It Was Me (13 page)

TWENTY FIVE

I didn't remember the drive home. Or how I got back into the apartment.

“Dude.”

I looked up from my spot on the couch. Griffin was at the front door, a Carl's Jr. bag in his hands. “You saved me some brownies, right? That is what you baked, isn't it?”

I stared blankly at him.

He stared back at me. “Dude. You stoned or something?”

I blinked my eyes a couple of times, then shook my head. “What? No.”

He dropped the bag on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. He lowered his big body into it and dug into the bag, hauling out a thick burger and an oversized carton of fries.

“So what gives?” He bit into his sandwich and ketchup dripped on to his chin. “You look all mopey and shit.”

I straightened up and ran my hand through my hair. “Nah. Just tired.”

He nodded at the pan sitting on the table. I hadn't realized I'd put them there. “Those fair game?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I mean, no.” I sighed. I sounded like a fucking girl.

He raised his eyebrows. “Uh, which one is it?”

My phone rang then and I jumped off the couch and grabbed it from the coffee table. My heart leapt when I saw the familiar name.

I hit the answer button and hustled down the hallway to my room. “Hey,” I said.

“Hi.” Abby's voice sounded tinny and hollow and altogether wrong.

“Where've you been?”

Silence filled the line.

I felt something in my gut. Uneasiness. The stirrings of dread. Something was wrong. “Abs?”

“I...” her voice trailed off.

I sat down on my bed. “What's wrong?”

I could hear her sigh. “Are you home?”

“Of course I'm home. I've been waiting all fucking day to see you.”

“I know. I'm--”

“Where have you been? Why haven't you answered your phone? Texted me back?” My voice rose just a little and I tried to bring it down a notch. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I...” Her voice cracked. “Look, I don't want to do this over the phone.”

I stood up and began to pace. “Do what?”

She didn't answer.

“Abby?” I stopped in the middle of my room and clenched the phone right in my hands. “Do what?”

“Not on the phone,” she repeated, her voice a whisper.

I knew then. I knew what was coming. I didn't know why and I didn't know where the fuck it was coming from, but I knew what she was about to tell me.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Do it,” I said.

“No.”

“Do it, goddammit!” I screamed.

Her voice shook. “Stop.”

“Say it. Say what you're gonna say.”

“I'm five minutes away.”

“Don't come,” I spat out.

“What?”

“You heard me. Tell me whatever it is you need to say. On the phone. Now.”

“West.”

“Say it.”

“Fine.” Her voice was strangled with tears. “I think we need a break.”

I laughed, a short harsh laugh. “A break?”

“Things are moving too fast. Moving and stuff. I'm...I'm not sure I'm ready for it.”

“Fine,” I answered. “We'll stay here. I'll call the fucking school now. Tell them no deal.”

“No.” Her tone was near hysterical. “No. You can't.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Wait. I...it's more than that.” She paused before speaking again, her words coming out in a rush. “It's more than that. I'm just not sure about anything right now. About...about us.”

“You're not sure about us?” I laughed again. “Really? Because you seemed pretty damn sure the other night when I had your clothes off.”

“Stop,” she said and I could tell she was crying.

I dropped the asshole routine. “Talk to me, Abby. Tell me what's wrong.”

“I can't.” There was no mistaking the tears now. “I can't tell you. And I can't do this. Us. I'm...I'm sorry.”

Before I could say anything, before I could even respond, the line clicked and went dead. I stood in the center of my room and stared at the darkened screen of my phone. I didn't think, just reacted. I hurled the phone at the wall and it shattered into pieces.

“You okay?” Griffin's voice floated toward me.

I wrenched my door open and stalked out into the hallway. Griffin was at the table, standing, his empty Carl's Jr. bag in his hands. His eyes widened when he saw me and he took a step back.

I grabbed the pan of brownies and stared at it for a second before firing it against the dining room wall. Chocolate smeared the white walls, dripping in globs to the carpet below.

I stared at my best friend.

“No. I'm not fucking okay.”

TWENTY SIX

Griffin didn't come after me. He knew better.

I didn't have my keys so I walked the ten blocks to Mission Boulevard. I jogged down the steps to the beach, my mind in overdrive as I played Abby's words over and over. The sun was a low orb on the horizon, a dull orange behind the haze of clouds that lurked over the water and I wished I could reach out and grab it. Smash it against something, too.

Abby. She needed a break. She wasn't sure about us. What the fuck did that mean? I dug my feet in as I made my way down to the hard-packed sand. I thought about all of the reasons she could have gone from sixty to zero in the span of two days.

