Two Roads (19 page)

~

She was not supposed to get sucked in

and he was not supposed to make her feel like this:

Happy.

Valuable.

Important.

But sometimes in life, this kind of thing cannot be stopped.

Sometimes there is no escaping the inevitable.

And sometimes, just sometimes, true love triumphs in the end.

~

Late
that night, when Logan is fast asleep at my side, I pull out a notepad. I listen to each of his gentle breaths as he sleeps, his presence all calm and warm and inviting, and I feel myself smile. I love that he’s here, next to me in my bed, and I love that it doesn’t even have to be awkward or anything; when it comes to us, everything just
is
. No thinking. No worrying. Just each other.

So I grab a pen, lay the notepad out in front of me, and I start writing. I write the poem he wants us to recite for each other on Monday. I write all of my emotions, my feelings--all of it--and the words just flow out of me. I think about Logan, his laugh, his smile, and I write this poem to him. For him.

I’ve never really had the courage to put any of my feelings on paper before, to let my true thoughts flow out of me. Not with Ben, not with Logan all those years ago, not with anyone. I’ve always been too scared to write down how I feel about someone else, because putting it on paper means it’s real, means I’m really thinking this, means there is no escaping my feelings. But with Logan, it’s completely different. I know I have to write this down because what he means to me is not something to keep quiet. It’s something to embrace. It’s something to shout from the rooftops.

So I write and I write my poem to him until the night melts away, and I know like I know that I will wake up in the morning, or that the moon will return again tomorrow night, that what I’m feeling for Logan Waters is real.

~

The
next morning, Logan looks different. He seems less cheerful than usual, less certain of himself. His smile has faltered, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t have the courage to ask what’s wrong, just like I never did with Ben.

I slip out of bed like nothing different has happened, and we take turns getting dressed in the bathroom, then head down to eat breakfast at the hotel café.

A waitress comes by as soon as we sit down at a booth by the window, which overlooks the garden below, and she takes our orders. Logan gets a hot chocolate to drink and I make a point of insulting him for it as I order scrambled eggs.

“Well,” Logan says once the waitress leaves, sipping his hot chocolate. His hair is still messy from the shower, and it’s hard not to notice how good it looks on him. His skin seems to be glowing when he’s in front of me, too. I have no idea how it happened but it did and now I can’t look away.

I take a sip of my coffee. “Are you ever going to tell me why you drink hot chocolate all the time?” I ask, and I really am curious. I mean,
no one
drinks hot chocolate. Even Ben hated it.

He holds up his index finger. “Hot chocolate is a vastly misunderstood drinking resource.”

I don’t pretend to know what ‘drinking resource’ means so I nod uncertainly, dismissing it as Nerd Speak for ‘beverage.’ “That still doesn’t change the fact that it makes you look like a twelve year-old girl,” I say.

“Twelve year-old girls know how to kick some serious ass, so I’m going to take that as a compliment. Plus, they’re pretty awesome fangirls--another positive.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did you really just compare yourself to a fangirl?”

“Maybe I did,” he says absently. He puts his mug down on the table. “Why?”

“Nothing, It’s just… fangirl? Really? You couldn’t even call yourself a fan
boy
?”

“Well, why not? I
need
to obsess over
smoking hot
fifteen-year-old boy singers!” he says sarcastically, enunciating “need” and “smoking hot” in such a childish way that I have to laugh.

“You are dangerously weird,” I mutter. I don’t mean it as a compliment, but he takes it as one.

“I know I am, and you’re welcome to be frightened by me. Dangerously weird is still dangerous, so I’m basically a bad boy.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “There is something horrifying about you calling yourself a bad boy. I can’t believe someone as strange as you is the boy that I fell--” I freeze, stopping myself at the last second, and my stomach constricts. Oh my god. Did I almost just say what I think I did? Oh shit shit shit. I don’t even know if that is
true
. It’s just my moronic subconscious talking for me.

“That you what?” Logan asks, looking almost urgent now.

“That I nothing,” I say, taking another emergency sip of my orange juice. “Sorry. I’m tired. I say stupid things when I’m tired.”

He cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t believe me. Dammit, of course he doesn’t believe me. “That didn’t sound like a stupid thing,” he starts to say, his voice becoming increasingly serious, but I cut him off.

“It was nothing,” I say firmly, giving him my best ‘drop it’ look. “It was just… yeah. Nothing.” There’s a pause, and I glance back down at my uneaten breakfast. “Why do you look so sad today?” I blurt out after a minute.

“What?” Logan says.

“Why do you look so sad?” I don’t mean it accusingly, but it seems to catch him off guard.

He opens his mouth, probably to give me some halfhearted excuse, but then he snaps it closed and sighs. And then he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “Ben.”

My stomach twists.

Ben.

Ben.

It’s always Ben.

“I was thinking about that night,” he continues, not looking at me. “About… what happened.”

“Oh.” I wish I could say something more, something smart or deep or sad or heartfelt or whatever, but it’s the only word that comes to mind.
Oh
. It just hangs there between us, for the longest time. “I miss him,” I say quietly, and I really do. I miss his smile. I miss the way he always used to make me feel: like I matter. All warm and strong and important. I wish I could’ve been there for him after all the times he was there for me. I wish I could’ve reminded him how great his life is. I wish I could’ve given him my company when he needed it most.

“I do too.” I think that’s the end of our conversation when he asks, “Do you ever feel guilty? About what happened, I mean.”

“Yeah.” It’s probably the dumbest question in the world. “I feel guilty all the freaking time.”

“Me too,” he says, sounding so genuine I almost believe him. His words are quiet but strong, intense in a way I’ve never heard him before.

I don’t know why, but I feel myself laugh. “Yeah. Right,” I say, because we both know it’s a lie. Logan looks perfectly happy all the freaking time. There is no way he let the suicide get to him. Not like I did.

“What?” Now he locks eyes with me, looking almost offended.

“You are the last person on earth who I would guess is guilty about his death,” I say, taking a huge sip of my orange juice. “I mean, look at you. You act like he never even existed.”

“You mean like you do?” He leans toward me in his seat, his gaze all strong and serious.

“Huh?” I say. I don’t know why, but I almost laugh some more. This whole conversation is so surreal. Ben’s death devastated me. Fucking
devastated
me. Of course I feel guilty, and all of a sudden I hate that we’re even talking about this.

Ben is dead. Ben is gone. And yet somehow, four years later, he is still controlling my life.

“Are you kidding me, Cali? You live your life as if you got over his death a long time ago. You’re always acting like you don’t care, like nothing bothers you, like nothing ever--”

“And that was all an act,” I say firmly. This is getting ridiculous.

“So why do you assume my complete happiness isn’t an act too?” Logan does not take his eyes off of me for a second.

Almost instinctually I open my mouth to protest, but then I snap it close. I stop as soon as his words sink in. Logan was pretending the whole time too? How come it never occurred to me that Logan could be acting happy as a way to forget, like I was acting not to care? How come I always assumed he got over the suicide a long time ago, that it wasn’t haunting him as much as it was haunting me? How come I never asked him about it? “I--” I start to say, but the words refuse to come.

Logan leans back in his chair, sighing. “Thought so,” he says quietly.

“But why would you feel guilty?” My voice is kind of heated now. There is no way Logan has suffered more than me. He has to be lying. He has to.

“Cali, I--”

“Tell me.”

He just shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking just a little. “It hurts too much to talk about.”

I stand up, heat coursing through my body. My blood boils. Everything feels so strong all of a sudden, like a match next to an explosive and now I’m going off and there is no stopping me. “He was
my
brother, Logan! My brother! I’ve spent four goddamn years all alone trying to make sense of what happened, trying to stop blaming myself but not succeeding for a second. I’m fucking miserable inside, can’t you see? I pretended not to care and to be someone I’m not because it’s the only way I could keep the guilt from consuming me, and it worked okay until you came along and started getting too close and now I’m me, the real me, and you are fucking amazing for making that happen but the real me is also vulnerable, and you can’t just say that you know something about Ben’s suicide and then not tell me. Please, Logan. Please. What the hell happened that night?” My voice threatens to crack, but I hold it, keep it strong, and the anger just pours out of me.

