Two Roads (12 page)

~

Sometimes saying nothing

is easier than facing the truth

~

I go
for a run a few minutes later. I slip on my running shoes and throw on a t-shirt, burst out of my room, and jog down the street outside of my apartment. Sunlight beats down on my back and a slight breeze whistles through the air, ruffling my dark hair as I go. A few cars pass by me and I listen to the steady hum of their engines, the screech of tires on pavement. When I run, my head clears, my body shuts down, and everything else leaves me. I take a deep breath, and I keep on moving. I run for a long time, until all of this melts away, until all of the pretending and the anxiety disappears and I feel like me again. The real me.

My arms pump at my side, my legs moving steadily back and forth and back and forth. The gentle burn in my thighs causes a small smile to flicker across my lips, and I feel whole again. My heart pounds in my chest and I breathe in and out, once, twice, three times. The cool air feels so good against my skin, and I just keep running and running, down the street, around a corner, through a parking lot, until I finally stop in front of a supermarket and catch my breath.

For a long while I just stand there, panting, and find myself glancing around the neighborhood. It’s so full of life, with laughing kids walking down the sidewalk beside their parents, a couple kissing across from me, an old woman holding a barking dog who tries to sniff as many people as possible, the full-on green trees and yards on every side of me, and the distant sound of a plane overhead. I smile. I love the energy this town gives off, the life, the happiness. Even if I don’t feel that way about myself, it gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, one day, I will. I’ll feel alive.

After another minute, my phone buzzes beneath me. Automatically, I grab it out of my pocket to see who it is. “The Asshole” is written in small font at the top of the message--a name I’ve proudly given Logan in all of my contacts--and beneath it is his message,
Go to the convention with me.

I roll my eyes and start typing.

No
, I say.

Jerk. I hate you.

The feeling is mutual, asshole.

So does that mean you’ll go with me?

I’d rather die.

Even if I beg?

Yep.

There’s a pause.
Why not?

I stop, bite my lip. There is no way I’m going to tell him why, because telling the truth means admitting to him what a freak I am to still have not gotten over Ben’s death four years later, admitting to him that despite our rivalry, he really is the strong one.

I remember certain things from my high school years: the time Logan and I decided to convince my parents Ben had been abducted by aliens one day when he showed up late from school. The day I was one of the only girls cut from the soccer team, and I came home pretending not to care when really I felt completely worthless and Ben hugged me and told me that they were just jealous of my badassery. I remember the day Logan got sick with a bad flu and Ben and I took it upon ourselves to write fanfiction about what we thought was going to happen to him--my prediction was that there were killer monkeys inside of him that would destroy him from the ground up--and we read the stories aloud to him, and we all laughed and laughed and he puked into the toilet and we got out the febreeze, and then we laughed and laughed some more. But more than all that, I remember the time at the end of my freshman year, when Ben was about to head off to college and Logan, him, and I all compared and teased each other about our grades, and my parents just smiled because they weren’t as controlling then, because they loved us and sure they were pushing us to be engineers but Ben and I didn’t care because it made us happy. Because we
were
happy.

That’s what I miss most of all: being happy.

Sometimes I wonder what our family would be like if Ben hadn’t died, or how I’d feel if we at least knew what drove him to kill himself. Would I feel less alone? Would I forgive my parents and Logan and myself? Would this deep, aching guilt in my heart disappear?

Because your eyelashes are so obnoxiously long
, I reply to Logan after a while, shifting my weight to one foot as I stand in the middle of the sidewalk.
It’s a total turn off, man. I can’t go to a convention with someone who has such self-important lashes.

*gasp* Did you really just call my lashes self-important?

I really just did.

Well, they’d like to let you know that they think they are gorgeous, and it’s what they think of themselves that counts.

Oh shut up, asshole.

Go with me and I’ll shut up.

No.

Yes.

In your dreams.

Yes.

I hate you so much right now.

Does that mean you’ll go with me?

No.

Yes.

NO.

YES.

