Two Roads (11 page)

I watch him, frowning. “You really aren’t sure what you want to do as a profession?” He might as well have told me that he’s secretly a drug dealer.

“I am really not. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know,” I say, glancing back down at my food. “I guess I just assumed all nerds had their whole lives mapped out, minute by minute.”

Logan bites back a laugh. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I am
way
more than just a nerd.”

I stare at him, hands on my hips. Him, with his obnoxious geek glasses. Him, with his tons of textbooks. Him, sitting here, with me.

Yeah. Right. Not just a nerd my ass.

“There is no way you’re ever getting me to believe that.”

He leans in closer to me so that I can see his lightly shaven chin, his way-too-defined dimples, and his piercing blue eyes. I feel myself tense up, just a little, with him this close to me. “Your boy Robert Frost would be disappointed.”

“I really don’t think he would be.”

Frost was not known for his people skills, so it seems unlikely he would be upset with me. In fact, Frost and I are kind of alike in that way. We both prefer poems to human beings, and a big part of it is due to losing people. He lost several of his children, and I lost Ben.

Logan shrugs, and I start to ask him about how he’s been these last four years, whether he cries as much as I cry, if he thinks about Ben as much as I do, if he’s okay--if he’ll ever be okay--after what happened, but then I remember him, all happy and smiley with his friends, and I bite back my words. He is fine, I remind myself. He’s gotten over it, just like any normal human being would. I’m just the exception. I’m the idiot who is letting that one night control her own life.

The waiter comes by a few seconds later, takes our food, and says goodbye. I’m sure he’s happy to get rid of us, as we have probably weirded him out enough for one day. “Wait,” I say as he starts to leave.

He turns around, looking impatient. “Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to give us the check?” I ask.

“It’s already been paid,” he says simply and motions to Logan. “By this young man.” Then, before I can ask anything else, he hurries off.

I turn to Logan, who stares right back at me, looking bored. “How did you…” I start to say. He cocks his head to the side. “When did you--?”

“I have my ways,” he says without missing a beat, and that is that.

I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t have the energy. The scary thing is that I was here with him the whole time, so he would have had no way of paying without my noticing.

Finally, I shake my head and stand up, and Logan reciprocates.

“This was unusual,” I say. We both stand in front of the table, looking awkwardly between our empty plates and each other.

“Yeah. It, um… it was,” Logan says. Then he does the most painful thing possible: he reaches out to shake my hand.

Like, my rival. Shaking my hand. After a lunch that was so not a date for the simple reason that I hate him.

I just look at his outstretched fingers, hanging there in front of me, but I don’t take them. There is no way I’m ever shaking Logan Waters’ hand.

When I leave him hanging, he gives me his best sad puppy face, which, I admit, between the curled lip and melting blue eyes, is entirely convincing. I almost feel bad. Almost.

“Well, it was nice to reacquaint myself with the girl behind the mean girl act,” he says.

“And it’s
wasn’t
nice to reacquaint myself with the boy behind the nerd act.” This really could not be more awkward.

The truth is, it was kind of nice to talk to Logan again--really talk to him. He is just like I remember him, the him from before that night. He is fun and cocky and strange, and he listens to me, he cares about what I have to say. He treats me like I matter, and that’s something no one else besides Ben has ever done for me before.

Plus, Logan is kind of… cool. (It pains me to even think that.) Yeah, he’s totally obnoxious but in almost an endearing way. And he’s one of the first boys I’ve met who seems genuinely interested in me for
me
. Talking to him almost reminds me why I had that stupid, secret crush on him freshman year. Of course, all that is long gone now, but it was nice to break down the walls for a bit--to remember.

“I hope we get to talk poetry again soon,” I say, meaning it. “I mean, you still suck, but maybe we could call a temporary truce some other time.”

Logan smiles. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

He leads me away from our table and out of the restaurant, stopping me at the steps by the parking lot.

We stand there for a long time. Logan is only inches from me and I can feel his breath on my lips, can almost picturing him touching my hand again like he did earlier. Logan’s hand is shoved into his pocket and I’m trying to distract myself by fidgeting with my jeans, which really does not help the situation.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

Another pause.

“So are you going to kiss me or…?” Logan jokes, showing off those dimples again. A pair of wiry glasses watches me carefully.

I give him a murderous stare and shove him a little. Goddammit his arms are
hard
. “I would rather die,” I say, still kind of stunned that a geek like Logan can have that much muscle.

“I’d like that.”

“Not if I kill you first, you won’t, dickhead.” It takes a lot of effort for me not to smile.

