The Day That Saved Us (23 page)

THE BLARING SOUND
of my alarm clock wakes me. The room is still dim, my dark curtains blocking out most of the morning light. I reach over to shut it off, but another arm beats me to it. A more feminine arm. I look over at Brooke, who curls into my side and hums. With her apartment flooded, I forgot I let her sleep over last night.

“Why did you set an alarm on Saturday morning? It’s too early,” she sleepily groans with her eyes closed. Her long brown hair falls across her face. I brush it back and gently remove her arm from my chest before sitting up.

“I’m going on a run.”

“On Saturday morning?” She curls her arm around my waist, trying to pull me back into bed. “Run later. Sleep now.”

I stand up, untangling myself from her and the temptation. “Gotta keep my routine. You can stay here. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

She groans, but rolls over and falls back asleep. It’s six o’clock. Brooke won’t come back to life until around noon.

I throw on a T-shirt, grab my iPod, slip into my running shoes, and head out the front door. Plugging in my ear buds, I make my way around the first block. With each pounding step, I turn up the volume of my music to drown out my thoughts. Thoughts of the past, thoughts of the future, thoughts of my tangled life.

I do this every day like clockwork. It’s a new day, fresh start. The goal is to go an hour without thinking at all. Nothing but music, heartbeats, and the pounding of my feet. Just how I like it.

ABOUT AN HOUR
later I make it back to my apartment. It wasn’t a very successful run. My thoughts of her were relentless today. One after another, they knocked into me like flashes of light, in time with the beat of my feet on the pavement.

Beat
. Her laugh.

Beat
. Her smile.

Beat
. Her kiss.

Beat
. Her tears.

Beat
. Her goodbye.

I give up to return to Brooke. She doesn’t erase them, but she helps to conceal them. The flashes become dim flickers when we’re together. The ones you can’t tell if you actually saw or if your mind just imagined them.

When I walk into the kitchen to get my protein shake, I’m surprised to find Brooke standing on the linoleum next to the coffee maker, waiting for it to heat up. She’s pulled her hair to the side in a low ponytail and wrapped herself in one of my zip-up hoodies.

“Did you have a good run?” Brooke asks and stands on her toes to kiss my cheek.

It’s no ocean wave, but since I’m not close enough to the beach for that, it’ll have to do. “Yeah. Thanks.” I turn my head and kiss her mouth. “Morning,” I say against her lips.

My phone buzzes in my shorts pocket.

Skylar:
When do you plan on getting in?

Me:
I’m leaving after my last final on Wed.

Should be there around 6 or 7.

“Who else is awake at this painful hour on a Saturday?” She pours herself a cup and cradles it between her hands against her chest like it’s her personal heater.

“Skylar. He just wanted to see when I’d be home.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice is not lost on me.

I’ve done everything I can to avoid ‘the talk.’ Brooke is a Durham local, and we haven’t exactly determined what will happen to us when we graduate. I’m moving back home next week for a month before heading to Boston for a job. And she’s…well…not.

We’ve been together for a year, and I know she’s waiting for me to either ask her to go with me or end it, but I’m not ready for either. The only thing I can think about is the fact that in less than one week I’ll be graduating. In one week my best friends will be getting married. In one week I’ll see…
her
.

Four years doesn’t seem that long in the grand scheme of things, but these years at Duke feel like a new lifetime. Everything is different. Everything, that is, except for Skylar and Harper.

I’ve thought about asking Brooke to be my date to their wedding, but I don’t know what Peyton has planned—if Tyler will be her date or if they’re even still together. Though, if that status had changed, I’m sure Skylar would’ve said something to me by now. I don’t want to make things any more complicated than they already are.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Skylar:
Cool. Excited to see you, man.

Harper misses you, but she’ll never own up to it.

I chuckle.

Me:
I miss her too. Hey.

Is Peyton bringing Tyler to the wedding?

Skylar:
Harper says yes.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and turn to Brooke. “So. I have this wedding coming up next week.”

“You don’t say.” She flutters her eyelashes and smirks, showing the dimple in her right cheek.

“I was wondering if that’s something you might be interested in going to with me.”

She presses a hand over her heart and gives me her best Southern accent. “Well, I do declare, Mr. Fisher. Are you asking me to be your date to your best friend’s wedding?”

