Every Last Word (18 page)

Please kiss me.

“Sure,” I say.

“Good,” he replies. “Friends.”

But I want more. I picture Devon again. She had more. Then again, she probably never teased him for a stutter he couldn’t help and harassed him until he switched schools.

“I should go,” I say. I’m still standing close enough for him to touch me again, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to. He doesn’t move, but his eyes are
locked on mine like he’s trying to read my thoughts. If he could, he’d understand how much I want him to wrap his arms around my waist and rest his chin on my shoulder, looking as
relaxed and happy as he did in that picture.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Okay,” he finally says, and then he walks over to the door and turns the knob, and I reluctantly follow him down the hall.

He grabs my car keys off the table in the entryway and dangles them in front of me. “Thanks again for helping Em,” he says.

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I don’t want to leave. I’m not entirely sure he wants me to.

AJ stands on the porch, leaning against a post with his arms crossed, watching me climb into my car. I back out of the driveway, wondering what would have happened if I’d been brave enough
to tell him what I was really thinking.

S
omewhere around midnight, I thought about taking my sleep meds and calling it a night. But I couldn’t stop researching, and so by
four a.m., I’ve learned a lot about Devon Rossiter.

I’ve been manically opening window after window, clicking on link after link, scanning site after site, but I’m still following this white rabbit down the hole, trying to feed my
brain enough information to reach my own personal wonderland.

Like Kyle, Devon’s an impressive athlete, well ranked on the varsity team. Carlton High posts everything from team to individual player stats, so not only can I see her official photo
(again, pretty, very little makeup) I can see every point, goal, shot, assist, and steal for every game she played last season.

There are lots of team photos, and in each one, she’s wearing her long blond hair in a ponytail with her bangs pulled back in a sporty-looking headband. There are a few videos, but
she’s not in many of them.

Across the Internet, I’ve uncovered a few articles about her. I can’t figure out where she lived, but that would be easy if I really wanted to find out. Even if my mom didn’t
represent either side of the sale, I bet her laptop has all the details. I can’t tell where they live now, but I’ve located her dad’s new office in Boston on Google Maps.

Devon seems to be settling in well at her new school, making friends both on and off the team. Her Facebook page is open, so I can see everything, including a long and photographically detailed
history of her “almost a year” relationship with AJ. There are pictures from our winter formal—I recognize the background—and I notice that she’s wearing more makeup
in these shots, but still not as much as I wear every day. There are photos of the two of them at the beach and the two of them at her niece’s third birthday party and the two of them at
various soccer tournaments, including one of her standing in between AJ and Kyle, her arms draped over their shoulders. She checked in at a few movies and tagged AJ, too.

Of course, that leads me to AJ’s Facebook page, but I find his almost completely untouched, save the times she’s tagged him. There’s nothing about him here. Nothing about
music. Nothing about poetry. Nothing about his brother or his mom, and nothing that connects him to the people in Poet’s Corner.

With every click, I feel the tightening in my stomach, the adrenaline rush, the
need
to learn more—not about her, about
them
. I have to understand this relationship and
what’s at the root of that expression on AJ’s face when he’s looking at Devon and not at the camera, which he’s often doing.

It’s not jealousy. It’s my OCD, this inexplicable, uncontrollable
need
to know one thing, and then one more thing, and then yet another thing, until my brain is exhausted. And
tonight, I’m having a hard time reaching that level, because it’s been hours and I still don’t know what it feels like to be in a relationship like this one—to be that
close, that connected to someone else—and I need to figure it out in a way no one but Sue would ever understand.

Sue. If she saw what I was doing right now, she’d lose it.

I shut my laptop and let it drop to the floor next to my nightstand. I shouldn’t be doing this. Devon doesn’t live here, and she and AJ aren’t together. And even if she did and
they were, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re barely even friends.

My logical mind knows these things are true, but still, when I close my eyes, there’s this image of AJ and Devon twisted up in the sheets together. His mom isn’t home until six
o’clock on weeknights. His brother’s never home either. He loved her and he still might. How often did they meet at his house after school? Did they cut classes, spending full days
together in his bed? They must have, at least once. Serious relationship, empty house, that’s what you do.

I don’t want to think about the two of them, arms and legs intertwined under his blue comforter, but I can’t fall asleep because I can’t get the image out of my head.

C
aroline and I are sitting in the front row of the theater in our usual seats. I’m jittery from my lack of sleep and the three Cokes
I’ve had since lunch. This morning, I found AJ’s guitar pick in the pocket of my jeans, and I’ve been fiddling with it ever since, like it’s my thinking putty. I’ve
already decided I’m going to tape it up on the inside of my locker door.