“So I take it we’re back to being enemies?”

“We were always enemies,” I say.

Loan shrugs. Then he glances down at my pocket, where I’d shoved the National Poet’s Convention pamphlet Ruby gave me. “What’s that?” he asks.

Frowning, I pull it out of my pocket, glance at it, and hand it to him. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just some poetry convention pamphlet my roommate gave to me.”

Logan turns it over in his hand. His eyebrows furrow. “This is not ‘just some poetry convention pamphlet,’ Cali Monroe. This is
the
poetry convention pamphlet. It takes place this weekend, too. I’ve wanted to go to this thing forever but my mom would never let me and it was never anywhere nearby, and then I got too busy studying and doing non-poetry things and it kept getting farther and farther out of reach and then I thought it was never possible but now I see the pamphlet here with you and I--”

I raise my eyebrow, and he seems to take the hint that he’s rambling again, because he snaps his mouth close almost immediately. I can’t help but smile.

“Anyway,” he says, sighing wistfully. “Are you going?”

I shake my head. “Don’t have the money. Or anyone to go with,” I add. I don’t tell him the real reason I won’t go is because it’s going to remind me of Ben and make me feel like I’m somehow betraying him.

“Well, now you have me.”

I wince as soon as he says it. Turning him down should feel easier than turning Ruby down, but it doesn’t. “What do you mean?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“You want to go to the convention,” he says. “And so do I. But I’m guessing we’ve never had anyone to go with until now. So, why not go together? Let’s call another truce.”

I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it comes. “I told you,” I say. “I don’t have the money.”

Logan watches me carefully. I think he can tell something is up. “I do.”

“No, Logan, I can’t--”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just--”

“You just what?” His gaze is locked on mine, hard and firm, and I close my eyes, willing myself to admit the truth.

“I just don’t want to, okay?”

I take a step down the stairs. Logan raises me a step of his own.

“Don’t want to go at all or don’t want to go with me?” he persists.

“Is there a difference?”

“There is.”

I sigh. Apparently, he does not give up easily. Add that to my list of reasons to hate him. “Fine,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t want to go
at all.
Happy?”

Logan’s face remains blank as he studies me like he’s freaking Yoda or something. But god, he’s good. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

He pauses. “You sure?”

“I’m sure, you insufferable asshole,” I say, trying not to smile.

He looks at me, shaking his head, but seems to submit, at least. “Well if you change your mind, I’m always here, bitch. I guess I won’t be going either then.” At that, he turns around and starts heading back to his car. “I’ll see you around, Cali.” I hate how defeated he sounds, how the smile he was just wearing like it was some sort of secret treasure he just had to show off is now completely gone, and more than that, I hate that it’s me who did that to him.

“You too, Logan,” I say, standing there, watching him pull open his car door.

Before he steps inside, he nods at the old t-shirt I am wearing and my complete mess of bedhead. “It was nice of you to dress up, by the way,” he says.

“I had a feeling the date would suck,” I say. “And I was right.” I smile as sweetly as possible at him.

He laughs as he gets inside and then fastens his seatbelt. “I hate you,” he says to me.

“I hate you too.” Then he closes the car door and drives off.

I stand there for the longest, watching him go.

~

The boy was supposed to be different.

He wasn’t supposed to be smart, funny, nice to talk to,

wasn’t supposed to listen to her,

wasn’t supposed to laugh at her jokes,

to care about what she had to say.

He wasn’t supposed to be any of it,

and more than that, he wasn’t supposed to care about her.

But maybe she wasn’t supposed to care about him, either

and look where they are now.

~

I call
my mom the instant Logan drives away. I’m not angry at her. At least, not as much as I should be. But if she seriously has the nerve to set me up with Logan even when she’s well aware that he reminds me of what happened to Ben almost as much as she does, there is no way I’m letting her off the hook.

So I stand there, on the stairs in front of the sandwich shop, calling my mom after my non-date with my worst enemy.

Welcome to my screwed up life.

The phone rings a few times before I hear a click.

“What the hell?” I say as soon as she picks up.

“Cali?” a voice says.

“
Yes
, it’s Cali.”

“What’s wrong?” Mom’s voice is quiet and innocent, and I already know she’s going to act like she had absolutely no idea that what was going to happen, happened. Like she didn’t realize that Logan is the last person in the world I’d want to be set up with, and more than that, like she didn’t realize her betraying me like that would hurt me.

Because it did.

Because it does.

Because even after everything, my parents can still make me more hurt than I already am.