Logan stands up right after me, and his eyes burn into mine as he says, “Ben was
my
best friend, Cali! He was like a goddamn brother to me. He… he was my family when my parents weren’t around. He made my life okay. He made me feel okay. I needed him like best friends need each other, like
brothers
need each other, and I was never there for him when he needed me. I fucking screwed it up, and that’s on me. You aren’t the only one struggling, Cali, and you have to stop acting like you’re alone in this, like I’m the bad guy, because you aren’t and I’m not. Ben’s death ripped me apart, so don’t you dare pretend like I don’t know what suffering means, because I do. I know as well as you do. So for the love of everything, stop acting like I’m here to hurt you. I’m here to
help
you, Cali. I want to be your friend, I want to be your--” He stops then, just stops.

My body trembles and I feel like I’m on fire and I just shake my head. I try to say something, to tell him what he means to me and that I didn’t mean to get so pissed off, but I can’t find the words to say it. So I just turn and walk away, saying nothing at all.

~

I wait
in the lobby for a long time. I slump in the nearest chair to clear my head, sigh, and check my phone for the first time since Friday night. There are eleven new texts from my mom, and it takes me a minute to work up the courage to read them.

Cali, we need to talk.

Cali, are you there?

Answer me.

Remember we have that lunch tomorrow.

Please don’t try anything.

I really want to talk to you, sweetie. Please.

Cali…

Cali, why aren’t you answering?

You better not be thinking of going to that poetry conference.

Cali, this is not a joke. I’m getting worried about you.

Answer me.

I read through each of their texts without holding my breath, without even closing my eyes. I should really feel guilty, feel angry, feel just plain upset at myself and at them, but to my parents? I feel nothing. I read their texts and I feel nothing.

And I hate it.

I hate how Ben dying sucked everything out of our relationship.

I hate how they don’t appreciate me, and how as hard as I try, I can no longer appreciate them back.

I want things with them to be better, but I don’t know if they ever will be.

A few elderly people huddle in the chair across from me nearest the fire, gossiping too loudly about someone named Sherry and how they suspect she was cheating in Bingo the other night. The whole lobby is full of people, standing and drinking coffee, waiting by the entrance to the convention, getting breakfast in the hotel restaurant. An undercurrent of conversation sweeps through the whole room and here I am, slumped in some weird chair, the one person at the convention who is totally alone.

I scroll through some of my other texts, an alarming amount are from Lindsay.
Cali! what’s up?

have you heard about Jessica and Mac?

BTW, I’m sure you’re looking cute today!

answer me. c’mon. I want to talk to you!

unless you’re busy getting it on???? ;)

jeez, way to leave me hanging!

Cali, where have you been? we miss you

some of us are going to the dungeon at three. come if you’re around

Cali?

hope you’re doing ok

As I read them, I feel a surge of something--guilt, maybe?--and I realize for the second time what a complete asshole I’ve been to Lindsay and everyone. I treated them like shit, Lindsay especially, because I could. I told myself that she and everyone else were just shallow, pathetic wastes and I was the only sane one, but really doesn’t it make me the shallow one for thinking that? And it’s not like they’re any worse people than I am. They care about me, they really do, and I just ignored them. For all I know, they could be as lost inside as I am.

why do you even like me?
I text after a while, feeling suddenly sick about what an idiot I’ve been.

because you’re you. you’re cool.
Lindsay responds almost instantaneously.

you mean because I’m popular?

There’s a pause.

no.

well you shouldn’t like me. I’m not a good friend.

that’s not true

it is. I’m a bitch. and I’m sorry--for everything.

you did nothing wrong
, she says right back, and I feel my heart sink. She isn’t getting it. But even through the text, I can tell she’s lying, and something about that is kind of a relief. She deserves to hate me. She deserves a better friend. She doesn’t deserve someone like me.