22. （It Looks Like） I’ll Never Fall in Love Again
CHAPTER 22
(It Looks Like) I’ll Never Fall in Love Again
KEY
Eight Years Ago
“H ey, Dusty, so I was thinking that maybe I—Dusty?”
When I enter our cabin in the woods it takes me less than ten seconds to realize something’s wrong. Dusty sits on the couch staring straight ahead. In the years I’ve known her, I would think she’s maybe watching a movie, but the TV is only static and her face isn’t alight like it is when she’s watching something special.
“Hey,” I say again, dropping my bag on the floor and stepping toward her. “Are you okay?”
As I get closer, I can see the tear tracks that stain her face.
I drop to my haunches, grasping her hands between mine. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t look at me, and my brain trips over itself. Did her dad get out of prison? Did her mom come back? Is she leaving me again?
“Dusty, please,” I beg.
She blinks, tears falling over her dark lashes. “Key,” she whispers.
“I’m here,” I say. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
Finally, she turns, and there’s pure anguish behind her normally brilliant blue eyes. Her lips part for a moment, then she closes them. I watch impatiently as she collects herself.
“I—I just got back from the doctor,” she says. “I haven’t been feeling well, and . . .”
My stomach sinks. Is she sick? What if she has cancer? She’s been a touch paler recently. More tired. Not eating as much.
My lips are as dry as the dessert when I ask, “What did the doctor say?”
She looks up at the ceiling then, takes a deep breath and looks away. “I’m pregnant.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. The ground I’m kneeling on seems to tip sideways, and I have to grasp onto the couch so I don’t fall over. “You’re . . . you’re what?”
She reaches next to her and produces a white envelope torn open at the top. Handing it to me, I remove the letter from inside and read, but the words and numbers jumble on the page and I can’t make sense of it.
“Dusty, I don’t know what this means.”
She sniffles loudly, then traces her finger down to the bottom. “See there? This means positive. I’m pregnant.”
That’s when the tears really start, as if she’s only just convinced herself of the truth by explaining it to me. She sobs and sobs, and I toss the letter aside to avoid the onslaught of tears destroying it. On instinct I scoot between her knees and pull her against me. She buries her face in the crook of my neck and grips my shirt—the fabric soaking through. And all I can do is try to comfort her. I stroke her hair and shush her, all the while my brain is spinning like a hurricane, unable to comprehend anything.
After a while, her sobs start to subside and my brain slows. Anger floods me. Not with her, but at myself. How stupid could I have been not to realize what we were doing could result in this? I remember that one time in health class when they talked to us about birth control. I should have known this would happen. I probably would have, if I’d waited until marriage like I was supposed to. Then I would’ve been old enough to know.
“Key,” Dusty finally whispers. “What am I going to do?
I frown. “You?”
She blinks up at me. “I?—”
“We’re in this together,” I tell her. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. “Okay, what are we going to do?”
I know I should be terrified and angry and sad, and I am, but I bury those things deep down because I don’t want to scare her. My biggest concern is taking care of her, like I always do. Her and . . . our baby.
“I’m going to take care of you. Both of you.”
She shakes her head. “No, they’ll never support it. Your parents hate me, and I have no one . . . They’ll force me to give up the baby, I know it. They’ll send me away or I’ll end up on the streets with nothing.”
I clench my jaw at the unfairness of it all, because I know she’s right.
“Then we’ll run away.”
She frowns. “What?”
“We’ll go. We’ll just get on a bus and never look back. We always planned to do it anyway, it’ll just be earlier than expected. We can go to California and we can get jobs to save money until the baby comes. We can find a place to live, we can even get married when we turn eighteen. I’ll take care of you, Dusty.”
She presses her lips together and looks away, shaking her head. “But what about music? And acting? What about our plan?” she asks. “There was so much we wanted to do, and now? It’s ruined. It’ll be so hard. Life will be impossible. And your parents . . . if they find out about the baby, they’ll never let you see me again.”
I shake my head. “To hell with my parents!”
