When You Were Mine (26 page)

“Don’t go using this as an excuse to do something stupid again,” Rob says through clenched teeth.

Juliet’s eyes get wide, and she takes a step back. Rob reaches out and grabs her shoulder. “You can’t just walk away.”

Juliet is looking straight ahead, and when Rob’s hand reaches her shoulder, I see her close her eyes, briefly. “Let me go,” she says, and then she leaves, her feet picking up speed as she races out of the auditorium.

Rob slumps down into a seat, his face in his hands. A few of
the underclassmen start to giggle, trying to defuse the tension that has just swept across the room. They look like little bobblehead dolls in the wings. Different heads, same bodies. Like all of them are interchangeable. Like the entire cast could be switched out and no one would even notice.

Then Rob looks up. It feels like our eyes lock, even though I know I’m lost in the shadows up here, the lights making it impossible for him to see me. Rob just keeps looking upward, toward me, almost like he’s sending up a prayer. Then he stands, pitching Juliet’s chair over, and ducks out of the auditorium after her.

“I know you’re bummed out about Rob, and wrapped
up in Juliet’s latest circus,” Charlie says, “but I hardly think gallivanting around with the class clown is the solution.” She’s driving me home and gesturing wildly.

I lean across the seat and give her flailing arm a squeeze. “‘Gallivanting’? Really?” I tease.

“Affection will not break me,” she says, making a halfhearted attempt to swat me off.

“I can still try.”

She sticks her chin out at me and frowns. “They may break up over this, you know.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a pretty big deal. Not an easy fix.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I know. I still don’t think it’s going to happen. He really cares about her.” I think about Juliet in the auditorium, so small and almost helpless. I can’t help feeling bad for her. It’s not like she has any friends to talk to either. It’s been her and Rob against the world since she got here.

“Whatever,” Charlie says. “It could. What then?”

“So could a white Christmas,” I say, “but I don’t see anyone running out to buy a sled.”

Charlie pulls into my driveway and turns off the car. She slumps in her seat but keeps looking forward. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just feels like everything is changing.” She sighs and looks at me. “Do you ever feel that way? Like one minute you think you have it figured out, and it turns out you were completely wrong about everything?”

“Have we met?” I ask. “That’s the story of my life.”

Charlie shrugs. “I used to think I knew what I was doing.” Her lower lip starts to tremble, and she bites down on it to hold it in place.

“Is this about Jake?”

Charlie shakes her head, but the motion seems to force the tears up and out, and they start falling down her checks, dotting her T-shirt.

I unbuckle my seat belt and lean over, wrapping my arms around her.

“I just miss her,” she says into my shoulder, her words muffled.

“I know,” I say. I always take Charlie’s strength for granted. I forget sometimes that she can hurt too. Sometimes even more than the rest of us.

She pulls back and dabs the back of her hand over her cheeks. “It doesn’t get easier. Sometimes I feel like I’m just right back where I started.”

“You’re not, though. You’re so much stronger.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and hugs her arms to her chest. “Maybe,” she says. “Who remembers?”

“I do.” It surprises me how fiercely the words come out, but there they are, marching from my mouth. “I was there, and I remember how hard it was and how much of a mess you were. It’s nothing like that anymore. You stumble and you fall, sure. But now you pick yourself back up. You do that now. You’ve
been
doing that. And sometimes you pick me up too.”

“Thanks.” She reaches behind us and pulls up the big CAK tote. There is a Kleenex floating around in the top of the bag, and she wipes her nose with it.

“I mean it,” I say. “I guess that’s my job as your best friend. To remind you that things are not the way they used to be.”

She looks at me and smiles. Even with her face red and blotchy, she’s still absurdly beautiful.

“You need a reminder, call me,” I say. “I’m always here.” Then I take her hand and squeeze it. Twice.

“You know who gave me the nickname Charlie?” she asks me.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“She did.” Charlie’s smiling and staring off through the windshield into the distance, like she’s paying much more attention to what’s happening inside her head than out. “It’s what she wanted to name me to begin with. She said she thought that if I could pull it off, I’d be something spectacular.”

“Well, you do,” I say, “that’s for damn sure.”

“I know,” she says, that familiar ring coming back into her voice. She blinks a few times rapidly and focuses back on me. “Thank
God
.”

We both crack up laughing, shoulders shaking, until we’re practically holding our sides.

“But it’s sort of my real name,” Charlie says through gasps, “if you think about it.”

“Like Rosaline.” I have a thought, briefly, but it leaves with a hiccupped laugh.

“I’ll call you whatever you want,” she says, “as long as you don’t make me call you Len’s girlfriend.”

“Hey,” I say, “I’m making progress here. Moving on.”

“I don’t think dating Len is progress,” Charlie says. And then she sighs, tossing the bag back over the seat. “But if you insist on doing it, at the very least you better make him cut that hair.”

The house is quiet when I get home, and empty. I drop my bag by the door and wander into the den and, without thinking much about it, settle down at the piano. There was a time when I used to come here every day after school. When my parents would bring me home and I would race inside, plunk myself down, and play. It was like taking a shower. My muscles would relax and my head would clear and the day would wash away.

