What's Broken Between Us (11 page)

“And Imogen is the most obvious person you could have chosen,” I add. “Talk about willing and able.”

“Okay, okay. Leave her out of this, please.”

The way he sticks up for her makes my bones ache, like they’ve shattered into a million pieces and I’m going to whoosh into the ground any second.

“How is that fair?” I say.

“Because what I said wasn’t insulting to Graham, and it was the truth. You’re just reaching for anything to bash Imogen with.”

I don’t need this. I turn to go.

“She’s not you, is really what you want to say,” he calls to me, and I have no choice but to pivot back around. His face has opened up; it’s radiating hope. He holds out his arms, his hands in the air, mad at the world or surrendering to it, it’s hard to tell. He focuses on me and gives one more shrug. “I’m sorry about
that too, all right?”

There’s nowhere to keep his admission, nothing to do but let it float away. I’m leaving behind another self, the one who kisses him angrily, passionately—there’s a fine line between them—and says,
Then let’s
not
just forget it
.

Instead, I’m the version of myself who says, “Not all right.”

My voice is so quiet I don’t think he’s heard, but he rubs his forehead, then tugs on the left side of his hair the way he sometimes does when he’s waiting for the teacher to pass out a test, or those moments when he takes his place on the soccer field before the start of a match.

“Amanda,” he finally says, more to the sky than to me. Henry chooses the self that walks toward me. I listen to the twigs crack under his shoes, until he’s right in front of me.

“It’s useless,” he says. I want to ask what he means—useless to deny what we want, or useless to give in to it—but I’m entirely too distracted by his closeness. His hands trail up past my shoulders, my neck. He holds my face and kisses me until I’m kissing him back, stumbling against the woodpile, and then, pressed up against the side of the house. It’s almost too much. I think I might be gripping him really hard, but I don’t care. It wasn’t like this the last time we kissed, when I’d thought I’d get to do it a hundred more times.

I don’t think about anything else outside of how much I want this, how good it feels. I don’t think of Graham or Imogen. I don’t think about the rest of the party. I don’t think about
Jonathan or Sutton or Grace.

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G
raham is drunk and ready to leave by the time I make it back to the party. Even if I do look as guilty as I feel, he’s not going to pick up on it.

“You’re okay to drive us?” I ask Higgins as we follow him out to his car.

“He’s fine,” Graham boasts, slapping Higgins on the back so hard Higgins drops the keys. “He knows what happens to the guys who break the rules of the black-and-white party.”

I almost ask,
What happens?
But I probably don’t want to know anyway.

Higgins turns to me and says, “I promise, I’m okay to drive.”

Graham is sloppy, and he doesn’t wear inebriation well. One
eye is almost closed, one side of his mouth reels back whenever he speaks. The halves of his face look like they don’t belong to the same person. Jonathan never looked like that when he was at a party. When his eyes got heavy, they smoldered. I imagine if he ever started to
look
as drunk as he was, he wasn’t in any condition to leave the bathroom anyway.

When Graham presses himself against me and kisses me, I taste mint. So at least he’s a courteous drunk. I play like I’m bashful about kissing in front of Higgins—which I am—but Graham isn’t picking up social cues. I sit back in my seat; Graham leans over me in a lazy hug, his lips plastered to my neck.

I open my eyes so I can see the road, even though I have to peer over Graham’s shoulder and his mouth is cold and wet against my neck and his hands are tangled in my hair. Is Higgins really okay to drive? I thought that maybe some of the sun-screened and lei-wearing guys looked
too
happy at the party, like they were having just as good a time as the seniors. How serious is soccer team hierarchy anyway,
really
? I imagine what I’ll do if Higgins starts to veer off to the side of the road, the way Jonathan did that night. Maybe I could break away from Graham and lunge forward and grab the wheel. Or maybe a simple, “Hey, Higgins, stay in the lines,” would suffice. It hits me that Graham and I are in the backseat—me in the exact seat that Grace was in when she died.

It’s weird to think about dying—it’s creepy and sad. The last thing people saw of me: a girl holding a cup wet with condensation,
never leaving her boyfriend’s side, except for those ten minutes when she was unaccounted for.

The last time I saw Grace, she was laughing. Her hair was damp and curly, fuzzy in front from the rain. She was saying something to my brother with her hands on her hips. Tugging on Sutton’s strapless dress to keep it from twisting wrong and dropping too low, promising her it still looked amazing. Sipping from a plastic champagne flute with her pinkie up, cracking up over it, and covering her mouth until she swallowed.

It’s too late for us if Higgins is drunk, I decide.

And it’s probably all in my head, anyway—too much
awareness
.

We pull up to my house, and Higgins drums his fingers on the steering wheel, respectfully keeping his eyes averted as Graham attempts to give me a passionate kiss good-bye.

“Thank you,” I call to Higgins as I climb out of the car.

He waves, at the same time Graham leans over and slurs, “I told you tonight would be epic.”

Graham never lies.