I laugh lightly and wrap my arms around her waist. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course. Will I finally get to meet your family?”

I internally cringe. “They should be there, yes.”

“Good.” She gives me a peck. “It’s about time.” My unease doesn’t go unnoticed. Not that I was trying to hide it, but it’s impossible to mask. “I know you don’t really like talking about them, but it’s going to be fine. Parents love me.”

It’s not Brooke I’m worried about. It’s me. I have a hard enough time being around my dad and Olivia in their new life. I’m not ready to introduce Brooke to the dysfunction that is my family.

“Yes, they will.” I smile and pull back. “I’m gonna go shower. Get ready so we can go do something.”

“I’m going to need a new dress for the wedding,” she calls to me as I walk down the narrow hallway to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

“I’m not going dress shopping,” I holler back. “Take Deanna.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Brooke follows me into the bathroom. “I want your opinion. This is for
your
friend’s wedding, and I’m meeting
your
family. Please. I need to know how I should dress.”

“My friends are pretty easygoing. You’ll look good in whatever you wear, Brooke.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” I turn on the water, remove my shirt, and turn back to her in the doorway. She pushes out her bottom lip in a fake pout. “Fine,” I chuckle and shoo her out of the bathroom. “We’ll go pick out a dress. Go get ready.”

WHEN WE GOT
back from Hatteras all those summers ago, Peyton and I promised to stay in touch, and we did at first. We saw each other every few months, in between semesters or on random weekends. But our every few month visits eventually became the occasional holiday: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. The last time I saw her was Christmas Eve. Twelve months ago. I think about how long it’s been, and the faded aching in my chest comes to the forefront. I wonder where we’ll go from here. When I see her will enough time have passed so the possibility of an ‘us’ becomes an option? Will she look at me the way she used to, or will too much time apart make us nothing but strangers?

This time I make a pact with myself. If nothing has changed, I stop this for good. I’ll give my heart fully to Brooke. I’ll ask her to come with me to Boston. Maybe I’ll propose. All I know is I can’t keep waiting for something that will never be. I refuse to be my father, waiting my entire life for my opening. If it’s not meant to be, I need to move on. I have to let Peyton go.

WHEN I REACH
their dorm room I knock twice. Harper opens the door and looks startled; not quite the reaction I expected.
Surprise?
“Brodee, hey!” She opens the door wide enough for Peyton to see me. “Look, Peyton,” she slowly says with strained enthusiasm. “Brodee’s here.” I don’t like the sound of Harper’s voice. Peyton’s eyes widen, but she stays on her made bed as I enter the room.

“Hey,” I say, nervous that this surprise visit was a bad idea. We haven’t seen each other since we said goodbye a month ago.

Peyton gradually crawls off her bed—still not smiling—and uneasily walks up to me. Not even a hint of happiness crosses her lips. This was a very bad idea.
Why did I come?
It’s too soon. I should have called first. She isn’t ready to see me. But I was ready to see her. I couldn’t go any longer. I missed her too much. I needed a cheesy pick-up line. I needed one of her half-smiles that always illuminated her eyes. I needed her comforting silence.

We stand toe-to-toe for an exorbitant amount of time, staring at each other. I see so much in her eyes—too much. Sadness. Regret. Fear. Pining. It all jumbles together, forming one overwhelming ache in my chest. Then she flings her arms around my neck and it instantly diminishes. Her body shakes. At first, I think she might be laughing—manically—but then she gasps, and I know that sound. I’ve heard it enough to know she’s crying. I hold her tighter. I hear the door quietly open and close, Harper most likely leaving and giving us some time alone.

“Shhh…Pete, why are you crying?”

She shakes her head, unable to answer me, or refusing to. I can’t tell which. Her face is buried in the crook of my neck, soaking my skin. If her tears were a hurricane, I wouldn’t survive. I hate to see her pain. I lift her trembling body off the ground, walk to her bed, settling her in my lap, and intensify my grip around her. Her inability to form words is scaring me.

“Pete, talk to me.” I run my fingers down the back of her head, over her long blonde hair. When I try leaning away to look into her eyes, she holds on with more strength. “Okay,” I quietly say. “We’ll just sit here. I’ve got you now.”

