Cross My Heart (16 page)

Parker and I gather our notebooks and si
t down on my bed. He
leans
against my pillow, one leg tucked beneath him.
I try
not to think about how surreal
this i
s—Parker and me sharing Sun Chi
ps,
relaxing on my bed like we’ve done this forever
. . . .

My pillow will smell like him tonight
.
My heart flutters.

“
They both wanted it,” he replies
.

“They’d rather be dead together than a
live without each other,” I say
,
concentrating,
scribbling my notes onto the page.

“
Zeena
is still controlling Ethan, though. Because even as they’re coming down the hill, he swerves when he sees her face.”

“It’s almost like she won’t even let them die tog
ether in peace,” I confirm
. “She still has all the power.”

“Actually,” Parker begi
n
s
, “I was wondering what would’ve happened if he wouldn’t have
swerved
.”

“You mean if they would’ve s
ucceeded? Good point.” I think
about this for a moment
, then straighten
. “You know what really bothered me, though?”

“What?”

“How fast Ethan was able to get up and move on with his life once he realized they didn’t die. It was like . . . ‘Oh Mattie we didn’t make it. I better go feed my horse.’ I mean, what was
that
about?”

Parker shrugs
. “I don’t kn
ow. I
just
assumed he
resigned himself to the fact that since the suicide didn’t work he and Mattie weren’t meant to be together.”

I raise an eyebrow.
“In thirty seconds?” I ask
, disbelieving. “I mean, a minute ago Ethan was
gonna
die if he couldn’t have her, and, when he didn’t,
it was like . . . I don’t know
.”

“
Maybe he had a change of heart. Maybe his love for her was bigger than that. He wanted what was best for her, even if that meant her moving on without him.
”

I feel
an unexpected
fl
itter
ing in my stomach, watching him. L
istening.

He smiles
at me
, even as his eyes narrow, like he notices a change in my expression or something
. “What?”
he asks, curious.

He’
s doing this—smil
ing, I mean—more and more. I have
to admit,
I kind of like
it. I shake my head, smiling back
, amused
. It’s no
t enough to say that each time
his
mouth
opens
something amazing and
brilliant and intui
tive co
me
s
out,
that he
surprises
me
every day. 

My cell phone vibrates
on my desk,
pulsating,
jarring
us back to present
.
I
jump
off the bed,
reach
ing
for it
, then read the text message from Blake:
miss u
! A wave of guilt
cr
ashes
over me.
Because Blake misses me.
Because
he has no clue
where I am. Who I
’
m with.
That Parker Whalen is sitting on my bed not five feet away from me as I
’
m reading his message.
That I am a liar and a pathetic girlfriend.
Because if he knew. . . .

I frown
.
“Or maybe he didn’t really love her at all,” I
go
on
,
continuing our conversation.
S
taring at the screen
.
The message. The photo of a heavenly Blake.
“Maybe he loved the idea of her.”

Moments pass.
And it’s like the low, murky clouds
from outside
have
crowded
between us.

Parker clears
his throat. “Hanson?”
he asks, voice cool and balanced.

I
bite into my lip,
nod
ding
. “Yeah.”

Parker i
s already at his desk, goin
g over his notes, when I enter
the cla
ssroom the following day.
As usual, h
e doesn’t lift his head as I
trek
down the aisle
to
my seat. I set
my
books on top of my desk, glance
over at
him, then
hastily turn
away. Ms.
Tugwell
moves
from the lectern
,
tennis shoes groan
ing beneath her weight, and
begins
writing literary t
erms across the board. I watch
her for a moment, listening to the marker thud and squeak before looking over at
Parker again. This time I stare
,
willing him to turn to
me.

What is this
,
anyway? I can
talk to him at lunch, give him my chips, make plans to see him,
invite him to my house and sh
ow him the third floor. We can
talk about love and
suicide . . . but he ca
n’t even acknowledge my existence
outside of
Ethan
Frome
?

