and the crack in her voice is enough to make me feel guilty, as though I’d be the one in the wrong if I did choose to argue over this.
That’s why I don’t. That’s why I’ve already closed my laptop, that’s why I’m pulling my hair out of its bun and grabbing a pair of fitted jeans from my closet. Because I just can’t say no.
Mom slowly pushes my door open fully, finally stepping into the room with both relief and gratitude evident on her flushed face. She hands me twenty bucks, her driving license and her car keys. There’s already a scent of wine in the air. “Just whatever’s cheap,” she adds, as though that makes the situation better.
I look away from her and remain silent. If I open my mouth, there’s a chance my frustration could convey itself as aggression, and Mom’ll do that awful thing where her features contort and her eyes fill with desperation, and I don’t want to see her like that. That’s why I say nothing at all. This isn’t something I know how to fix.
Instead, I mutely get dressed, slipping into my jeans as Mom disappears out of my room and then returns again with one of her blouses. I pull it on and then sit down at my dresser, grabbing my makeup bag and rummaging through it. Mom’s standing in the background, dithering by my door, watching. Although I’m not saying anything, I’m certain she can see the disapproval on my face. I’m sure she can feel my aggravation in the air around us, tense and stifling. I’m tired. I have school in the morning. I don’t want to be putting on makeup at this time, I don’t want to be driving to the store when it’s this dark and cold outside, I don’t want to be using my mother’s ID to score cheap booze.
“I would go myself,” she tells me, her tone shaky with guilt as I’m plastering makeup onto my face, “but I shouldn’t drive.”
For the most part, Mom hasn’t been too bad this week. She had a glass or two of wine on Monday, and that’s it, as far as I’m aware. She’s not too bad in general. She doesn’t drink all day every day or anything on that scale, but the amount she’ll consume depends on her mood. Tonight, it seems she’s not feeling too great. Mom disappears once again and comes back with a floral scarf of hers that I reluctantly wrap around my neck after I’ve pulled on a jacket. I look ridiculous and I’m highly aware of this, but there’s nothing I can do about it besides complete the look by pulling on a hat. I’m grateful for my height, because I like to think it makes me look older, and once Mom sprays her perfume over me in five overbearing spritzes, I’m ready to go and break the law.
I’ve done it before, a few times actually, and only once did the cashier laugh their ass off at me, before giving me thirty seconds to drive off until he called the cops. I’ve never gone back to that store, and ever since, rather than looking like a confident middle-aged mother, I now look like a nervous wreck of a middle-aged mother.
Mom watches me from the living room window as I make a quick dash to her car, spending a few minutes messing with the heating. Windsor gets so cold during the night at this time of the year, and tonight is no exception. My knees are shaking as I drive, my body huddled over the steering wheel, the streets empty. Most houses are in darkness, with only an odd few with their lights still on, and I head straight up to Main Street and pull into the small 7-Eleven lot. It’s the nearest place that’s still open that I haven’t tried yet, and I never go to the same store twice. Pretty soon, I will have no more options, and I will have to drive to the city.
There’s no one else around, nothing but the sound of a car passing by, but I can feel the cashier’s eyes on me as I make for the door. My acting skills are immediately put to the test, and I fake a determined stride with my hands in the pockets of my jacket, walking as though I’ve just finished a long evening shift at my job, and I’m here to buy some beers before I head home to my four children and husband. At least I hope I’m walking that way. If not, then I’m probably screwed already.
I push open the heavy glass door and step inside, and because I’m the only customer here and all of the cashier’s attention is on me, I look at him and give him a tight smile. I’ve learned that keeping my head down and scuttling immediately down the liquor aisle is definitely not the route to take. “Temperatures are seriously dropping out there, huh?” I say, though the formal tone I’ve adopted makes me not only look like an idiot, but sound like one too.
“Yep,” the cashier says. He’s young, in his early twenties I figure, and he leans back against the screen displaying the footage from the security cameras, his arms folded across his chest, bored. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for chitchat.
