Everything That Makes You (22 page)

Fi wondered if he could hear her heart through her tank top. Not sure why she was protesting when every part of her wanted to just kiss him already, wanted to open this door that may or may not lead anywhere and walk right on through.

“You're my best friend,” she said.

Trent leaned closer—and closer and closer—until his chest pushed Fi onto her back again. He propped on his elbows, hovering just above her. “I think it's time we expand my role.”

Then he closed the small bit of distance left between them and kissed her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

Fiona stood at the coffee bar, staring across the room toward her parents. They sat side by side at a small, far-off table, her dad's arm draped around her mom's shoulder. Surrounded as they were by tattoos and piercings, Bruce and Caroline Doyle looked surprisingly unflustered.

“My worlds are colliding,” Fiona muttered.

Beside her, Ryan nodded and laughed. “So I want to say something—before everyone else gets here.”

“Okay,” she said, swallowing her coffee too fast.

“Remember when you walked home from the coffee shop, and I freaked out—before the surgery? When I told you I felt lost in your story.”

Fiona fought the urge to check the date square on her watch. It was mid-July! They weren't due for this conversation for seven more months. She nodded cautiously.

“I don't think I explained it right. It's more like . . . I felt
responsible
for your story.”

“Responsible?”

“That day? The zoo? Your face—that was my fault.”

“What?”

“I know you don't remember. But
I
do. The snack bar was my idea. We were running around in there like crazy. And we ran into each other, and—God, this is the horrible part—I pushed you. Like away from me and
into
the popcorn cart. I fell on my butt while you fell into the oil.”

“Ryan, no—”

He held up a hand. “For a long time, I felt that all the scarred parts of you—I felt like I made them.”

First her mom, now Ryan—she had no idea that this much guilt ran in the family.

“But I didn't make you at all, Ona,” he said. “All this time, you've made me. I'm better because of you. And whatever pieces of yourself you want to share up there—that'll make everyone here a little bit better, too.”

Her instinct was to argue her way out of compliments. But she was
sick
of her instincts, frankly. “Ryan, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't
anybody's
fault. Some things just
are.
”

He nodded, letting out a huge breath. He looked . . . satisfied. Lighter. How crazy that he had carried this unnecessary burden.

Gwen entered from the back door and made her way to
them. From behind him, she looped her hands around Ryan's waist and, on tiptoes, kissed his neck. Looking at Fiona, she said, “David's outside.”

And then the door swung open again.

They caught eyes immediately—and so obviously that neither could pretend not to have noticed the other. Fiona watched David's shoulders rise and fall, as if he were gearing himself for some kind of battle. He walked over to Fiona, Gwen, and Ryan at the counter.

“I heard you were playing,” he said.

Fiona resisted the urge to rub fiercely at her temples. Parents in the coffee shop, confessions from her brother, the ex-boyfriend, an impending public performance—it was too much at once.

Instead, she pointed to the performers' list scrawled on the blackboard, with her name at the bottom. “I'm hoping to avoid emergency laryngitis.”

David smiled. “Want something?”

Fiona shook her head. Rescuing her lukewarm coffee from the counter, she drained it and handed it over for a refill. Gwen and Ryan said they'd find a table, leaving Fiona and David to this awkward semi-conversation. As they waited for drinks, they talked about finals, what they'd been doing over the summer, plans for next year. Fiona didn't know what they'd do once the coffee excuse was gone.

The guy behind the counter called her name. Claiming her mug, she turned and nearly dropped it.

Good Lord, could this evening get any more awkward?

Just inside the door stood Jackson King, scanning the crowd. It had only been a month and half since she'd seen him. Still, he looked different—straighter in his bones and more relaxed in his skin. He wore the same soft, worn jeans as always and a plain navy T-shirt. He was all olive skin, black hair, and green eyes.

Eventually his wandering eyes found Fiona. He smiled—smirked—as he made his way over. Smelling just the slightest bit of cantaloupe, he stood beside her and leaned close. “This is pretty public for our second time, don't you think?”