“You’re freaking out about a girl he hasn’t spoken to in months,” Caroline says.

We’ve been trying to write a new poem, but I’m having a hard time concentrating. I keep picturing the way AJ folded his arms around me, his chest pressed against my back, his warm
breath on my neck. I can’t stop reliving that fantasy when I crossed the room and kissed him. I’m trying to think about the good parts of being alone with AJ in his room
yesterday—because there were many of them—but no matter what I do, that photograph pops into my mind every time.

“They were together for almost a year. It was serious, Caroline.”

“So? It’s not serious now.”

I close my notebook, leaving the pencil in the binding to mark our place, and lean back in the crushed red velvet theater seat. “See, this is good. Keep going,” I say, curling my
finger toward me. “This is why I told you. I knew you’d talk some sense into me. Did I tell you she’s a senior?”

“Three times now.” Caroline shifts in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “Do you really want to hear what I think, Sam?”

“Of course I do.” I throw my head back and stare up at the ceiling. She doesn’t say anything. I look at her, so she knows I mean it. “Please. I want to know what you
think.”

“Fine,” Caroline says. “I think he likes you.”

“You do?”

She doesn’t answer my question; she just keeps talking.

“I also think you’re overcomplicating this whole thing. I think that even when good, totally normal, completely healthy things happen in your life, like”—she starts
articulating her points on her fingers—“your new car, writing poetry, spending an afternoon at AJ’s house, meeting me…” She sits up straighter wearing a big fake grin,
then returns to her serious tone. “You seem determined to find a way to make them
unhealthy
.”

“You? I haven’t turned you into anything unhealthy.”

“Maybe not yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She laughs. “You’re missing the point, Sam. These are all good things, all
normal
things. And rather than enjoying them, you find a way to twist them into something
toxic.”

I roll my eyes and let out a sigh. “Trust me, I want to stop thinking. I wish I could.”

Caroline kicks her feet out in front of her and leans way back in the chair, crossing her arms behind her head and staring off into the distance. “You should hit baseballs.”

“Baseballs,” I say flatly.

“My dad and I used to go to the batting cages at the park. Have you ever been?”

“I think I went when I was a little kid. It was ages ago. I don’t really remember it. Why?”

“You get in the cage all alone.” Caroline sits up straight and begins talking louder and faster, using her hands for emphasis. “Then you grab your bat and take your stance, and
even though you’re expecting it, there’s a sense of surprise when this ball comes flying out of the machine right at you.” She points to her head. “So you grip the bat
tighter and bring it to your shoulder. You watch the ball. Then you step into it and swing.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this.

“You hear this
crack
when the bat connects, and then the ball’s gone, soaring off into the distance. But you can’t relax, because now there’s another ball speeding
your way. So you tighten your grip, take your stance, and swing again. And you keep going until your time runs out. By then, your shoulder is throbbing and you’re totally out of breath, but
you feel pretty damn good.”

“You’re saying my thoughts are like baseballs.”

Her lips curl into a satisfied grin. “Exactly. And you, my friend, stand there in the batting cage and let those balls smack you in the head, over and over again. But you don’t have
to.” She taps her finger against her temple. “You have a perfectly good bat.”

“I have a broken bat.”

“Eh. It’ll do,” she says. Then she leans back in the chair again and crosses her arms, looking proud to have said her piece. “Are you still glad you asked me what I
thought?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Good. Can you be happy, please? Things are going well, aren’t they?”

They are. I can’t wait to get downstairs on Mondays and Thursdays. I’m even starting to look forward to stepping up on that stage. I haven’t had an Eights-induced thought
spiral in weeks.

“Yes.”

“You can trust them, Sam,” she says. “Let your guard down with AJ and everyone else. And please, stop thinking so much. You’re exhausting.”

I give her foot a kick. She kicks me back. And we return to writing.

O
ver the next week, I see AJ everywhere.

I pass by him between classes, and not only after second period the way I’ve intentionally scheduled. At lunch each day, I see him sitting with Emily and Cameron, and when I catch him
stealing glances at me, he quickly looks away and pretends to be deep in conversation. I’ve seen him in the student lot twice now, climbing into Sydney’s car. Both times I drove away
wishing he’d climbed into mine.

On Monday, I tried to talk with him after Poet’s Corner, but he said he had somewhere he needed to be and sped up the stairs so fast, Caroline even looked at me and said, “Well, that
was awkward.”

I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing last week, because it’s as if the two of us never chatted over linguistics and playlists, I never saw his room or his clipboard
filled with music, and that an incredibly sexy acoustic guitar lesson—the one I’m still obsessing about and not even
trying
to block from my mind—didn’t happen at
all.