Maybe she was seeing someone else. Fury blazed hot in my blood at the thought of her touching someone else, kissing someone else. I clenched my fists tight, the muscles in my forearms twitching. No fucking way, the rational part of me said. She was with me all the time. She loved me. But she didn't spend every waking minute with me. We had separate lives. And maybe hers included someone else.

No. Not Abby. She wouldn't cheat.

Tana. She'd just spent time with Tana. Two days. Maybe her best friend had convinced her to dump me. Decided I wasn't good enough. Persuaded her to think twice about ditching everything and running off to Tucson with me.

I shook my head. That didn't make sense, either. Tana liked me. Really liked me. And even though we'd never had the opportunity to spend much time together with her being up in San Luis during the school year, we'd still hung out enough. On weekends when she came home, Christmas break...we'd always included Tana in our plans. And she'd always acted as though she liked me. Had said as much.

I kicked at the sand as I headed north toward Law Street. Clumps of seaweed littered the beach, flies buzzing the rotting leaves. A stray plastic bottle was wrapped up in one of the piles and I launched it with my foot, sending it spiraling into the air.

Maybe it was her parents. Their reaction to me when I'd stopped by the house had been lukewarm. Cool, even. Mr. Sellers hadn't seemed too thrilled with me dragging Abby along to Tucson to play ball—maybe he'd sat her down and told her he wasn't on board. And that he wasn't paying her tuition to go.

But even that seemed far-fetched, especially considering Abby's words to me. She needed a break. She wasn't sure about us. She wouldn't say those things if her parents had suddenly thrown down the gauntlet. She'd tell me. I could picture her showing up at my place, eyes flashing, that haughty expression she often wore when she was royally pissed off. And she would have lit into me, her anger flaring—not at me, but to me. Letting me know exactly how she was feeling. It was what she did. Who she was. And I loved it. I loved her.

So to just say that she needed a break? That she wasn't sure about me and her and everything we'd been through and done over the last year?

That didn't make sense.

I swallowed against the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

Because there was one way it did make sense.

If she was simply telling the truth.

She did need a break.

From me.

TWENTY SEVEN

I picked up the phone a hundred times the next day. The new phone I'd gone and bought after shattering the old one. I stared at the screen, checked texts and voice mail. There was nothing. Just as many times, I clicked on Abby's picture on my contact list, my finger poised over the call button. A million things went through my mind. Things I could say, reasons I could call her. But I never pressed it.

Griffin didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't need to.

But by the third day of my sulk fest, he'd had enough.

“Yo,” he said, coming into the living room with a towel wrapped around his mid-section. “You gotta snap out of it, dude.”

I stared at the television screen, watching the Padres mangle another attempt to win a game. They'd been up by two in the bottom of the seventh. It was now the top of the ninth and they'd given up four runs to the fucking Dodgers.

“Dude.” Griffin's voice was louder.

I'd called in sick to work earlier in the afternoon. A bag of empty tortilla chips sat next to me on the couch and a half dozen beer cans littered the top of the coffee table.

I turned glazed eyes toward him. “What?”

He lowered himself into the recliner, his legs spread wide, the towel not covering much of anything. His hair was wet and the smell of his deodorant soap was heavy in the air.

“Jesus, dude,” I muttered. “Cover up or something.”

He glanced down at his crotch. “You want some?”

My mouth dropped. “What. The. Fuck?”

His grin widened. “Yay,” he said, but his voice was flat. “Finally, a reaction from you.” When I didn't respond, he said, “You've been in a fucking catatonic state for three days, man. Needed to say something to get a rise out of you.” He glanced at my basketball shorts. “Not literally, because that would be fucking weird.”

I rolled my eyes but I couldn't hold back a small smile. “Whatever, dude. Surprised you know what catatonic means.”

He tapped the side of his head. “Genius, man.” He grabbed a beer can and shook it. And then another. “These all empty?”

I motioned to the one closest to me. “Think that has some left.”

He picked it up and brought it to his lips. “Tastes like piss,” he grumbled after he drained the can.

“Well, the bathroom was kinda far away.”

He fired the can at my head and I ducked. It clanked against the wall and fell next to me on the couch.

“Alright,” he said, settling himself into the recliner. He adjusted the towel so he was covered up. “We need a plan.”

I eyed him. “A plan for what?”