When I think about the last time she clung to me like this, I worry more. She hasn’t cried like this since her Dad died. I’m not sure what that means for us. It can’t be anything good. Her tears feel desperate and broken. What hurts most is that I can’t do anything to take away her pain. So I sit without a word, clutching her to my chest.

After a few minutes, she calms down, rubs the back of her hands against her face, and slides off my lap to sit next to me. When she looks up at me, black streaks stain her freckled cheeks. I take the sleeve of my hoodie and wipe it across her face.

“I’ve missed you,” she says softly, batting her wet, clumpy eyelashes and sniffling. She wipes her hand under her nose.

“Is that why you’re crying? Because you missed me?” I try not to laugh. Because
that
I can handle. Heartbroken crying? Bad news crying? Death of a loved one crying? No thank you. But tears because she missed me as much as I missed her, I’ll take it.

She nods.

“Oh, Pete.” I take her face in my hands and try to kiss her, but she turns away, pulling out of my grasp.

Her head shakes. “That hasn’t changed.”

Her rejection hurts, but I accept it. I knew it was a possibility. She’d made it clear on her porch that we were over. If I wait, if I have patience, our time will come. I don’t want to fight. I just want to be here. With her.

“Okay,” I say. “That’s fine. When you decide I’m the one, I’ll be waiting. But for now, can I at least hold you until you stop crying?”

She nods again and leans into my shoulder, allowing me to wrap her in my arms again. If this is all I can get, I’ll take it until she can give me more. Or until she takes it away altogether.

Harper comes back about twenty minutes later, and they’ve been decorating ever since, pretending Peyton doesn’t have the remnants of black makeup dotting her face and eyes so puffy she can hardly open them.

“Do you think we need curtains?”

Peyton looks confused. “We have blinds. Why would we need curtains?”

“I don’t know,” Harper says. “To add character. Our dorm is so bare and dull.”

Skylar should be meeting us soon to go see a movie, but he’s late, so I’m stuck listening to things a man should never have to worry about.

I was hoping Peyton would be alone when I came to her dorm room, but since Harper answered the door, that squashed my envisioned reunion. I wanted to come the first weekend after school started, but I knew I needed to give her space. I was hoping the month apart would have given her enough time to get over the notion that we can’t make this work.

“Brodee, what do you think?”

“Huh?”

“Robert or Chris?” Harper asks.

I’d stopped listening to them ten minutes ago.

“Huh?” I repeat, even more confused.

“Robert,” she holds up a poster of Iron Man. “Or Chris,” she holds up a poster of Captain America. “Peyton will only let me hang one.”

“Because you don’t even like The Avengers,” Peyton argues with a sigh that tells me they’ve had this disagreement many times before.

“But they’re hot. What does it matter if I like the movies or not? I like looking at them.”

Peyton face-palms. Literally. Palm to forehead. I laugh.

“Andrew,” I answer.

“Who?”

“Andrew Garfield. Spider-Man.”

Peyton giggles and continues hanging pictures on a string across the wall above her bed. Scanning the pictures, I notice not one is of our summer together. However, I made the wall in a couple other pictures from high school, so at least she doesn’t want to erase our entire history.

Harper groans. “You’re no help. Of course you’d pick Peter Parker. Prejudice,” she grumbles.

There’s a knock at the door. “Skylar!” Harper drops the posters, jumps off her bed, and lunges for the door, flinging it open as she leaps into his arms.

Yeah, that was the reunion I’d hoped for with Peyton. Too bad it didn’t happen quite like that.

When Harper lets Skylar go, he comes in and hugs me. “It’s about time you got your butt in town.”

“Ha. Yeah. Just needed to get all settled in first.”

“Took you long enough. I thought I was going to have to drag you here for a weekend. So, are we going to a movie or what?”

I look to Peyton whose eyes are still a little puffy and red as she sits cross-legged on her yellow bedspread. “Let me just fix my mascara, and then we can go,” she says. Awkwardness settles in the room as she moves toward her desk.

“Aww…P Parker, you miss me that much?” Skylar teases to lift the tension. He must know.

“So much, Sky. I don’t know how I survive with you all the way across the parking lot,” she says dryly, lifting her makeup bag out of her desk.

“I’m here now. Big Sky is here. No need to fret.”

She cracks a smile and shakes her head at him. Our eyes meet briefly. There’s something in them that tells me we’re going to be okay.

We’re going to be okay.

We have to be.