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To Caleb it must seem like I’m still picking a falling-down farm over him, after almost three years of barely being together. He still doesn’t even know I got into Clarkson, and I feel guilty about that too.
“He’s gone, Lennon,” Caleb says softly. “And he wouldn’t want you to be sitting here, making piles.”
“I know he’s gone. And since he’s gone, I don’t know what he’d want.”
It’s a lie Caleb doesn’t call me out on.
He’s right. If he could see me now, Gramps would call me a coward and push me out the front door in the direction of Clarkson. He wanted me to go. Hetoldme to go.
I gather up the pile of jackets and stand, picking my way past Caleb and down the hallway.
The entire farmhouse is in shambles. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to change anything, so I’ve gone to the opposite extreme. I’ve emptied bookshelves, strewn clothing, removed paintings from the walls. Anything and everything to stay busy.
There aren’t any empty boxes left in the hallway, so I head into my room. Caleb follows, studying me as I dump the jackets into a cardboard box and neatly label the side with a marker. I stay in motion, moving to my bed to fold the load of laundry I did at two a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.
Caleb takes a seat on the mattress next to the pile of clean clothes. I should have known he wasn’t going to drop this so quickly.
I didn’t ask him to stay, but he has. I knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last forever. He has a life to get back to.
I only heard Caleb’s end of the conversation, but I know his baseball coach is not pleased with the delay of his star pitcher’s attendance at a mandatory team camp.
“I’ll come back next weekend,” he tells me.
“It’s fine, Caleb. Really. I’m a big girl.” I force a smile, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“I’m worried about you, Lennon.”
“What do you want me to say, Caleb?” I ask as I fold my favorite T-shirt. “I’m sad and upset and I don’t see either of those things changing anytime soon.”
“Exactly why you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“I have the horses.”
He doesn’t reply right away. At first, I think it’s because he’s trying to come up with a way to tactfully tell me he meant company of the non-equine sort. But he’s no longer looking at me. He’s staring the piece of paper he pulled out of the book I stupidly left out on my bedside table.
“You got in.”
I bite my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. “Yes.”
“You got inweeksago.”
“Yes,” I repeat.
Caleb looks up at me. I watch him visibly push the anger away to keep his voice even. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“You think I’d lie to you about this?”
He stands. “Youdidlie to me about this, Lennon! I asked you if you’d heard back from Clarkson, and you told me that you hadn’t!”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I toss the T-shirt I’m holding back on the bed. “I didn’t know what to tell you, okay?”
“You should have told me what we both knew all along: that you were never going to go.” He shakes his head, dropping the letter onto the mattress.
“It was complicated, Caleb! I didn’t know what to do.”
“I told you we’d be fine if you stayed here, Lennon. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me. It didn’t need to change anything.”
“It would have, though,” I reply. “It would have been a choice, thatImade. It would have been me choosing this farm. And I was worried it would seem likenotchoosing you.”