I head down the first aisle, pretending to look around at the candy as though I’m not in a rush, and then I stop by the bread. There’s one loaf left and it’s been reduced in price, so I grab it, because I’ve also learned that buying more than just the booze is another way to deceive the cashier into believing I’m thirty-eight. The kids need bread for their breakfast. This is going fine.
With the discounted loaf tucked under my arm, I stroll casually along to the small beer section in the back corner which I examine as I hear the door to the store open again, bringing a cold draft of air in. Quickly, I run my eyes over the price tags and the grab cheapest six-pack on display.
As I make my way to the counter, I keep my chin up and my eyes on the cashier despite the anxiety that’s rising in my chest. With my feigned confidence, I place the bread and the wine down in front of him, and then I smile politely as I set down the twenty-dollar bill. I sense someone behind me, but I’m too concentrated on maintaining my shitty acting to even so much as glance over my shoulder.
The cashier’s expression remains neutral as he scans the bread, and I think I’m clear, I think I’ve convinced him, but then he looks back at me and he says it, that dreaded question: “Can I see some ID, ma’am?”
“Oh,” I say, and then force out a giggle the same way Mom would do if she got asked for ID, and then I add, “I’m flattered!” The cashier doesn’t even blink, just waits expectantly with that same old blank expression on his face, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I pass him Mom’s driving license. It suddenly feels this isn’t going so well after all.
The cashier holds the license up to scrutinize it, his emotionless eyes shifting between the small photo and my face, comparing the two. People always tell me I look like my mom, but we are by no means identical. The cashier furrows his eyebrows.
The person in line behind me clears their throat and steps around me, but I’m so terrified that I’m about to be caught that I only cast them a quick sideways glance. My heart drops into my stomach. My eyes flash back over to my right and my entire body feels numb when I realize I haven’t just imagined it: it’s really him, it’s really Jaden Hunter.
I am rooted to the spot, unable to turn away from him. No, no, no. Jaden can’t be here right now; he can’t see me like this. I am completely mortified and my cheeks burn with humiliation, growing even redder beneath the inordinate amount of blush I’m wearing. Jaden’s lips are curved into his signature crooked smile as he watches me in amusement. His hair is flattened and falls too heavy over his forehead without gel to keep it styled in place. He’s wearing all black: black jeans that are torn at the knees, black sneakers, black hoodie. He’s holding a carton of milk in his hand. Glancing down at the six-pack on the counter in front of me, his eyes meet mine again—though now his smile his developed into a teasing smirk.
“Nice try,” the cashier remarks harshly with a laugh, and I suddenly remember where I am. He slaps Mom’s ID down on the counter and grabs the beer, tucking the cans out of sight, shaking his head at me. My entire face feels as though it is blazing, and the cashier waves me away with the flick of his hand. “Get out of here,” he tells me, then holds up the bread. “Unless you still want this.”
Numbly, I shake my head and then rapidly shove the twenty-dollar bill and driving license into the pocket of my jacket and spin around, desperate to get out of this store. I keep my head down as I rush past Jad
en and scramble toward the door, catching my breath as I step out into the cold. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I fight hard against them, willing myself not to be overwhelmed by how pathetic I feel at this exact moment. I rush straight over to Mom’s car and I am just about to slide into the driver’s seat when I hear the door of the store slap shut.
“MacKenzie,” Jaden says in a low voice, and I freeze again, one leg in the car, and I glance up at him as he advances across the small lot toward me, his face shadowy under the streetlights. “Please don’t just drive off.”
The pleading tone in his voice makes facing him all the more unbearable, especially right now. I look like a parody of a mom, and he just caught me attempting to buy booze at almost midnight on a Thursday. I’m so embarrassed, and the only thing I can do is quickly tear off the stupid scarf and throw it onto my passenger seat.
