What's Broken Between Us (13 page)

I hear Henry apologizing to his parents as I pick my clothes up off the family room floor and disappear into the closest bathroom to change as fast as I possibly can.

Henry’s right outside the door when I open it. He takes his balled-up clothes from me and tosses them into the laundry room across the hall.

We don’t talk as I follow him to the front door. I don’t look at him, and I’m pretty sure he’s not looking at me either.

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H
enry still hasn’t said anything by the time we reach the end of the walkway outside, so I start talking. “Do you want me to tell him to call her? Do they need to meet with—”

“No,” Henry says. “It’s an excuse. We’re in touch with the Marlamounts. They can talk to Sutton about Grace whenever they want—which they never do, because Sutton is so unstable. If they wanted to talk to Jonathan, they wouldn’t go about it through her.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry you had to see her like that.” He’s talking more to the ground than to me, and when he does look at me, his gaze is fixed on my right ear, my chin, my shoulder, but never my eyes.
He’s visibly uncomfortable, just like his mother was—it makes me feel as though I’m best forgotten, just like Jonathan.

This is the future we were imagining when we decided to
forget it
way back when. It’s caught up to us, and it didn’t take long. I think of Graham, and it makes me sick.

“I’ll see you at school, okay?”

“What—wait,” he says, shaking his head. “Wait.”

I don’t blame him for not saying anything else, for staring at me like for once, he’s the one who’s sorry.

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “It’s . . . it is what it is.” I use Jonathan’s line because it’s the only one that seems to fit. “We don’t have to talk about last night. We don’t need to dissect what it means, or what we’re supposed to do about it.”

“I already know what it means.” He looks to his feet. “What it
meant
.”

I take his use of past tense as a cue to walk away, but he doesn’t let me. He’s in front of me with one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip.

“Wait,” he says again, and again he doesn’t have any more words, so I’m the one who speaks.

“Is
this
what you want, Henry?” My voice cracks, and he tightens his grip around my shoulder, as if this is going to help. It makes him feel better, I guess. He thinks he’s comforting me. He doesn’t realize he’s just making things harder. “Did you see the way they were looking at us?”

“Shhh. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“I have to get out of here.” It must be what he wants, too, deep
down. He must know what a relief it will be once I’m gone and there’s no reason for Sutton’s eyes to get large and hopeful over the possibility of getting in touch with someone so toxic. No reason for her to lie to explain why it’s a good idea to talk to Jonathan and not just indulgent and desperate on her part. No reason for Henry’s dad to stop laughing or for his mother to turn sad.

“I’ll go with you,” he says.

It makes me want to laugh, cry, sigh—all at the same time. “There’s nowhere for us to go.”

“Sure there is.” He leans in so our noses touch, then our foreheads.

That’s all that’s left of the weekend—of Henry and me—impossible suggestions, inevitable good-byes.

I lean away from him, and his grip on me tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Henry—”

“I know what you’re about to say, and just,
don’t
.”

“One of us has to say it.” I raise my voice and it splinters. “We don’t work so well outside of your empty house.”

“Why?” he says. “Because of other people? Other people, who don’t matter?”

I gesture to his house, letting my hand fall limp against my side. To drive the point home, I add, “Graham? Imogen?”

“You know what I mean.”

I take a deep breath to conjure some courage. “What about Jonathan?”

Henry lets go of me, and it feels like he’s dropped me.
Jonathan—
what’s been silencing his voice every time he’s told me to
wait
since we’ve been out here.

“What about him?” Henry spits the words.

But it’s all about my brother: what he did, what he’s done since then. How all of us are collateral in the fallout. Henry knows—and I can tell he does because of his clenched fists and his new frown—that there will never be common ground for us on this issue. There isn’t supposed to be. It doesn’t matter. It’s useless because we can’t change the past and we can’t change how we feel. Henry wants Sutton to forget about Jonathan. I want Jonathan to be someone Sutton doesn’t have to forget.

“Your family thinks of him when they look at me. Everyone does.” Gone are the days when this was a good thing.

“That’s not what I see.”

“That’s what you
try
not to see.”

“Fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But it doesn’t change that I care about you.”

Maybe his feelings for me and mine for him should conquer everything else—Graham, Imogen, Henry’s parents, their anger at Jonathan, my parents and their strained hope for Jonathan, Sutton’s denial, her unresolved grief, Jonathan’s selfishness. What a world that would be. But it’s not the one we’re living in.

“Henry, it’s not enough.” I take his hands as I say it.

His shoulders fall, like he’s tired of arguing, or too hurt to continue. Most likely, it’s that he knows I’m right and fighting anymore is pointless.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone,” I say.

He hesitates, but then, he nods.

