Just Like Fate (4 page)

I wake up on Saturday, the morning after the worst day of
my life so far, and my sister’s asleep next to me. I don’t know
when she came in, but I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind
that she’s here. Whatever changed between us at the hospital seems to be still in effect, and having her here is like a
silent peace treaty after years at war. Except that her presence
reminds me of the reality that Gram’s dead.

I don’t move; I don’t even feel like I’m breathing. I listen
to the erratic drum of rain hitting the gutter outside, trying to
force my thoughts away from Gram. They land on wondering
whether the back window of my car is still cracked open from
when Felicity thought she was going to puke after lunch yesterday. I wonder if it was cracked when I went to see—

Gram’s dead.
It hits me again: the helplessness and the heartache. I
actually put my hand to my chest; I feel like I’ll never take a
deep breath again. But still, I don’t cry.
Why don’t I cry?

I think of the way she looked just before she died. I think
of standing by her bedside, listening to her talk. Those will be
the last things she ever says. The thought makes my stomach
tighten like a fist.

To calm myself, I think of all the mundane things I still
have to do. Like walking a cat. “Freaking Junior,” I mutter.
“What?” Natalie says, her voice groggy.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. I slip out of the bed. “Go back to
sleep.” I gather my messy hair into a ponytail, shrug into a
sweatshirt, and step into shearling boots before leaving my
room.
I skip my morning routine and head downstairs because
what does a cat care about fresh breath? He sure doesn’t have
it. And this way, I can pee in my own bathroom instead of the
one with the stepstool for Judith. I always trip over that thing.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks from behind me. My
hand freezes on the front door handle. She’s always been eerily
quiet—she could make a career out of sneaking up on people.
“Just down to Gram’s,” I say without turning around. For
some reason, I don’t want to see my mom’s face—her sadness.
“She told me to check up on Junior. I hope I can manage to get
him out from under her bed.”
“I need to add that to my list,” Mom says absentmindedly.
Finally, because it’s getting weird, I turn around. She looks . .
. empty. She’s fixated on an old water stain on the antique hall
table. “We need to find him a home,” she says.
“What?” I ask, surprised. “You can’t do that. Gram loved
that cat.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find someone else who loves him just
as much,” Mom says, eyes still on the stain. There’s no fire in
her words: She says them like she’s programmed to do so.
“I’ll take care of him,” I protest, staring intently at Mom—
needing her to look at me.
“Albert’s allergic to cats. And Judith’s afraid of Junior.
He’s not living here.”
“No, I meant with me at Gram’s.”
Mom’s eyes snap to attention.
“You understand that you’re moving back home now that
Gram is gone, right?” she asks. “There’s no way I’d let you
live there without parental supervision. And regardless, selling the house is on my list, too.”
“You’re going to sell the house?” I ask so quietly it’s
almost a whisper. Then, a little louder, “How can you even
think about that right now?”
Mom crosses her arms; I know I’ve hurt her feelings.
“Believe me, I don’t want to,” she says. “But those were her
final wishes, Caroline. She wanted Teddy to tell me.”
Mom looks away, and I imagine that she’s thinking about the
fact that she didn’t get to say good-bye to her own mother. That,
in a way, Gram chose her grandchildren over her daughters.
“Don’t stay over there too long,” she says in a faraway
voice before turning away.
“I won’t,” I say after her, but she doesn’t hear. The door to
the kitchen is already swinging back into the hallway.

I jog up the steps to Gram’s house and try the door—she
always left it unlocked—before realizing what I’m doing. I
sigh heavily and walk around to get the key from the magnetic
thing under the drainpipe on the side of the house. I go in,
lean my back against the door, and take in the house that, for
the past five years, has been my home. I look at the brightly
painted walls, the dark wood floors. The eclectic furniture.
Her handpicked art collection. It’s like I can feel the space
missing her. I miss her in it.

The sound of my phone makes me jump.
“Hello?” I say quickly, heart pounding.
“Hi,” Simone says, and I can tell right off the bat she’s

using her sympathetic voice today. “How are you
doing
,
Linus? Is everything okay? I mean, no, of course it’s not okay.
But, like, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say before she continues vomiting words. “Or
at least I will be.” I hear her sigh on the other end of the line,
relieved.