NOOOOOOOO

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It goes on like that for some time, until I find myself standing there and giggling at my phone like a complete idiot. It doesn’t take long for people to start staring, so I immediately cover my mouth with my hand for damage control purposes. That doesn’t stop a random mother from hurrying her kids by me, eyeing me suspiciously as if she’s afraid I’m a serial killer or something--because serial killers
totally
spend their free time giggling at their phone screens.

Never going to happen, so you can just give up now
, I write.

Logan’s response is immediate.
Also never going to happen.

You are such a loser.

And you are such an uncreative insulter. Now will you go with me?

No.

Now?

No.

…now?

NEVER.

There’s a short pause.
………..now?

Are you ever going to stop asking?

Probably not.

Then I’m just not going to respond.

I don’t think so.

And why is that?

Because you know in your heart that you want to talk to me.

Yeah, to make fun of you.

Go with me.

Wow. You really are desperate.

Sure. Now go with me.

I start walking back toward my apartment complex, realizing this conversation is headed nowhere in particular. I tell myself I’m going to scream at Logan the second I lay eyes on him.

No.

Yes.

No.

Oh my god.

I can do this all day, just so you know.

I am well aware. I never thought I could hate you more than I did before either but you are most certainly proving me wrong now. So congrats on that.

Thank you. Now to celebrate, why don’t we go to the poetry convention together?

Sure, when I’m in hell.

I can make that happen.

Do you ever plan to stop texting me?

Not until you agree to go with me. The convention is in five days! C’mon, Cali…

No.

Yes.

No.

You’re seriously annoying me to the point where I might actually go with you.

That was the plan all along.

Hmm. Okay. So if I go with you, will you shut the hell up?

Yes.

Good to know. Also, no.

Why not?

Will you just stop?

Okay, okay fine.

There’s a minute-long pause and I start to pocket my phone, thinking this whole conversation is finally over with, but Logan does not seem to share the thought.
Come with me,
he says again. I roll my eyes. Logan Waters never fails to piss me the hell off.

I will never, ever go with you. You should probably just give up now.

I don’t think so.

I do.

Unfortunately, I never asked your opinion.

And I never said I needed your approval, so we’re even. Now, go with me?

Nope nope nope.

Yep yep yep.

I will literally kill you.

And I will literally rise from the dead and ask you to come to the National Poet’s Convention with me all over again.

Fine.

Fine?

Fine.

I give up.

So you’ll go with me?

No. Seriously, Logan just stop.

Cali…

Logan… Please. We can talk about this later, okay?

Why?

Just give me time, for the love of god. Please.

Okay, okay. Fine, I will be the wonderful Good Samaritan I am and I will stop annoying you for now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ask you again in, say, five hours, and that also doesn’t mean I think you aren’t worthy of attending with me, because you most certainly are.

Are you going to leave me alone now?

I am.

Good
, I write.
Goodbye, Logan.

Goodbye, Cali.

I take a deep breath as I turn the corner. I start to pocket my phone when I hear another beep. I groan. Oh, for the love of god…

Hey Cali?
Logan writes.

Yeah?

You suck. You know that, right?

I smile.
I’m well aware.
There’s a pause.
Hate you, Logan.

Hate you too.

~

What

is

happening

with

her

life.

~

A day
passes, and I try my hardest to keep to myself. I ignore Ruby, Logan, and my parents, and I slip back into my Mean Girl Cali act. I go to classes and gossip a little with Sarah and Lindsay because it helps take my mind off things, but all I can really think about is Logan. Logan. Logan. Fuck, that bastard really gets on my nerves sometimes. He has totally consumed my thoughts, and I hate it. He’s getting to me, and not in the revenge kind of way. I wish it were the revenge kind of way.

Because this? This kind of way? This is the
friend
kind of way.

Me.

Friends with Logan Waters.

(Insert horror-movie-esque screams here.)

Seriously, though, Logan and I are not compatible. I hate him. He hates me. He ruined my life, and these last six months have been dedicated to ruining his. I’m not supposed to feel anything but loathing and maybe a bit of pity toward him.

