Counting Backwards (22 page)

“There’s some things I’ve been meaning to say to you,” I tell him, pinching a clump of dirt between my fingers and watching it burst in my hand.

“What’s that?”

“That I’m . . .” I pause and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. For shutting you out all those months. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

“Me too. I was being selfish, trying to keep you here.”

“You were just trying to protect me.”

“I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

I nod slowly. We were both wrong, because we both lied and deceived each other and ratted each other out. I remember that night of the bonfire when I screamed at him like I was possessed and then the residual anger I couldn’t seem to shake. Looking back now, it seems like such a waste of time and energy.

“Listen,” he says after a minute, “there’s something I want you to know too.” But instead of finishing, he picks up a handful of dirt and rakes through it with his fingers like he’s searching for worms.

“What is it?” I’m starting to get worried.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to scare you.”

What could he possibly say that would scare me? “You won’t.”

He smiles again, bashfully this time, like he’s embarrassed.

“It’s just that . . . I like . . . being with you,” he says.

“Being with me? Here, in the garden?”

“Here, there, wherever. I just . . . like you.” He searches my eyes. “But you know that, right?”

I stare at my hands, at the dirt caked into the crevices of my palms, tiny rivers of earth. I remember our one almost kiss in the basement and the feeling I get whenever I see him here in the garden. But I can’t admit those feelings to him. It’s too soon. I’m still figuring out how to be his friend.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

I am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.

I am . . . scared?

“I don’t know,” I say at last. It’s my most honest answer.

“That’s okay.” He squeezes my shoulder and stands up, then hands me the hose to water the new seedlings. “Back to work.”

“I think I
might like A.J.,” I say to Margo on the phone that week.

“
Finally
.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, it’s about time. Have you kissed him yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because relationships between the sexes are to remain platonic?” It’s the easiest answer.

She giggles. “Because you follow the rules, right?”

Maybe I should be offended by this, but I’m not. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just . . . apprehensive.” Apprehensive is a nicer word for scared.

“Of what?”

“What if he dumps me?”

“He won’t.”

“But what if he does?” I’m powerful, I’m strong, and I’m in control, but even I have my limits.

“Oh, Taylor, he’s so into you. You should have seen him when you first came off the first floor and that crazed safety bot was guarding you. That’s the first time I ever heard him talk, you know. He was talking about you.”

I broke through his silence, without ever meaning to.

“I don’t know, Margo, it seems like we’re just now getting along again. I don’t want to rush things or ruin what we’ve got.”

“You won’t, Taylor. It’ll be just like now, only better. Like when you smile. It’s still you, only prettier.”

“What if he realizes I’m not that great after all?”

But she’s no longer listening to me. Instead she’s singing, “A.J. and Taylor, sitting in the tree. K-I-S-S—”

“Margo!” I shout into the phone, loud enough to hopefully rupture her eardrum.

“You can’t stop it from coming, Taylor, so when it does, you’d better be ready.”

“When what comes? What are you talking about?”

She sighs blissfully. “L-O-V-E. Love.”

I try to
dismiss Margo’s prediction, but over the next few weeks I can’t help but examine A.J. a little more closely. Not at school, where everyone is watching and the safeties are always at our backs, but in the afternoons when it’s just the two of us, in our little green oasis with the dirt below and the sky above, and there seem to be so many possibilities for normal. . . .

We trim lettuce leaves and drop them in a basket for the kitchen to use in a salad. I can’t stop staring at his bare
shoulders or the way his muscles move under his skin as he reaches for a leaf, the rusty blond hairs on his arms that glint with sweat in the sunlight. I can’t help imagining how it would feel to draw my hands along the muscles in his back and touch his skin. To have him touch me . . .

The spring air is seriously messing with my head.

We rinse the lettuce and snack on the stragglers. They’re juicy and sweet, and when I stop chewing, I find him staring at me with a curious expression.

“What is it?” I say, thinking I must have lettuce stuck in my teeth.

