Time Between Us (25 page)

For the last hour I’ve been leaning against the foot of my bed, dressed in the oversize sweatshirt Bennett wore after our first date in Ko Tao and staring up the black silk sheath I’ve bought to wear to tonight’s auction party. When I first brought it home and hooked the hanger on my closet door frame, this dress looked almost magical, like something cartoon birds and mice had stitched together from scratch while I slept.

But tonight’s the one-week anniversary of the night I got knocked back. Of
ever since
. And now the dress is just another museum piece, in good company with my map, a bag of sand, six postcards, and four new pins. All the things I can no longer look at without thinking of him.

I’m still staring up at the dress when I hear the knock at the door. I’ve been expecting it, but I’m not sure which one of my parents lost the coin toss.

“Come in,” I mutter.

Emma?

I stare up at her from my spot on the floor. She’s wearing the dress I helped her pick out, the strapless, floor-length gown in a deep, dark orange that looks as incredible on her now as it did in the dressing room. Her hair is pulled back in a tight twist at the nape of her neck, with a few strands of hair pulled out to frame her face. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” She takes a seat on the floor next to me, leans against the footboard, and reaches for me.

I look at her sideways. “You’re gonna get all wrinkled.”

“That’s okay.” She scans me from top to bottom, from my frizzy hair and bloodshot eyes down to my leggings and—to her horror, I’m sure—my unpedicured toes.

“What are you doing here, Em?”

She gives my hand a little squeeze. “Sorry. I know you want to be alone, but your mom put me up to this.” I turn my head away from her and roll my eyes. Both Mom and Dad have been bugging me all week about this stupid party, and I’ve made it more than clear I’m not going. Under any circumstances. But to send Emma in as reinforcement? That’s just cruel.

“And I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

She looks at me in disbelief, then stares at the dress. “It would be a shame if I was the only one who ever saw you in it. You looked so beautiful.”

I can’t look at it without feeling sick. “Thanks.”

We’re silent for what feels like minutes, me looking down at the carpet, Emma looking back and forth between me and that dress. “I’m not going to change my mind,” I finally say.

“I know. But we should stay here for at least, like, fifteen minutes so your mom thinks I really tried.” She turns to me, smiles, and bumps me with her shoulder. “Okay?”

I give her a sad smile. “Thanks.” Emma understands. She understood right away. Last Sunday I left Maggie’s, ran straight to Emma’s, and fell apart on her porch. We sat in her room while she passed me tissues, let me talk for hours, and believed every word of the story I made up. Someone in his family got sick. He had to take a red-eye back to San Francisco after we left the movie theater. He wasn’t sure when or if he’d be back and was sorry he wouldn’t have the chance to say good-bye. He’d miss us.

The next day, I told a few more people the same story and waited as it made the rounds of The Donut. And that was it. Within hours, everyone knew why Bennett had gone home, and I was the only one who knew it was all a lie.

Now I look at my best friend, all made up and happy and ready to go to the party she’s been looking forward to for the last six months, and I know I should go tonight. I should be there to see what Emma and Danielle helped plan and to watch my parents dance and to see Justin in a tux. But I can’t go out and pretend to be happy. Not without Bennett. Not yet.

“Are you mad at me? For not going tonight?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not mad. I just…” I stare at her, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn’t. She looks down at the floor and twirls a loose thread in the rug with her finger.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“What?” I repeat.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh. “I just miss you, that’s all. I know you miss him—we all miss him too—but…I really miss
you
.”

I force out a little laugh. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not.”

I look at her and know she’s right. Ever since the day I saw the other Bennett at the track and he told me he’d been trying to get back here, I’ve been doing exactly the opposite: I’ve been slowly disappearing.

She stops playing with the rug and stares at me. “Look, Anna, you’re my best friend, and I love so many things about you. I love that you make me laugh, and that you love music and books, and you want to travel the world, and you’re so committed to running…but you know what I love most about you? You know what I’ve loved about you since the moment we became friends?”

I look at her and wait.

“You’re the strongest person I know. You’re independent and you don’t care what anyone thinks and you trust your instincts and…you’ve got
fight
. I’ve always envied that about you. If Justin left town, left me here,
I’d
be a blubbering basket case. But…” Her words hang in the air like she didn’t mean to say them.
But what?
She expected more from me? She didn’t think I’d be so weak?