Maybe if she just gave me some goddamn closure about that night and every day after that for the last four years where she’s tried to get me to turn out like him, I wouldn’t feel so epically pissed at her. Maybe if she took the first step, I’d take the second.

“Are you kidding me?” I might as well let it all out while I can. “You set me up with fucking Logan Waters. You know I hate him. You know he makes me think of Be--” I stop myself from completing the sentence at the last second. I haven’t spoken Ben’s name aloud in the last four years, and I’m sure as hell not about to start now.

But the insane thing is that I’m not actually angry at Mom for how the date turned out. I should be, god I should be, but I’m not. This may have been the best date of my life and it wasn’t even a freaking date, and that’s the worst part. That’s the scary part.

“Never set me up on a date, okay?” I say into the phone, defeated. I hate fighting with her. It just makes me sick and sad. I don’t like hurting my parents, even when they hurt me.

There’s a pause. “What are you talking about, honey? I thought you liked him!”

“I haven’t liked him for four years, Mom, and you know that. Stop trying to fix my life. Stop trying to fix me--”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says on the other end in a voice that feigns caring so well it makes me want to scream and stomp on my phone. She has mastered the art of pretending. Pretending to care about my birthday. Pretending that she thinks I look beautiful in my prom dress. Pretending that I matter to her. “Would you like me to set you up with someone else? I’m sure we can find another sweet boy for you--”

“No, Mom. Your dates make me miserable, just like you do.” I sigh. “You know, if I’m being honest here, it feels like neither of us are even trying anymore. And sometimes I think… everything you do and say, it’s all for yourself. Sometimes I think you don’t even care about me, just like you never cared about him,” I say sadly. “I don’t know, Mom. I just don’t know.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I do care about you, Cali,” she says so quietly I have to check to make sure I’m not imagining it. “I do--”

“No you don’t,” I say. I’m not dealing with this now. She’s obviously lying. She’s always lying.

“But Ca--”

“Look, if you really care about me, then prove it,” I say. I lean against my sunbaked car, closing my eyes and sighing. Logan is long gone, probably back to his apartment to tell all of his geeky friends what a hideous freak I am, and yet, I don’t want to leave this stupid shop. My heart is still hammering and I can’t take any of this anymore, can’t take the confusion, can’t take the misery.

The phone crackles on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” Mom finally says, and it hurts how much I believe her. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

My muscles tense up at the rawness in her words. It’s like she’s opening up, really opening up, and something about that is both surreal and painful at the same time. She can’t just say something heartfelt one time and expect it to make up for the last four years. She can’t pretend like none of it ever happened. So I open my mouth to say something, to comfort her maybe, to tell her either thank you or that she needs to shut the hell up--I’m honestly not sure which--but then I just can’t take it. Without a word, I hang up on her, and let the silence take me away.

For a while after that I relax on the side of my car, ignoring the hurt in my heart, ignoring the deep, aching emptiness I get whenever I talk to my mom these days. I need to get away from all of this--for a day, a week, a month. I need a way out, if only for a little while.

Automatically, my gaze shifts back down to the pamphlet in my pocket, but I shake my head.
No
, I tell myself. I can’t go there. I can’t disappoint Ben and go without him. I can’t be reminded of all I could’ve done to save him, all of the times I could have touched his arm and asked how he was feeling--really feeling. All of the times I heard him crying and assumed it was nothing. All of the times I told myself my brother was totally, completely, and perfectly fine, just like he always was, even when, deep down, I knew he wasn’t.

All of the times I could’ve said something, but was too afraid of making a big deal out of nothing.

So I stand here, doing nothing, feeling nothing, just like I did those four years ago.

~

When
I finally get home, Ruby isn’t in our apartment. But that’s not to say it’s empty.

I step inside, dropping my bag on the ground and groaning to myself. My ears are still ringing from my phone call with my mom as I stumble across the room, ready to collapse in my bed and wallow there for eternity. I’m about to, too, but then I glance up at my apartment. And my mouth might literally drop open.

The whole room is covered from head-to-toe in Albert Einstein posters, and in each and every poster fake lipstick covers Einstein’s cheek like someone just kissed him on the face. He has his old frizzy gray hair, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and the entire image is taken in black and white. It’s not the most attractive picture I’ve ever seen, to say the least. At the bottom of the posters are the words, “See? Math nerds can be hot, too. -L”

I just stare. Every poster is like that, lipstick and all. Covering my bed, Ruby’s bed, the ceiling, the TV, the windows--everything. They make everything else slip away, take me right back to where I want to be, to the one constant left in my life: my rivalry with Logan.