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O
ne, two, three rings; four, five, six—and Dawn’s voice-mail greeting is crisp in my ear. “Hi, it’s Dawn”—I can hear the sound of the ocean in the background, the crashing of waves, seagulls cawing, static caused by the wind. “I’m studying hard, of course, or getting a tan at the beach!” I imagine myself there, standing in the sand in bare feet while the waves roll in, tickling my toes when they reach me. Dawn laughs at the end of her message, and I laugh with her. I don’t care that I’m alone in my room, laughing to a recording like a crazy person. Sometimes you just need to laugh with your best friend. I call her back, just to listen to the message again. She’s in Los Angeles with Becky
this weekend, so I don’t expect her to be available.

Undeniably, part of me is relieved. Could I manage to say the words, even to her?
Henry and me—
no. It’s been less than twelve hours since the party, and I can barely think them. The memory of it makes me adrenaline-awake and fidgety. And also, sorry. More than anything else, just so damn sorry.

Everything I do the rest of the day serves the very important purpose of distracting me from wondering why Henry has yet to contact me. I do more laundry than I’ve ever done on a weekend. I wrap up an application to the University of Michigan. I finish homework that’s not due until Thursday.

I’ve convinced myself it was a mistake. It’s over now anyway. Forgotten. A fluke in the span of our lives. A moment of weakness that can be attributed to being some of the only sober people at that party. All I should be feeling is profound relief—abundant gratitude that it hasn’t carried on any further. We were releasing secrets, and that one—our unfinished feelings for each other—came spilling out, too. Then at seven thirty he sends a text.

I’m around. You should be around too.

I stand there in the middle of my room, a statue with my thumbs ready to type.
Okay
seems both too eager and too casual.
Around where?
also teeters on eager.

I type,
When?
I press send.

Now is preferable. Come over. Parents and Sutton out for the rest of the weekend
.

If it were possible, my entire body would be blushing right now.

I’ll be there.
I sort of regret sending this, of course. But it’s done. So I get in my car and drive away.

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T
he first thing Henry Crane ever said to me was, “Cheerio, I’m Henry, from the UK.” Seriously. Right away I thought, this is someone who’s trying too hard. I could spot this kind of thing easily, even in the seventh grade, since Jonathan was the epitome of “effortless.”

I’d replied with: “And when that gets old, you’ll be Javier from Spain?” I’d been positive that everything about him was fake. I might’ve apologized once I realized he really was telling the truth. But everywhere I turned it seemed Henry was there, introducing himself with “Cheerio” and making sure to add his country of origin, as if that was the normal way to introduce yourself to people. And everyone else seemed to reward him for
this. “Really? Your accent is awesome.”

We disagreed about things I didn’t think were even up for debate. The pronunciation of the word
often
. Whether or not the tomato is considered a vegetable. The name of the person Penny Lane was based on in the movie
Almost Famous
.

Sometimes we did find the answers; a quick internet search did the trick. But we argued about who was right the majority of the time. The score I’d tallied in my head was 18–11, me. Henry insisted it was 23–17, him.

We played pranks on each other. Freshman year, Henry took the embarrassing poster of me on display at the public library for winning an essay contest and hung it right on the bulletin board in the school’s main entrance.

We had ceramics class together first semester, sophomore year. Henry cornered me in the art supply room the first day of school. I thought he was going to comment on my ugly vase. Instead he said, “It’s getting bad, between Jonathan and Sutton.”

By
bad
, he of course meant
gross.
I couldn’t agree more.

“I liked it better when my sister didn’t have a pet name.”

“I liked it better when my brother wasn’t handing out pet names to people he wasn’t related to.”

“You’d think he’d be more creative. Not all pet names have to have the word
baby
in them,” Henry said.

A few weeks later, we walked into ceramics to find Sutton and Jonathan in the back, sharing a stool, their hands working the same piece of clay. It was their free period, and Mr. Luca never minded if students wanted to kill time
creating
. So there
they were, kissing in the back, getting clay handprints all over each other. I went into the art supply room. Henry was already there.

“They’ll be gone next year,” we said to cheer ourselves up.

“But they’ll probably be together forever,” Henry said. “Because isn’t it always the couples you want to break up that never do?”

The next week
in the middle of class, Henry nodded toward the art supply room, and I met him there.

“We got the pleasure of your brother’s company last night at dinner,” he said. “He’s probably a lovely guy when he doesn’t have his eyes and hands all over my sister.”

“At least they made it through dinner. Last week they disappeared to be alone before their pizza was done cooking and almost burned down our house.”

The business of nodding at each other and meeting in the art supply room to complain about Jonathan and Sutton went on through second semester, too, even after we no longer had ceramics class together and would have to sneak through the classroom unnoticed—which wasn’t too hard since the door to the art supply closet was by the classroom entrance. After a while, we rarely brought up Sutton and Jonathan.

“I like being alone with you,” he said three days before Sutton and Jonathan’s graduation.

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I looked at the floor.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know I’m your worst nightmare, but—”

“You’re not,” I said, cutting him off. Though I still couldn’t look at him.

“I’m not?”