“I wouldn’t change last night,” I say, as tears burn my eyes, “but—I just—I don’t know how to
be
after that. You know—”

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay,” he repeats in a whisper. He moves to wipe under his eye with the back of his hand and takes my hand along for the ride.

“I don’t want to be someone you feel like you have to apologize to, or someone you don’t think you should cry in front of—” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“You’re not.” It’s an easy promise; it’s the truth.

“All right,” he whispers, staring down at our hands. I give them a final squeeze, and when I let go, he lets go, too.

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S
aying good-bye at Grace’s funeral was overwhelming.

So I didn’t do it.

I took one look at that full church, the coffin in front, the flowers swallowing the altar, the blown-up photo of Grace at age sixteen, the oldest she would ever be, and knew this was the saddest and scariest place I would ever set foot.

Sutton Crane was the final straw, the real reason I left the church. She sat in the first row, in the aisle, since her back had to be at a certain angle and both her legs were wrapped in casts and had to be kept straight, so she didn’t fit in the rows reserved for wheelchairs. She was crying without sobbing. Her stare was
vacant and tears ran steadily down her cheeks in black lines, carrying her eyeliner to her chin and staining the top of her neck brace. It looked like she’d died, too.

I was afraid that if she saw me, her eyes would spring to life in search of Jonathan, who wasn’t coming.

Henry never told me what had chased him outside, but there we were, standing next to a stained-glass window on what otherwise would have been a lovely summer day, while the funeral went on without us.

“Is he here?” Henry asked. We hadn’t spoken in three weeks. We hadn’t even tried. The funeral had been delayed because of the media frenzy that followed the accident, and even with the extra time, I still had no idea what to say to him.

I shook my head.

“Do you want to talk about what happened, you know, with us?” Henry said, his voice lifeless.

“No,” I said, without hesitation.

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging on the ends—and then did it again and again and again. If he did want to talk about it, he didn’t know how.

“Let’s just forget it,” Henry said, and I felt ten thousand pounds being lifted off my chest. We were kissing while Grace was dying. I wanted to forget everything about that night. I think that’s how he must’ve felt, too. He took a huge breath, like maybe it was the first one he’d taken in three weeks.

I agreed with a nod, and made it official by being the first to walk away.

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I
’ve pulled onto the road and am about to shift from reverse to drive. Henry’s there suddenly, out of breath and beating on my window.

I put the car in park but don’t turn off the engine. My heart is beating a million times a minute as I open the door, climbing out of the car to tell him I made a mistake and I don’t think we should forget it either.

But Henry’s expression is still sullen. He’s out of breath from running, not from the all-consuming desire to sweep me off my feet and carry me back up to his bedroom, parents be damned.

“You forgot your phone,” he says, holding it out.

“Thanks.” The letdown is obvious in my voice.

We both just stand there, and I’m wondering why he hasn’t moved yet, when he bites down on the corner of his lip.

“Actually, you didn’t really forget your phone,” he says. “It was lifted from your purse.”

He steps back, shrugging, shaking his head. And he’s gone without offering more of an explanation. It’s not necessary anyway.

I know exactly who took my phone, and what she used it for.

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T
he outgoing calls list on my phone has just one new entry since being liberated from my bag. A call to Jonathan. A call that was answered. A call that lasted forty-eight seconds.

I don’t know how much damage could’ve been done in forty-eight seconds.

There’s an unfamiliar car parked in front of our house. A green Jeep that I’ve never seen before. I try calling Dawn twice between parking and walking into the house—stalling going inside and seeing my brother. I need her advice so I can deal with whatever’s waiting for me at home. Both calls go straight to voice mail.

“There she is,” Jonathan singsongs as I walk in the door. He’s
sitting in the living room with Wren. He’s in his favorite recliner. She’s got her shoes off and is curled up on the couch wearing one of Jonathan’s sweatshirts, with her legs tucked under a blanket. She’s leaning as close to the recliner as she can get. They both hold mugs. I don’t even kid myself into thinking it’s hot chocolate in their cups.

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

Jonathan points to the ceiling. Upstairs. In bed. Nestled in bed, and that single missed call I have from Standard Dad this afternoon was simply a courtesy, I guess.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask.

“Just hanging,” Jonathan says.

Wren has on an insane smile, and her cheeks are flushed.

There’s definitely a dip in Jonathan’s neck, a laziness to his smile, a mischievous glower to his eyes. Drunk. Or on his way there.

“Can I talk to you a second, in private?” I say to Jonathan.

“Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of her.”

I stare at him, waiting for it to hit him that there are many things I could possibly say right now that he wouldn’t want Wren to hear.

“Out with it.” He motions with his hand like I’m about to physically give him something.