Her fingers fly to her mouth, and it hits us both that I’ve just cursed for the first time in my life. It’s freeing, like an anvil has been lifted off my chest.
“To hell with my parents and everyone else in this god-forsaken town. You’re the only one I care about—the only reason I have dreams in the first place is because of you. You’re the only one I love.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Really. We can start our own family. We can make it work.”
A shy smile pulls at her lips. “I’m going to get huge.”
I shrug. “Just more of you to love.”
“The baby is going to cry all the time,” she counters.
“Maybe it will like my music and your movies.”
“We’re going to have to grow up.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “If that means spending the rest of my life with you and our child, then I’m ready.”
She laughs breathlessly, but more tears leak from the corners of her eyes anyway. “But what about our plans?”
I cup her face. “We’ll just have to make new plans. One day, we’ll get what we want. We’ll just have to take a little detour first.” I’m sure of this, sure of her . “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of us.”
She wipes her nose and I’m relieved to see the tiniest hint of a smile. “You’ll save me, Key?”
I smile back. “We’ll save each other.”
* * *
“Did you get a bus schedule?” Dusty whispers through the phone.
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah, I got it today. The earlier bus to California is on Thursday,” I whisper back. My neck is sore from constantly looking over my shoulder for my parents. It’s after midnight now—the only safe time I could call Dusty to finalize our plan. But if my parents overhear me . . .
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks.
“Dusty, I’ve already told you?—”
“I know you have.” She sighs. “I also don’t think you understand what you’re agreeing to.”
I frown and lean against the wall. “What do you mean? Of course I understand.”
“Your whole life is going to change because of this.”
“Maybe that’s what I want,” I insist, pressing my lips into the receiver. “Plus, I’ll finally be able to wear the necklace you gave me.”
“Key,” she says into the phone. “It’s okay to admit you’re scared. I’m scared too. Actually, I’m terrified. You can tell me.”
She’s always known me better than I know myself. It’s true. Terrified is the word. And panicked and anxious and guilty and so many others. But I’m also excited. This baby is a chance to escape the cycle of what I’ve grown up in. What she’s grown up in. “We’re going to be amazing parents, Dusty. You’ll see. We can do it.”
“Right.”
Her voice sounds far away. Unsure. Is she having doubts?
“So, Thursday at seven,” I say, double-checking the schedule again. “My father has a church elder meeting that night and my mom is supposed to go to her bible study group a few blocks away. My brother will be home, but he won’t even notice I’m gone.”
There’s silence on the other end. I push aside the stack of bills on the counter, making sure the phone didn’t get disconnected. “Dusty?”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m here.”
“I’ll see you soon. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.” My voice is louder when I say it. Not intentionally, but because I never want to love her quietly. I never want to whisper it, unless it’s in her ear while she’s wrapped up in my arms. I never want her to think it’s not real.
* * *
I’ve stuffed as much as I possibly can inside this bag. Shirts, underwear, my church suit for job interviews—I can barely get the zipper closed. My parents are out so I know it’s the best time to leave. They’ll notice eventually that I’m gone, then find the note on my desk explaining why I had to leave; the last thing I want is for them to send out a search party.
But once they know it’s because Dusty’s pregnant, they won’t say anything. I’m sure of it. It would be too shameful. Next to the letter is the test results from Dusty’s doctor. She finally explained to me what everything meant and even though it’s just a piece of paper, I feel as if my entire future is connected to its existence. How could such an inconsequential thing like words on paper change my whole life? I stare at it again, and can’t help but imagine where I’ll be nine months from now.
Dusty will be a mother. I’ll be a father. And we’ll have a beautiful baby girl, or maybe a boy. Will they have her red hair? Her freckles? Will they get my hazel eyes or her sapphire blue ones? One thing is for sure though, I won’t raise them how Dusty and I were. We may have nothing, no money, no house, no car—but this baby will know love. Real love. Just like Dusty has always wished for.
