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He motions to his truck. “At least let me give you a ride home.”
I wish he’d just go. “You know, it’s a nice night out. I’d prefer to walk.”
“It’s late, Jamie. And this area—”
“Is where Ilive,” I cut in. “Besides, I’ve done it hundreds of times before.” I unzip the side pocket of my backpack and pull out the can of pepper spray Zeke had brought me. “See?” I say, holding it up between us. “I’m good.”
“I don’t feel comfortable—”
“Please,” I grind out, and I’m way too close to losing it. The last thing I want is for him to witness it. I exhale slowly, try to keep my emotions in check. My voice cracks when I beg, “Just let me go, Holden.”
“Jamie…” He looks away. He can’t stand to see me like this as much as I can’t stand that I’mfeelinglike this.
If I don’t take control of the situation, things are going to spiral. And fast. “I don’t want your pity, okay? We’re good.” I shrug. “I just… I want to walk home, and I want to wash this filth off me, and I want to sleep…” And not wake up for days. “So if you care about me, even a little, you’ll let me do that.”
“Idocare about you.”
“I know,” I say, and there’s no lie in my statement. Whatever Holden and I are, orwere, I know, deep down, that he harbors some sort of protectiveness over me. I smile through my sadness, telling him, “I’ll see you at school.”
It’s the last thing either of us says, and then I’m walking, the pepper spray gripped tight in my grasp. I ignore the racing of my heart every time headlights appear beside me or every time I hear irregular noises behind me. And I ignore the familiar ache in my chest, the one of longing, of loss. By the time I slide the key in my front door, my cheeks are wet, stained with the remnants of all my withheld fears. I’m on autopilot when I step inside, flick on the light switch.
Nothing happens.
Because people lie for a plethora of reasons.
And I am one of them.
26
Holden
I’d grownup in such a small town, and even when we ventured out, we didn’t go far. My grandparents moved to Tennessee from North Carolina a few years before we did, and so I’d visited them for short periods during the summer. Even so, visiting them isn’t the same as actually experiencing regular high school. It was a culture shock. The school. The people. The girls. Theparties. I was only two weeks into my freshman year when I came home drunk and maybe a little high, and as cool and forgiving as my mom can be—she wasn’t having it. She threw threats my way, mainly to ship my ass back home—which was a hugefuck nofor me. So, we negotiated the first of many punishments to come. I was grounded for a month and all technology privileges were revoked during that time. It was hell, and I wasn’t quiet about how much I hated it. Not only to my mom, but to anyone who would listen. And to make things worse, she’d come up with a list of “fun” mother-son activities for me to endure during that time.
One of those activities was that every Saturday night, she would introduce me to her favorite movies that consisted of, but were not limited to,Bridget Jones’s Diary,The Wedding Singer,The fucking Notebook,Titanic,and 500 Days of Summer(which wasn’t too bad). On the third weekend of my grounding, just as she was about to hit play onGrease, there was a knock on the door. It was Dean. He convinced my mom that in no way did the terms of my grounding state that I couldn’t have friends over. My mom conceded, and let him stay on the premise that he, too, join in on the movie night.
So, Dean and I sat side by side on the couch and watched Sandy make shitty life choices just so Danny would accept her around his dickhead friends. When it was over, Dean had made such an impression on Mom that she allowed him to spend the night. We lay top-to-toe in my bed, and I was almost asleep when I heard him humming that fucking song. And then I started singing it, too. And then we were both singing it.Screamingit. The next moment we were in fits of laughter, dancing around the room, the song playing loudly through the speakers, while we held invisible microphones to our mouths.
At some point, my mom opened the door, saw what we were doing, and slowly retreated out of the room.
It was at that point I realized that Dean—he could’ve been doing anything else with anyone else, but he was there forme. And the rest, as they say, is history.
* * *
“Mom hireda tutor to help me write my college essay,” Dean says, shaking his head as we make our way to the lockers.
It’s Tuesday morning, we’ve just finished the morning’s weights session, and my hair’s still damp from the shower. A bead of water trails down my neck, and I slap it away. “That’s what we’re doing now? College essays?”
“It’s senior year, dude,” he says, slapping my back. “Time to grow the fuck up.”
“I’d rather not,” I mumble. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl.Our steps slow when we see Jamie’s open locker. I didn’t see her at school yesterday, and I know Dean didn’t because he asked about her. I could only guess why she didn’t show up, but I didn’t want to share my thoughts, especially with him.
Dean sighs. “Remind me again how bad I was.”
“I would, but I’m not into torturing people I can tolerate.” To be honest, I’m not sure which of us is more afraid to face the potential wrath of Jamie, and I wish I knew her better so I could prepare myself for what’s to come. We get to our lockers at the same time Jamie shuts hers, and I find myself in the middle.
Physically.
Metaphorically.
