Two Roads (16 page)

“Oh screw you,” I say, laughing.

“Is that next on our agenda?” He shoots me the most adorable look ever, and it takes all of my energy not to smite him on the spot. I make a mental note to get back at him for this.

“Don’t make me regret this, nerd boy,” I mutter.

“Cali,” he says, sliding out of his bed and walking over to me. His hair is a mess of bed-head and his whole stomach is totally bare. “I am going to make you more than regret this.”

I don’t know what that means, but he doesn’t protest, so I feel relieved.

I watch him with a morbid fascination as he pushes aside the sheets and climbs into bed next to me. Something about it is so much more mesmerizing than it should be, to watch his body work, to watch him move the sheets and to smell his minty scent and then to feel his body near mine, the heat pouring in from his bare torso. Every muscle in my body seems to freeze as his shirtless side presses against me, his skin to my skin. My heart slows, then hammers, then slows again, because I’m in bed with a guy and for the first time, I don’t feel disgusted and self-loathing about it. I don’t know what I feel, but it’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I can’t believe how much better it is for him to be next to me, though, and I’m already glad he’s here.

“So,” Logan says once he’s lying down. “This is weird.”

We’re separated by a few inches of blankets and pillows, but if I shift close enough to him, just a little bit, I’ll be touching him again. The whole room is quiet outside of our steady breathing, and I close my eyes because I like this calm, this darkness--it makes sense to me.

“I know,” I say, “but I
had
to do it. You looked so pathetic, sleeping on the couch.”

“Me? Pathetic?” He gasps.

“Yes. Pathetic.”

Logan rolls over onto his side so his blue eyes are trained on mine. With his face hovering this close to my body, I feel suddenly naked in my undersized t-shirt and short shorts. “You know what your favorite poet would say about that?”

“I have no idea.”

“’Don’t ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up,’” Logan says simply.

I give him a dumb look, so he continues. “It’s one of my favorite quotes of his. Meaning, our separation was a fence and you took it down without knowing why it was up.”

“And?”

That’s where he flashes me a devious smile. “I guess we’ll find out why the fence was up in the first place.”

And I am dead.

Deceased.

Totally deceasement.

But being the adult I am, I do the mature thing and hit him across the face with my pillow. He laughs at me, and I hit him again.

“You are such a bully.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“An asshole,” he says, “who is sharing a bed with you right now.”

I glare at him. I’m going to murder him one day. I promise myself that much. “I can revoke your bed privileges at any given moment,” I say instead, turning over so my back is to him.

“Okay, okay,” he says quickly. “I surrender.”

“Good,” I say into my pillow. “Does this mean you’ll shut up now?”

“Please,” he says. “You know you want me to keep talking.” And he’s right. As I lie here with him next to me, all I want is for him to keep rambling on about poetry or math or whatever he wants, because all I want, all I
really
want, is to hear his voice, his words, his laugh, and I want him to wrap me up in his thoughts until the world melts away. Until it’s just us, just me and him, and I feel nothing but anger or happiness or sadness or whatever it is, as long as it’s with him.

I shift closer to him in bed. I can still feel his warmth beside me. Right there. Inches away. He’s so close I can reach out and touch him, my hand to his chest, my finger to his bicep, and that is both utterly terrifying and completely thrilling at the same time. I have this overwhelming urge to roll closer to him, so his stomach is against my stomach, so my body is pressed against his body, and wow. I really should not be thinking like this.

He is Ben’s best friend.

And I hate him.

“Logan,” I mumble out after a long pause. “I got you something.”

“What?” he asks like he thinks this is going to be a nice present--of course it isn’t--and I reach into my bag on the ground until my fingers wrap around it.

Then, I lift it up, and throw the crepe directly at his face.

“That,” I say.

I close my eyes as soon as I hear his laugh.

We just lie there for a while after that--eyes closed, silent. The whole room is dark, but if I turn around ever so slightly I can see Logan’s silhouette, can almost feel his smile from the other side of the bed. We’re separated by a few inches of sheets, but the possibilities could keep me up all night.

“Hey Cali?” Logan says after a while.

“Yeah Logan?”

“I hate you.”

A smile passes across my lips, because Logan Waters is lying next to me and I’ve always hated being this physically close to people until now. I’ve had my walls up for so long, never knowing what I wanted, never knowing how I always felt nothing around other guys, but now, here he is, teaching me what I want--who I want.

“I hate you, too,” I say, meaning it.

