Goodbye to You (35 page)

I re-watch the interview and record some narrative to transition between Crawley’s interview and his performance. Shutting down my computer, I check my reflection in the dresser mirror. I clean up the eyeliner smudged by my tears, then twist my long hair into a loose knot at my nape.

Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my purse and head to the party at Greg’s. Dean should be happy I’m getting there well before I told him I would. The front porch is overflowing with athletes and cheerleaders, all of Dean’s high school friends returned home from college. Laura, one of Dean’s ex-girlfriends, sneers at me over her plastic drink cup. “Oh, goody, look who showed up. Your
boyfriend
is upstairs in Greg’s room.”

I don’t get her emphasis on
boyfriend.
Maybe she’s still jealous of me. Which is so ridiculous. All long legs and straight blond hair and perfect teeth from nature, not braces. She could get any guy she wanted, but she still wants Dean. I opt for the high road instead of stooping to her mean tactics. “Thanks, Laura. Hope school is going well.”

I open the front door and walk into the narrow hall of the house and take the stairs to the right. I follow the hall to the end and knock lightly. Don’t want to interrupt the “bro talk” Dean might be having with his best friend. No one answers, so I walk to find Dean with someone. Not Greg.

A girl. Stretched out on the bed. Next to my boyfriend. “What the fuck, Dean?”

The redhead in the snug, white dress gasps, and sits upright. Dean jumps off the bed, tucking his shirt into his shorts. He rubs the back of his neck. “Hey. Trini. You’re early.”

My chest clenches, like he’d grabbed my heart with both hands and squeezed. I don’t want to cry, but a few traitorous tears slip out when I spit the words at him. “I see this.”

“It’s not what you think. Seriously.”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Don’t.”

Then I bolt down the stairs, slipping a few times in my haste. I practically fly from the porch steps, but Laura’s words chase me down the street, biting at my heels. “I guess she found him.”

Her vicious snicker, mingled with her friends’ derision, is an ugly reminder I’ve never fit in with the popular clique.

I run as fast as my short legs can carry me. Which is not too fast. I hate running and never perfected my stride. My lungs burn, and the stitch in my side nearly cripples me, but it’s not enough. Dean’s large hand clamps over my shoulder and spins me to face him.

“Hey, hey. Where are you going?” He shakes his head, his bright blue eyes wide.

I open my mouth but clamp it shut almost immediately. My mind goes blank. No words can describe the burning rage and sadness inching up my esophagus.

“Are you mad? Mad about that, back at Greg’s? That was his cousin. I’ve known her since we were little kids. Her parents recently divorced, and I was trying to comfort her. That’s all.” He wraps his arms around me. I stiffen, but he doesn’t let go. I swallow the nausea and accept his explanation. Because the alternative, to reject the flimsy excuse and fight back, is too overwhelming.

He releases me and takes my hand in his. “Let’s go. Back to your house. I don’t want to spend our little time together fighting.”

He winks, and all my resolve is lost. Of course, I’d rather make out than make trouble.

“Okay.”

We slip in through the gate at the back of the building housing both my mom’s store and our living quarters, mine with a separate entrance at the top of the stairs.

Dean nudges me back to the bed, presses his lips to mine, but his kiss is cold. Distant.

“Are you okay?” I search his face for an answer, not sure if he’ll be truthful.

“Yeah. Shhhh. No more talking.” He pulls his shirt over his head, and my mouth goes dry.

Right. This is all I want. To feel. More precisely, to feel him. He lays down next to me on the bed. His hands glide over my body and freeze after his fingers squeeze at my waist.

Dean rolls over, his heat snatched away. The antique wood of the bed creaks under his weight as he sits up on the gingham-covered mattress.

“I can’t do this.”

I bolt up behind him in the bed, my heart hammering a wicked beat in my rib cage.

“Do what?” My eyes burn, and I choke back tears threatening to spill over.

He casts his gaze to the floor, which is good because when I look into his clear, beautiful eyes, my anger usually dissipates. “Pretend this is okay.”

He doesn’t look up as he says the words, but waves his hand at me.

“Pretend what?” I stand up, sliding in front of him. “Dean, are you … breaking up with me?”

“No. I mean, not if you … ” He scratches at the back of his neck, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

I take a deep breath, but my lungs squeeze and keep oxygen from reaching my brain.

He’s breaking up with me. Oh. My. God. I never, ever thought we’d break up, and when we started dating over a year ago, I imagined that if he ever did want to leave, I’d throw myself at his feet, begging him to stay.

What else would the former fat girl do if the quarterback tried to leave her?

His torso heaves on a massive sigh. “Since we went away to college, well, you’ve put on some weight. Do you think you can lose the extra pounds by spring break?”

I stop in my tracks and shake my head hard, incredulous at his words. I scan the room for a heavy and dangerous object to throw at his head.

Yeah, I’ve put on some weight, but the stress of college, the lack of time to work out … and anyway, when you love someone, you don’t care if they’ve gained a couple pounds.

Or fifteen.

The skinny girl at Greg’s house. Was he trying out my replacement in case I refused to comply with his request?

I whip back around to go off on him, but see his shoulders shake. Is he crying?

I climb back on the bed, sure he’s about to apologize for what he said when a laugh erupts from his throat. “Wow, I thought that would be harder to say.”

My sanity teeters on the edge of a cliff before diving head first into the valley of crazy below.

My leg whips out from underneath me, and I literally kick his ass out of bed. His substantial football-player body hits the floor with a satisfying thud. I’m short, but I have big feet, and for once they turn out to be a blessing.

Dean rolls over and glares up at me, his eyes wide. After another moment of shocked stillness, he jerks himself up, his pride forcing his frame to its full height—where his head meets the five-foot-high sloped ceiling on the wall behind my bed. The sickening thud made me cringe the first time Dean had been in this room and whacked his head.

