How to Say I Love You Out Loud (9 page)

He studies me for a minute, trying to understand something before continuing. “For the record, our friends out there, they’re not bad people, right? If they knew he was your brother,
they wouldn’t be talking like that in front of you.”

“Like that’s any better?” I ask bitterly. “They might not say it out loud, but they’d still be thinking it. I’d almost rather hear them say it, hear what they
really
think, than have to wonder what they’re saying when I’m not listening.”

Alex doesn’t argue with me but he sits quietly for a few minutes before asking something of me. “How come you never told
me
? I can’t believe you never said anything .
. . at some point.”

He glances toward me and our eyes connect like magnets. I think of the other bonfire we spent together and remember everything. I choke out a weak explanation.

“It’s just complicated; everything with my brother is.”

“I can’t believe it’s too complicated to
talk
about,” he argues back.

I swallow back my frustration. What’s so hard to understand?

“At my house? Phillip defines everything. It’s about Phillip, all the time. I get why, sure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t ever get sick and tired of it being that
way.” I take a deep breath, which suddenly sounds shaky again. I wait until the trace of tears disappears. “I just get tired. Of being the bigger person, of being expected to deal with
it
all
the time, every single day.” I shake my head. “Most of the time, I just don’t feel like talking about Phillip.”

“I understand. A lot of shit’s not fair. People take their lives for granted, how easy they can be. You
know
I get that,” he finishes, alluding to life with his
mother, I’m sure. “What I don’t get is why you kept that a secret for over a
year
. At least from me, all things considered. Like, a whole person, you just never
mentioned.”

“There are lots of reasons why I didn’t broadcast the news,” I tell him. “Before Phillip was placed in a school that was right for him, he went to school with me,
elementary school.” My teeth grind together in anger. “You know how in kindergarten, we all knew how to be nice to each other?” I roll my eyes, thinking of the corny analogies
teachers used to share, likening different kids to the rainbow of crayons in the box, reminding us we were all different but still all beautiful and special. Then I shake my head. “Well, kids
lose that ability really quickly. By about third grade, kids get mean. And they were.”

I inhale a deep breath before getting into it. Remembering the story in full, actually feeling it . . . I’m nine years old all over again, confused, and sad, and lonely, and a little bit
scared. Scared that something I have no control over can alter my life in a second.

“The older kids on the bus would imitate him. They would whisper or draw back when he walked by. And the whispers weren’t just about Phillip. They were about me, too. I can’t
tell you how many freakin’ times I heard ‘that’s his sister’ being whispered when I walked by once people put two and two together.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know those kids, so I told myself it didn’t matter that much. And I had friends.”

Caroline.

I usually try not to think her name.

I remember Caroline clear as day, with her feathery brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and deep dimples. She’d been my best friend since forever.

“But it was, like, one day during third grade, out of nowhere, who my brother was meant something. It meant something bad.”

Between kindergarten and third grade, Caroline had spent countless hours at my house. There were sleepovers with Pizza Hut on Friday nights and watching the Saturday morning lineup from our
sleeping bags when we woke up. There were fall afternoons spent in my tree house “cooking” meals of leaves and acorns as we played house. Most memories from my childhood involved
Caroline.

“One day,” I explain to Alex, “my best friend was over during a really bad time with my brother. It got kind of scary, he was really out of control, and she started
crying.” Caroline actually wet her pants, but I don’t tell that part out of some silly lingering sense of loyalty, I guess. “She wanted her parents to pick her up. By recess on
Monday . . . everything had changed.”

A painful knife slices through me as I remember walking out onto the playground and finding all of my so-called friends whispering under the monkey bars. Caroline was in the center of the group.
I smiled as I scampered toward her, but stopped in my tracks at once as I assessed her behavior further. Caroline was giggling and whispering in their ears. She pointedly turned her back to me.
Then she wrapped her arms around two other girls’ shoulders and led the whole group away from me.

“My best friend actually formed a club against me,” I admit. “How stupid and juvenile is that?” I shake my head. “But it wasn’t then. It didn’t feel
stupid. It felt awful. It was the worst thing a girl could do to another girl. They had
rules
, for crying out loud. No one was allowed to talk to me. No one was allowed to sit next to me
at lunch. No one was allowed to trade stickers with me anymore.”

The tears are blurring my eyes again, even though I’m talking about something as ridiculous as sparkly Lisa Frank stickers, but I don’t care. I wrap my arms around my torso,
shivering. If it’s from anger, sadness, or the cold of being away from the fire, I can’t really tell.

“It’s how girls hurt each other in third grade,” I explain. “I wasn’t the first victim, and I wasn’t the last. And Caroline, my supposed best friend . . . she
tried to act like it was about a million other things. That I’d beat her in the spelling bee that morning. That it was ‘annoying’ how I wore a ponytail every day. But I knew the
truth; I could just
feel it
inside. It was about Phillip. We’d reached a certain age when people were just aware of things, and she didn’t want to be associated with my family
anymore. Maybe she was just scared, or embarrassed of how she’d acted at my house, or didn’t understand that Phillip wasn’t contagious or anything, but for whatever reason . . .
all of a sudden being Phillip’s sister was an unforgivable offense.”

Alex remains silent at my side, glaring toward the ground. I’m glad he’s keeping his mouth shut. I’m glad he doesn’t have the nerve to act like it wasn’t a big
deal.