Then, I close my eyes, and once again, I’m flooded in darkness.

But it doesn’t feel so dark with him beside me.

~

Something

must be

fixed

~

The
next morning is even more awkward, if that’s possible. I wake up slowly, my head spinning, and vaguely I find myself wondering why my leg feels so hot. I start to sit up, squeezing my eyes open and closed. I feel Logan stir beside me at the same time, mumbling something I can’t make out. The room is full of sunlight and it must be late morning, almost time for the conference. I start to stand up and roll out of bed, when I notice it: one of my legs is wrapped around his hips. He must see it at the same time I do, because we both stiffen. Neither of us move.
Shit shit shit.
I try to pull apart from him, but I can’t. We’re a mess of tangled limbs and I can’t break away without bringing the rest of him with me. I hold my breath as he tries to pull apart, my heart pounding, feeling the heat from his body pouring out. No no no. This is
not
happening. I try to slip by him, but then I notice his lips… is he looking at mine? Holy fuck is that hard thing against my thigh--

Logan jumps away and blurts out, “Shower! You want it or can I use it?”

“You first,” I say, shivering. I force myself not to wonder what my moronic subconscious was thinking to wrap my legs around him like that.

We take turns showering and going to the bathroom, and the whole changing clothes situation also makes for a hell of an interesting time. Let’s just say that nothing tests a friendship rivalry like having two people in need of using the bathroom very, very badly at the same time. The situation that ensues is nothing short of The Hunger Games.

Not once do we dare speak about what happened when we woke up, though, and for that I am eternally grateful.

By the time we’re both all showered and dressed, it’s 10 a.m. The convention starts in almost an hour.

“You ready?” Logan says, running a hand through his wet hair. We’re both standing in front of each other in the middle of the hotel room, fully clothed and still reeling from the epic awkwardness of this morning.

“Kind of?” I say, interrupting my own thoughts. The truth is, I’m nervous. I have no idea why, but I’m afraid. Afraid I’m not going to be able to go through with it. Afraid I’m going to be thinking about Ben the whole time. Afraid the guilt is going to wash right back over me.

Then, my stomach growls. Loudly. For the second time in front of him.

Logan raises an eyebrow, biting back a laugh, and I just wince. “Hungry, Cali?”

I shoot him a look. “Stop amusing yourself, dickhead.”

He shoots me a fighting look.

We spend the next five minutes gathering everything we brought for the conference. Pens, notebooks, poetry books by authors attending to get signed, some pamphlets, emergency chocolate, cellphones--the usual. We head to the lobby to get something to eat, and Logan tells me to wait there while he orders something for me from the little restaurant in the hotel. I collapse on the chair in the lobby for at least twenty minutes, just staring at the fire and thinking about Ben, what he would say if he saw me like this, whether he would be angry at me for getting close to Logan. I think about Logan, too, think about what it is he seems to know about the suicide that I don’t and why he feels the need to keep it from me.

Next I think about Ruby, probably back from her date and having an awesome time. About my parents, who I can only imagine are pouting because I’m not there to meet with them, going on and on to each other about how poetry has turned my mind to hell like some sort of drug, and I just sigh.

“Close your eyes,” a voice says behind me--Logan’s voice--after a few minutes.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have to kill you,” he says. I still don’t look at him.

“I am terrified,” I mutter, knowing it annoys him, and if there’s one thing that bastard needs right now is to be reminded of how much I hate him, especially considering what happened this morning.

“You should be. But seriously, I brought you food. Just close your eyes.”

“Would that make you happy?” I say.

“It would.”

Sighing, I obey--just because I’m starving--and I hear Logan come around with a plate or something in his hand and stand in front of me. “Now open your eyes,” he says, and I do. My gaze immediately finds the plate in his hand.

And staring back at me, like this is first goddamn grade, are three pancakes arranged to look like Mickey Mouse, complete with strawberry eyes and a whipped cream nose and smile.

“You’re serious?” I say, biting back a laugh.

“Totally serious.” He says it like he didn’t just order me a meal that a small child would get, like this is, instead, the grandest breakfast in the world, and something about that is totally amusing to me.

I glare at him. “You’re worse than my parents.”

“I know.” He hands me the plate. “Now eat up.”

I’m embarrassed to say that I do.

Turns out, Mickey Mouse pancakes are pretty badass, because I devour the whole thing in under five minutes and it is fucking delicious. The whipped cream nose was, I admit, a nice touch.