“I don’t think you should be drinking,” I say, instead of asking him about Sutton. “What if your probation officer—”

“Who, Gary?”

“That’d be him.”

“Naw, Gary and I are cool.”

“Jonathan—” But has he forgotten? He meets with Gary once a week, and Gary can choose to drug-test at every meeting if he wants.

“I said, it’s
cool
.” He stands up and looks me right in the eyes, like this is going to convince me.

He’s too determined, so I just shrug. “Whatever you say. It’s your jail cell.”

“Ouch. Below the belt, baby sister.” He steps back, grabbing his heart, and falls next to Wren on the couch. Watching her smile, he scoots closer and props his head up on her shoulder. There’s a second when he looks at her and he seems just as entranced as she does. He’s about to kiss her, I think. She thinks it too, and her head tilts slightly.

I’m about to say something to stop it—maybe now
would
be the perfect time to bring up Sutton—but Jonathan speaks first. “Are you tired?” he asks Wren.

“No,” she says, her voice sultry.

I clear my throat, to remind them that I’m here, though that’s never stopped my brother from flirting shamelessly in front of me before.

“Good.” Jonathan stands. He holds his hand out to her. “Then it’s the perfect time to go to bed.”

Great.

I step forward and grab his hand before Wren can. “One second,” I tell her. I pull Jonathan around the corner into the
kitchen. He lets me drag him.

“That was rude.” He looks like he wants to burst out laughing. “And you’re in trouble,
young lady
.” He wags his finger in my face. “Standard Dad was asking about you—where you were, and why you hadn’t come home. I told him to calm down, you were fine—you’re welcome.”

“I was—” I decide to cut to the chase. “Sutton got ahold of my phone and—”

“Oh, I
know
.” He laughs.

“What’d she say?”

My brother is still smiling—too happily, I think, for having been ambushed by the ex-girlfriend he was intent on avoiding. “I’m not even going to ask how she got your phone—or why you were gone all night and all day and obviously not at Graham Sicily’s.”

I open my mouth, hoping a reasonable excuse will magically fall out.

“
Shh, shhh
—I don’t want to know what you were doing at Sutton’s.” He closes his eyes, plugs his ears. I pull on his arm until he drops his hands and opens his eyes.

“What is Wren doing over here?” I say, bringing this conversation back where it belongs.

“She brought the beverages.”

“So I smell.”

“And she’s beautiful, you know.” His eyes have softened, and it makes him look inarguably sincere.

“What are you thinking?” I’m pleading with him. He’s got
to see what’s wrong with this picture—that this girl who worships him for all the wrong reasons and who brings whiskey right to his doorstep when he’s risking so much just by taking a sip isn’t someone he should be inviting into his life, or his bedroom. I wish I’d never taken him to that damned Starbucks.

“The answer to that hasn’t changed: I’m not.” He cheerily sings the last two words as he walks away.

I know I should let him go, but I follow him around the corner.

Wren is standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding her shoes in her hand, waiting for him. He offers her his arm.

“Good night,” I call to their backs as they stroll up the stairs. They don’t even turn around.

“Jonathan,” I shout, reaching for something to say that will make him feel bad or punish him for being so indiscreet and, at the same time, so much like the person he used to be. The two of them disappear into his room before I can think of anything.

I don’t hear them the entire night; I never did when Jonathan had “guests”
—
mostly Sutton
—
stay over. Our house is perfectly designed for privacy, with closets and bathrooms and guest rooms acting as barriers between our bedrooms. Not a sound gets through. Standard Dad and Mumsy will sleep peacefully in their bedroom at the far end of the hall, completely clueless, just like in the old days.

Wren’s gone in the morning. So is Jonathan.

T
EXT MESSAGES TO
D
AWN,
M
ONDAY, 12:13 A.M.

Something incredible happened with Henry

[Deleted, 12:13 a.m.]

So I’ve never felt like this before, and I probably sound crazy

[Deleted, 12:13 a.m.]

You’re going to tell me I made a giant mistake, and I know I did, but

[Deleted, 12:14 a.m.]

I’m never going to be able to sleep again, because every time I close my eyes

[Deleted, 12:14 a.m.]

There are some things you can never forget even if you should, and Henry

[Deleted, 12:14 a.m.]

I missed him for sixteen months, but it wasn’t like this—

[Deleted, 12:14 a.m.]

If you don’t hear from me after tonight, it’s because I’ve ripped my brain from my skull to stop thinking about

[Deleted, 12:15 a.m.]

I wish everything was different

[Deleted, 12:17 a.m.]

I hope you and Becky had a great time in L.A. over the weekend. I’m sure you saw, and made out with, lots of movie stars. Can’t wait for a recap.

[Sent, 12:20 a.m.]