As soon as the shock wears off, a huge smile spreads across my face.
Logan
. I can’t help but give him credit for this. He snuck that in right after our date, and he did a hell of a job incredibly quickly. For one, long minute, I just keep looking around the room in awe, admiring his work. Everywhere I turn a lipstick-covered Albert Einstein stares back at me, all old and weird and kissed, and I just laugh.

Oh my god.

I’ve got to hand it to him. This is one of his better pranks.

After a while of circling the room, I walk up to the fan above my bed. It’s spinning quickly, carrying something around the room with it as it moves. I turn off the fan and let it slow before reaching out to see what that something is. I frown as it comes to almost a full stop, and then I see it.

Attached to the fan is a long string which holds a thin pancake-like food at about eye level.

I stop. Holy shit.

It’s a crepe.

Logan told me he hates crepes.

On the crepe is a little note with nerdy, rushed writing scribbled onto it--Logan’s handwriting. It says: “This is also a ransom note, Cali Monroe. Now it is my turn to hold a hostage. This crepe. For every hour that you don’t agree to go with me to the poetry convention, I put three crepes somewhere in your room. And crepes suck, so you know that will add up quickly.”

I reread the note several times before it finally sinks in. I bite back a smile. Goddammit he is a cocky asshole. I can’t even imagine anyone not hating him.

I turn the note over, just to check. On the back in even smaller handwriting is a Robert Frost quote from “The Road Not Taken.” I read it, rolling my eyes. Of course he turns the only information I give him about myself against me.

“Knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back…

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.”

I translate it pretty quickly in my head to “COME WITH ME TO THE CONVENTION.”
In your dreams, asshole
, I think to myself.

I close my eyes and collapse back onto my poster-covered bed. Leave it to Logan to find such new and innovative ways to piss me off, because right now I’m incredibly annoyed at how charming I find him. God, I hate him and his quirks. I hate him because he abandoned me, because he was never there to comfort me after Ben’s death and because he flat-out annoys me in general. I hate him too much to let one non-date change my feelings toward him, and that is the truth. He is charming, sure, but he is a bastard. A bastard who, according to my gut, knows more about what happened to Ben than he is letting on.

A few texts come in from Sarah updating me on all of the pointless gossip I’ve missed over the last few days, and I respond calling all of the gossip-victims bitches and sluts and assholes accordingly, but I’ve completely lost interest in conversing with Sarah and everyone. They’re morons, I realize. Total freaking morons. They don’t deserve me.

After a few minutes, I pull out my computer and click over to
Two Roads
, the same poetry blog I visit every day. I start scrolling through the recent posts. There is only one new poem this time, about a boy and a girl who run away together but halfway through it the girl realizes the boy she always wanted was right in front of her the whole time. The poem is titled
Choice
, and it is not the most original poem on the whole blog, so I skim it.

I go back and reread the poem from yesterday, the one about Frost and his idiocy and the road leading to love. I let the words wrap me up, take me away. It really is a sweet poem, and it’s quickly becoming one of my favorites by The Roadkeeper. I love it because it talks about true love, of the power it holds, and how it is always the answer. When two roads diverge in the yellow wood, it’s saying that the only real choice, the only one that matters, is the one leading to love.

I remember what Logan told me about the E.E Cummings poem earlier and how his favorite poems are the ones that argue that love is the most powerful. He would love this poem, I realize, and I almost want to go run to his room and share it with him right this second--something I’ve never wanted to do with anyone before. But really, he was right. The fact that true love is the most powerful thing in the world
is
a nice thought. All of these poems argue that love can break all bonds, that love can change the course of life, that true love always triumphs in the end. People do crazy things for love, and no matter how it works out, in all of literature there is always a positive that comes from loving someone. It’s why people read romance novels and love poems and why they watch chick-flicks; because no matter what happens, no matter how things end, no matter how impossible or dark or hopeless life seems, true love always shines through. It’s always the victor. It’s always the driving force. It’s always the answer.

Real life may not be a romance novel, or a chick-flick, or a quirky poem on an anonymous blog I’m a little obsessed with, but Logan’s theory still holds true for it. Because when you love someone, when you
really
love someone, it is always worth it. It makes you feel, makes you change, makes you grow. It turns you into something scary and beautiful and inexplicable all at once, and it’s the most amazing thing in the world.

Just like in that poem about the girl named Rose, all you have to do is take a chance, all you have to do is open the door, and love will light up your whole goddamn house.