After I’m done and Logan orders and eats a Mickey Mouse pancake of his own, we wait out the last half hour before the convention opens by discussing just how horrible that breakfast would have been if the pancakes were--god forbid--crepes instead. Logan launches into a long rant once again about how self-centered and overrated crepes most certainly are, and I find as many ways as possible to make fun of him for it. We laugh and talk for what feels like forever, just the two of us, not even noticing how loud and crowded the rest of the lobby is while everyone waits for the convention to open. We don’t have tickets, don’t even have registration--we are not good planners--but strangely, that feels okay. We’ll get in. I know we will. And even if we don’t, I’m here with Logan, and making fun of him is all I need to be happy.

After a long time, the hotel manager comes out, says “the National’s Poet’s Convention is now open!” and leads the group to the door at the end of the lobby. Logan and I drift to the end of the pack of people in line, not really knowing how we’re going to get in but not caring, either. One after another the attendees file through the door under the surveillance of a security guard, who checks everyone’s attendance slips. I glance at Logan, cock my head to the side to remind him that we don’t have any slips, and he just shrugs.

“Do you even have a plan for getting in?” I hiss.

He stares at me blankly. “Not at all. I was thinking of winging it.”

I close my eyes. This was such an awful idea. We didn’t plan one bit, and now we’re not even going to get in. “Are you serious?” I whisper, half-hoping he’ll say he was just kidding and had the slips all along.

“No need to worry. I’ll charm the security guard,” Logan says, winking at me.

“He’s like a fifty-year-old man.” I don’t hide the exasperation in my voice.

“And my powers of adorability work on
everyone
. Relax.”

The line moves painfully slowly. The sounds of coughs and sneezes fill the air as one by one, people enter the convention, and I wait there, tapping my foot, until it’s finally our turn.

“Pass?” the guard mumbles, halfheartedly searching for our attendance slips.

I open my mouth to say something, but Logan beats me to it. “That’s kind of a funny story,” he says, stepping in front of me.

“Really?” The guard couldn’t sound more annoyed. “Well you should go tell someone all about it after you hand me your passes.”

Logan smiles. “About that… we don’t exactly… have them?”

The guard leans back on his stool and sighs. “Then you have to leave.”

“Oh, but I was thinking--”

“Next!” the guard calls, and a fat lady behind us tries to step through but Logan holds his ground.

“Wait,” he says. “Do you like crepes?” Logan asks after a minute, eyes trained on the guard. I snap my gaze up at him.
Is he crazy?

Oh god, I realize. I’m going to the convention with an idiot. My brother’s best friend is an
idiot
. He’s seriously trying to get into the convention by discussing crepes.

“Do I like crepes?” The guard looks just as confused as I am. “No…” he says after a second.

“Of course not. Because crepes suck. They’re just pathetic pancake wannabes.” Logan shoots me an ‘I told you they’re terrible’ look, which I pretend not to notice.

“Your point?” The guard taps his index finger to his temple, clearly waiting for Logan to leave.

“I blackmailed my friend here”--he motions to me--”with crepes to come to the convention. She had to endure
crepes
all over her room for days before she came. You know as well as I do how painful that must be, because crepes are the work of evil, evil monsters. But she suffered through all that to come to this conference, and now here we are, and we’d like to get in. We won’t mess anything up,” he adds.

I watch Logan carefully, not understanding for a second what he’s getting at. Maybe he really did lose his mind. I always knew there was a reason I hated him.

The security guard looks totally bored by this, but he also seems to want to get rid of us as quickly as possible. “Promise me this,” he mutters. “If I let you in, you will force yourself to eat all of those crepes you left for your friend, just as my version of payback.

Logan beams. “Deal.”

And then the guard grunts and ushers us inside.

Like,
lets us in
.

Because of crepes.

My mouth threatens to drop open. That did not... how did that… that seriously
worked
? Wow this guard must’ve been bored.

“What was that?” I hiss into Logan’s ear as we enter the convention.

“Pure freaking luck,” is all he says.

The next thing I know, we’re standing in the middle of a huge, cavernous room that might be half the size of the hotel itself. The walls are painted light green, with posters of famous dead poets like Frost and Cummings hanging on every side of the room. A large banner is strung above a stage at the end of the room, with the words “National Poet’s Convention 2013” written in thick cursive font. A podium is positioned below it on the edge of the stage. The whole room is split up into sections, with close to twenty dining tables in the center and stations full of presentations on different poets and their poems on the sides of the room. There’s a signing booth to my right, and I recognize a few of the poets there. The room is flooded with hundreds of people, laughing and talking and arguing. Everyone is dressed in shirts and shorts, except for the servers, who hold appetizer trays and are wearing completely black and white clothes as they make their way around the room.