I continue
to watch him
.
Look at me, Parker. Look. At. Me
. I beg silently. Our classmates scurry
into the room, the last one
jumping into his seat
just before the late bell.
When the ringing
stops, Parker
moves his head toward me, catching
my eye. He looks
away, and, at first, I
don’t think he’s
going to
turn
back. . . . But then he does
.

Something catches in my throat, and
I smile
, surprised.

He offers
a tiny nod in my direction.

My insides
twist in a flurry of excitement
, and I stifle
the laugh welling inside
.

Parker Whalen knows I’m alive.

*
  
*
  
*

O
n Thursday
, just before
lunch, I open
my locker and discov
er
another white note card. I
flip
it
over:
Library: 3:00,
a
nd a question mark.

“Hey!”

I
jump
,
cram
the message deep inside my locker
, and slam
the door shut.

“Blake! Hey!” I sputter
,
spinning ar
ound on my heel. My heart pumps
rapidly in my chest
. I tuck
my hair behi
nd my ears, hoping he didn’t see
the note or what it said
,
tha
t he won’t ask what it means
. B
ecause I’m not entirely sure
he’ll
like
what I have
t
o say, and I don’t think I can
lie. Keeping
my
meetings
with Parker
under wraps i
s one thing. Lying to
Blake’s
face
about them
i
s another.
I force
a
stiff
smile.
“Lunch. Are you ready?”

“I am if you are.”

I link my arm through
his,
breathing a quick sigh of relief as
we head
to
the cafeteria.
The further we move
from my locker
the more comfortable
I feel
.
Blake is clueless, and it’s imperative he stay that way.

Parker i
s already
at our table
,
notebook open to a clean page, when I arrive
that afternoon.

“Winter,” he says as I si
t down
on the cool
seat
,
not directly across from him,
like
before, but leaving only a chair between us.

“I hate winter,” I mutter
. “What about it?”

“It’s crucial. Everything that happens takes place during the winter.”

“Winter sucks,” I reiterate
.

“Exactly.”

I
blow out a
sigh
.
“I’m not foll
owing.
Are you talking about now or the book?”

He slants a look sideways.
“What’s up with you?” he asks
, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing . . . it’s just
. . .
one of those days,” I explain
, staring out the window at the dark, bleak sky
; the naked trees,
their branches
danc
ing
. “Anyway. I have this thing against winter. It’s like . . . after Christmas life stops or something. There’s nothing to look forward to. The days are short and cold . . . it never snows
here
. It’s just
. . . my least favorite season,
that’s all. It depresses me.”

Parker leans back in his seat and crosses
his arms,
the corners of his mouth turning
up.
I just can make out the tiniest trace of a dimple in his left cheek.
“You mean to tell me that Jaden
McEntyre
gets
depressed
?”

I manage
a half-smile
,
face flushing
as the temperature rises
. “Sometimes, believe it or not, yes. I get depressed.”

“No way,” he mutters
, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never would’ve guessed. You’ve got that whole ‘life is perfect come save the world with m
e’ act down pat. Who’d have
thought you could use some therapy?”

“Shut up
. It’s not an act,” I say
,
brow furrowed. “And I don’t need therapy. It’s important to think about things bigger than yourself—to try to make a difference. You only get one chance, you know? Why not do everything you can while
you
’
ve got it
?”

“You say that like there’s something bigger an
d better out there,” Parker says
, watching me closely
.

I shrug
.
Maybe there is
.
“So what’s your deal with winter? Are we talking about me or Ethan?”

“Actually,” he begi
n
s
, “I was talking about Ethan . . . and winter.”

“What about it?”

“I
t’s a central element to the nov
el. I mean, think about it. I
t’s cold,
business is bad,
Zeena
is sick. E
verything is moving at a snail’s pace. He’s kind of like you in that sense: who wouldn’t be depressed?”

“Everything is so much worse because it’s cold and dark and problems
seem never-ending,” I confirm. I think
about this for a
moment: about Ethan and how bitter
and dismal his surroundings were . . . how everything was covered in snow . . . and how Mattie and their time together was the only thing he looked forward to.