David pivoted around on the spot. He and Jackson shared a look that seemed equally surprised, annoyed, and uncomfortable. Fiona fought the Caroline Doyle impulse to make sure everyone knew each other—
David, you remember Jackson? You found us holding hands in the common room. And Jackson, David's the one I was dating the whole time we were inappropriately flirting.

More than anything, Fiona wanted to hug Jackson, hold his hand, take a deeper breath of him. Anything to ground her the slightest bit for what she was about to do. But as David stood beside her, all the things they still hadn't said floated around her like a vapor—something intangible but present nonetheless. It felt so suddenly real, Fiona worried it might follow her onstage like a muggy, stifling cloud.

“Um, Jackson, could I catch up with you after?”

Jackson's eyes flitted off David to Fiona. He slowly nodded and walked away.

Fighting a primal instinct to follow him, instead Fiona turned to David, who regarded her skeptically. She had no idea what to do. But as much as she did not want this conversation, she owed it to him.

David cleared his throat. “So, you two are . . .”

Fiona shrugged, biting her lip. “I'm not sure.”

“And at school?”

“Nothing happened at school.” She felt a strong need to set the record straight here. It was the one bit that didn't reflect
horribly
on her. “Nothing's happened at all. It's just been, um, talk up to this point.”

“Right. I got a good look at the talking bit.”

Okay, maybe a little horrible. “David, I'm so sorry.”

David sipped from his mug, studying her over the rim of it. “Yeah, I know.”

Fiona wasn't sure where to go from here. She knew David wanted
more
, but she hadn't been able to give it to him the two years they'd dated. With open mic night starting in five minutes, she certainly wasn't going to be capable of it now.

Pointing to her guitar, he said, “Don't you need to get in tune or something?”

Letting out a grateful breath, she nodded. She gestured over her shoulder to Ryan and Gwen's table. “I should sit.”

They hesitated a moment before sharing an awkward hug. David picked up his mug and headed to a table on the other end of the coffee shop. Fiona plunked herself by Ryan. “That looked painful,” he said.

She groaned, letting her head loll on the table as the Otherlands guy walked up to the open mic corner, thumped the microphone a few times, reminded the audience to be polite, and told the performers they had eight minutes.

Fiona looked up when the second performer tried to clog dance while playing the harmonica.
At least the bar's being set nice and low.

It felt too soon when the guy announced, “Okay, looks like next we've got . . . Fiona Doyle.”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona stood up. Ryan held out her guitar. She took it with a stretched smile and walked to the front of the coffee shop. A few strangers gave polite applause while Ryan and Gwen whooped.

She smiled at her parents as she passed their table. Scanning the crowd she spotted Jackson leaning against the coffee bar, one elbow propped on the counter. From the distance, she couldn't gauge his expression.

Once on the stool, she retuned her guitar. She was taking too long but any change in her very deliberate pace might send her screaming for the door.

The perspective up here was different from what she expected. She didn't feel much higher than the people in chairs. The plants felt like curtains, blocking her from a full view. “Thanks,” she said, adjusting the microphone. “This is a song I wrote.”

She started with her eyes closed, feeling the strings against her fingers. Concentrating on her voice and her words,
hearing how the amp inflated everything about them.

            
Turn me inside out / You'll see a heart beating.

            
Turn me upside down / There's my head aching.

Her voice rolled out of her, traveling away until it bounced off the concrete walls on the room's other side. The song returned a little mellower from the journey.

            
But turn me right side up

            
And you get what you see.

When she opened her eyes, it seemed like the audience had morphed from the individual to the communal—a single, organic mass held together by her song.

            
Unzip me / Undo me

            
Expose me / See through me

Fiona let her head fall, focusing on her guitar. Her left fingers moved up and down the frets while her right fingers picked out the melody and strummed in between. She smiled at how the unexpected key change she added in—
just here—
made it all come together.