“Wha—are you fishing for a compliment or something?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You’re sort of . . .”
Great
was the word that kept popping up. Because talking to him came as easily as fighting with him. He was this surprise-person who understood me. It was fantastic. And,
fine
, Henry really was insanely attractive. “Perfect,” was what came out, and I was mortified.

“Sort of perfect,” he said, testing out the words. “Is that the same as almost perfect?”

I shook my head.

“A little bit perfect?”

I shrugged, then nodded.

“I find that grossly vague. What percentages are we talking here? Like eighty percent perfection? I’d like to think it’s above fifty, at least.” He smiled, which made me smile, and because of the jumpy, fluttery way I was feeling, I was sure I had turned bright red. I covered my face.

“Fifty percent?”

I shook my head, still not looking at him.

“Excellent. Eighty?”

I pulled my hands away from my face and hit him lightly on the shoulder. I let my hand linger; I couldn’t help it.

“No,” I said. “I just meant that, to me—” but I cut myself off, shaking my head and smiling, oh God, how I was smiling. I went to hit him again, and he caught my hand.

“In that case, I think you’re sort of perfect, too.”

That was it. If we’d had walls up before, they were down now, a pile of rubble at our feet. I was falling, and admitting to it, and he was right there in it with me. It was so naive of me to think that surrendering to how much I liked him would be the hardest thing I would ever do.

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H
enry sees me coming before I ring the doorbell. His front door is just a sheet of glass with a dark wood frame. It’s set in far enough, with willowy trees and a bamboo fence blocking it from the street, so I guess it’s okay for it to be so exposed.

He doesn’t look nervous or racked with guilt at all. He looks . . .
wrinkled
. The T-shirt he’s wearing appears to have spent the week at the bottom of his backpack.

“What?” he says, opening the door. His right eyebrow rises as he looks at me.

“Nothing.” But I stare pointedly at his shirt until he notices. He seems exasperated that I’ve chosen to bring this up.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer as I step inside and Henry closes the door behind me.

“Sorry, I don’t iron my T-shirts. It’s a
T-shirt
.”

“Right. That’d be insane. Balling it up and sitting on it first is much better.”

“It was in my gym bag.”

“So it probably smells great, too.”

We pause, both sniffing the air but trying not to show it—or that’s what I’m doing, at least.

“Of everything in your closet, you thought, a gym-bag shirt is the way to go,” I say.

“It’s Saturday, so I haven’t given any thought to my clothing, and besides, this one is the softest—” He looks away, mortified.

I reach forward and touch it, and he’s right—all the fibers have been worn down and the cotton is left feeling velvety. “It’s purely functional, clearly.”

“All my clothes are purely functional!”

We’re both sort of laughing, quiet bursts of chuckles that almost sound like hiccups. We’re both shaking our heads.

Henry shrugs. “It’s coming off soon anyway, right?” he jokes. It lightens the mood, breaks the tension. He kisses me just as I open my mouth to retort—
If you say so—
and his hands travel to my waist. My hands find his face, hold him close; then they find his shoulders, and I loop my arms around his neck and run my fingers through his hair. We end up on the couch, tossing away throw pillows to make room. We’re smiling—part of this is still so insane; it’s
insane
to get exactly what you want—but mostly we’re
kissing. I let my hands go wherever they please, and he does the same thing. Last time we did this I was a bundle of giggles; everything was ticklish. It’s different now, and if I laugh, it’s because it’s too good and I can’t help it.

I’d been positive that if we revisited this part of that night, it would be a sad reminder of how the last time we kissed like this, like we were untouchable, the night turned poisonous, and there was a vicious whirlwind that followed, one that put us on separate sides: of the classroom, of the hallway, of the argument about what to do next. That’s what I’d thought it would be like whenever I found myself thinking about him—him, and
this
. But it’s the opposite.

I don’t how much time passes: hours that feel like days, that still don’t feel like long enough. We find ourselves covered in goose bumps and starving. Henry cranks up the heat, even turns on the gas fireplace, so I’m not cold with bare legs wearing Henry’s T-shirt and he can stay shirtless. We sit in front of the glowing flames having a carpet picnic, eating pretzels and cookies and whatever else we were able to find in Henry’s pantry, and sipping on pink lemonade, Henry’s favorite.

We watch a movie, something with lots of explosions and an easy-to-follow plot. If we get distracted, we won’t miss much—and we get distracted a lot. When the movie’s over, he switches off the fireplace. I can barely see him; there’s just intermittent moonlight gleaming through the sliding glass door and the windows in the kitchen.

“You’re staying over, aren’t you?” he asks.

I’d forgotten all about home, about anything the glow from the fireplace hadn’t touched. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes,” he interrupts. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes.”

His hand finds mine, and he helps me up. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he steers me through the dark caverns of his house. When we get to the stairs, he lets me go first. I hesitate, not wanting to be the one leading us to his room.

Henry puts his hands against my lower back. “In case you fall,” he explains.

“You’re the one with the bad knee.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

I laugh as he wraps both his arms tight around me, stepping up so I’m forced to also.

“If I fall, you’re going down with me,” he says into my ear.

You have no idea
, I think.