Jaden stops when he reaches me, with only the car door standing between us. His lips are pressed together as he studies me. Carefully, he lifts his free hand to move his hair out of his eyes, and then he gives a pointed glance toward my passenger seat with a cautious expression. Breaking the unbearable silence, he asks, “Can I hop in for a sec?”
I was not expecting that. I always knew I was going to have to talk to Jaden eventually. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him. It’s just that I feel as though I can’t. Slowly, I nod back, and he smiles in a relieved sort of way as though he was expecting me to shut him down. It’s like he’s grateful just to have my attention for once, and it makes me feel awful inside. Guilty and ashamed, but also terrified. I’m numb, both from the cold and from his presence, but I know there’s not a single excuse I could give him right now that could justify saying no to him. So I nod. A single, clipped nod that lights up his expression. Relief, I think it is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to Jaden, the same way I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to Dani. Only it’s much harder when it comes to Jaden. I’m tense as I sink down into the driver’s seat and the cool night air fills Mom’s car as Jaden climbs in on the opposite side. I swallow back that lump in my throat and turn the heating up so that it’s on full, though I don’t need it. My face is hot enough already.
“About what happened in there . . . ” I murmur quickly before he can say anything, though I don’t know how to explain myself. I’m still mortified and I can’t even begin to imagine what he thinks of me now. I don’t want Jaden to assume that stealing my mom’s ID and sneaking out to buy alcohol is something I do all the time.
“Don’t sweat it,” Jaden says, then stifles a smirk. “What’s up with the beers though?”
I fake a small laugh to give myself a few seconds to think of an answer that would fly, and I rack my brain as fast as I can. The truth is not an option right now. I quickly look back up at him and say in what I hope is a nonchalant voice, “My mom’s having guests over tomorrow night. She gets super stressed if she’s not organized the day before, and she forgot to get any beer when she went grocery shopping earlier, so she sent me out.” And then, because I realize how bad it still sounds that my own mother would send me out to buy alcohol underage, I jokingly add, “Shameful, I know.”
“Hey, at least your grandma didn’t send you out to get milk,” he says, holding up the carton. I laugh with him and for a split second I forget that we haven’t spoken in a year. There’s no awkward tension, no wondering what I can and can’t say, just laughter and ease, exactly like it was before. Until, that is, Jaden’s laughter falters into a small sigh, and silence surrounds us.
Although I have seen Jaden around school, I have avoided bumping into him in public until now. The times I have seen him at school, I have kept my head down, and he has stayed away. He has never tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t blame him. He had every right to be mad at me, and if anyone was to make the first move, it should have been me. But it seems he has given in, and I think I know why. “Did Dani tell you—”
“That she spoke to you?” he finishes. “Yeah, she did.” He turns the heating down a couple notches so that the air isn’t so loud. It’s dark, but his eyes are so blue that they stand out in the gloom. “She said you asked about me? Gotta admit, I’m surprised. That’s unlike you these days,” he says laughingly, although when I look back at him a moment later there is a definite sadness in his expression. My insides lurch with the sudden guilt.
“Are you mad?” I blurt out. I know he must be, but I need to hear it from him. “At me?” I add.
Jaden turns to look at me now, the sadness that had been there now vanished. “Why would I be mad at you?”
My eyebrows knit together as I stare back at him for a second, wondering if he’s acting clueless just to taunt me as punishment for being the girl who bailed on him when he needed me the most, for being the girl who distanced herself, for being the girl who never smiles back. He has every right to be mad at me. Yet I can’t bring myself to answer him, because then I’d have to admit it out loud that I’ve done wrong, that I’ve been a coward—but also that I can’t help it, that I can’t be around Jaden and Danielle Hunter because I can’t be around grief.
