Sarah Dessen (30 page)

“Dexter.”

“What?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

Okay, so I knew why. This, in fact, was the standard post-breakup behavior, the way he should have been behaving all along. But since it was starting now, instead of then, I was thrown a bit.

“You were the one who said we should be friends,” I said.

He shrugged. “Oh, come on. You were just playing along with that, right?”

“No,” I said.

“This is all you,” he said, pointing one somewhat wobbly finger at my chest. “You don’t believe in love, so it just follows logic you wouldn’t believe in like, either. Or friendship. Or anything that might involve even the smallest personal risk.”

“Look,” I said, and now I was starting to get a little pissed. “I was honest with you.”

“Oh, well let’s just give you a medal, then!” he said, clapping his hands. “You break up with me because I might really like you, enough to look past just hooking up for the summer, and now
I’m
the bad guy?”

“Okay,” I said, “so you would have rather I lied and said I felt the same way, then dumped you a month later instead?”

“Which would have been just so inconvenient,” he said sarcastically, “making you miss Mr. Spinnerbait and that opportunity.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that what this is about?” I asked him. “You’re jealous?”

“That would make it simple, wouldn’t it?” he said, nodding. “And Remy likes simple. You think you have everything figured out, that you can chart my reaction and what I’m saying on some little graph you keep tucked away. But life isn’t like that.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “Then what is it like? You tell
me.
”

He leaned in very close to me, lowering his voice. “I meant what I said to you. I wasn’t playing some kind of summer game. Everything I said was true, from the first day. Every goddamn word.”

My mind flitted back then, over the challenges, the jokes, the half-sung songs. What meaningful truth was there in that? It had only been that first day that he’d said anything big, and that was just—

There was a whirring noise behind me, and next Lissa’s voice, slight and tentative. “Um, Remy?” she asked, then cleared her throat, as if realizing how she sounded. “We’re going to miss the beginning of the movie.”

“Okay,” I said, over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

“We’re done anyway,” Dexter explained, saluting the truck. To me he added, “That’s what this has been all about for you, correct? Making it clear. That you and me—it was nothing more than what you’ll have with Spinnerbait boy, or the guy after that, or the guy after that. Right?”

For one split second, I wanted to tell him he was wrong. But there was something in the way he said this, a cocky angriness, that stopped me. He’d said himself I was a bitch, and once I would have taken pride in that. So sure, okay. I’d play.

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “You’re right.”

He just stood there, looking at me, as if I had actually changed before his eyes. But this was the girl I’d been all along. I’d just hidden her well.

I started to walk away, toward the truck. Paul opened the back door for me. “Is he bothering you?” he asked, his face serious. “Because if he is—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s fine. We’re done.”

“Young knight!” Dexter yelled at Paul, just as he was shutting the door. “Be forewarned, when she does have the fountain drink, she has a vicious arm on her. She will peg you, my good man. When you least see it coming!”

“Let’s go,” Paul said, and Trey nodded, starting to back up.

As we drove away I was determined not to look back. But in Lissa’s side mirror, I could still see him standing there, shirttails flapping, arms spread, up in the air, as if waving us off on a grand trip while he stayed behind. Bon voyage, take care. Go in peace. Huffah.

“Obviously,” I said. “How was Florida?”

“Heavenly!” She walked over and hugged me, pulling me close against her. She had a nice tan and a new haircut, shorter and streaked with a bit of blond, as if in Florida you are required by law to go tropical. “Just wonderful. Invigorating. Rejuvenating!”

“Wow,” I told her as she released me, stepping back. “All that in only three days?”

“Oh,” she sighed, walking ahead of me into the kitchen, “it was just what I needed. Things have been so busy and stressful since the wedding, and then before the wedding with all the planning and organizing . . . it was just too much, you know?”

I decided not to point out how little wedding planning
she
had actually done, figuring she was going somewhere with this. So instead I just leaned against the sink as she pulled an Ensure out of the fridge, popping the little tab top and taking a sip.

“But once I was there,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart and closing her eyes, dramatically. “Sheer heaven. The surf. The sunsets. Oh, and my fans. I just felt like I was finally
myself
again. You know?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, although it had been a while since I’d felt anything like myself. All night I’d kept seeing Dexter in my mind, arms waving, calling after me.

“So I came home on an earlier flight, hoping to share this new feeling of contentment with Don, but—he’s not here.” She took another sip of her Ensure, glancing out the kitchen window. “I guess I was just feeling hopeful.”

“He hasn’t been around at all,” I told her. “I think he worked, like, all weekend.”

She nodded gravely, putting the Ensure down on the counter. “It’s been such a problem for us. His work. My work. All the details of each. I feel like we haven’t even had a chance to really bond as husband and wife yet.”

Uh-oh, I thought again, as a warning bell sounded softly in my head. “Well,” I began, “you’ve only been married a couple of months.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And while I was gone, I realized that we really have to focus on this marriage. The work can wait. Everything can wait. I think I’ve been guilty too long of putting other things first, but not this time. I just know things are going to be better now.”

Okay. So that sounded positive. “That’s great, Mom.”