I choose a piece from memory. It’s something by Tchaikovsky that I’ve always really liked. A love theme. I’m rusty and I start slow, but my fingers remember the way better than I do, and soon I’m flying, gliding over the keys. The thing I always loved about playing was that there was no room for anything else. From the moment my hands touch the keys, it’s just me and the piano. We’re the only thing that exists in the entire universe.

In fact, it’s almost six by the time I tear myself away, which means I’ve spent almost two hours here. When I sit back, I half expect Len to be seated next to me, smiling encouragingly. And then I leap up, because Len is going to be here any minute and I still have to get ready.

The thing about growing up in Southern California is that you kind of wear the same thing all year round. Aside from the possible addition of a cardigan or wrap in the winter, wardrobe is pretty standard.

When I get up to my room, I open my closet. It smells like lavender because of these tiny bags of potpourri my mom keeps in my sock and T-shirt drawers, and I breathe deeply, enjoying the momentary lull. After a moment I feel calmer and I consider the possible wardrobe options for this date.

I pull out a few items and look at my choices. There is the dress I bought and wore for Rob’s mom’s fortieth birthday, the one I took with us to see
Phantom of the Opera
in New York. There is a summer dress that I wore when we rode bikes together last year, and one that still has an ice cream stain from when he dropped his chocolate cone on me two summers ago. Every dress in here seems to tell some sort of story about Rob.

I look again, determined to do better. There’s a blue dress hidden in the back that my mom and I bought last spring. It’s blue cotton and kind of flowy with little cap sleeves and a hem that hits just above the knee. I’ve never worn it before, and I slip it on. It’s comfortable, and I think it makes me look older somehow. I choose a pair of teardrop earrings Charlie gave me for my sixteenth birthday and put on some blush and mascara. It’s not as amazing as the silver dress I wore to Fall Back, but I think this one makes me look like me.

The doorbell rings exactly at six. I didn’t expect him to be the kind of guy who shows up on the dot, but Len keeps on surprising me. I throw some cash that’s on my dresser into my bag and
take one last look in the mirror. I’m excited. Something about knowing that Len is downstairs feels right. Not like a dream, but better. Real.

I can’t wait to hold his hand tonight and to maybe even have him kiss me. I can’t wait to find out what his favorite color is and what he meant about Juilliard, about not being done here. I want to know more about his sister and whether he’s close with his dad. I want to know how he feels about Thai food versus Japanese and what his favorite movie is. The future seems better than the past, bigger and more alive, and as I run down the stairs, the only thing I can think is,
I’m excited for what’s to come.

I open the door a tiny bit breathless, but it’s not Len standing on the other side. It’s someone in jeans and a familiar green T-shirt. It’s Rob. His face is red and he’s panting, like he’s been running. His breath comes in short, hollow bursts, and he’s doubled over, his hands on his knees. And he reeks.

“What are you doing?” I blurt out. I keep the door closed just a little, my hand still on the knob.

“Can I come in?” He frowns and glances behind me. “Just for a minute.”

“No. My parents are home,” I lie. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head. “I had to see you,” he slurs.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little.”

“You’re a mess,” I say.

“My life is a mess.”

He looks at me and his eyes are red, cracked. He’s been crying.

“My mom lied, Juliet lied, my friends are all liars. You’re the only one who ever—” He looks at his feet. “You were the only one who ever made any sense.”

“Rob—”

“I miss you.”

It’s all I’ve wanted to hear. For months I just wanted him to show back up on my doorstep and say it was all a mistake, that I was the one he really wanted. But now, looking at him, drunk and in shambles, I don’t want to fall into his arms. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He blinks and looks at me. “I—I dunno,” he stutters. “I think I made a mistake.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, Rob,” I say, “I don’t really know what you want from me.”

“I want you,” he says softly. “I want you back. I
miss
you. Can’t you see that?”

He’s looking at me with those brown hot chocolate eyes. The eyes that have watched me sleep and seen my piano recitals and that looked on, steadfast, when I first learned how to ride a bike.

“What about Juliet?”

That vein in his neck twitches. “I don’t know. I can’t even trust her.”

What I say next surprises both of us. “It wasn’t her fault, you know. You shouldn’t hold her responsible.”

He looks taken aback, and it takes him a moment to respond. “She still lied,” he manages. He’s leaning against the door frame, his limbs buckling.

“She didn’t lie. She just kept something from you. She didn’t want to hurt you.” What I don’t tell him is that, regardless of who was responsible at first, we all have a role in this.

“What?” He squints at me, like he’s trying to focus on putting the words together, but he ultimately shakes his head and gives up. “Did you hear me? I said I miss you.”

I cross my arms. I keep expecting my heart rate to speed up, my hands to start sweating, but they don’t. I feel surprisingly calm, actually.

“You already said that.”

“I don’t want Juliet.” He sighs and looks at his shoes. “She’s not you. She’s never been you. I told her I was coming over here tonight, and she didn’t even fight me on it.”

“You told her?”

“Yeah,” he says. He looks guilty.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “You guys should”—I swallow—“figure things out.” Now my heart is racing. I’m suddenly
remembering Rob’s words in the auditorium this afternoon.
Don’t do anything stupid. Again.