“A plan to get you out of this funk, man.” He shook his head. “I don't know what went down and I don't know if you wanna tell me, but I'm a smart guy. Catatonic. I used that word. Remember?”

“Uh...”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said good-naturedly. “I might not know the deets but it's pretty obvious you and Abby split.”

I tensed up immediately and he held out his hand. “Hold up, dude,” he said. “Not looking to make things harder for you. But this?” He waved his hand around the living room. “This shit's gotta stop. You need to get out, man. You can't just hole up in here forever.”

“No?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Watch me.”

Griffin shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew sitting in my apartment, locked away from everything, was the absolute worst thing I could do. But it didn't matter. I didn't want to do what was good for me. Because I'd just lost the best thing in my life.

“So here's what we're gonna do,” Griffin said. He ran his hand through his wet hair, studying me. “We're going out. Tonight.”

“Nope.”

“Yeah. We are.” He was smiling but there was something deadly serious in his eyes. “I'm your best friend, West. I'm getting you out. And I don't care if you drink yourself into oblivion tonight or fuck the first girl you see but you're getting out of this apartment.”

I started to mouth off but he cut me off. “I'm bigger than you and I'm stronger than you, dude. And I'll haul your ass out of here slung over my shoulder if I have to.”

“It's not going to help.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then, “Things did go south? With Abby?”

I nodded.

“I'm sorry, man. That blows.”

I nodded again. I didn't trust my voice.

He stood up and readjusted the towel. He sighed. “Look. You wanna talk, I'll be in my room. I can be a girl for a night.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not
that
way. You know what I mean. Or if you wanna hit something, come find me. I'll be your punching bag. You wanna go somewhere on your own and drink until you pass out, you let me know where to find you. I'll come get your ass. You got it?”

That weird lump was in my throat again. Griffin might not have been the most eloquent guy on the planet, but I knew what he was doing, what he was saying.

He was my best friend. He was there for me.

Even when Abby wasn't.

Especially when Abby wasn't.

TWENTY EIGHT

“Seriously?” I asked Griffin.

“What?”

He'd managed to convince me to get dressed and forced me into my truck. Told me there was a party and we were going. I'd thought about arguing, standing my ground and staying home. But he postured in front of me at the apartment, letting me know he wasn't leaving without me. And I was too fucking tired to fight.

So we were driving down Ingraham and he motioned for me to turn on to Riviera.

And suddenly I was right back in the spot where I'd had my first date with Abby. I remembered it vividly. Standing against the railing, trying to be casual as I scanned the road for her car. Seeing her walk toward me on the sidewalk, butterflies knocking around in my gut as she approached. I remembered what she wore. Denim shorts that showed off her legs, a pink V-neck T-shirt that dipped just low enough. I remembered how she'd styled her hair and done her make-up. I remembered every detail about that date. The good and the bad.

“The party's down here?” My voice was filled with disbelief.

“Yeah. Luke's house. Small, I promise.”

Luke. One of Griffin's friends. I didn't know him well, had surfed with him maybe a dozen times. He was a good guy, small and wiry, decent at best out on the water. I'd been to his place one time before and that had been to pick him up for a session up at Swamis.

“Not on the beach?”

Griffin shook his head. “Nope. House only. It's his birthday. Twenty-one, man. The alcohol will be flowing. They're hanging here for a bit and then heading down to Mission. We can go with or head home. Your call.”

I wasn't twenty-one yet but it didn't matter at a lot of the bars in PB. If you knew who was working the door, you could get in. And I knew enough of the bouncers so that it was never an issue if I wanted to go. Hell, I'd surfed with half of them.

But I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone out bar hopping. Not just because Abby wasn't old enough. It was more because I didn't have a reason to go anymore. I wasn't looking to hook up or get mindlessly shit-faced. I had better things to do with my time, things that mattered. School. Work. Spend time with my girlfriend.

I shifted the truck into park, a little too hard, and we jerked to a stop. One of those three things had been permanently removed from the equation. The second—work—I'd put on the back burner by calling in sick. And school? Coach Childs had called a couple of times to discuss logistics. I'd let him roll over to voicemail and I hadn't bothered calling back.

Griffin was already out of the car and halfway up the sidewalk that led to the house. “You coming?”