“Sorry for being such a freak,” she says. “I just don’t really
know what to say. . . .”
“There’s no right thing,” I say. “Honestly, I wish people
would just not talk about it right now. I realize that sounds
awful, but it’s not like I’m not already thinking about her. I
only just woke up and it’s already too much. I mean last night
when we got home, it was just . . . ugh. I wish someone would
talk about something else.”
“Like what?” Simone asks tentatively.
“Like anything!” I say, finally walking through the entryway and into the house. I weave through the living room and
find myself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with
water like . . . usual. “Tell me about the party last night,” I say
before drinking half the glass in one gulp.
“For real?” Simone asks, unsure.
“Yes!”
There’s a pause when I picture my best friend’s internal
debate over whether it’s selfish or helpful for her to divulge
all the juicy details she’s dying to share. In the end, her inner
gossip wins out. She takes a deep breath, and then, like she’s
never spoken before and it’s some great release to do so, she
says everything at once.
“Felicity met some guy in a sweater-vest and he actually
danced with her despite the fact that she was wearing those
suspenders again—I mean what is she
thinking
?—and it was
geek love by the end of the night. Gwen left early after some
girl called her a hooker, which was totally uncalled for, but
between you and me, those four-inch heels aren’t doing her
reputation any favors.”
Simone takes a quick breath—only enough so she doesn’t
pass out but not long enough for me to react—before she dives
in again.
“I met a guy named Ed who seemed really great and I
know what you’re going to say but I’ll tell you anyway: I made
out with him a little.” I can’t help it—I laugh.
“You’re a professional kisser,” I say, thrilled by the normalcy of the conversation. “You kiss guys the second you
meet them.”
“I do not!” Simone protests, but she laughs, busted.
“You do too,” I say. “It’s like your version of a handshake.
It’s a tongue-shake.”
“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” she says.
“You’re disgusting.”
“I speak the truth,” I tease.
“Well, you know what they say . . . you have to kiss a lot of
frogs to meet your prince,” she says good-naturedly. Simone’s
always known who she is; I love her for that. “And besides, it
stops at kissing,” she says. “It’s not like I’m letting them cop a
C-cup on the first date or anything.”
“Simone!” I squeal, equally embarrassed by and in love
with her forwardness. “You’re so bad,” I say, shaking my head.
“So, how did it end with Mr. Wonderful Not Wonderful?”
“You really want to know?” she asks in a way that makes
me nervous.
“I don’t know—do I?”
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m home . . . at Gram’s,” I say. I can practically hear Simone hesitate—like I just threw a pail of water on her fire—so I
quickly add, “Why? Where are you?”
“My house,” she says, “but I have an errand to run. I’ll
pick you up and you can go with me—I’ll buy you hot chocolate afterward. Salted caramel hot chocolate.”
“That’s unfair,” I say, drooling like one of those dogs in
the science experiment. “Why do I feel like this isn’t going to
end well?”
“It’ll be fine, Linus,” she says. “I’m just messing around.
The guy gave me his sweatshirt and then texted me this morning, wanting it back. Classic ploy to get to bathe in my awesomeness a little longer,” she says, laughing at her own joke.
“Anyway, I’m going to drop it off, then we can go hang out. I’m
not into the guy—I just want to rip off the Band-Aid and it’ll
be done. But then I get to see you and give you a big hug and
we can talk about . . . whatever.”
“You don’t want to go alone, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. I’ll be your breakup buffer. Just so long as you
promise not to mention death,” I say. “Or funerals. You have
to promise not to talk about anything serious whatsoever.”
“Done.”
“I need like an hour. I have to go find the cat and walk
him.”
“You know that’s completely deranged, don’t you?” she
asks. Simone walked Junior with me once and we made it
one block in fifteen minutes—Junior was crouched low to the
cement, terrified the whole time. Eventually I had to pick him
up and carry him back like a baby. Or, I guess, like a cat.
“Yeah, but it was Gram’s thing,” I say quietly. “Anyway, I
have to shower. I’m still wearing my pajamas.”
“Pajamas are infinitely better than what Felicity leaves the
house in on a daily basis,” Simone says. “You should just wear
those.”
“But what if we run into Joel at the coffee shop or something?” I pause, surprised to admit my crush on Joel so easily.
Simone gasps.
“Well, aren’t we taking off the training wheels? Are you
actually ready to go for it with Joel Ryder, Linus? It’s not like
it’s a gazillion years late or anything.”
I smile, blushing slightly. “I don’t know about
going
for
anything. But I think my unspoken admiration doesn’t have
to be so silent anymore.”
“Well,” Simone says, “Speaking of Joel . . . he was there
last night.”
“What?” I ask, gripping the phone and suddenly nervous.
“Joel was at the party?”
“Yep. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.” She kisses
the phone and hangs up, leaving me exhilarated and anxious.
Just perfect for trying to lure a skittish cat from under a couch.
I coax Junior out with a mangy mouse toy before snapping him into his leash. I walk him up and down the block
in the opposite direction from my house. Then I run up the
stairs and shower with my own shampoo, not borrowed baby
shampoo from Juju, and search my
real
bedroom for clothes
that aren’t pajamas. It all feels so normal until I walk down the
hall and turn the door handle that leads to Gram’s room.
I step inside: It smells like lavender, mint, and rose, and
the air is still, like it’s waiting for something. Waiting for her.
Invisible fingertips run up the back of my neck and I shiver
even though the heat’s on.
She left it on.
The room is like its own planet, so far away from my own.
I walk over and touch the quilt draped at the end of Gram’s
bed, soft after years of use. I run my fingers along the smooth
wooden footboard, then the top of the low dresser.
“I love you, Gram,” I say quietly into her space. “If you
can hear me, I just want you to know that.”
Nothing happens—nothing changes. But it feels like she
heard me anyway. I leave and head downstairs to wait for Simone. For stories of Joel and kissing strangers and hot chocolate. For anything but empty bedrooms with smells that’ll fade
over time.
For anything but thinking about Gram.

