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“Yep. Becca, her dad, and Aaron.”
“I take it we don’t like Aaron.”
“No, we don’t like Aaron. In fact, we hate Aaron. To the point where just hearing his name makes me want to stab my ears.” I look over at the horizon, an insane view that can only be seen from this exact spot, and the ache in my chest rebuilds itself. “I guess they came in to surprise Chaz.”
“Are you pissed?”
I sigh. “I’m trying not to be, because I don’t really have the right, you know? It’s been a long time since we broke up, and she’s moved on.”
“And you haven’t?”
“I can’t, dude,” I tell him truthfully. “I’ve tried. And it’s not like the opportunity hasn’t presented itself—”
Robby blows out a breath, cutting me off. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you on tour. I’ve read the shit online, watched the videos of all those girls throwing themselves at you. You must have the strength of a thousand men, Josh.”
I look at him, my heart in my throat. “Or the weakness of one.”
6
—Becca—
His truck was here when we got back from lunch, the same truck which held memories of a sand-stealing night at the beach, of first kisses, and of first loves. Grams had taken a piece of cake from the restaurant he’d booked and as soon as we got home, the first thing she did was march up his stairs and knock on his door. He wasn’t home. And he hasn’t been home since. I know, because I’m in my old bedroom, staring out the window with my thumb between my teeth, the curtains spread, watching and waiting for him. Just like I’d done during the first two weeks I’d moved here. But I don’t just want to see him. I want to talk to him, or at least my version of talking, and I want to apologize for ruining his plans. I’d spent the entire lunch feeling horrible about it, all while Aaron sat next to me, his hand holding mine on the table, charming the absolute crap out of Grams.
I give up hope at around midnight and get into bed, but I don’t sleep. I can’t. My mind reels with absurd assumptions. Not absurd in a way that they can’t possibly be true, but absurd in that I have no right to be feeling how I feel because of those assumptions. After a half hour of tossing and turning, I’m convinced Josh is with a girl. And I get mad at myself that it’s so much easier to convince myself of that than it is to remind myself that it shouldn’t matter, because I’m here with a boy, a boy who has been so excited to meet my grandmother—and he’s sleeping in the room next door.
I silently moan into the pillow, frustrated, then punch it a few times, because over a year of therapy has taught me that it’s better to hurt the pillow than it is to hurt myself, because hurting myself gets me nowhere (besides over a year of therapy). And that’s how my thoughts go for the next hour, around and around and around some more, circles of insanity flipping over and over in my mind. Then I hear a sound that has me sitting up and reaching for my phone. A sound I’ve never admitted to missing: four wheels spinning on concrete.
I jump out of bed and switch on my lamp before parting the curtains and looking down into the driveway. He rolls in, both feet on the board, and stops by his truck. After throwing the board into the back seat, he shuts the door and just stands there, his head lowered. A moment later he starts to move, one foot in front of the other, until he’s halfway to his stairs and suddenly, his feet falter and he looks up. Up. UP. I quickly shut my curtains and look at the wallpaper, my phone held tight in my hands. My eyes shut as I try to level my breathing, and when the beating of my heart slows enough so I can actually think, I open my eyes and look down at my phone.
Becca: Can you meet me outside?
The seconds feel like minutes while I wait for a response.
Josh: Will you be alone?
Becca: Yes.
Josh: ok.
I dress quickly and as quietly as possible, rush down the stairs, my nerves building. I pause for a moment with my hand on the knob and try to steady my thoughts. When I open the door, Josh is the only thing I see. Visible only by the moonlight, he sits at the bottom of the stairs, hat in his hands and his head lowered. He looks up when he must hear me approaching. I wave. He does the same. Then he motions to the spot next to him. I hesitate, because standing in front of him is one thing. Sitting next to him, possibly touching him, is another. But when he looks at me, his eyes tired and his smile forced, I push aside my fears and give in to his request.
“What goes on?” he murmurs.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my hoodie and type, I’m sorry for ruining your plans with Grams.