I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be so close to a place that shared memories of Abby. I shook my head in disgust. Who the fuck was I kidding? Every place had memories of her. The apartment. My truck. Every single place in Pacific Beach. Because if I hadn't been with Abby at a particular place, I'd been thinking about her. Not in an obsessed, stalker kind of way, but in the way that a guy does when he's completely in love with the girl he's with. She wasn't front and center in my mind all the time but she was there, on the periphery. It could be something as simple as pulling through the drive-thru at the taco shop, thinking about what she'd order if she was with me. Picking up milk from the grocery store and seeing the bottled smoothies she always gravitated to. Getting gas and thinking that, if she'd been in the truck with me, I would have run in and grabbed her a Milky Way. Just because.

So it didn't matter that I was back in the place where it had all started. Where we'd started. Where we'd transitioned from being two people who'd met at Mesa to two people who were pretty fucking sure there was something special between them.

It didn't matter. Because every place had those memories. And it was suddenly crystal clear that I wasn't going to be able to avoid them. Not now. Not ever.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “I'm coming.”

The party was small. Half a dozen guys lounging in Luke's living room, beer bottles and cups scattered across every horizontal surface. Luke sat in the center of a faded blue couch, a bong cradled in his hands.

“Yo,” he said, his eyes red and watery. “Long time, man.”

I nodded. “Happy birthday.”

He brought the mouthpiece to his lips and sucked hard. He swallowed and then exhaled a puff of smoke. Wordlessly, he handed it to me.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd smoked. Not since I'd been with Abby, for sure. I reached for it but before I could connect, Griffin's hand shot out to stop me.

“Me first,” he said, his tone joking, but his eyes locked on mine. He leaned close. “No way, man. They'll test you for this shit when you start playing again.”

I tightened my grip on the glass bowl. “Who says I'll be playing?”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

I shrugged and lowered my head so it was level with the bowl. “You heard me.” I took the lighter Luke handed me and lit up.

Griffin jostled me. Hard. The bong clattered to the floor and the glass bowl shattered.

“Aw, shit,” Griffin said. He looked at Luke, his expression contrite. “Looks like I'll be buying you a new bong for your birthday, bro.”

Luke smiled and closed his eyes. “It's all good, man.”

I shot a deadly look at my best friend. “I know what I'm doing.”

“Bullshit you do,” he countered. He found an unopened bottle of beer and twisted off the cap. I thought he was going to take a swig but instead, he handed it to me. “Do yourself a favor and stick with this.”

I rolled my eyes but took the bottle from him. It was cold and I drained it in two gulps.

Four beers later and I was feeling good. Not great, but good. A few more people had shown up as the night progressed, all guys from the beach. No chicks. A couple of guys bitched about it but I was grateful. I'd found the one place—a living room that reeked of beer and pot—that didn't remind me of Abby. And I knew I'd be content to stay there all night.

“Where's that woman of yours?”

I looked up. Brady Pfeiffer, one of Grif's friends, was looking at me. There was no malice in his question, only curiosity, but I felt my muscles tense.

Griffin stepped in. “She's not here, dude. This is a guy party, right? We'll find the chicas later.”

Brady nodded and knocked back a drink from his cup. From the dozen bottles of half-full liquor on display on the kitchen counter, it could have been any number of things. “Just weird, seeing you without her. She'd come to watch you surf sometimes, right?”

She had. I didn't spend a ton of time in the water but, living in San Diego, you were sort of an anomaly if you didn't know how to surf. Growing up, I spent more time playing baseball than riding waves but I'd always managed to sneak in a session. After my life went to shit and the scholarship to Stanford fell apart, I found myself heading out into the water more and more. Even after Abby and I started going out, I'd still take my board down once or twice a week and hit the waves for an hour or two. Sometimes she came with me, sometimes she didn't. She'd find a spot on the beach—in the warmer months, she'd lay out in some smoking hot bikini, her earbuds parked in her ears, a paperback in her lap. During the winter when I was pulling on a full wetsuit instead of just a rashguard, she'd wrap a blanket around herself and sit on the sand and watch me. Sitting out on the water, waiting for a set to come in, I'd look at her. Sometimes, she'd have her phone to her ear and, even from where I was, I could see her nodding and laughing and I knew she was talking to Tana. But, more often than not, her hand was up on her forehead, shielding her eyes so she could find me. Watch me.

Brady was staring at me and I realized I never answered him. So I just said, “Yeah.”

“You guys still going out?”

It was an innocent question and I knew he was just saying it to make conversation. We weren't on the water, we weren't at the beach. There wasn't a shit ton for two guys who didn't really know each other to talk about.

“We broke up.” The words felt funny coming out of my mouth, like I was speaking in a foreign language with a mouth full of marbles.