My Heart and Other Black Holes (18 page)

I nod at her like there’s nothing I want more in the world than a cup of hot chocolate. I glance around the Franklins’ kitchen. The walls are painted a canary yellow and the cabinets are made of cherrywood. On the ivory-colored countertop, there’s a framed picture of Roman and Madison. Madison has her arms around Roman’s neck, and Roman’s
eyes are crinkled like he was midlaugh. I drop my eyes to the tiled floor; I can’t look at that picture.

I don’t know how Mr. and Mrs. Franklin can stand to look at it every day.

Mrs. Franklin sets a mug in front of me and takes a seat at the table. “So tell me where you guys are going. I love camping. We used to go camping a lot as a family. I keep trying to get Jim and Roman to agree to plan a trip for this summer. You know, Roman used to be quite the outdoorsman. Loved any kind of adventure.”

I take a sip of the hot chocolate. It burns the tip of my tongue and I wince.

“Oh! Be careful. It’s hot.”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” I say. “Roman’s the one who suggested camping.”

Mrs. Franklin’s face clouds over. “Ah, yes. Like I said, he always loved the outdoors. It’ll be good for him.” She looks me in the eye. “I’m so glad he met you, Aysel.” She looks over her shoulder in the direction of the stairs and then scoots toward me. In a quiet voice, she adds, “This is new for me. Letting him go off alone, unsupervised. But I couldn’t say no to him. He just seems so happy when he talks about you. This will be good for him, right?”

Her eyes glaze over like she’s sorting through past memories. “You’ll make sure he’s okay, right? That he stays safe?”

I can’t ignore the pinching feeling in the base of my
stomach, and I imagine my guilt as a noose, slowly tightening around my neck. My palms feel clammy and I press them against the sides of the mug. The steam from the hot chocolate rises up and tickles my face.

“Hey,” I hear Roman say, and he walks into the kitchen. His brown hair is damp and he has a backpack slung over his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t hear my alarm.”

I shrug at him even though I’m planning on tearing into him the second we’re alone in the car. I’m pretty sure there isn’t an etiquette book for Suicide Partners, but there should be. If I weren’t going to be gone in eight days, I’d write one. Rule number one would be: Never wake up late on the day you have plans with your partner. Rule number two: Never make your partner have breakfast with your mom, because they will end up eating a gigantic plate of guilt and regret.

“I’m going to get the tent from the garage,” he says. “Can you give me your keys? I’ll put it in the trunk.”

“Oh, Roman?” Mrs. Franklin says.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“I put some drinks in the cooler and took it out to the garage for you. I was thinking you could take that. I also tossed some hot dogs in there. They should be easy to grill. And I packed a basket with snacks and put it next to the cooler. Though, you might want to stop at the grocery store on your way there so you can pick up some buns for the hot dogs. I’m afraid I don’t have any here.” She flips her palms
up and flashes me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t have any in the cupboard. Roman didn’t let me know until last night that you guys were planning on going camping. Or I would’ve been more prepared.” She brushes her hands against the soft surface of her robe.

“Sounds good, Mom. No worries. We’ll stop at the grocery store and get whatever else we need.”

“You should definitely get some stuff to make s’mores.” She places her hands over her heart and sighs. “S’mores are the best part of camping.”

“Right, Mom. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah,” I chime in. “Thanks for everything, though.” I toss Roman my keys and he heads outside to the detached garage.

Mrs. Franklin stands up from the table and opens the pantry. “I’m going to make him a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich to have on the road so he doesn’t delay you guys any longer.”

“Oh,” I say. “He can eat breakfast here, if he wants.”

She spins around to face me, a wide grin on her face. This is the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Franklin without makeup. Even though she’s smiling, the large dark circles under her eyes give her away. Maybe what FrozenRobot said was true. Maybe she does spend every night sobbing. That must be strange for her—silent crier in the night and cheery homemaker in the day. I don’t think I’d ever be able to do it. Chop
my life in two. But maybe that’s what you do for people you love.

I frown as I think about how much she must love Roman. She notices me frowning and says, “Oh, sweetie. I won’t delay you guys any longer.”

“No, no . . .” I stumble over my words. “I’m not worried about that.”