I tried. Two weeks after the accident, I had jumped into Mom’s car and driven over to Jaden and Dani’s house. I had woken with courage that morning, having known for weeks that I should be there for them, to console them somehow, and that it was finally time. I can still remember the feeling I had as I pulled up outside the house. Complete dread. My hands shook against the steering wheel. I felt almost like I was floating as I walked toward the front door, numb, like I’d lost all control of my body. I remember standing there, trying my damn hardest to knock, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face what was on the other side of that door. I knew already, without seeing Jaden or Dani, what they would be feeling. I knew all too well. So I turned around and ran straight back to the car.
Jaden shifts in his seat and I realize I’ve gone silent. When I don’t respond, he angles his body toward me, propping his knee up against the center console that separates us. “Okay. Yeah, I was a little mad. Well, a lot for a while,” he says, and then turns the heating off entirely, plunging the car into complete silence. “But I’m mostly just disappointed. At the time, everyone took a step back, not just you.” His gaze falls to the bare skin of his knee and he traces a pattern along the hem of his jeans with his forefinger. He doesn’t have to say it, because we both know exactly what it is that he’s referring to. “And then when you were with that Darren Sullivan guy, that’s when I figured you hadn’t just stepped back, but that you weren’t interested anymore.” He glances back up then, eyes bright beneath his eyelashes, but I can see the disappointment in them that he’s talking about. “So yeah, that’s all there is really. I just wanted more than that.”
Jaden may think he has me figured out, and for the most part, he does. Only I took a much larger step back from the Hunters than most people did, and I’ve never stepped closer again ever since for reasons that I still can’t admit to. So, having Jaden believe that I kept my distance because I was no longer interested in him is an excuse I’m willing to run with, even though it is far from the truth. I kept my distance because I cared too much. “Jaden . . . ”
“MacKenzie,” he says in response, raising his voice a little, his tone light. “I didn’t demand to hop into your car at midnight to talk about old news. I hopped into your car at midnight because you probably wouldn’t stop to talk to me otherwise, and I’ve been thinking about talking to you for a while now.”
I wish I’d had the courage to speak to him first, before now, but I didn’t. “About what?”
“Anything,” Jaden answers, and then shrugs as he runs his hand along Mom’s dashboard, his eyes on the dust that rises into the air. “What did we talk about before?”
We talked about ourselves and we talked about each other. He talked about the freckles on my cheeks and I talked about his smile, and we talked about our plans for college and our goals in life, and we talked about the classes we were s
truggling with and the classes we were acing, and we talked about the things we loved most and the things we hated.
That’s why I know that Jaden isn’t sure which college he wants to go to, just as long as it’s in Colorado. That’s why I know that he wants to live in a house down in Water Valley with two kids, three at a push, and have a job that doesn’t make him stare at the clock all day. That’s why I know that he was failing Spanish but passing U.S. History. That’s why I know that he loves driving in the dark when the roads are empty and that he hates peanut butter.
At least he did a year ago.
I don’t know what Jaden wants to do in the future anymore, or what his goals in life are, or what he loves. Maybe he wants to get as far away from Colorado as possible now, away from what happened here. Maybe he’s failing all of his classes these days. Maybe he’s passing them all, but I doubt it. All I know about Jaden Hunter lately is that I know nothing at all.
So, I ask the question that I’m supposed to, the question that’s safe: “How have you been, Jaden?”
And he looks at me as though I’ve just asked the most offensive, intrusive question to ever exist. “Seriously, Kenzie?”
“What?”
“Ask me something other than: How are you? Are you okay? How’s your sister? Are your grandparents doing well? Do you need to skip the assignment? Because I get asked those questions all the time and I’d rather I didn’t,” he explains, his voice a mixture of firmness and exasperation. Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, remaining quiet for a few seconds. “Ask me something you would have asked me a year ago. Ask me something normal. It’s really not that hard.”
His demands put me on the spot and I find myself taken aback, struggling to think of something. I don’t understand what he’s doing, what he wants from me. I thought I was supposed to ask him how he is. It would have been insensitive if I hadn’t, wouldn’t it?
