The Catastrophic History of You And Me (21 page)

I was shocked by how hurtful I had been. But what he said next shocked me even more.

“Don’t you know I love you? Can’t you see I’ve always—”

“Well, I don’t love you. Do you hear me?” I met his eyes and shot the only arrow I had left. “Even if you were the LAST boy left in the whole entire universe, I still wouldn’t choose you.”

The look on his face said he couldn’t tell that I was lying.

“
Dulce bellum inexpertis
.”

“I’m really not in the mood for your—”

“War is sweet to those who have never fought,” he said. “Not that I’d expect
you
to understand.”

And then there was nothing left to say.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Thank you for being honest. I’ll stop bothering you now. I’ll stop wasting your time.”

I dropped my necklace on the ground, the charm still glowing faintly, and watched the outline of his shoulders begin to grow hazy in the moonlight. The brown leather of his jacket suddenly looked very old; cracked and worn like it was from another decade.

Because it
was,
I realized.

Little rays of light shot through his body as he began to fade away, almost like a reverse Polaroid. First his army boots turned from black to green, to yellow, to white. Then his jeans. Then his arms and shoulders and eyes—those sweet, soulful eyes—until there was almost nothing left of him.

My insides screamed at me to apologize—to beg him to stay—but I held my ground.

Finally, he looked up and offered me a sad smile. I saw his mouth move slightly but couldn’t hear him. It didn’t matter. I already knew what he was saying.

Good-bye
.

I bit my lip and looked away. Squeezed my eyes shut and wished for a moment that I’d never met him. That he’d never even spoken to me in Slice in the first place. That he’d never pushed me off the bridge, or taught me how to zoom, or flown us up and down the coast on his motorcycle. But it was too late for silly
what-ifs
.

What’s done is done
.

And suddenly, just like that, I was alone again.

But I knew deep down that this wouldn’t be like before. This time, the silence was overwhelming—suffocating—and I felt myself slipping into a hollow vacuum of a place I’d only ever dreamed about. A space so dark and still it may as well have been the bottom of the ocean.

Larkin was right.

I couldn’t help Jacob. I couldn’t even help myself. I was a useless, loveless waste of space. Which is why, in the end, all I could do was crawl back to my family’s front porch, lean my head against the railing, and wait for the sun to come up.

“What now?” I whispered. “What comes now?”

It was a stupid question because I already knew the answer.

Nothing. Nothing comes now.

I curled my head to my chest. Took a scared, lonely breath. And felt my heart—no, the memory of my heart—break into pieces all over again.

PART 5

sadness

CHAPTER 38

since u been gone

I
was haunted by the smell of rotting flowers. I was haunted by the image of black limousines, and the sound of their wheels grinding on gravel. Of scraping shovels, and rain falling on headstones, and the slamming of cold, hard cemetery gates, locking me in for good.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. My old nightmare was back with a vengeance—sometimes as many as three or four times in a single night. It would start just as I began to drift off, with the sound of throttling engines. Then came the wind in my hair, even under my helmet, as I flew down the highway. The warmth of the sun on my cheeks. The feeling that anything was possible.

But that’s where the dream always ended, and where the nightmare always began. Just when I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, that’s when a sense of uneasiness would rush over me. That’s when I would notice a strange new scent in the air. Gasoline and burning metal. I’d feel the bike start to lose control. And suddenly, I’d know how the whole thing was going to end.

With my screams, and the memory of somebody’s hands letting go.

Then—
BOOM!
—my eyes would fly open and I’d wake up a sweaty, panicky mess, curled up in my booth at Slice.

Correction.
Our
booth.

I miss you. I’m so sorry.

Every night was the same as the one before it. I’d lie there with my eyes closed, then wait for the nightmare to swallow me whole and spit me back out. Rinse, wash, repeat. There was nothing I could do but feel the same old miserable ache in my chest and wonder when it would end. Even though I was starting to understand the truth about forever.

It
never
ends.

I had never felt more alone. There wasn’t anyone in the place I felt like talking to. Patrick was long gone, probably as far away from me as he could get. I didn’t even have Hamloaf.

Because I had seen the neon flyers hung up all over my neighborhood. I had seen them taped up to every single telephone pole, stop sign, and mailbox within a ten-mile radius of our house, impossible to miss.

LOST: MOST WONDERFUL DOG IN THE ENTIRE WORLD

ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF: HAMLOAF, HAMSTER, HAMMY, THE HAMINATOR

PLEASE, PLEASE,
PLEASE
RETURN HIM TO: DR. DANIEL EAGAN, 11 MAGELLAN AVE

In the end, I had decided to do the right thing. I knew Hamloaf didn’t belong with me anymore. The truth was, he had always been Dad’s dog.
Dad
was the one who had picked him out as a puppy.
Dad
was the one Hamloaf adored most of all. Ham and my dad were a two-for-one special. A package deal.

As much as I hated to admit it, he wasn’t mine to keep.

So I took him on one final walk to the beach to say good-bye, then walked him back to our front porch, the tears streaming down my face.

“You have to go home now, boy.”

