Off the Rails Seventeen Years Old, Virginia
Off the Rails
Seventeen Years Old, Virginia
Isaiah, Macy, Wyatt, and I spend Sunday watching movies and devouring bags of buttery microwave popcorn. We order pizza for dinner, then Wyatt and Isaiah fire up the Xbox and start a game of Madden NFL. Macy leaves for a study group, so I text Paloma to ask about Liam’s arrival in River Hollow. She replies quickly, telling me they’re the happiest couple there ever was, and I’m so glad for her. Then, reluctantly, I check in with my parents, sending bold lies about staying close to home and eating well.
I fear the moment we collide at tomorrow’s ceremony, the moment they come to realize I’m full of shit.
Isaiah and I get in bed late, especially considering my early wake-up. I’m looking forward to more of what happened last night, and we’re getting there when he leans back to ask, “What time do we need to leave tomorrow?”
For Mount Vernon, he means.
For Connor’s retirement ceremony.
He thinks…he thinks he’s coming with me?
“ I need to leave by 7:15.”
We’re sharing his pillow, our faces a breath apart. His bewilderment is plain. “You don’t want me there with you?”
I hurry to smooth the hurt from his face. “It’s not that. I didn’t think you’d want to come. Wouldn’t it be weird?”
He pulls away, swinging his legs around to sit up. “I don’t know, Lia. Would it?”
“My parents will be there.”
“And they don’t like me.”
“They don’t know you,” I clarify.
He makes a fed-up noise.
I sit, too, straightening my top, smoothing my hair, trying to formulate a sound argument, one that won’t intensify his hurt.
The best I can do, is “Beck’s parents will be there too.”
“No kidding.”
I lean forward, resting my palm on his back. “I want you to get to know my mom and dad. And I want you to meet Bernie and Connor.”
“Do you though?”
“Isaiah, yes. I just—tomorrow’s not the right time.”
“There’s not really a better time. We’re going home Tuesday. After graduation, I’m gone for a year. Who knows where you’ll be.”
I pull my hand away and whisper, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He turns, his gaze colliding with mine. “I want you to say that you’re over him. Maybe I’m a dick, asking that of you, but Jesus—if you’re not, what’re we doing? I want you to say that I matter. Say that you care. Say that we’ll move forward, together. I want you to call this what it is.”
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“You know. You know I’m in love with you. But you won’t acknowledge it—won’t let yourself feel it. You keep me at arm’s length so your conscience doesn’t go off the rails.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yeah,” he says miserably. “No shit.”
I grit my teeth, so full of frustration I’ve lost the capacity to speak. How dare he put it out there— I’m in love with you —then insult me with his very next breath? How dare he heap pressure onto me, only to finish with a flippant no shit ? How dare he make me feel cherished, and at the same time incandescent with rage?
I imagine it happening: the painstakingly constructed puzzle of our relationship shoved over a ledge, only to land with a devastating crash, pieces scattering, image unrecognizable.
I love him too, in a way that overwhelms me, in a way that makes me feel like I’m one kiss from losing myself all over again.
I let myself get swept away by my love for Beck. He never asked me to change, to sacrifice; he didn’t have to. I gave myself over. I abandoned my goals and forgot my dreams willingly—gladly. Maybe it would’ve been worth it; if Beck and I had grown old together, I might never have had a second thought. But I know, now, all too well, that to yield to another relationship, another boy—even a boy as selfless and kind as Isaiah—would be to undo eighteen months of healing, of rediscovering me .
“Remember what you promised last week during Ceramics?” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
I told him I’d never treat him like shit again.
But that’s not what I’m doing.
By keeping my feelings quiet, I’m being gentle with him. By maintaining distance, I’m treating him with consideration. By going to Connor’s ceremony alone, I’m sparing him stress, and discomfort, and hurt feelings.
I’m trying to do the right thing, for him and for me. But to attempt an explanation… I worry it’ll look like I’m grappling. Making excuses. Dodging vulnerability.
He lays back down, toward the edge of the bed, unsatisfied with my silence.
I curl onto my side, swamped by sadness.
There’s no way I can bring him to Mount Vernon.