Simone turns down the heater when I jump in the passenger seat of her silver car, then she gives me a hug that lingers
longer than usual. When she pulls back, dark brown eyes on
mine, I remind her of her promise.

She smiles deviously, then, “Did I tell you that this guy
Ed kisses like a dog licking himself ?” We both totally lose it;
there’s a point when I actually wish I’d stop laughing because
my stomach muscles hurt from overuse. It wasn’t the funniest
thing she’s ever said, but all of the tension of the past week
pours out of me. It’s healing.

“You have no idea what I’m picturing right now,” I say
when we’re finally over it and on our way.
“Whatever you’re picturing, this guy was worse,” she says.
“Oh, hey! It’s my song!” She turns up the radio and Electric
Freakshow’s latest blasts throughout the car. We both sing
along at the top of our lungs, but when it gets to the part I
don’t know, I take a deep cathartic breath and let it out.
“Thanks for this,” I say, looking at her. She’s in a tight
pink sweat suit, and her wild hair looks more model than matted. She glances at me, then back at the road.
“You’re welcome,” she says, navigating onto the highway.
“Now grab my phone and check his text from this morning. I
need you to read me the address.”
I co-pilot us to a neighborhood across town using the
Internet GPS that never quite catches up to where we are.
“It’s 2026,” I say as she begins slowly inching down the street.
“Evens are on the left,” Simone murmurs as she continues
to creep forward. “That’s 2020,” she says, pointing to a yellow
house with black shutters and accelerating a bit more. “2022
. . .” We pass a brick house with trim that needs a paint job.
Then she pulls over on the opposite side of the street. “There
it is.”
I grin at her. “Good luck.”
Simone sighs, then turns to grab a boy’s sweatshirt wadded up on the backseat. I reach to switch between radio stations.
“I’ll be thirty seconds and then it’s hot choc-o-latte time,”
she says before shutting the door and jogging across the street.
In the emptiness of the car, the new station whispers out
Electric Freakshow’s song again. It’s barely loud enough to
hear:
“. . . are all just magnets for fate; stumbling, skipping, running at our pace . . .”
I whisper along, looking over as Simone takes the front
porch steps. She rings the bell, looking back once to give me
a thumbs-up, and then talks briefly to a cute guy who doesn’t
look at all like a dog kisser to me. I guess that’s why you really
can’t judge a book by its cover. She hands over his sweatshirt
and gives him an awkward hug. As she jogs back to the car, he
watches her go.
“Sammy’s?” she asks as she gets behind the wheel.
“Where else?” I ask, my mouth watering again thinking
about Sammy’s famous salted caramel hot chocolate with a
shot of espresso. “I need a scone, too. I haven’t eaten anything
since . . .” My words fade as I think of the last meal I ate. I need
a distraction.
“You didn’t tell me about Joel,” I say quickly. “At the
party?”
“Oh, right!” she says, smacking her leg. “He asked about
you.”
“Liar!”
“Truth,” she says. We’re still parked, and I’m sure Ed is
wondering why we haven’t left yet. Simone goes on. “So Joel
was all, ‘Where’s your sidekick?’ and I was all, ‘Dealing with
family drama,’ and he was all, ‘Bummer.’ And then some girl
barfed on the dance floor, which cleared the party faster than
a raid.”
“I can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head.
“Believe it, sister,” Simone says, checking her reflection
in the rearview. “Your little lover boy might just have eyes for
you, too.”
I don’t say anything else; I just take it all in. Simone shifts
gears, and over her shoulder, the hookup house catches my
eye. There’s a different boy leaving, and from this vantage
point he looks even cuter than the first. Blond hair, blue-eyed
college random. I nearly smile at him, but Simone peels out
like she’s driving the getaway car at a bank heist and I almost
topple into the backseat.
“Mony!” I yell as I straighten up. She apologizes, and I
look back at the house once again. I see the guy stop on the
sidewalk, shield his eyes from the sun, and watch after us.
There’s a flit in my chest that feels like missing something.
Then as quickly as he’s there—the staring, stirring boy—Simone takes a turn and he’s gone.