            
You blind me / You fry me

            
You tempt me / You bind me

The dimmed lights made it hard to see distance. Looking to the place she assumed Jackson stood, she sang the last verse.

            
Now you've got me inside out / My heart barely beating.

            
And you got me upside down / My head truly aching.

            
Turn me right side up?

            
Please. Please, keep me right side up.

Fiona strummed the final chord, letting herself drift off with it for a second. It wasn't until the last reverberation utterly died away that she realized no one had clapped. Clearing her throat, she shifted on the stool, wondering if she should play her second song or just slink away.

Ryan was the first; she'd recognize the hoot anywhere. She laughed, not even really caring that no one else clapped. She'd done it. She'd gotten up in front of these people—not just the strangers, but, maybe more importantly, the people who
knew
her—and given herself. She had put it all out there, not for the reward, not for the praise, but because she had to.

This was who she was.

So when everyone else started to clap—when they rose from their seats, whistling—it was just gravy.

She played three more—the last one unplanned but the crowd had scolded her when she got up after the third. After a final, self-conscious bow, she said, “Seriously, y'all, that's all I've got right now.”

Since she was the last performer, the lights went up and, as
she walked back to Ryan and Gwen's table, she scanned the crowd for Jackson but couldn't find him. Ryan beamed at her then held up the phone. “Lucy's been on speaker.”

Fiona took the phone. “Hey.”

Lucy sounded quieter than normal—her edges softened. “That was really lovely.”

Fiona smiled. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I couldn't make it.”

“It's fine. You'll have other chances.”

Regular Lucy was back. “Damn straight.” A pause. “Is he there?”

Fiona looked over her shoulder, checking the empty coffee bar once more with a frown. “Well, he was.”

“What the heck are you talking to me for? Go track that boy down.”

With that, her best friend hung up. Fiona scanned the coffee shop, squinting into corners, but couldn't see him anywhere. She slunk into her chair with a sigh. Gwen pointed toward the door to the back patio. “He's out there.”

Fiona spun so fast her neck popped. “Really?”

Gwen smiled and nodded.

Fiona walked through the shop toward the door. Strangers patted her on the back and said things like “Great job” or “Awesome set,” which probably would have made her cringe were she not looking for Jackson.

He sat by himself on the rickety back porch, gazing at the crappy old parking lot like it held answers to something.
When the door slammed behind her, Jackson turned his head, watching her walk across the patio. She sat beside him on the steps.

“You sounded like you'd been trapped underwater and just came up for breath—but you sang instead.”

Fiona fiddled with her fingers. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good. It's good.”

They sat in silence a few moments, staring at the parking lot. A few cars pulled out, temporarily highlighting them both in the unflattering glow of taillights.

“The lyrics . . .” Jackson trailed off, taking a deep breath. “They were about him?”

Fiona sucked in a surprised breath at this question. “About David?”

“Yeah.”

She pivoted, tucking one leg under her so she could face him. “No. They weren't about him.”

His knees still forward, he turned his head to look at her. “Who then?”

“You, dummy.”

The relief in speaking this out loud surprised her. For months it felt like Fiona and Jackson had stood side by side, staring at a closed wooden door blocking their path. While both may have touched the wood at one time or another, neither had turned the knob and
pushed
. Finally speaking this truth—of her head and her heart—felt like a rush of cool air blowing from just beyond the threshold. Stepping through
seemed awfully tempting.

A slow grin gradually transformed Jackson's face. His eyes looked lit from within. “I blind you?”

Fiona could feel the blush all up the right side of her face. She bit her lip and shrugged.

Undeterred by her embarrassment, he leaned a little closer. “And fry you?”

She laughed. “Definitely that one.”

He brought a hand to her chin. “Tempt you?”

It felt like her heart was beating everywhere. She nodded.

Looking tall, dark, and smirky, Jackson opened his mouth again. Fiona put her fingers to his lips, to
feel
him as much as to quiet him. “No snide comments about binding.”