I fold up the test paper and put it in the back pocket of my jeans. I hoist the heavy duffel over my shoulder and grab my guitar case. Opening the top drawer of my desk, I reach for Dusty’s sun necklace but it’s not there. My hand rifles through papers and old textbooks and pencils, but . . . Where is it? I drop my bag and guitar case and open the rest of the drawers. Panic starts to rise in my throat. No, I can’t have lost it. It has to be here. I put it here, making sure it was covered so no one would find it.
I check the clock on my wall—6:34. I’m running out of time; I need to make a decision. If I unpack my whole bag I’ll be late. If I don’t . . . No. I must have packed it and forgotten. Where else could it possibly be? Short of tipping the drawers upside down, I do one last sweep of the desk, and with one final look around my bedroom, I grab my things and shut the door behind me, taking each stair down slowly, careful not to make a sound.
Only, the living room isn’t quiet like I expected it to be. I stash my guitar case behind the clock in the hallway as my mother comes into view.
“Keith, good, I need help with getting those folding chairs from the basement.”
My mouth opens then shuts, as if my brain can’t compute this hiccup in my plan. I look past her at the dozen or so ladies standing around in our living room. Oh no. They were supposed to be down the street. What’s going on?
“Keith!” my mother says with thinly veiled irritation. “The chairs, Keith.” She claps her hands then pushes me along the hallway toward the basement. I glance back longingly at the door, my bags just out of sight. The basement door opens and I robotically step down into the darkness. Okay. Okay, this is fine. I’ll do this quickly, then when my mom is distracted by her friends, I’ll sneak out the front door.
Of course, though, it’s not just the chairs. She needs my help escorting Mrs. Mason to the bathroom. Needs me to serve drinks. Needs me to put the meatballs on a platter.
How can I possibly get out of here? I can’t say no or it’ll tip her off. But my mother seems to have something else for me to do before I’ve even finished the last job. And all the while, the minutes tick by on the clock by the front door. Twenty, thirty, fifty minutes.
I’m sweating. Surely Dusty will wait for me. She’ll know I’ve been held up. It’s almost eight o’clock now, and my heart is filled with so much dread. We were going to catch the seven o’clock bus but it’ll be gone now. Breathe, Key . It’s not a lost cause. We can take another bus. Any bus. Just somewhere away from here and figure it out later. I can’t stay another minute. This has to work!
“Thank you, dear,” my mother says with a smile. “You must have homework to do now, isn’t that right?”
Her friends are watching me intently. “I . . . yes, but . . . you know, I think I’m going to get some fresh air first. Just for a few minutes.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment and something sharp turns in my stomach. Does she know? How could she? But then she turns back to her friends with a grin. “Ladies, shall we get started on that fifth passage? Salvation waits for no one.”
I sigh, my shoulders dropping from my ears for the first time all night, and once I’m sure she’s occupied, I grab my bag and guitar case, and I run . My limbs burn from the exertion the whole way there, but imagining Dusty waiting in the terminal only makes me move faster.
I drop everything by the ticket house when I arrive, my breath coming out in great white puffs on the window. “Excuse me? Hello?”
When the ticket girl approaches, she eyes me nervously. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, was there a red-haired girl here? Freckles. Long legs?”
She shrugs and pops her gum. “I’m not sure.”
Okay, Key, keep it together. You can find her. You can do this. Just stay calm. “Are you sure you can’t remember?”
“Sorry, I was printing tickets in the back. No one’s rung the bell until you showed up. Maybe she got a taxi?”
I suck in a shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay . . . thanks.”
She didn’t leave. There’s no way. Yeah, I’m late, but she must know I’d have an excuse. I’m only an hour past our meeting time. I circle the terminal, but there’s hardly anyone here. Maybe she went to get some food, or use the bathroom. But after three laps and twenty minutes have passed, I confirm she’s not here.
Where would she have gone? What if something happened? What if something’s wrong with the baby, and she went to the hospital? What if—what if she left to come find me? Part of me wants to head back home, intercept her . . . but maybe it’s better I stay here. She’ll realize I left home late and head right back here and everything will be okay.
