Meet Me Here (11 page)

We’ve walked for what feels like miles, and Jake still hasn’t caught up. He’s fifty feet behind us, hands in his pockets, slow as time. None of us speak except for Wayne, who does nothing but curse Jerry Lee.

Fuck.

I don’t know how I’m going to get the truck back, let alone fixed. I have no idea what time it is or how I’m even going to get home before the sun comes up. And that doesn’t even begin to touch on Jake. It all hangs over me, pulling me down like a drowning man.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.

Each step is awful, like someone has packed broken
glass under my skin. I’m trying not to limp because I know Mallory is worried and watching me. She’s been intentionally slowing the pace of the group for the past mile, and I’m still lagging. But I don’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of . . . what? Knowing that I’m in pain? I have no idea why that matters, but I march forward, barely blinking.

When we come to Highway 10, Mallory’s had enough. She jumps out in front of the group, stopping us.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” she says. “You can’t keep this up.”

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep moving. She blocks me easily with a hand to my chest and then bends down to check my leg. The stitches are still in place, but it feels swollen. And now that we’ve stopped, the pain is nearly unbearable. It’s all I can do to not scream when she accidentally causes me to shift my weight to my bad leg.

“We need to call someone,” she says to Wayne and Sinclair.

Everybody we know is at a party or halfway to the beach by now. Or drunk. But Sinclair and Wayne still brainstorm a list. Every number they call follows the same pattern. Dial, listen for a few seconds, followed almost immediately by some intense cussing when nobody
answers. They’ve gone through almost ten numbers when Jake finally jogs up.

“What’s going on?” he says.

Mallory drops her hands to her sides. “Are you serious? Look at his leg.”

Jake bends down to inspect my leg the same way Mallory did and says, “I’ve walked on worse.”

“You’ve walked on worse? Are you
kidding
?”

A peculiar look of nostalgia comes over Jake as he talks, completely ignoring Mallory’s indignation. The knives in her eyes.

“You remember that, Thomas? When I cut my toe with the lawn mower? Nearly took the whole thing off.”

It had looked like hamburger, but we walked back to our house, him trailing blood down the sidewalk and me freaking out. That was the summer we were supposed to mow lawns together. The summer before Jake’s junior year. The money was going toward the truck, which needed a new axle and—if there was money left over—a bed liner. I mowed all summer without him, getting the axle, the bed liner—and a new set of tires.

But I don’t want to think about the truck or engage Jake’s sudden nostalgia trip. I refuse to look at him as I
step around Mallory and start down the road again.

“We could call your parents,” she says, easily matching my shortened stride.

I want to fight. It would feel
good
to fight, to be loud and truthful. But I tamp down the urge to bring out the claws. And besides, Mallory isn’t the problem. I slow down and face her.

“I can’t explain this to them. Not tonight. Okay?”

I can tell she doesn’t want to concede the point, but she finally sighs and says, “As long as we can agree that you’re being an idiot right now.”

She smiles, almost embarrassed. Before I can say anything else, Jake surges past us like we’re not even there, Wayne and Sinclair in tow.

“That’s the best team Ford’s had in twenty years,” Jake tells Wayne. “Me, Teague, Wagner—Bryant? If it wasn’t for that bullshit call, we take State.”

He marches them down the road like they’ve got orders, taking the lead for the first time in months. I try to keep up, to hear what he’s saying. To maybe figure out how he can go from mute to discussing high school football legacies with such ease.

I’ve pulled ahead of Mallory by a few steps, but I can’t
keep up with Jake. The last thing I hear is Wayne saying, “Bulllsshhhiiitt,” loud and with feeling. Followed by laughter that carries through the dark country night.

The next sound is Mallory’s phone.

“Is that Will?” I ask, pausing to wait for her.

“Of course,” she says. When it beeps again, she nods and types out a quick message before looking back up at me. At my leg. She grimaces. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but—”

I shake my head. “I can’t call them.”

And yes, every step is a warning—infection, paralysis, worse. I’ve been so careful up until tonight about not risking anything. And in less than a few hours I’ve resurrected my friendship with Mallory, lost the practical use of one leg and now my truck.

What can a five-mile walk possibly do to me now?