“You’re so . . . damn . . . pretty.”

I swallow hard and fight the heat that’s rising in my throat. Why does he have to say things like that, without any warning and completely out of nowhere? It only complicates an already complicated situation.

“And when you do that,” he says.

“When I do what?”

“Get embarrassed.”

I duck my head and try to act normal. “Who says I’m embarrassed?”

He shakes his head. “Your face is saying it right now.” He keeps staring at me, which makes me blush even more, and just when I think it can’t possibly get any worse he says, “I was just wondering what it might be like to kiss you.”

I focus on the ground. I absolutely cannot look at him because I have no idea what my face is saying. I don’t know how I feel or what I want.

“I’ve thought about it way too much,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder if we were on the outside and I was just some guy you knew . . . Would you let me kiss you?”

I exhale slowly and decide to be completely honest with him. Even if it’s embarrassing—my inexperience—it’s the truth.

“I’ve known a lot of guys on the outside,” I say. “And I never let them kiss me.”

“Really?” He seems surprised.

“Really.”

He takes a step toward me, closing the gap between us. My heart quickens and my olfactory is on overdrive. I love the way he smells, even when he’s sweaty and dirty, maybe even more then. I watch as a bead of sweat traces a line down his throat, then follow that trail up to his jaw and the scar on his lip. The story of that scar is one I still don’t know, but I want to. I like him—a lot. But I’m so afraid to ruin this great thing we have going. What if things get weird between us? What if I do something to drive him away? What if, what if, what if?

“What’s wrong?” he says. His eyebrows dip with concern. I can barely make any sense in my head, much less out loud,
when he’s staring at me like that. I back away from him slowly.

“I just . . . I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

“You won’t,” he says, and I know at this moment, he means it. But feelings are conditional. They change with the wind.

“What you’re feeling, A.J., that lasts for as long as it’s easy. When things get hard, people leave. People you love leave you.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not people, Taylor, and this isn’t easy. Pretending I don’t like you. Especially when I know you must feel—”

“I’m not a fun girl, A.J. I’m difficult and stubborn and sometimes I’m just . . . mean.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I scowl at him. “You’re not perfect either.”

“I never said I was.”

I squat down and bite at my thumbnail, which is gritty and tastes like dirt, but I don’t care. Already things are changing. Feelings breed more feelings, uncertainty and insecurity, and soon enough our nice, steady stream becomes turbulent and unpredictable. I know he’s standing there waiting for an answer, but I don’t want to have to choose. All or nothing is too great a risk.

“Look,” he says finally, after my silence can only mean one thing. “I’m not going to pressure you. You want to be friends. Fine, we’re friends. I won’t bother you about it anymore.”

He gathers up our tools while I continue to stare at the ground and mentally add another fear to the list.

Fear Number 38: Losing A.J.

The next day
I invite McKenzie and Charlotte down to the garden to show them how our plants are really taking off. It’s looking like a real garden now and not just a few rows of dirt.

But there’s another reason. It’s too dangerous with just A.J. and me—too much awkwardness, too much time alone.

The three of us girls walk down the hill together after school. McKenzie brings her sketch pad, finds a sunny place to sit, and draws—beautiful, true-to-life pictures of the plants and bugs, capturing details down to the wrinkles in the cabbage leaves and the veined pattern of a dragonfly’s wing.

A.J. lets Charlotte use a pair of his gardening gloves, and together they transplant baby tomato plants we’ve grown from seed. At first she’s nervous about it, but A.J. has a way of explaining things, of making people feel confident in what they’re doing. Soon enough she relaxes. He told me once that he’d like to be a teacher someday. I think he’d be great at it.

Over the next few weeks they come back again and again. McKenzie isn’t too interested in the gardening aspect of it, preferring to draw or nap in the sun, but Charlotte has a real interest and suggests we put in a butterfly garden. McKenzie
draws the design for it, and we all research what flowers to put in to attract butterflies. Dr. Deb brings us plants from the nursery, and Charlotte directs the planting. It’s pretty awesome seeing her take ownership of the garden, and when the first butterfly comes to visit, Charlotte reaches out and hugs me for the first time.

