Henry
Nearly a week has passed since Piper and I last hung out. Walking to her place has been a serious temptation since I finished Coral Crown, but there’s a wall between us, one I can’t figure out how to breach.
It seems like the longer I spend away from her, the weaker the draw should be.
In reality, the distance makes me want her more.
Late Thursday afternoon I’m hungry, and there’s nothing to eat in the apartment.
Dad’s at Blitz Brews, so I head over to take advantage of the free food.
I snag my usual spot at the bar because Mateo’s working and it’s been a while since we last caught up.
He’s got a crowd to deal with, but he keeps the sodas coming and makes sure I have plenty of tartar sauce for the huge plate of fries Dad brought out when I showed up.
Mateo pulled him an IPA. The now-empty glass sits behind the bar.
When things slow down, Mateo tells me he’s taken April, one of the hostesses, out a few times.
“It’s a whole new world,” he says, retying his apron.
“Being with Lana was a shit show. April’s so chill.
A lot of fun.” He swipes a cloth across the bar.
“What’ve you got going on in the romance department?
I’ve seen you in here with a cute brunette a few times. ”
“That’s Piper,” I say.
“She your girl?”
“I guess.” I’d feel weird calling her mine under the best circumstances because my mother raised me to respect women and their autonomy, but if that’s the explanation that makes sense to Mateo, I’ll roll with it.
“Where’s she now?”
“Home, I think. We’re in a weird place. You know how it goes.”
“Do I ever,” he says, offering me a fist bump of commiseration. “Work it out, bro, if you want to be with her.”
I do—about that, I’m sure. What I can’t get straight is whether I should be with her. I keep asking myself: Will things be different with Piper? Or will it end in disaster, like Whit and me?
“You’re thinking too hard,” Mateo says, sliding another soda in front of me.
“Yeah, overanalyzing is kind of my thing.”
“There are worse ways to be.” He glances across the restaurant to where my dad’s laughing raucously with a bunch of customers.
They’ve got a half dozen pitchers of beer spread across their table, and Dad’s topping off glasses, offering loud commentary on the Marlins game most of the TVs are broadcasting.
Thanks to a recent Google search, I now know what a functioning alcoholic is.
Pretty sure I’m living with one.
Dad’s acquired a fresh glass. He fills it with beer, foam sloshing over the brim and onto his patrons’ table.
They don’t notice or don’t care. He joins their toast, shouting “Cheers!” so loudly that his voice rises above everyone else’s.
He throws back the beer—not quite a chug, but not the civilized sip of a proprietor, either.
“He’s somethin’,” Mateo says, looking dubiously at Dad. “He can really sock ’em back, especially lately.”
“Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
He goes back to work, shaking his head. I pick up my phone, ready to text Piper. Ready to apologize for my part in our argument. Ready to beg for guidance on what the fuck I should do about my dad.
I really want to hear her voice.
A text comes through.
Whitney 5:26 p.m.
I need to talk.
Henry 5:27 p.m.
Busy. Later?
Whitney 5:28 p.m.
It’s important.
5:30 p.m.
Henry. I’ll call your mom if you don’t call me.
This is a new low.
I call her, even though it’s loud in the restaurant.
She answers with a hiccupping sob. I can’t help it—I grimace. She’s used tears to manipulate me in the past, both before and after our breakup.
It was stupid to take a flying leap the second she told me to jump.
She launches into a rundown of every emotion she’s experienced since March.
Guilt about the decision. Relief. Guilt about the relief.
Justification. It’s all one garbled run-on sentence, but I’m softening.
It’s hard to maintain distance from this girl when we’ve been treading in the same shitty sea.
I give her a version of the platitude my mom’s given me: “You did the right thing. It’ll get better. You’ll get better.”
“But you got over it so fast,” she wails.
I picture her in her room, on her bed, surrounded by crumpled tissues. It’s not a hard image to conjure. I’ve seen her exactly this way more than once since spring break.
“I haven’t gotten over it, Whit,” I say, competing with the noise of the dinner crowd. “I’m surviving it. Same as you.”
“You took the easy way out.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, waving to Mateo. I slide off my stool and head for the door. My face is going hot, my forehead prickling with sweat. On the off chance Dad decides to pay attention, I don’t want him to know how worked up this call’s getting me.
It’s not much cooler outside, but it’s definitely quieter. I park on a bench and listen to Whitney cry like she’s in physical pain.
Maybe she is.
“It wasn’t fair of you to leave,” she slurs through a series of hiccups.
“Jesus, have you been drinking?”
“Does it matter?”
“Fuck yes, it matters. If you need to talk, I’ll talk to you, but don’t drunk text me.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m sad.”
“Yeah. Me too,” I say quietly.
She’s silent for a second. And then: “I can’t wait for you to come home. I want us to work through this together.”
I know without a doubt that I can’t work through my emotions alongside Whitney.
I owe her understanding. Patience. An apology, maybe.
I don’t owe her my future.
“We’ll make a new beginning,” she says. “You’ll remember how good we can be.”
Even if Piper wasn’t a factor, even if I wasn’t considering staying in Florida for senior year, even if I’d never heard of West Point, I wouldn’t get back together with Whitney. I wish her all the good in the world, but I don’t want to be part of her life.
“I’ve got to go, Whit.”
I’ve got my finger ready to end the call when she says, “Henry! Please!” I press my phone back to my ear. “Tell me you’ll think about trying again. Just think about it.”
“Fine,” I say, desperate to be done. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” And then, triumphantly, “We’ll talk soon.”
I end the call with the lie I just told turning my stomach sour.
I don’t feel good about bullshitting her, but she has a tough time accepting no as an answer, and I don’t have it in me to try and reason with her tonight. Still, I can see the whole forest. All she can focus on is the tree right in front of her.
I walk along the beach back to the Towers. The sun is warm, moving westward. When I get to Dad’s, I hustle through a shower, then throw on shorts and a clean T-shirt. I head for the door, where my shoes are waiting.
Work it out if you want to be with her, Mateo said.
Conviction is the one good thing that came of my conversation with Whitney. I want to be with Piper.
I’ve got to make things right.