She swings a dish towel in the air and slaps it against the kitchen counter. “Well, don’t look so unhappy. You guys are going to have such a fun trip.”

If only she knew this trip isn’t about having fun or camping. It isn’t about s’mores and hot dogs and sleeping bags. It’s about facing my past so I can validate what I almost know for certain about my (nonexistent) future. And there’s nothing fun about that.

“Anyway, y’all need to get a move on. Roman can eat on the road.” She goes back to fixing his sandwich and I stare at my hot chocolate. I can’t see my reflection in it, but I pretend I do. I don’t like the girl I see. The girl who would do this to Mrs. Franklin, who wouldn’t warn her.

I wonder if there is more than one way to kill someone. Maybe my father didn’t only kill Timothy Jackson—he also killed Timothy’s mom because he broke her heart. Wrecked his whole family. I guess that’s why Brian Jackson is so motivated to make it to the Olympics—he needs to repair the damage my dad did.

Regardless, I don’t want to do that to Mrs. Franklin, wreck her like that. I spin the mug around in my hands. It makes my palms sweaty. Finally, I take a sip. Then a gulp. I drink my chocolaty reflection away. I make that girl disappear.

Once Roman comes back, she hands him the sandwich and gives him a tight hug. “Did you find everything?”

“Yeah, Mom. I packed it all. Thanks again.”

She beams at him and pulls him even closer to her. “Oh, and Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you make sure to feed Captain Nemo?”

Mrs. Franklin puts her hands on Roman’s shoulders and leans in to his face so she can look him in the eye. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll check on him all the time. And call you with updates.”

Roman rolls away from her grasp, shrugging her off. His face reddens, and the patch of freckles on his nose glows with his embarrassment. “Just make sure you feed him, okay?”

Mrs. Franklin doesn’t seem put off by his attitude. She reaches out to hug him one last time. “Whatever you say, darling.” She looks over his shoulder, making eye contact with me. “But you kids should definitely get on the road. Be safe, and call me once you’ve reached your campsite.”

My skin itches and I know that I can’t watch them hug anymore. I can’t listen to her go on and on about him staying
safe. I give her a little wave and run out the door. “It was nice to see you, Mrs. Franklin.”

“Have fun!” she calls after me. “And Roman, make sure you call!”

I climb into the front seat of my car and bang my hands against the steering wheel, waiting for Roman. I gaze out the windshield. It looks like the frost hit Mrs. Franklin’s flower bed pretty hard. The soil is watery from where the snow melted. One of the bushes is brown, its limbs still bare. I don’t know if the late frost means it will take longer for the flowers to bloom. I hope the flowers bloom soon for her. She’ll need them.

Finally, Roman comes out and ambles down the pathway. His hair is still wet, making it look darker, which in turn makes him look paler. More frozen. He’s standing straighter, though. And there’s a lightness to his step, instead of the usual reluctance. Maybe Mrs. Franklin was right—he really does love camping.

He comes around to the driver’s side and knocks on my window. I roll it down. “What?”

“I forgot my cell phone in the garage. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Hurry up,” I groan, and watch him jog toward the garage that sits behind his house. It looks more like a shed than a garage with its rusted shingle roof and peeling blueberry-colored paint. He returns quickly, waving his cell
phone in the air so I can see he retrieved it.

“What the hell,” I say once he gets into the car. The whole car fills with the smell of his pine-scented body spray. I clasp my hand over my mouth and almost cough.

“What?”

“You’ve committed two crimes.” I pull out of the driveway.

“Huh?” He rubs his eyes. FrozenRobot, apparently, doesn’t function very well in the early morning. I’m not sure what time we’re planning on going to Crestville Pointe on the seventh, but it better not be early.

“Crime one, you’re wearing way too much body spray.”

He sinks down into his seat, knocking his head against the headrest. He puts his backpack down at his feet and rests them on it. “I don’t wear body spray.”

“Okay, well, whatever it is, you smell like a Christmas tree.”

He sniffs his shoulder, pulling on the fabric of his black T-shirt. “And so what’s the second crime?”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “The second one. That’s the big offense.”