But there are days when McKenzie and Charlotte can’t come because of therapy or group, and then it’s just A.J. and me, and all the things I cannot say.

We pull weeds side by side and I feel the distance between us, space that I asked for and received. I hate it—this invisible barrier that I constructed. Just like that game Dr. Deb and I used to play, Yes or No. I told him no, and now he is farther from me than before.

We pick a batch of ripe carrots and wash them off in the hose, then sit together in the grass, nibbling like rabbits. Without thinking I reach over to wipe a smudge of dirt off his upper lip, and my thumb grazes his scar. In that moment when my skin touches his, I realize what a terrible mistake I’ve made. That I had the chance to be with someone wonderful and special and
real
, who thinks I’m worth caring for, who likes me in spite of my flaws.

He stops chewing and stares at me quizzically. I lean in closer, thinking to skip the trouble of words and just kiss him, when he suddenly starts choking.

“Carrot,” he gasps between coughs. I smack his back a few times, and he leans forward and spits out the orange bits. I grab the hose and offer him a trickle of water. He clears his throat and he’s fine. But now I’m thinking about the moment before he choked, and from the look on his face, he is too.

“Were you . . . ,” he says. “Was that, um . . . ?”

I sit on the ground and stare at my hands. I can’t believe how not smooth I am. He scoots closer and touches his finger to my chin, tilting my face upward.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—”

“Shh. Just nod your head if I can kiss you.”

I nod slowly. A second later his mouth covers mine, and I taste the carrots and hose water on his tongue, sweet and a little metallic. He stops to look at me, as if checking to see if this is okay.

I nod again.

He pulls me to him. This time I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss back because I want to show him how much he means to me, after all this time. His hand slides up my back and rests on the nape of my neck, gently squeezing. My skin tingles, and I shiver from the sensation.

We break away when the safety makes his rounds. A.J. pretends to be digging in the dirt while I pick up the hose, even though the plants are plenty watered. As soon as the safety
moves along, he grabs for me, but I slip away and aim the nozzle at his heart. He lifts both hands in the air.

“You win,” he says with a smile.

“No matter what happens,” I say, “you have to be my friend.”

“I will
always
be your friend.”

I lower the hose a little. “Do you think this is the right thing to do?”

He tilts his head and says with a mischievous smile, “Of course I do.”

I pull the trigger to wipe that smug smile off his face, but his reflexes are too fast. He dodges and grabs for the hose, easily maneuvering it away from me and aiming it over my head, drenching me in a cold shower. I yelp and tackle him to the ground, where we wrestle for control of the hose. We’re both muddy and laughing and somewhere in the struggle the hose ends up out of our reach, spraying water up into the air, shrouding us in a fine mist of rain. He leans over me, his face just inches from mine, his eyelashes wet, his face beaded with water, and his gray eyes so beautiful and true.

I close my eyes as his lips brush against mine.

There is no going back now.

“I have good news.”

Dr. Deb and I are sitting at our picnic bench outside. It’s May now, and when the warm breeze blows, I can smell the herb plants we put in earlier that week—mint, rosemary, basil, and sage. The air is heady with their aroma. That was McKenzie’s idea. She said she was tired of smelling compost, so we planted an herb garden and in the middle, we built a little wooden bench for her to sit and draw. Next we’re going to build an arbor with climbing vines, to offer a little shade in the coming summer months.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Your rehabilitative team met yesterday. We’ve determined that you’re nearing the end of your program.”

I sit up straighter and look at her. Another curveball.

“The end of my program? But we’re only halfway through my list.”

Dr. Deb nods. “You’ve already tackled the biggies. Consider the rest to be . . . extra credit.”

“I know, but . . .” I think about Charlotte, who’s become
a really close friend. And McKenzie—who will tutor her in math? And Dr. Deb. How will I make it on the outside without her help?