So on the Wednesday three days before the National Poet’s Convention begins, I grab a coffee and collapse into an empty seat in the back of the library after my English 130 class. A few girls follow me here, showering me with compliments about how great my life is, which, if only they knew, is the biggest fucking lie in the history of lies. I survey the area, the scraping of chairs being pulled out, the shuffle of people taking their seats in front of me, the wondrous smell of open books. Logan isn’t here, thank god, but I see a few of his boring-as-hell friends huddled over some math textbook.

Some of the girls from The Dungeon are sitting across from a few seniors while pretending to study, looking all dolled up and personality-less and clearly ready for sex. Lindsay sits among them, her back to me, giggling her annoyingly nasal giggle, and I really am tempted to punch her square in the face. As if they can sense my presence (can shallow people smell fear? Is that a thing?), a few of them turn around, lock eyes with me, and a chorus of “Hey Cali!”s fills the room. Everyone says it. Everyone. Well, except for that blonde girl from the Dungeon who I abandoned after going at it with Logan.

Suits you right, bitch
, I think almost instinctually, and then the self-loathing sinks right back in. And then ask myself why. Why do I get to be upset at her when I was the one being the bitch? Why, just because some people admire me, do I have the right to go around getting pissed at whoever I feel like getting pissed at? Why is insulting random people so natural to me?

I don’t get it. I don’t get me. I don’t get why I’ve spent the last four years being this self-serving mean girl all because it makes me feel better. I don’t get why I take pleasure in picking on other people. I don’t get why it never makes me feel any less lonely.

“Nice shoes,” Sarah says, beaming at me and I realize I don’t even know why. I’ve never done anything nice for her. So why is she so nice to me?

“Cute skirt,” another girl calls.

“Up to anything new?” It’s Lindsay this time. I turn to her, lifting up my coffee cup. She has long blonde hair and light blue eyes, full dimples and an adorable little glint to her smile. She’s pretty, and not in the arrogant kind of way, and I have no idea why I never noticed it before. I have no idea why I never noticed
her
before--why I never paid any attention. I’ve spent so much time wallowing over how suckish my life is that I never bothered to notice any of these girls and just how much they’re trying to befriend me, just how much they care. And this whole time, I’ve been telling myself they’re just a bunch of shallow morons.

Maybe I’m the shallow one in the end.

“Any new boys you’ve taken off the market we should know about?” she adds, winking at me.

“Just a few. But you know me, I toss them right back on,” I lie.

“You must be super hard to please in bed,” Lindsay says.

“That’s what your brother said,” I shoot right back, and everyone laughs.
But it wasn’t even funny.

Lindsay blushes, glances at her feet, and I feel nauseous all over again for saying that. Okay, so I’m a moron. A. Freaking. Moron.

“Well if you’ll excuse, bitches, I have some studying to do.”

“Please,” someone says. “Like you study.”

“I never said it was an
academic
studying,” I say, smiling, and when I turn around and take a seat at a table away from the group, I feel everyone watching me and giggling like what I said was the funniest thing in the world.

But it wasn’t.

None of it is.

Once I take my seat, I try to make sense of what is happening to me, why I’m suddenly so aware of everything I say and do. I start to plot a prank on Logan because our rivalry has never failed to distract me before. Something with crepes, I tell myself, because we both know how much he hates them. Maybe I could put some in his car? Or his textbook? Or maybe I could even make a crepe myself and shape it to look like him, then put it in his refrigerator just to annoy him? Hmm. It’s not a bad plan.

I continue to think up potential prank ideas when Ruby slips into the chair in front of me.

I almost jump out of my seat. I don’t notice her come in right away, but the next thing I know she is here, black boots and smoky eye-makeup and all, staring at me from across one of the wood tables positioned in the back of the library. My heart slows.

