You and Me and Him (21 page)

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” I set down my pack between us and work on my combination, sending out a silent prayer than my lock will actually open on the first try today. But the locker gods are in trickster mode. I rattle the lock and try again.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’ve bounced off the bottom, on my way back up.” The combination clicks, and I jerk my locker open. He cranes his head around the locker door.

“Maggie, I know you think we can’t be friends because of Nash, but—”

“Listen,” I interrupt. “I don’t think it; I know it. Nash does not tolerate betrayal.” I slam my locker and swing my backpack onto my shoulder. “I don’t think it matters now because Nash hates me, but if there is a chance of salvaging my friendship with him I will.”

I start to walk away, but Tom calls, “What about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?”

I look around, wishing the hallway was less populated. “I’m guessing you’ll get over it. Nash and I were the welcome wagon when you first came, but I’m sure a few weekends of parties with the beautiful people and you’ll forget you ever went slumming.”

Tom throws himself back against the lockers, kicking one of them hard enough to make it rattle. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well, sorry about the blow-off. Lifelong friendship trumps the new guy every time,” I say.

“Yeah,” Tom says, his voice low. “Ditched again. Story of my life.”

“Poor Tom.”

“I wish you guys had left me alone in the first place. It would have made my life a lot easier.”

“Better late than never.”

“That’s not always true.”

“Come on, Tom. You must already have plans with Kayla? All signs point to you guys getting pretty close.”

He stares at his feet. “Well, she keeps asking me out.”

“Oh, wait. I think I heard this one,” I say. “She’s nice but you don’t have time for all that fake. Now you do?”

“Well, yeah. Nash is being weird and you won’t hang out with me, so I have tons of time. Tons of time and no friends.”

“Tom, look. You’re the handsome, smart, athletic, acceptably dressed new guy who moved to a small town desperate for novelty. You can have your pick of friends. Although if you keep acting dense about this, I may remove ‘smart’ from the description.”

“Acceptably dressed?”

“Really? That whole speech and that’s what you want to land on?”

“Well, the rest of it is bullshit, so I won’t dignify it with a response.”

The bell rings.

“I gotta go,” I say. “I have social pariah duties to perform.” I don’t look back, but I know he’s watching as I round the corner to my first class.

Cece is waiting for me outside of English again. She jerks her head toward the bathroom and I follow her in.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“Maggie, I don’t understand any of this.”

“I know, Cece. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? I don’t even know who you are!” Cece says. “I thought you were . . . Well, I thought you were a nice person. But you’re . . . you’re not.”

I drop my bag on the floor and slide down next to it. “Cece, if you think there’s anything you could say that will be worse than what I’ve already said to myself, then you’re right, you don’t know who I am.”

“Nash is so hurt.”

“I know. And I know I’m the one who hurt him. I screwed up, and he’ll probably never speak to me again.” I stand up, pick up my bag, and reach for the door.

Cece grabs my arm. “Wait. What about you and Tom?”

“I’m not with Tom,” I say. “He kissed me. Then he said he didn’t really feel that way about me. So there’s no me and Tom.”

Cece waits. “Is that all you have to say about it? Because I think we all know it was more than just a kiss.”

“Huh? No it wasn’t.”

Cece shakes her head and shoulders her backpack.

“Wait, Cece. What have you heard?”

Cece blushes bright red in an instant. “I heard . . . I heard there was more than a kiss. A lot more.”

My mouth drops open, and I feel things click into place like the tumblers on a lock. “And that’s what Nash heard too?”

Cece nods.

“Look, you may not believe it, but it was only a kiss. That’s all. And the kiss was a momentary lapse, an unintentional moment of hormones overrunning my better instincts and my higher brain functions. But even if Tom wanted us to be a couple or whatever, I would have said no. The kiss was a mistake, being Tom’s girlfriend would be a betrayal. I couldn’t do that to Nash.”

Cece looks like something I’ve said has turned her version of things sideways. She studies me a minute, then she grabs the handle and holds the door open for me.