“Where’s your
fight
?” She stares at me for a minute and then reaches down and grabs my hand again. “Listen, I know it’s only been a week, it’s just—” She brings my hand to her face and kisses the back of it. “I want my friend back.”

I look at her and wish I could tell her everything. I want to get back to her and the rest of my ordinary life too—to Mom and Dad and running and travel books—and I just don’t know if I can find my fight with all these secrets weighing me down.

Emma doesn’t let go of me, and we sit like that, waiting for our requisite fifteen minutes to tick by. “I’d better go. I have to greet the VIPs.” Emma stands up and smooths out her gown. Then she checks her hair in my mirror and pats her eyes with her fingertip.

“I’m sorry, Emma.”

She reaches for the doorknob, stops to blow me a kiss, and walks out, closing the door behind her.

I can’t hear them, but I picture Emma at the bottom of the staircase, talking with Justin and my parents in hushed tones. I go to the window and peek out as Justin and Emma walk out to the car. Just as he’s about to open the door, he looks up, sees me there, and gives a sad little wave. He gets in the car and they drive off.

Soon enough, Mom and Dad shout their good-byes and are-you-sure-you’re-okays up the stairs and then they’re off too. I look down at the sidewalk and stare at the spot where Bennett first kissed me—even though I don’t remember him doing it. I look at the tree across the street, where his car rolled backward and settled because he didn’t time our do-over exactly as planned. Even if he was a little off here and there, he’d always been in control. If he could get back, he would.

And that’s when it hits me. He would have been here by now. Bennett was wrong and the letter was right. He’s not coming back. He’s stuck, against his will and most definitely against mine. Unless I make a different decision. And I have no idea what that means.

I leave the window open and walk back to the map. I stand there and study it for a minute, and then I reach forward and begin tracing invisible lines between the eight little red pins with my fingertip, running it back and forth, up and down, tracing patterns to connect them. Then I stop. I bring my finger to Evanston and make a tiny circle around the four I started with: Springfield. Minnesota. Michigan. Indiana. And then I rest my finger on San Francisco and make a much larger circle going all the way to Ko Tao, back to Vernazza, over to Wisconsin, and back to San Francisco.

I should have more. I’m supposed to have more.

I reach into the Lucite container and pull out a pin. Look at it. Stare at the map. Stick it into Paris. I pull out another one. Study the map. Stick it into Madrid. I stand back and consider the map again, enjoying the new look, and reach into the dusty container again. I push a red pin into Sydney. Then I grab the container and turn it upside down in my hand, feeling a few stray pins prick my palm.

I press pins into Tokyo.

Tibet.

Auckland.

Dublin.

Costa Rica.

São Paulo.

Prague.

Los Angeles.

And I just keep going and going, picking up pins and stabbing them into the paper until the map is covered with places I’ll never see and the clear plastic box is as empty as I am.

Last week I was sad. This week, I’m just angry. I’m angry at him for not telling me about the letter and angry at my friends for acting like he was never here, but mostly, I’m angry at myself for letting my guard down so completely—for accepting this whole thing as perfectly normal.

My hands are balled up in two tight fists when Señor Argotta announces,
“¡Practiquemos la conversación!”
and walks down the aisle pointing out partners and passing out cards. He points to me. Then to Alex. I roll my eyes as I turn my desk toward him.

“¡Hola!”
Alex says with a smile. “Hey, where were you on Saturday? We missed you.” I’m not sure why it’s taken him until Thursday to ask.

I shrug. “I’m training for state finals.”

“On a Saturday night?”

“No, Alex. Every morning. I run
every
morning now. Even on Sundays.” Before I’ve said the last word I’m embarrassed by my tone, but I don’t apologize. Instead I continue talking to him with this attitude, because it’s actually making me feel better to see him uncomfortable for once. “So, do you have the conversation card, or what?”

He mutters something under his breath, picks the card up from his desk and reads to himself. “Oh, this one’s pretty good.” He reads it aloud.
“Partner number one, you are interviewing for a job as a waiter/waitress at one of Madrid’s finest restaurants. Partner number two, you are the restaurant owner.”