The library itself is a massive, three story building. On each floor are hundreds of books, movies, and TV show seasons. Couches and TVs are setup on the upper floor, a front desk and the quiet study area and main part of the library are on the middle floor, but here on the lowest, wedged in between lines of old--and I do mean
old
--books, are lacquer wood desks meant for quiet study, although everyone down here talks since there are never any librarians monitoring. Air conditioning hums above us, drowning out the not-so-hushed conversations of students sitting at their respective tables. I pretend to flip through the notes I halfheartedly scribbled down in class today as Ruby arrives, but I’m honestly relieved by her distraction.

“What’s up?” I say almost robotically, closing my textbook.

I can’t help but notice that her hair isn’t tousled today, which means it doesn’t look like she went to a party or slept with a boy last night, both of which are firsts for her. “Cali,” she says, glancing at my coffee cup.

I nod at her.

Ruby watches me carefully. “You have some free time?” She gestures to my books.

“You really think I’ve been studying?” I say, smiling.

She shrugs.

“Shoot,” I say to Ruby. “I’m listening.”

“Okay.” She shifts in her seat, glances around to make sure no one is looking, and then leans into me. “I need your advice.” She says it so quietly it’s like she’s a spy asking me to kill someone for her, like requesting advice is a top secret kind of thing for her and she can’t have anyone knowing about it--which, knowing Ruby and her athelete reputation, it probably is. She is not exactly the advice-needing type, or the anything-needing type, honestly.

So I just raise my eyebrow. “Advice on?”

“Jaden,” she says, gritting her teeth, and then she gives me a genuinely nervous look. Which catches me by surprise. Because Ruby is
never
nervous. It’s part of what she calls “basketball makeover.”

“Okay…” I say slowly, half-expecting this to turn way bad way fast. “But I’m not exactly the most helpful person when it comes to boys.”

“And neither am I,” she says. “Apparently, there’s more to them than just their bodies.”

I feign a gasp. “I would have never guessed!”

“I know, right?” The corners of her lips twitch like she’s about to smile. “Anyway, he kind of… asked me out on a date?”

Now my eyebrow really shoots up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I go back to staring at my coffee cup. “That’s… that’s great, Ruby,” I say, but my heart sinks a little. If someone like Ruby is already getting asked on legitimate dates and I’m not, then maybe I really am hopeless after all. I mean, it’s
Ruby
. Basketball star Ruby. Punk-rock Ruby. One night stand Ruby. She is not any more relationship material than I am.

“You think?” She forces a small smile, but it looks pained, almost afraid.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Real dates are good. Real dates mean you’re heading in the right direction.”

She fidgets with her bracelet. “But I’m supposed to be the star of the basketball team,” Ruby says. “I’m not supposed to date boys. I’m supposed to party hard and get laid and give some pretty epic blowjobs and that’s it. I’m not the weird and annoying date-y type.”

My eyes dart from the bookshelves to my notes and then back to Ruby, and I let a sigh escape me. I think about all of the dating advice Ben ever gave me--”Please don’t date a dickhead boy unless you want them to end up with a black eye, thanks to your big brother,” “All boys suck,” and “Sometimes you just got to do what makes you happy” were noteworthy ones--all of the poems I’ve ever written, all of the books I’ve ever read, and suddenly something hits me.

I turn back to Ruby. “Do you like him?” I say quietly.

Ruby sits up further, her dark hair cascading onto her shoulder. “Huh?”

“Do you like him?” I say again, a bit more firmly this time.

“Um…” She frowns to make sure this isn’t some sort of game, and I nod for her to go on, showing that it isn’t. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “I guess so. I guess… I like him.”

“And does he make you feel like you’re not so alone in this world, like…” I hesitate. “Like you matter? Does he make you smile, and do you find yourself wanting to talk to him, to be with him, when he isn’t around?”

“Well, it’s just a first date I’m talking about--” Ruby smiles, almost laughing at how stupid I sound, because I
do
sound stupid but right now I don’t care.

“But does he?” My voice sounds more insistent than I expect it to be, and I almost feel like I’m giving this advice, asking these questions, more for myself more than for her.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding to herself. “Yeah, he does.”