“Something’s going on with you,” Mallory says.

“It’s Jake,” I say, trying to shore up any emotion leaking into my face. Act like nothing is wrong. Be cool, I tell myself. Look at peace. But Mallory doesn’t buy it. She stops walking and gently pulls my arm until I stop, too.

“I’ve known you for how long? And you’re going to lie to my face?”

“I’m not lying to you,” I say. But I can’t look her in the eyes when I say it. Even if I wanted to tell her, what are the words? Even after everything we’ve done tonight, I still can’t explain what I’m feeling, what I’m planning for tomorrow. And of all the failures between me and her, this one might be the biggest.

When I look up, I say, “It’s complicated.”

She nods, as if I’ve dropped some serious philosophy on her. “I’m good at complicated. Trust me.”

I try to look away again, but she won’t let me. “Seriously, Bennett. You can tell me anything. You have to know that.”

The words slice me up, and her eyes are equally sharp, cutting through every defense I have. She stares at me, neither of us moving as Jake, Wayne, and Sinclair get farther and farther away.

I’m so tired. Of this night. Of every single lie I’ve told. All of it. And when I hear Jake laugh—so loud, so clear—I don’t weigh it. I don’t plan it.

I say it out loud for the first time.

“I’m not going to the army.”

She doesn’t respond at first, and I worry that she didn’t understand. I don’t want to look at her because I can’t take
seeing even the smallest amount of disappointment on her face. I stare at the long road in front of us, immediately regretting telling her.

But then she asks, “Why?”

And I say, “I can’t come back like Jake.”

It feels weird saying the words, as if I’m finally giving them life. And now that they’re upright and moving, I realize that I can no longer control them. They’ll run across the countryside, ravaging villages. It makes my truck’s immobilization hurt worse than my leg, a heavy reality that sits on my shoulders.

I still can’t read Mallory’s face or her tone as she says, “Are you going to get in trouble? Like, with the government?”

“I haven’t shipped yet. I can still get out of it,” I say, but even those words seem wrong. It’s not a technicality I’m breaking. It’s a commitment that goes far beyond how many times I’ve actually signed my name.

And if anybody knows this better than I do, it’s Mallory. She closes her eyes and asks the question that scares me most of all: “What about your dad?”

I could call and wake up the recruiter right now. Despite all the bowling trips, the pizza, the rah-rah meetings.
There’s no loyalty to him or the clipboard he used to sign me up. And if I’m honest, I can even deal with putting my head down and walking past all the people in this town who thought I was brave, a hero. But telling my dad is completely different.

“I guess he’ll figure it out when the recruiter calls,” I say.

She thinks about this for a few seconds and then says, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“What else can I do?”

“You could tell him,” she says.

“Oh, yeah. That would go over amazingly, I’m sure.”

“So that’s it? You just . . . leave?” Mallory looks up and down the road, as if she were waiting for somebody. “That doesn’t sound like you. At all.”

It’s a knockout punch, and my hands are down. Everybody—even Mallory—thinks I’m something I’m not. But I don’t know how to stop what I’ve set in motion at this point. Not that there’s much of a plan left. By the time I can get back to the truck, it will be either gone or completely stripped down to the frame, the parts sold. So not only do I have to walk into the living room and tell Dad I’m not going to the army, I also get to tell him I lost
the truck. I can see the disappointment form in his face, the lines creasing his forehead. He’ll grab me by the elbow and force me into the car. We won’t stop until I’m standing outside the recruiting station, a rucksack in one hand and a bus ticket in the other.

I glance at Mallory unsure of what I’ll see, what she’ll say to me. And at first she isn’t showing me anything. Her face is absent of emotion, and her mouth is open, just a little bit. But then the tension in her face breaks.

“You don’t have to leave,” she says. “You changed your mind. People do it every day.”

I want to believe her, but I stepped off the path a long time ago. And I have no idea how to get back on it. I have no idea how I can fix any of this. Mallory takes my hand.

“We could talk to your mom and dad: you and me.” Her voice is emotional, adamant. “Everybody should be able to change their mind, Thomas. We can do this if you want to. Right now.”

Ahead of us, Jake has stopped walking. From this distance he almost looks normal. I turn to Mallory and say, “It doesn’t even matter anymore. Without the truck, I’m done.”