This time, I sneer at his pain. He rubs the back of his sandy-colored head, and a slow, diabolical grin cuts across my face.

What’s a little skull-crunching compared to a shattered heart?

“Ha!” I clap my hand over my mouth, surprised by the cruel streak gripping me like a vise.

Dean glares at me.

He probably expected me to cry.

I won’t give him the satisfaction. My lungs and heart shrivel inside my ribcage, but I suppress the waterworks and spit out between clenched teeth, “You should go.”

He reaches for me. I’m not sure why. Death wish, much?

I flinch and turn my back on him to stare out the window of the room at the shadows flickering across Southard Street in the early evening haze. “Fuck you, Dean.”

Dean quickly gets the message, grabs his discarded tee shirt and walks out onto the narrow landing, his heavy footfall receding down the rickety staircase, echoing like an exploding cannon in my head.

I slam the screen door behind him, the
thwack
of the aging wood smacking against the frame thundering in my bones.

Signaling Dean’s departure from my life.

Only when he’s gone for real do I allow the pain to seep into every nerve, ooze out of every pore.

I collapse in a heap against the cool plastered wall, seeking relief from the streak of heat stabbing at my soul.

A single anguished wail rattles the mirror and windows and even the walls of the old building—my home for a dozen of my nineteen years on this insane planet.

The tears—real, hot, razor-sharp tears—course down my cheeks unchecked, like acid etching into my delicate skin. I choke on the snot backed up in my throat and pouring from my nose as I ask one question, over and over and over.

Why?

Why?

WHY? (ALSO—THIS WHY IN ALL CAPS)

***

“I’m closed/Frightened/Won’t let anyone near/But you open the cover/See the demons, dark and swirling within.”—Lyrics from “Like a Book” by Mac Kelly

“Jesus, he was in bed with Greg’s cousin? Were they naked?”

Her wide eyes tell me I forgot to process my ideas before speaking, but then she laughs, so it’s okay. “No, they weren’t naked, Mac. They weren’t doing anything. So I bought his story about comforting her. When he said something about me needing to lose weight, I recalled Greg’s ‘cousin’ appeared tall and slender, and … not like me.”

Not like her?
This I don’t get because Trini is magnificent. Her light brown skin is beautiful, her dark hair thick and shiny, those green eyes may be the most striking I’ve ever seen. Warm and welcoming and expressive. I want to tell her these things, but I don’t. I usually say whatever I’m thinking, especially when something confuses me. Like Dean wanting someone else. But I hold back out of fear she’ll reject me, or think I pity her.

“What a douche!” I've never hidden my disdain for Dean, sometimes to the detriment of my friendship with Trini. It’s a relief to say such things out loud without fear of her wrath. I fidget with the straw in my Coke and swivel on my barstool to face her.

If I don’t do something with my hands, I’ll reach out and brush her wavy dark hair out of her jade-green eyes before touching her face, pulling her lips to mine …

She bursts out with a laugh. “Ha, that’s what I thought after I kicked him out of my bed. Then he hit his head on the low ceiling, and I laughed.”

I tip my glass in her direction before I take a sip, then stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes the prolonged eye contact gets to be too much. I wish it didn’t muddle my brain, but I can’t concentrate on more than two sensory inputs at a time. “I’d give up a week’s worth of tips to witness that.”

I play along with her jesting, but her bloodshot eyes and splotchy face contradict her words and tone. She’s hurting. Bad. I want nothing more than to comfort her now. Hold her tight and tell her she’s amazing, and Dean is, well, a douchebag.

A big one.

“Speaking of tips, I gotta get back.” I nod at the small stage in my uncle’s pub, set up with a microphone and my acoustic guitar. “Can you stick around after the show? We can hang out when I’m done. Any requests?”

She nods, a wicked grin spreading across her round face. Her upturned nose wrinkles in glee. “Gives You Hell.”

“Ha, good one. The All-American Rejects it is. Anything for you.”

Seriously, I’d do anything for her if I don’t have to leave Key West. My schedule is set. I don’t like to deviate. When I do, my insides squirm and my brain hurts—a by-product of my autism.

I never wanted her to go away to college, but there’s no film school here, and not everybody’s gonna be a “deadbeat loser” as Dean once called me, living at home with their parents and having no goals in life.

For now, though, I’m happy for the few weeks she’s home in between semesters.

I turn to head back to the stage and pause. I glance over my shoulder at her, my soul aching for the sadness in her face when she thinks no one is paying attention. “Hey.”

She snaps her head up and plasters a fake smile on her lips. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, too. So stick around for the whole set, okay?”

Her head bobs up and down, too enthusiastically. “Sure thing, bestie! Oh, do you mind?”

She points at the video camera she’d pulled out of her bag. “Can I film this? I need to submit my doc for the film festival before I come home for spring break.”

My insides shrivel up a little. Performing for people is one thing, but being filmed, my tics and flaws captured for eternity, is different.

“You promised!”

My thoughts must be written on my face. Not literally, but showing up in my expression. I did make a promise to let her film me. I can’t go back on that.

“Sure, no problem.” I hop on the stage and pop on the Santa hat my uncle has all of his staff wearing for the Christmas season. I had protested, saying the hat detracted from my “cool rock star” image. Paddy guffawed and said if I wanted to play, I had to wear the hat. He walked away, shook his head, and muttered, “Rock star. Ha!”

The insurance payment on my scooter is due in January, so I gave in.

Growing up and paying bills sucks. At least Mom and Dad weren’t making me pay rent—yet. I’m sure that’s a matter of time.

I slip onto the stool on the stage and adjust the mic. I used to hate talking to the audience, but now I’ve grown accustomed to, if not comfortable with, speaking in front of people. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”