“Then go to him,” I say quietly, and now I look up to meet her gaze. Her brown eyes are hard and strong, watching me intently. “Go out with him,” I continue. “Or don’t. But don’t let him go. Because if someone can be constantly on your mind like that, if they can always make you smile, if they can cheer you up one way or another, then you have to go to them. You have to tell them what they mean to you and then you can go out with them or you can stay friends or you can barely ever talk to them, but you enjoy yourself, you have fun, and then you hold fast to them and never, ever let them go. Because if someone, just by their existence, can brighten up your whole day, you have to try like hell to keep them in your life.” I take a long breath as soon as the words finish tumbling out of my mouth, a jumble of thoughts and feelings that, for me, couldn’t be more true. I don’t know where they came from other than straight from that goddamn unpredictable heart of mine, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know my subconscious has been working on them for a long time.

“Wow,” Ruby says. She looks at me like I just grew a second head, which I might as well have. I mean,
me
. Non-relationship-doer me. Giving advice. From the heart.

I don’t understand it either.

“Yeah,” I say. I bite my lip as the heat starts to creep into my cheeks. Goddammit. I’m seriously blushing.

“But you’re right,” she adds, forcing a smile. “You are so, so right, Cali.” She opens and closes her eyes, stands up. “I’ll go to him.”

“I know I am, Ruby. And good luck.”

“I’m going to need it.” She sighs.

“No you won’t,” I say, meaning it.

At that, she squeezes my shoulders, pushes through the crowd, and heads to the door. “Thanks,” she whispers to me before she disappears. “You give pretty badass advice.”

And I guess she’s right.

I wave to her as she turns away from me, weaves through the maze of books, and heads up the stairs. I replay my own words again and again in my head, thinking them over, trying to figure out where they came from, what they mean. I don’t have any success, though, so I go back to flipping through my English notes.

I spend the next hour or so writing an essay on Shakespeare and planning my prank against Logan. I really hate him, as charming as he may be, and I want him to remember that. He is the definition of a true bastard, and I love to resent him as much as I do.

I’m in the midst of searching for crepe ingredients when a voice startles.

“I hate you,” it says, and my body jumps almost immediately. I snap my gaze up to meet Logan Waters’ clear blue eyes and annoyingly dimpled smile.

“God, why does everyone feel the need to sneak up on me?” I mutter as he pulls out the wooden chair Ruby was occupying, turns it so the back is facing me, sits down, cups his face in his hands on the top of the chair , and watches me with interest, trying to look all cutesy on purpose. I suppress a smile. He is such an asshole.

“To keep you on your toes,” he offers.

I shove my computer into my bag and roll my eyes. I’ve made a point of not speaking to Logan for the last twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t mean he’s given up on getting me to go to the conference with him. My inbox has been bombarded with emails asking me to come to the National Poet’s Convention with him, all with subject lines ranging from “HELLO” to “This is important” to “One day I want to eat fried mangos. I mean, seriously.” to, the kicker: “????!!!!!!!!!!! COME WITH ME!!!!!!!!?????!?!?!?!?!” That last one was used multiple times.

Logan wears his usual “geeks are cool” t-shirt as he sits down. His glasses are lopsided and his hair is a mess. A huge goofy smile is on face, and he looks way too happy, as he always does.

“Can’t you keep me on my toes another time?” I say, keeping my gaze on my notes and trying to sound as bored as possible.

“Probably, but I’d rather not.”

“I’m glad you came here to tell me that much. Now goodbye,” I mutter.

Unfortunately, he does not give up so easily. He leans in closer, so his arms are rested on his end of the table, which is feeling increasingly smaller, and I can smell his minty breath. “Nice try, Monroe,” he says. “You know why I’m here.”

I continue to flip through my notes. “I don’t. Enlighten me, oh brilliant Logan,” I say.

“Come with me,” he says simply.

I roll my eyes. “Have I ever told you that I hate you?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice. Now, come with me.”