Wayne yells something at us, but I can’t make it out;
they’re too far away. They head back, and Mallory jabs a thumb at the trees that line the road. “Our only option is to live in the woods then. You like squirrel? I bet you’d look awesome with a beard.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Don’t need a truck for that.”

That smile. I can feel it in my chest. I’ve been missing it for seven years. Having somebody who would walk into traffic for me. She pulls me close to her, into a hug that seems to last forever. I feel her phone buzzing in her pocket, but she ignores it, only letting go of me when the headlights from a passenger van peek up over the oncoming hill, filling the dark night with light.

It’s a church van, F
IRST
B
APTIST
printed on the side in electric blue. When Mallory sees the van, she goes stiff, barely moving her lips as she speaks.

“Remember, I did this for you.”

Will opens the door of the van and jumps down. Wayne and Sinclair are throwing their hands in the air like the Lord has answered a prayer, sent a boat to escape the Flood. When they see Will, they stop. Sinclair hides his face below his NASCAR hat, and all Wayne says is “Damn.”

Jake jogs up to the back of the van, thanking Will as
he climbs in and sits in the backseat. Wayne and Sinclair follow suit, but neither me nor Mallory moves. Will looks at me, then Mallory and shakes his head. When he does it, Mallory makes like she’s going to go to him but stops herself. For the first time I see the depth of Mallory’s pain as her eyes search his face.

“Will—” she says.

“Just get in the van,” he says, turning his back on us.

Mallory looks at the ground and mumbles, “I didn’t know who else to ask. I’m sorry, but you can’t walk home on that leg.”

The van comes to life in a low rumble, and I look at Will, staring straight ahead. “I don’t think he wants to give me a ride.”

“Well, yeah. Probably not. But you’re the reason I asked him. So it’s not like I’m going to let him leave you here.”

I should grab her and disappear into the woods. Take her to the Grover, become the next urban legend, the crazy friends who disappeared on graduation night. Ghosts. Psychos. Don’t ever go in there, man. That’s the
real
story. At the very least, I should thank her because when’s the last time anybody’s done something like this for me?

“So this is it,” I say.

“For tonight.” Will honks the horn, and Mallory sighs. “All right, you ready for this?”

I look at the van and so does she, and without a word, we both climb in.

I’m in the back row with Jake, the smell of cigarettes and beer coming off Sinclair and Wayne. Sunday, when a pack of Baptists hops in their van, they’ll find it marinated in sin. The only sound is the hum of the tires. Nobody talks, and Will doesn’t turn on the radio. Mallory sits in the passenger seat, but she and Will couldn’t be farther apart. Every time Mallory tries to say something to him, he turns away, as if staring out the window will increase their separation. More than once I catch him staring at me in the rearview mirror.

Fifteen minutes later we’re downtown. Five more, and Will has the van parked at the Waffle House. Wayne’s truck is still there from what seems like hours ago. Now Will and Mallory will fade away together, and I’ll be left to figure out what to do with Jake, with the rest of my life. I’m barely out of the van when Will comes rushing toward me.

He looks me right in the eye and says, “So I guess you found Mallory, huh?”

“Okay, man,” I say, starting away from the group; this isn’t going to end well for anyone. He comes charging again and pushes me into the Waffle House window.

“Just a friend, right?” he says.

“Will, stop.” Mallory grabs him by the arm, but he only gets in my face closer, louder.

“I was trying to help her out,” I say. “I told you to leave her alone for the night.”

“So you can make your move? Right.” He looks at Mallory and says, “Is this why you did it?”

When I try to slip away from him, he pushes me back into the glass, harder this time. Behind me, I can feel the people in the Waffle House staring at us. I swallow my own anger, the desire to push him back.

“Is he why you did it?” Will asks Mallory again, louder this time. He turns back to me, finger in my face. “You were probably in on it the whole time. You’re a fucking coward, Thomas.”

I don’t really see what happens next, but Will goes flying backward. Jake falls on top of him and starts yelling about respect and how Will doesn’t know the first thing about honor or courage. Will keeps trying to turn away from Jake—his eyes wide with fear—but Jake grabs his
chin and forces him to make eye contact.