I laugh bitterly as I remember the rest of it. “And you expect adults to set a good example, right? Not so much. That same winter, my mom volunteered to be Cookie Mom for our Girl Scout
troop’s cookie sale. Except our troop leader, who just happened to be Caroline’s mom, came over to ask my mom to ‘reconsider.’ ”

She’d been so patronizing and gentle with the request, acting like it was in Phillip’s best interest, how the near-constant ringing of the doorbell and parade of unfamiliar faces
would “disturb” him. Really, she just didn’t like having Phillip associated with her troop, and she didn’t feel like dealing with the fallout. It was easier to exclude
us.

Stellar example she set for her daughter.

“Those are just a couple of the stories,” I tell Alex, “but trust me, there are plenty. Before I went to middle school, Phillip got placed somewhere else, and when I met a new
bunch of kids, without his being on the scene, some of that faded.”

I shudder, though, because I never forgot what it felt like. The humiliation and despair of being outcast. The gutting realization that someone I thought cared about me could abandon me over
something that had absolutely nothing to do with
me.
It has lingered; it has impacted so many of my relationships, or lack thereof.

“Anyway. I started here last year and no one knew about Phillip. I was just Jordyn. I guess I just sort of liked that feeling. And it’s hard to trust that people would be different
from what I remember. I decided not to let anyone know that much about me.”

The words get caught in my throat and I can’t meet his eye, as I reference the building blocks of the wall I put up between us.

Alex tilts his head and I feel him studying me for a long time. “It’s a shame you never gave anyone here a chance. Kinda sucks you chose to handle it that way.”

My back stiffens defensively. I’ve always known that Alex would think less of me if he knew the truth. He would want me to be different, better. Braver.

“I’m not a bad person,” I protest. “It’s just—”

“I know you’re not a bad person,” he cuts me off. “That’s not what I meant.”

Seeing me shiver, he shrugs out of his sweatshirt even though he only has a short-sleeved T-shirt on underneath. He drapes it around my shoulders and I am at once enveloped in Alex scent and
Alex warmth.

And God does it hurt.

His voice drops to a near whisper and he moistens his lips. “I’m sorry you chose to handle it this way, because it’s just really sad to think about you having to feel so
alone.”

His explanation surprises the hell out of me. It catches me off guard.

My lungs constrict and I can’t breathe. My longing is so intense it’s nearly dizzying. I want to ball my hands in the soft material of his T-shirt and I want to pull him close to me.
I want to bury my face against his chest and I want him to wrap his arms around me. I am longing to be held tightly, I am longing to
not
feel alone.

My fingers inch toward his sleeve, considering.

I force myself to picture Leighton, conjuring up the angry, determined mask that is her face on the hockey field, charging toward the goal.

She is only thirty yards away, tops. While I sit here, wearing her boyfriend’s sweatshirt. What do I think I’m doing?

I already
had
my chance and I blew it. I ball my hand into a fist and shove it inside my pocket.

I ask a stupid question to break the spell. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

It’s a ridiculous thing to ask, and he would be entitled not to justify it with a response.

He answers anyway. “No. That’s your decision.” Alex stands suddenly, brushing off his jeans. “Not my place to judge.”

But his voice has tightened and I sense judgment. I do. He thinks I’m a bad person for wanting to keep my brother a secret.

I stare back at the ground.
We’re not all as perfect as you are, Alex. We’re not as strong or good.

Ultimately, he finds a small smile for me and extends his arm to offer a hand up. “Come back to the party. I’m sure everyone’s moved on.”

“I just need a few more minutes. Then I will, promise.”

Alex nods in the direction of the empty red cup on the ground beside me, the one I carried back with me. His smile blooms and turns teasing. “You think some of this is just ‘beer
tears’?”

I can’t help laughing; he’s probably right. If I hadn’t been drinking, I probably wouldn’t have gotten so worked up. “Not beer tears, no. But maybe a few peppermint
schnapps tears in the mix.”

“You guys need a ride later? Andy’s driving us.”

“Thanks, but we’re okay.” I shake my head. “Tanu’s not drinking tonight. Her mother will be waiting up.”

He hesitates, lingering, but eventually concedes. “Alright. If you say so.”

Alex turns his back to leave, and my mouth is speaking before my brain grants it permission. I attribute it to peppermint schnapps courage. I could never ask the question face-to-face, but I
manage to speak it into the darkness to his retreating figure.

“Why’d you come back here, anyway?”

He stops in his path. He doesn’t turn around right away.

When he does, it’s written all over his face. There are a million ways he could answer my question, a million things left unsaid.

Eventually, he settles on just one. “You were upset,” he says simply. “And look . . . I know there are these . . . boundaries. I know you want them there.” He demands
that my eyes meet his before he continues, and I know we’re not really talking about Phillip or my home life anymore. His expression turns pained. “But you were sad and that makes me
sad. I wasn’t gonna stay out there and enjoy the party.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning and leaving me for good.

There’s no point in him hanging around, because what am I supposed to say to that anyway?

His words from just moments earlier ring in my head.

“I’m sure everyone’s moved on.”

This is the truth and about more than a stupid conversation around the bonfire.

Alex has no business hinting at our past now that he’s with Leighton. He can’t just say these things to me . . . and then walk back to her.

Renewed tears, fueled by frustration and regret, fill my eyes.

The last time Alex and I had wandered away from a group at a bonfire . . . he’d kissed me.

One more secret I never allude to, another reality I keep locked away and closely guarded.

I crane my neck, able to make out frenzied sparks of the fire leaping high into the air between the trees. Then I conjure up the memory of last summer’s staff party, which is something I
don’t allow myself to do very often. If I did, there’s no way I could go on being “just friends” with Alex Colby.