He rolled over, letting out a giant play-growl. Always the joker. Always trying to lighten the mood.

“No, Hamster.” I shook my head. “It’s not a game. Dad’s looking for you big-time. He misses you so much.” I wrapped my arms around him, then held his face in my hands, covering his snout with kisses. He stared back at me with his big brown eyes, and licked my nose in return.

“Be good, okay? Don’t poop on anyone’s lawn.” Then I thought of something and stole a glance across the street at the Brenners’ house. “Well, okay. I hereby give you permission to poop on
that
lawn. But nobody else’s. Okay?”

No,
his eyes seemed to say.
Don’t go. Let’s play.

All of a sudden he let loose, barking and howling like crazy—big basset bays that everyone within three miles would hear.

Perfect timing.

I knew Dad was home. I could sense it.

“That’s right.” I forced a smile. “I love you, whiskery man.” I focused every ounce of concentration I had left, stepped up to home plate, and rang the doorbell. It was time to face the music. It was time to face him.

But when the front door opened a moment later, Dad wasn’t the one staring back at me.
She
was. The worst person on the face of the planet.

“You let her inside?” I said disgustedly. “You let her inside OUR house?”

“Oh, where have you been, you silly dog?” Sarah Brenner gushed. “Come here!”

I felt my blood begin a crazed, violent boil as I watched her wrap her manicured hands around Ham’s neck. Imagined throwing her off him and slamming those stupid red-nailed fingers in the door over and over again, until she finally understood what it felt like to have your family crushed.

She reached up and gave Hamloaf a big scratch behind his ear.

“That’s not even his favorite ear,” I snapped. “Imposter.”

“Danny?” she turned and called into the house. “He’s back! The dog is back!”

For a second, I considered snatching him out of her hands and zooming the two of us back to Slice, right then and there. Maybe I’d made a huge mistake. Maybe Hamloaf really should’ve stayed with me. But when I heard Dad coming down the stairs, and saw Hamloaf’s tail begin to wag, I knew I had my answer.

As much as I hated it.

So I turned away without another word, tearing across the yard until I’d picked up enough speed for my feet to leave the ground. And as I’d crossed back into my slice of heaven—the tears pouring down—I made the decision never to look back. I was
done
with all of this back and forth business. It was time to settle in for the long, slow burn. Watching the world go on around me was too hard. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could say.

There was nothing left for me on earth, period.

At least at Slice, I could do my own thing. I could sit by myself all day and all night without anyone caring one way or another. I’d go for long walks that led nowhere. I’d watch the same sad movies over and over again, until I knew all the saddest lines by heart. Some days, whenever the smell of pizza really got to me, I’d head outside and park myself on the edge of a cliff, just across the highway. I’d stare out to sea and let myself wonder about Jacob. Whether or not he’d gone through with his plan.

I hadn’t seen him anywhere in my slice of heaven, which seemed like a good sign. Though I supposed he could have ended up somewhere else.

Somewhere worse. Like Larkin.

I tried not to think about it.

Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut and dove headfirst into the ocean, letting myself sink straight to the dark, sandy bottom. It was quiet, way down deep. Quiet, and sort of peaceful.

Besides, underwater nobody can see you cry.

I’m not sure how long I stayed submerged. Could have been days. Could have been weeks. Didn’t make any difference. I passed the time counting the sand dollars, playing Marco Polo with the occasional hermit crab, making bracelets out of seaweed, and just generally pretending to be the Little Mermaid. Even though my boobs weren’t exactly big enough to hold up a pair of seashells. (Reason #3,714 Why It Sucks to Die Before You Turn Sixteen.)

There were moments when I’d almost think I could see Patrick’s face bobbing around in the shadows like a jellyfish, and would imagine his arms reaching out and swimming us back to the surface. I couldn’t help thinking how different life might have been if, once upon a time, he and I had met on earth. If maybe we’d been the same age in the same decade. If maybe
he
had been the one to kiss me on the dance floor that night, the two of us surrounded by an endless swirl of sparkling disco-ball lights.

Eventually, I realized that the thing bobbing in the shadows really
was
a jellyfish, so I called it a day and swam back to shore. Went back to the same old routine of wallowing in self-pity. Turns out, misery is completely, out-of-control addictive.

I even walked back to San Francisco a couple of times, hoping that maybe I’d catch a glimpse of Larkin. I visited all our favorite spots—the playground, the wharf, even the top of the pyramid—but I never found her. It was as if I had completely imagined our entire time together. Like I was the only soul in the whole damned place.

And who knows. Maybe I was. Maybe eternal solitude was my punishment for being stupid enough to have ever believed in love in the first place.

Not that it mattered. Not that I cared.

Because guess what?

I didn’t believe in it anymore.

CHAPTER 39

hit me with your best shot

I
was walking through a Brazilian jungle. Hot, humid, mind-numbing heat, and a cloud of buzzing mosquitoes. Lazy snakes and beetles the size of my head, and tigers sleeping under trees.

Poke.

Wait, they don’t have tigers in Brazil. Scratch that.

