The One That I Want (32 page)

“Funny, isn’t it?” she said one night when we were working through her rehab exercises. “How I always thought I was a solo act, but it turns out that I was more of a duet.” I laughed along with her because it was indeed funny, especially when I’d turned out to be just the opposite.

And now, the Arc de Triomphe is glorious, and after a moment of reverence, I push the doors open, and I step inside.

The gym is pulsing, throbbing with frenzied teenagers, their hormones hopping, their senses likely dulled and heightened all at once thanks to spiked punch or their flasks tucked in their inside
pockets. I wave at a few, stopping to hug CJ. Johnny Hutchinson has dumped her again; I heard the whispers through the grapevine last week. So, as expected, she wallows in the corner, her breasts exploding over a bouquet of yellow flowers sewn atop her bustline. A ploy, no doubt, designed to lure Johnny Hutchinson back in, though I hope for her sake that the mission fails, because he will be one more thing that she’ll wonder if she should regret leaving behind.

“You’ll be fine; go have fun,” I say to her after we pull back from our embrace.

“He’s an asshole,” she says, her bottom lip jutting out.

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But you’ll be fine either way. A lot of them are assholes. A lot of them aren’t. It doesn’t really matter. You don’t define yourself by it.”

I push through the din, making my way toward the DJ and the drink station when I spot Eli. Though nearly everyone else is in a rented tuxedo, he dons instead a dark navy suit, a rich lavender tie, a magnificent aberration in a flock of sheep. He smiles widely, the edges of his eyes folding like a fan, and flags me over, then whistles when I approach.

“Wow,” he says. “I must insist on buying you a drink. But only if some ambiguous fruit-flavored punch will do.”

“I accept,” I say, laughing. “Clearly, this is your first prom, because you learn to love the stuff. I think I crave it the rest of the year. Oh, and it’s free.”

“Indeed it is my first, my virgin experience.” He nods. “Well, first prom since I was seventeen, to be fair. I’m hoping this one turns out a little better.” We weave toward the nonalcoholic bar, and I wrinkle my brow in question. “Let’s just say that a few too many rum and Cokes were not my friend that night … nor my date’s, actually. God, she was pissed at me.” He shakes his head. “Man, I haven’t thought about this stuff in forever.”

Funny
, I think,
because I used to think about it all the time
.

Before we can scoop out our punch, the DJ clicks to a new song, a slow song, one that transports me back, too far back, to
before
. Whitney Houston blares out from the speakers.
If I should stay, I will only be in your way
.

“Oh my God.” Eli scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Do you remember this?”

“I do.” I nod, not just because I danced to it with Tyler, but because the DJ somehow seemed to play it every year since. I’d hear it and drag Ty to the dance floor, and throw my arms over his shoulders, swaying to the rhythm, reenacting our time from when we were seventeen, from before.

“I think it’s some sort of understood Prom Song.” I giggle. “I actually think I used to love this song. You know, the
meaning—‘And I will always love you,’
and all of that. Back then, it seemed pretty deep.”

“Come on,” he says, running his finger down my arm, twirling me before I can think otherwise, and beckoning me to the center of the room. “Let’s make the most of it.”

He pulls me toward him firmly, confidently, placing his hand on the small of my back like it simply fits there. I lean into his chest, and he smells like maple syrup. I rest my head against his shoulder, like I have done before, and close my eyes and inhale the sweetness. This is what I can do for now, this is what I can offer, this is my first step back up the mountain.

When the song ends, I kiss his cheek, and we walk off, fingers almost intertwined, something unspoken between us, something silent and building, which is just as we need it to be for now.

We find ourselves on the bleachers, where I wordlessly lace my hand into his, and he, in turn, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, though I suspect that his baser instinct might be to do so. He is a wanderer after all.

“This is probably my last prom,” I say. I am swallowing it up, absorbing it, with an equal mix of sadness, euphoria, and yes, nostalgia, too. There is still space for nostalgia, even with everything that has happened. He looks toward me with surprise. “I’m applying to graduate school.” I pause. “I think. For photography.”

“This is a good thing for you, Tilly Farmer,” he says, holding my hand steady.

“It is. Turns out that maybe I’m not the best guidance counselor. Or maybe being a guidance counselor isn’t best for me,” I answer, because both are true. “You probably won’t be around here much longer anyway.”

“Through the spring,” he says, turning back to watch the beat of swaying bodies. “They offered me a full-time position, but we’ll see. I haven’t made up my mind.”

“I can’t imagine that Westlake is where you want to stay forever.”

“No, probably not forever,” he says, leaning into his knees, still clasping my hand. “But it’s pretty alright for now.”

“I bought a ticket to Paris,” I say, aglow when obvious pride washes across his face. He is the first person I’ve told. I did it on instinct, on a whim, the same night I bought my dress. “For April, during spring break.”

“You’ll love it there,” he says, taking his free hand, turning my face toward his but instead kissing the curve of my shoulder. “You’ll take my Nikon.”

“I couldn’t,” I protest.

“You can,” he says. “Besides, that’s the only way I can be sure that you’ll ever come back.”

We sit there until the lights stop spinning, until the throb of the bass fades into a void of disparate voices who quickly scatter off to their parents’ borrowed cars, to the few splurged limousines, off into their night of well-earned celebration. Because tomorrow,
they will wake up,
we
will wake up, and we will face another day, another mountain, another moment in the after. And if we are wise, which I hope that I am now, we will seize it so mightily, clench it so close, that we will never risk that it can break free, slip through our open fingers without warning.

There is the before. And then there is the after. Happiness is what you choose, what you follow, not what follows you. These are the things I have seen, these are the things I now know, these are the things I will carry with me as I go.

T
his book was a true labor of love, sometimes more labor than love, and I’m deeply indebted to my editor, Sarah Knight, who read my initial miserable manuscript and thoughtfully helped shape the book in ways I’d never have dreamed of on my own. Many, many thanks to everyone at Shaye Areheart Books and Crown, who have been more generous, supportive, and hardworking than I could have asked for. Shaye Areheart, Annsley Rosner, Kira Walton, Christine Kopprasch, Karin Shultz, Allison Malec, and Jay Sones.

Elisabeth Weed—you are my Jerry McGuire. Thank you, thank you.

Thanks also to Laura Dave, Jessica Jones, Annika Pergament, Sarah Self, and everyone who entertains me throughout the day on Twitter, my blog, and various other online time-wasters. It takes a village. And of course, my last and dearest public display of gratitude goes to my family—Adam, Campbell, and Amelia, without whom this whole shindig would be meaningless.

A
llison Winn Scotch is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Time of My Life
and
The Department of Lost and Found
. She lives in New York City with her husband and their son, daughter, and dog.