As I look around, my breath catches. I turn to Logan, who also looks pretty dumbfounded, and then our shock morphs into wide smiles.

A convention full of poetry nerds and appetizers? Heaven, here I come.

“This may be the definition of badass,” Logan breathes, looking around the giant room. There are so many stations full of different poets, panels, discussions, everything. This is more than just an amphitheater; it’s like a whole town of poetry geekery.

And it. is. awesome.

“Agreed,” I say, my eyes darting from person to person, poetry lover to poetry lover. “Where do we start?”

Logan shrugs. Both of us continue to stare in awe at the convention in front of us. People push past us, talking about Dickinson quotes and the meaning of life per her poems and it’s not a conversation I ever thought I’d hear someone have, which makes it all the more beautiful. Someone is reciting a poem on the opposite end of the room, and a group in front of him erupts into applause when he finishes. To the right is a long table where several people have a heated discussion about the meaning of “I Carry Your Heart With Me,” Logan’s favorite poem, and beside it a few well-known poets are signing autographs and laughing with fans.

The whole room is full of life, an explosion of smiles and culture, of the poems I’ve loved in secret for so long, all laid out in front of me, realer than ever.

“I say we listen to the Robert Frost lecture,” I say, pointing to the group to our right where an older convention worker presents about Frost, going on about how his childhood affected his poetry, and so on.

Logan nods. “Let’s do it. Anything to learn more about your man Robert Frost.”

“Call him my man one more time and I will--”

“You will what?” he interrupts, smiling sweetly.

I punch him in the arm. It’s supposed to hurt him more than it hurts me, but it feels like my fist just connected with a steel wall--I lose again. Goddamn Logan and his killer biceps. “It would give you nightmares, whatever it is, asshole,” I say.

He laughs. “Then it’s a plan, freak.”

I drag him through a crowd of people, stopping to grab a mini quesadilla off of one of the servers plates because why not, until we’re within earshot of the group. “For the first forty years of Frost’s life,” the speaker is saying, “no one knew who Frost was. He had a rough time, and he lived in the shadows, unknown, a soon-to-be poetry master who no one had ever heard of. He seemed to be a disappointment, to his friends, his family, and he worked a number of jobs he had no interest in before his career took off. Frost’s first poem, ‘My Butterfly: an Elegy,’ was published in
The Independent
in 1894, two years after he dropped out of Dartmouth. You may think this is what led to his recognition, but you’d be wrong. Nothing happened after it was published. No sudden cash flow, no rise in popularity, and Frost continued to work a string of jobs he got nothing out of to support himself because the profession he always wanted to pursue--poetry--was not working for him. Things seemed to take a turn for the better when Frost married his wife, Elinor, in 1895, had his first child a year later, and then started attending Harvard in 1897 in hopes of finally graduating from a university, but the high did not last long. Frost had to drop out of Harvard two years later to take care of Elinor, who was about to have their second child. The child ended up suffering from mental illnesses, so the Frosts moved to a ranch and started working there--not very successfully--in hopes of living out a simple life away from everywhere else. Although Frost never stopped writing, he had nearly given up hope on ever making a living in poetry and, like everyone else, had submitted to the notion that his dream would never come true.”

The presenter changes the slide to a picture of Frost’s old ranch, clears his throat, and continues. “Elinor had four more children during their twelve year stay at the ranch, two of which died of complications in childbirth. His life took a turn for the worst this second time, but Frost never once completely gave up on his dream. He sold the farm in 1912 and moved to England, where all of the major poetry publishers were located at the time, and kept on trying to get noticed. This time, it only took a few months before Henry Holt agreed to publish his debut poetry book,
A Boy’s Will
. The book did well enough that Holt published Frost’s second book of poetry,
North of Boston
, a year later. This is when Frost met Edward Thomas, a critic and avid supporter and, later, friend of Frost’s. In fact, Thomas became so significant to his life that Frost’s most famous
The Road Not Taken
was inspired Thomas. Frost claimed that watching Thomas’s walks out in the country, and Thomas’s indecision over which road to take was what initially started the poem.”