After school, I walk home. My brain jumps and spins between all the different ways I’d like to hurt Kayla for what she’s done. It’s bad enough that she spread the news about the kiss. But the fact that all of this has ballooned into something more, into an even bigger betrayal of Nash, makes me sick with shame and rage. The clouds have rolled in during the school day, threatening rain. It’s cool and gray, which I love, and windy, which I hate. But the fresh air blows some of the fuzz and anger out of my brain and gets me thinking. Cece had it wrong, but she listened to me, and that gives me some hope maybe Nash will do the same. I stop at the store and pick up a few supplies. I’m going to make breakfast bars for Nash, give him the whole batch, and tell him how much I miss him. I can only hope he’s missing me too, or at least missing his breakfast bars.

I pack up Nash’s bars and walk to school the next day. By lunchtime I’m having fantasies about becoming an exchange student or being kidnapped by drug runners to work as their mule across the Canadian border rather than face Nash. But when I find myself alone in the hallway with him, it’s my sheer desperation that gives me the courage to try. I grab the box of breakfast bars out of my locker and move toward him.

“Nash!”

He doesn’t speak or meet my eyes, so I plant myself in the middle of the otherwise empty corridor, cookies in hand. I hold them out.

“I made your bars,” I say. “A whole batch.”

He keeps walking in my direction, no indication he’s heard a word I’ve said.

“Nash, talk to me. Please. This is killing me.” I am not happy to hear my voice quiver a little, and when he doesn’t respond or slow down, I square my shoulders and shout, “This isn’t fair! You have to talk to me!”

This stops him. He looks me up and down like I’m one of the dead fish we sometimes find on the beach near the swing set. “I? Have to talk to you?” he says. “I don’t have to do anything. You are the one who fucked this up, Maggie. And a batch of cookies is not going to fix it.” He stops, and a look of pain sweeps over his face. “I can’t believe I trusted you. My mistake.”

He starts to walk again, but I hold the box of cookies out to block him. He tries to go around, and I move side to side to prevent it.

“Tom doesn’t even like me,” I say, and my voice sounds so pathetic I stop, taking a deep breath. “Nash, I screwed up. I know. But then I stopped screwing up. And I’m trying to fix it. So please stop acting like I’ve killed Bambi’s mother or told you the Easter Bunny isn’t coming this year.” I know the clock is ticking. I don’t have much time to explain myself. “Yes, Tom kissed me. And I kissed him back. That’s all. But no matter how I feel about Tom, or he feels about me, I could never be with him, you know, long term if it hurt you like this. Never. Bottom line. I screwed up, but I didn’t keep screwing up. So please don’t hate me!”

“Oh, sorry, Maggie. Is my pain and suffering inconvenient for you? Too much drama for your delicate sensibilities?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no. Yes, it’s a lot of drama, but no, I don’t think you created it.”

“Oh, really?” he says, crossing his arms. “Who created it, then?”

“Two words for you, my friend: Kayla Hill.”

“I thought you and Kayla were bosom buddies again? You going to turn on her now too?”

“She started all this, Nash. Maybe she misunderstood the situation. Maybe she likes Tom and figured if everyone thought we were together, he’d be embarrassed and run the other way, right into her arms. We haven’t had a chance to chat about it.”

“She got the idea somewhere.”

“Yes, I said enough to Kayla about Tom that she made the leap about the kiss.” I hold up my hand. “And before you say it: yes, I know that was absolute stupidity, especially after you warned me. But the rest of the sordid details are pure fiction.”

Nash pauses, his eyes scanning my face.

“Come on, Nash. Is it really easier to believe I would screw you over than believe that Kayla would screw us both?”

He shakes his head, discarding my words like a dog sheds water. “I know what I heard, and what I saw. It looked like smoke, so I’m guessing there’s fire.”

“I guess that’s that, then? You’re going to throw away ten years of friendship over a guy?”

“I wouldn’t, but you did.” Nash, arms still crossed, drops his eyes. I can see his chin quivering, can see how hard he’s trying to hold it together. Then he takes a deep breath. “Can I go now?” His voice is like tiny splinters of glass.

I step aside, watching his retreating back. Two weeks ago I thought he was the one person who understood me; now I think maybe he doesn’t get me at all. And at that moment, I want nothing more than to hurt Nash. At that moment, I know I could do exactly what he’s accused me of just to twist the knife. The force of that knowing knocks the wind out of me.