I was walking through an
Indian
jungle. Hot, humid, sweltering—

Poke.

I swatted the air. Something was trying to get me. Spider? Monkey?
Spider monkey
? Boa constrictor, about to constrict my face? I darted through the underbrush and hid in the shadow of a giant banyan tree. No claws. No teeth. No fangs or spindly legs. All clear. I’d made a clean escape. Phew.

Poke. Poke.

Or not.

“Quit it,” I mumbled. “I’m busy.”

“Um, you don’t
look
busy.”

“Well, I am.”

“Doing what?”

I sat up and came face-to-face with Bojangles. “I’m trying to meditate, okay?”

“Oh.” She took a step back. “Sorry.” She tucked a blond curl behind her ear, bangles jangling away on her wrist, as per usual.

I crossed my arms. This girl had never spoken to me before. What’d she expect, that we would be instant BFFs?

“Sorry,” I said, not bothering to mask my irritation. “But why were you poking me?”

Jangle-jangle.
“I was just wondering if I could get your autograph.”
Jangle
.
“
Didn’t mean to, like, interrupt the Zen.”

“My autograph?” I scrunched up my nose. “Why would you want that
?
”

“Duh,” she laughed, “because you’re famous!” She pointed over at the TV, where a few of the regular Slicers had gathered. “Check it out, you’re totally on the news!”

What the hell was she smoking? Some kind of Super-Annoying Bangle Crack, that’s what. I got up and slowly shuffled my way over to the TV, since I figured it was the only logistical way to shut her up. But when I finally got a good look at the dude they were interviewing, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The man on the screen was my dad.

“Turn it up,” I asked Quarterback Dude. “Please.”

Just about everyone has had his or her heart broken at one point or another
.
But what most people don’t know is that a broken heart can be
deadly
. We’re here today with Dr. Daniel Eagan, renowned cardiologist at San Francisco Medical University, who has spent the last year studying Broken Heart Syndrome—a condition that mirrors a heart attack in almost every way, but more often than not goes misdiagnosed.

Dad sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or smiled in weeks.

“So,” the spunky, blue-eyed reporter asked him, “just how prevalent is Broken Heart Syndrome?”

“Not very,” he said. “It’s estimated that only about one or two percent of people who think they’ve had a heart attack have actually experienced BHS. It’s quite rare, and usually affects middle-aged women. It’s not typically life threatening, but it can be.” He peered right into the camera and I felt a lump form in my throat.

The woman’s voiceover continued.

But Dr. Eagan has a connection to BHS far more personal than most people would ever know. Just last fall, he tragically lost his own teenage daughter, Aubrie, to what he believes to be the first ever documented case of a young person dying from a broken heart.

Goose bumps broke out across my skin as I watched my face flash on the screen. First my sophomore yearbook photo. Then a picture of me with the girls. Finally, a photo of Dad and me, the two of us laughing like crazy.

I felt my throat constrict. The lump was bigger. But I wasn’t about to let myself cry.

On Friday, a new wing at the San Francisco Medical University was dedicated in Aubrie’s honor—a Children’s Heart Center—where Dr. Eagan has been named acting director.

“See?” Bojangles smacked my arm. “What did I tell you?”

The camera flashed back to my dad.

“In the beginning,” the reporter said, “nobody believed you.”

Dad nodded. “The medical community felt Brie’s death had to have been related to a preexisting condition she had. But the evidence didn’t back it up. Her condition was mild. I’ve never felt it was in any way related to the level of damage her heart suffered.”

“What was your goal?” the reporter asked gently. “What did you hope to prove with your research? Do you feel there’s something more you could have done to save your daughter?”

He paused for a long while. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I could have done. I guess I’m not sure what I’m trying to prove. Love hurts us all, no matter how old or young we are.” He glanced off camera for a moment, and when he looked back, his eyes were full of tears. “But I suppose my main point here is that as parents, we should all be talking to our children more often about how they feel. About what’s really happening in their lives.” He offered a sad smile. “And we should be listening.”

Except when you’re too busy having affairs to listen, you mean.

The camera flashed to an image of my high school, and the reporter’s voiceover continued.

Wise words from Dr. Eagan. Particularly in light of the tragic incident that came only a few short weeks ago . . .

“What?” I felt myself begin to panic. “What incident?”

. . . when the Pacific Crest high school senior who had been involved with Miss Eagan at the time of her death . . . the boy her classmates say “broke her heart” . . .

I began to feel dizzy. “No. No, no, no.”

. . . varsity track star Jacob Fischer . . .

“Please,” I whimpered. “
Please no
.”

. . . was found unconscious in his home . . .

The walls seemed to be caving in all around me. I couldn’t listen for another second. My throat closed up and I spun wildly, blinded by tears. I tried to push my way through the crowded room, desperate to get outside. Air. I needed air NOW.

“Hey!” I heard Bojangles call out. “You okay?”

It hurts. It hurts so bad. Patrick, where are you?

I was losing my grip. My vision became green and spotty as the room spun out of control beneath me. And then my face hit the cold, checkered linoleum floor.

Hard.