I look around for something to punch.

“That’s not such a bad one, right?” Alex decides without looking at me to notice that I’m gripping the sides of the wooden desk. “Do you want to be the waiter or the owner?”

“Neither.” I push my chair away and run for the door, leaving my backpack on the floor and my textbook on my desk. Leaving Alex and that stupid conversation card. Leaving Señor Argotta calling after me in an accented voice that’s full of concern, then frustration. But I don’t stop. I don’t even turn around. I run through The Donut, past the lockers. And I literally run into Danielle.

She crashes into a bank of lockers and her wooden bathroom pass goes sliding across the floor. “What the—!”

I’m wiping tears from my eyes as I help her back up to a standing position. “Danielle, I’m so sorry.”

She starts to say something, but then she realizes I’ve been crying. “Anna? Are you okay?”

“I need to get out of here,” I say.

“Anna!” She calls after me, but I’m already gone, through the double doors, racing toward the only thing I think may make me feel better.

He’s here.

Not the way I want him to be, but in the only way I can have him now, in pictures of an infant, framed and displayed on a mantel, and in the eyes of his grandmother, who makes me tea and doesn’t even question why I’m sitting in her kitchen at eleven twenty in the morning on a school day.

We sip from our respective teacups. We try to think of things to say, but come up with very little. She has plenty of questions and I have plenty of answers, but she can’t voice hers because she knows I won’t share mine. So we sit there, stuck in a thick silence that’s interrupted every few minutes by the sound of porcelain cups connecting with their matching saucers.

Maggie finally breaks the silence. “I started cleaning out his room last week. I thought I’d put his things in the attic until…” Her voice trails off and I smile a little. I like the idea that she thinks he’ll come back. “Do you—” she begins, looking at me like she’ll let my expression determine whether she should continue her sentence or not. “Do you want to hold on to anything for him? Until he returns?”

I nod. And since there’s nothing left to talk about, we carry our cups up the stairs and down the hall, past the photos of Bennett’s mother as a child, of Maggie as a young woman, and into the mahogany-furnished room he once called his.

“I’ll get you some more tea,” Maggie says, and she grabs my nearly full cup and carries it out, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone in his room.

There are a few boxes stacked near the wall under the windows, but otherwise, it looks like it always did. I slide open the closet doors and peer inside. His uniform is there, along with a bunch of clothes I never got to see on him. His wool coat is hanging on a hook within easy reach, and even though it’s ninety degrees outside, I put it on, lift the collar to my nose, and inhale his scent.

I shut the closet door and walk toward the desk. There is nothing on the surface—not even a pen or a photograph. I sit down in the wooden chair and open the top drawer. And that’s where I find the rest of him. I take each of the items out one at a time and pile them on the desk. His Westlake student ID. One of my red pins. A blank postcard from Ko Tao. The postcard I wrote him in Vernazza. A stubby yellow pencil. A carabiner. A single key.

I push everything aside, take out the key, and walk over to the armoire. I work quickly, stacking the photo albums and old yearbooks in a pile, until I see the small gold keyhole in the back corner. I twist the key in the lock and pull up on the small door. Inside, I find stacks and stacks of rubber-banded dollar bills, hundreds, and twenties.

On top of one of the stacks, I see his notebook and remember how he used it to plot the do-over that probably saved Emma’s life. I pick it up and flip through it. Every page is covered with timelines and mathematical equations, charts documenting age conversions and historical events, and company names with dollar signs next to them. Finally I get the page he once showed me—the time conversions he did that landed us in my driveway and eventually kept Emma from driving to Chicago.

I flip back to the first few pages of the notebook and see something else familiar. My words, but in his handwriting:

Someday soon, we will meet. And then you will leave
for good. But I think I can fix it—I just need to make
a different decision this time. Tell me to live my life for
myself, and not for you. Tell me not to wait for you to
come back. I think that will change everything.

He’s circled key words and terms like
for good
and
leave
and
fix
and
change everything
, adding his own comments and question marks and exclamation points like he was studying it, attempting to figure it all out. But he didn’t. Not after months of trying. And now it’s too late—he’s gone for good.
Why didn’t he tell me?
He was supposed to tell me
everything
.