So, I wait, glancing at the clock every few minutes, my eyes trained on the glass doors just as often, waiting for the fiery girl I love so much to appear there. An insurmountable anxiousness spreads through me with every minute that passes me by. Other buses come, the previous passengers disembarking, and I keep my eyes peeled.
But she’s not here.
An hour of panic feels like a lifetime, and before my very eyes, the dream of escaping grows smaller and smaller. Something bad must have happened. What if she got in an accident? What if she’s sick?
But there’s a worse reason pushing its way forward: What if she truly believed I wasn’t coming?
A flash of headlights blinds me, and my heart jumps as I think maybe it’s her, that maybe she got a ride. But then my stomach turns to lead as my parent’s car pulls up in front of me.
“Keith,” my mother calls through the passenger window. “Get in the car.”
I cross my arms and shake my head. “No.”
“Keith, get in the car,” my father yells.
Does he not understand that it won’t work? I’m not afraid of them anymore. The thought of that tiny life growing in the woman I love gives me more strength than I ever thought possible.
“I’m leaving with Dusty,” I say. “And we’re never coming back.”
To my surprise, they don’t yell anymore, in fact, they look . . . sad. Is it possible that my leaving has finally prompted them to be loving parents? The engine shuts off and my mother opens her door.
“Come home, dear. She’s not coming.”
I back away, fighting against the dread of the past hour. “No! No, she’s coming. I was late but she knows I’d never leave her . . . she’ll be here.”
“Darling . . .” my mother says in a voice I’ve never heard before. Then she holds out a white envelope to me and my heart thuds in my chest. “She dropped this off at the house for you.”
The envelope isn’t sealed, and for one horrible moment I realize my parents know all my darkest secrets, but they’re here anyway to bring me home. To bring me this. I snatch it from my mother’s hand, pausing at its weight. I upturn the envelope and something small tumbles out onto my palm.
The guitar string ring I made her.
The ring I gave her with the promise to love her forever.
The ring she returned because she couldn’t accept that promise.
And as it sits heavy in my hand, it’s as if the weight of the world collapses on top of me. The envelope shakes in my hands and my vision blurs—so obscured by tears that I can’t see. I cry, like a newborn baby, sobbing at the bus station, until my mother’s arms wrap around me. I take a breath, hanging on to her, and squeeze her tight, as though she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
She strokes my hair and shushes me, her voice unnaturally gentle. “Come on, dearest. Come home.”
And because I don’t know what else to do, I nod and get in the back seat while my father grabs my bags and tosses them in the trunk.
The car ride home is silent. My brain is whirring, throbbing against my temples. There is nothing but pain in my chest. My lungs. Every square inch of me. As if my heart has shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. I thought she wanted me. I thought we were going to be a family. And the baby . . . But she had doubts. Didn’t I hear it in her voice over the phone two nights ago? She wasn’t sure. She tried to talk me out of it. Was I more ready than her? I thought she loved me. Loved us. But maybe I’ve just ignored a truth that’s been there all along and I chose never to see. That I always loved her more. It’s why she never stayed. Why she didn’t fight to be with me.
She loves me less.
She loves me only a little.
She doesn’t love me at all.
Tears spill down my cheeks so intensely that I barely register the black van in the driveway when we get home. Nor do I notice the men in white uniforms that approach me until they’ve grasped my arms so tight I instinctively try to fight them off. I frantically look to my parents, to my brother’s horrified face as he watches from his bedroom window upstairs.
“Mom! Dad!” I cry out.
But they simply stand and watch as I’m dragged into the back of the windowless van.
“It’s for your own good, dear,” my mother says.
Their faces have lost the compassion I saw fleetingly at the bus station. It was all an act, and I was stupid enough to fall for it. Apparently, everyone in my life is an award-winning actor. My parents. Dusty. How could I have been so stupid not to see through it all?
The doors of the van slam shut, then everything is black. I hardly care what happens to me anymore. This van could take me to my death and I would welcome it, because she left me behind again.
She left me behind knowing that I loved her more than anything.