“Is that why we’re on our way to the prison? How many years are on my sentence? I hate to break it to you, but I’m not sure I’m going to be around to serve the entirety of it.”

I ignore his jab. “You made me have an intimate meeting with your mother. Scratch that. Another intimate meeting. You most definitely should serve time for that.”

“Intimate?” Roman pivots so he can face me. I’m not used to having passengers in my car. I forget how small it is, how small it can feel when someone leans over toward the driver’s side. If I tilted my head, my cheek would be against his. I scoot away from him and crane my neck to the opposite side.

“Yeah, intimate.” I resist the urge to point out the similarities between the words “intimate” and “inmate.” I move my posture back to neutral. It’s not like I can drive all the way to McGreavy quirking my head to the left. “And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. It breaks my heart to be around her. She’s so nice.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “You don’t really know my mom.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.” He pulls his sandwich out of the plastic bag. He tears off the crusts and then takes a bite of it. “But can we please stop talking about my mom? What goes on with her isn’t any of your business.”

“Fine. Then don’t make it any of my business.” I steer the car away from his neighborhood and head down the winding hill toward the highway. The hills begin to give way to the flat, muddy river basin. I avoid looking at the Ohio River. It’s uncomfortable to stare at it now; it’s like it knows secrets about me. Sometimes it feels as if the river’s judging me, that it’s disappointed in me. I know it’s all in my head, but some
feelings are harder to shake than others.

I turn my attention back to Roman. I’ve let the issue of his mom drop for all of five seconds. “I still can’t believe she let us take this trip alone. That doesn’t seem like her.”

Roman’s lips pull into a sly grin. It’s calculated, straight. Not like the crooked one I’m used to. “Before what happened with Maddie, she never would have allowed this. But considering I’ve spent the past year locked away in my bedroom, she’s thrilled I have any interest in doing something outside.”

Before I can comment on that, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a wrinkled map. “Here, I figured out the easiest way to get to McGreavy.” He gives me directions as I merge onto the highway. I turn the radio to the classical music station and he makes a noise in protest.

“What?”

“Why do you like this boring music?”

“You’ve asked me this before.”

“I know. But you never gave me a good answer.”

I shrug. “Like I already told you, it helps me think.”
And someone once told me that I could find answers in it if I listened hard enough.

“It has no personality.”

“Not true. It has a personality that isn’t as flashy. It’s deeper. It demands more from the listener. That’s why I like it. It isn’t easy.”

“Right. Whatever you say.” He rests his head against the
window. “So are you ready for this?”

I tap my fingers against the wheel, humming along with the radio. I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I don’t know if I’m ready for any of it. Last night, I had trouble falling asleep. I was up all night playing out imaginary scenarios in my head, but every time I envisioned myself sitting in front of the glass window, the orange phone in my hand, I couldn’t make out who was on the other side of the window. It was all blurred out, and no matter how long I stared, I couldn’t see my dad.

And when I finally fell asleep, I had a nightmare where I was standing at Crestville Pointe, waiting for Roman, but he never came. I waited and waited and waited, my knees bloody from having fallen in the gravel. And then finally Roman showed up, but he was with Brian Jackson. They laughed at me, and their cold, haunting laughs circled me like a wolf pack. Roman and Brian shouted, telling me to jump, and I got closer and closer to the edge, but then I couldn’t move.

“Aysel?” he presses.

I can’t tell him about the dream. I can’t tell him that I’m not ready for this trip at all—that I’m scared this trip is going to ruin everything Roman and I have. That this trip is going to show him that I haven’t been telling him the whole truth, the real truth.

He turns the radio off. “Aysel, look at me.”

“I thought you told me not to take my eyes off the road.”

“Yeah, yeah, but whatever.”

I glance over at him. “What?”

“Are you ready for this?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I lie. “I mean, I guess I’m ready.”

“You have to be more sure than a guess.”

And the problem is I’m not more sure. About any of it, anymore.

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a sketch pad. “Do you mind if I draw?”

I glance over at him and he’s staring at me intently. “Draw me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. If you don’t want me to . . .”

“No. It’s fine,” I say quietly, and turn the radio back on. I force myself to stare straight ahead at the open road and forget that he’s inches away, studying me.