I need to get out of there, but I’m not sure where to go. No time for the bluff before work. It’s too public and too far from Square Peg for my current needs. What I want is a centrally located place where I can be alone and settle down before I face Quinn. I rack my brain, but the only place I can come up with is the park near downtown. Even if there are people there, I can lock myself in a bathroom stall and process my conversation with Nash in relative peace and privacy.

When I get there, a couple of young moms sit near the playground, watching their toddlers in the sandbox. I dodge into the bathroom but stop short when I see that all the doors have been removed from the stalls.

“What the hell?” I glance at my cell phone. Twenty minutes to get a grip and walk across downtown to work. Realizing I still have the box of cookies in my hand, I go to the end stall, close the toilet lid, and sit down. I put my backpack on my lap and set the breakfast bars on top, then rip open the package and take a large bite of a bar before I can think about it. They are dense, but I chew just enough to get the cookie down. It sticks like a hard lump in my throat, so I swallow a couple more times to move it along. I don’t really want to eat the rest of the bar, but I finish it anyway, gnawing little rabbit nibbles around the center until I’m left with the softest parts, an aggregate of coconut and chocolate and cashews.

By now the initial rush of the food has come and gone, that flooding of my system that makes me lightheaded and then calmer. What’s left behind is a film in my mouth and a vague lump in my stomach. Checking my phone, I figure I have time for one more. But if I’m honest, I don’t really want to eat it. It’s not helping anyway. I hear a noise and straighten as one of the toddlers from outside lurches around the corner of my stall like a drunken sailor. He loses balance and clings to the only stationary object nearby, my knees. We stare at each other for a few endless seconds, then the little boy squeals and reaches a pudgy little hand out for the scrap of breakfast bar I’m still holding.

The kid’s enthusiasm and simple trust break the spell. I toss the box and the remaining bar in the trash can and hold the toddler’s hand as I lead him out of the bathroom.

“Connor?” I hear the mom calling for the boy, her voice both alarmed and coaxing.

“He’s here!” I say, still holding his hand.

“There you are. Come here.” She gathers Conner in her arms. “Thank you,” she says, looking up at me.

“No problem.” I wave at Connor. “He just sort of wandered in.”

“Can you say bye-bye, Connor?” The mom flaps his hand up and down, trying to get him to wave.

“Bye,” I say, making a tiny little wave at the kid.

Connor smiles and waves back, and so does his mom. And that makes me smile, but it also makes me remember I’m alone now, Nash-less, and that without him things don’t make sense. I head toward work feeling about the same as I did before I tried to make myself feel better.

Somehow I’m both completely full and completely empty by the time I reach the door of Square Peg. And I half wonder if Quinn will want me back after my tantrum and walkout the other day. I pause at the door, fingers on the handle, bracing myself. After a few seconds, I go in. Waving at Quinn, I say hello in a bright high-pitched voice that doesn’t sound like me. He stares, holding two faded album covers in mid-sort.

“Whatcha doing?” I throw my pack under the counter and shove my coat on top of it.

Quinn is still watching me, but he looks like he’s eaten something nasty.

“New collection?” I say.

Quinn doesn’t throw me so much as a tiny sliver of a bone.

“You okay?” I ask.

His cheeks go red, but the cartilage around his nose and ears is white where he’s holding it taut.

“Am I okay?” he says, his voice low and soft. He is still clutching the records, and his knuckles have gone as pale as his nose. “Am I okay?” he repeats. “Am I the one who’s been falling apart for days? Am I the one who stormed out of here into the dark and never called to let her boss know she made it home? Am I the one who’s about to get fired if she doesn’t come over here and give that boss a big hug?” He drops the records and opens his arms wide.

I’m so relieved, I move right into them and let him fold me up and squeeze me for much longer than I am usually comfortable with. My nose burns a little as tears start to form. I will them back down.

“I’m sorry, Maggie. I had no right to pry,” Quinn says into my shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of my sweatshirt. “I wanted you to know I see that things suck right now. And that I think you deserve better.” He releases me and I step back, out of reach of any additional bear hugs he might be moved to impart.