She smiled at me, pleased. “I really believe it, Remy. We may have had a bumpy adjustment, but this one’s for good. I’m finally realizing what it takes to really be a partner. And it just feels great.”

She was smiling so happily, with this new conversion. As if somewhere high over the Southeast seaboard, she’d finally found the answer to the puzzle that had eluded her for so long. My mother always had ducked out of relationships when the going got tough, not wanting to dirty her hands with messy details. Maybe people could change.

“Oh, goodness, I just can’t wait to see him,” she said to me now, walking to the table and picking up her purse. “I think I’ll just run down to the dealership and bring him lunch. He
loves
it when I do that. Honey, if he calls, don’t let on, okay? I want it to be a surprise.”

“Okay,” I told her, and she blew me a kiss as she sailed out the door and across the lawn to her car. I had to admire it, that absolute kind of love that couldn’t even wait a couple of hours. I’d never felt that strongly about anyone. It was nice, this rushing need to say something to someone right this very second. Almost romantic, really. If you liked that sort of thing.

“Hey,” I replied, pretending to be engrossed in a story on redistricting on the front page of the local newspaper.

The line for coffee was long, and full of cranky people who wanted their drinks made with such intricate specifics that it gave me a headache just listening to the orders. Scarlett was working the espresso machine, trying to keep up with a slew of nonfat, soy-milk double-tall requests with a sour look on her face.

Ted was a bit behind me in line, but then the guy between us, disgusted by the wait, walked out. Which left us next to each other, so we had no choice but to talk to each other.

“So Lucas told me you guys have a meeting with Rubber Records,” I said.

“Yup. Tonight, in D.C. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Really,” I said as we slowly crept forward about an inch in the line.

“Yeah. They want us to play for them, you know, in the office. And then maybe at this showcase on Thursday, if they can get us a spot. Then, if they like us, it might get us something permanent up there.”

“That’s great.”

He shrugged. “It is if they like our stuff. But they’re pushing for some stupid covers instead, which, you know, totally goes against our integrity as a band.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I mean, the other guys, they’d do freaking anything for a contract, but, you know, to me it’s about more than that. It’s about music, man. Art. Personal expression. Not a bunch of corporate, upper-management bullshit.”

A businessman holding the
Wall Street Journal
glanced back at us, but Ted just looked at him, indignant, until he faced forward again.

“So you’re doing ‘The Potato Opus’?” I asked.

“I think we should. That’s what I’ve been pushing all along. Like us for our original stuff, or not at all. But you know Lucas. He’s never been behind the potato stuff at all. He’s so freaking lowbrow, it’s ridiculous: I mean, he was in a
hair-metal
band. What the hell does he know about real music?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this.

“And then there’s John Miller, who’d play anything as long as he doesn’t have to go back to school and push paper in his daddy’s company some day. Which leaves us with Dexter, and you know how
he
is.”

I was startled, slightly, at this. “How he is?” I repeated.

Ted rolled his eyes. “Mr. Positive. Mr. Everything’s-Gonna-Be-All-Right-I-Swear. If we left it up to him, we’d just go up there with no game plan, no set of demands, and just see how it goes.” He flipped his hand in a loose, silly way, punctuating this. “God! No plan, no worries whatsoever. Ever! I hate people like that.
You
know what I’m talking about.”

I took in a breath, wondering how to respond to this. It was the same thing I’d always been so annoyed with about Dexter, as well, but coming from Ted it sounded so small-minded, and negative. He was so opinionated, so sure he knew everything. God. I mean, sure, maybe Dexter didn’t think things through quite enough, but at least you could stand to—

“Next!” Scarlett yelled. I was at the front of the line. I stepped up and told her I wanted Lola’s regular, then moved aside so Ted could get his extra-large, black coffee, no lid.

“Well,” I said, as he paid, “good luck this week.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Thanks.”

We walked out together, him to the van, me starting down to Joie, where I was ticking down my last days as receptionist ex traordinaire. It was August 20, and I was leaving for school in three weeks. If we’d stayed together, I’d always assumed it would be me leaving Dexter behind. But now, I saw, it might have been me staying here, watching him go. Funny all the ways things could work out. But this was better, totally. Of course it was.

How had I gotten so disorganized? Once, keeping the vacuum cleaner lines even on my bedroom carpet was second nature. Now, struck with this sudden fervor, I found mud tracks in my closet, spilled mascara in my cosmetic drawer, one mismatched shoe—one!—stuffed far underneath my bed. It made me wonder if I’d been in some sort of fugue state. Restoring order to my personal universe suddenly seemed imperative, as I refolded my T-shirts, stuffed the toes of my shoes with tissue paper, and arranged all the bills in my secret stash box facing the same way, instead of tossed in sloppy and wild, as if by my evil twin.

All week, I kept making lists and crossing things off them, ending each day with a sense of great accomplishment eclipsed only by complete and total exhaustion. This, I told myself, was exactly what I’d wanted: a clean exit, smooth and effortless, every
t
crossed and
i
dotted. There were only a few more loose ends, a couple of items to deal with. But I already had a game plan set, the steps numbered and outlined clearly, and there was still plenty of time.