I check the door for Maggie. Then I put the red notebook back on the top, lock the cabinet, and put the scrapbooks and photo albums back where they belong. Once everything looks just as he left it, I return to Bennett’s desk.

I open the drawer and put the key inside, and then I look at the rest of the items. I pick each one up and turn it over in my hands, starting with the postcard from Ko Tao. I remember the day he presented me mine on the lawn at school. I couldn’t believe he’d gone back, just for that. “I got one for myself, too…to remember the day,” he’d said.

“Here,” Maggie whispers, and I jump and turn my head. She’s traded our teacups for a small shopping bag, and now she’s holding it out to me.

“Thanks.”

She looks down at the pile of things on Bennett’s desk and rests her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, sweetie?” I give her a sad nod. “He’s such a sweet boy. I hope he comes back.”

I hold the bag under the edge of the desktop and brush everything inside. Then I stand up, pull Maggie into a hug, and thank her for letting me hold on to his things. She squeezes me tightly.

“You should go to California for a visit,” I say as I pull away from her embrace. “Meet that grandson of yours. I bet it would mean a lot to your daughter.”

“I don’t know.…My daughter and I aren’t very close these days.”

I stare straight into her eyes, and even though they’re exactly the same as her grandson’s, I don’t see him at all. I just see Maggie. “You should go anyway.”

“Maybe I will.”

I look at her and smile. There’s no need to wait for Bennett to get old enough to start making little changes that will affect her future. Not if I can help her get it right the first time.

I kiss her on the cheek and close the desk drawer, leaving the key inside.

I’m back on campus a half hour after last bell, and as I walk through The Donut I can hear my footsteps echoing in the empty halls. I hope the classroom is unlocked, my backpack is still there, and Argotta’s already gone for the day. The probability of all three being true is extremely low.

When I reach the classroom door, the first thing I see is my backpack, propped up against Argotta’s desk. When I look up from the floor, I spot him there, correcting papers.

“Señor Argotta?” When he hears the sound of my voice, he stops writing but keeps his eyes on his work.

“Señorita Greene. How nice of you to return.”

“I’m…really sorry. It’s just—” Now he looks at me, first curious, then horrified. My T-shirt is soaked with sweat, my face is all blotchy and red, and the humidity has caused my curls to tighten up and frizz. Argotta blinks fast a few times but doesn’t ask.

“No need to explain. Your friend, Señor Camarian, filled me in on the…impact…that Señor Cooper’s departure has had on you.” I’m not sure if Alex has the necessary information to explain this “impact,” but if The Donut is as all-knowing as Danielle says it is, he probably does. And now my chest feels heavy with guilt. How could I have been so mean to him today?

Argotta leans down and reaches for my backpack like he’s about to hand it to me, but when he feels its weight he sort of scoots it in my general direction instead. I step forward, pick it up, and hoist it over my shoulder. “Thanks.” I turn to leave.

I’m almost at the door when I hear him clear his throat behind me. “Are you aware of the date, Señorita Greene?”

I stop. “It’s June first, señor.”

“Exactamente.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not in the mood for this.

“Which made yesterday the last day of May.” I turn around and look at him. “I was really hoping you’d consider taking that spot in Mexico, señorita. Perhaps now that your summer plans have changed…”

I flash back to the day he gave me the shiny yellow folder and realize I never even bothered to open it. I should probably know all the details, but I don’t. “Oh. Right. Where is it again?”

“I think you had it as a destination on your travel plan, did you not? It’s a beautiful town called La Paz. It’s getting very popular. Now is really the time to see it.”

“La Paz?”

“Sí.”
He watches me while I try not to look confused.
La Paz?
“You have your travel voucher and you would have an excellent family to live with. The trip is practically free. I’m sure you already have your summer all planned out, but it really is a great opportunity, and if you’re interested, I could still pull some strings.”

Argotta watches me while he waits for his answer. And finally, when none comes, he leans back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. I want to go, but I don’t think I can. What if Bennett comes back? I can’t leave. I have to wait here. But my whole body starts to tremble as I remember the words I just read in Bennett’s notebook—the words I will write in a letter to him seventeen years from now:
Tell me not to wait for you to come back.