Chapter 11
Ash is waiting for me.
“That help?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, me either.”
I follow him to his room, at the other end of the hall.
I’ve never been inside before, only glimpsed it through the crack in the door, and it was dark and lit by the glow of screens.
In reality, it isn’t all that different from my own: a queen bed with dark, rumpled sheets; a backpack and school stuff haphazardly spilled across the carpeted floor; a desk and a computer.
He has his own set of the Children of Hypnos books on a shelf above a small fish tank, where a few colorful guppies swim around a submerged skull and some fake seaweed.
Besides the fish tank, the one thing unique to his room is a metric shit ton of Monstrous Sea merchandise.
Monstrous Sea was a webcomic that got popular almost a decade ago and spun off into a huge franchise.
I know it by internet osmosis, so I recognize the characters on the posters around the room and in figurine form on his desk and shelves.
The bound copies of the Monstrous Sea graphic novels sit on the shelf right next to his CoH books, and next to those are the Monstrous Sea novelization series.
His computer tower is covered in Monstrous Sea stickers.
“You match your room,” I say, motioning to his shirt.
He looks down at his sleeves and blushes. The reaction makes him seem softer, more approachable. “Ah. Yeah. Usually people don’t come in here. I forgot I was wearing it.”
“It’s nice to know that you like something that much,” I say, looking around at the posters, trying to ease his embarrassment by showing my interest. “I had no idea. But I guess we’re finding out there’s a lot I didn’t know about you.”
“What do you mean, it’s nice to know I like something this much?” he asks.
“It’s . . . hmm . . . I guess it feels like a lot of boys don’t act interested in anything.
Like it isn’t cool. Unless it’s sports. If you enjoy something too much, you get made fun of for it.
” I pause at the shelf above his desk and examine one of the figurines, a character with feathery black hair and ice-blue eyes, and blue fog rolling from his upheld hands.
This one has a place of honor, and the most representation among the posters.
His favorite. “But I think it’s cool that you like it.
And that you like cooking, and sitting outside under trees.
I like . . . that you like things.” Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed, for heat to flush my face. “That sounded stupid.”
He smiles a bit. “No, it didn’t. I get what you mean. I used to pretend I didn’t like the things I liked because, yeah, it wasn’t cool to like them. But after the crash, after everything almost got taken away . . . who cares? It’s not important what people think anymore.”
“Exactly!” My voice is too loud for the small room, so I dial it back, but excitement pours out of me. “I was thinking that at lunch. Like, what the fuck are we talking about? None of this matters!”
He throws his hands out, his eyes wide. “Yes!”
“I haven’t been going to track practice because it’s so stupid and a waste of time and I want to do something that matters. Sitting in school for seven hours a day is a waste. Talking to everyone who doesn’t get it is a waste. I feel like I’m living on another planet!”
“You get it.” Ash runs his hands through his hair.
“Evie, you’re the only person I’ve talked to in two weeks who’s on the same frequency I am.
My parents are like ghosts, they don’t even hear me anymore.
My friends have been weird since my accident.
Even my teachers seem scared of me.” He drops his hands and looks at me with a strange expression. “And you’re here. Like . . .”
I wait. “What?”
He doesn’t finish. Just smiles, laughs to himself, and shakes his head. He scrubs his face. “Oh, fuck, I shouldn’t have eaten that before you came over.”
“Eaten what?”
He falls over on his bed. He’s so tall he takes up the whole thing.
“I was talking to a guy on the soccer team about how I wished I was still on the pain meds they gave me after the crash. I still have a few in the cabinet. They used to totally numb me out. I’d sleep like a baby.
He told me not to do that, said he had a better option, one that wouldn’t get me addicted to opioids.
He gave me some gummies. His brother brought them from Chicago when he came home a couple of weeks ago. ”
“Like, weed gummies?”
“Yeah.” With one arm covering his eyes, Ash’s other arm flails out, and he catches the handle of his bedside drawer. Inside is a pouch of gummies. “He said they’d help me chill out. I took one right before you got here, and it’s hitting me now.”
He doesn’t seem that different to me, but I’m not good at telling when people are in an altered state of mind. I look at the bag. “You feel okay?” I ask.
“I feel great,” he replies. “Nothing matters, still, but in a different way. A better way.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” I say.
“Yeah, but, like, I want to tell you a bunch of things all of a sudden. This sucks. I normally don’t tell people anything.” He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his head in the pillow. Okay, he’s getting easier to read.
I sit on the bed next to him. Take the bag and turn it over in my hands. Open it.
“You just took one?” I ask.
Ash lifts his head. “Yeah, he said not to do any more than that, since I’ve never taken them before.”
I reach in, grab a juicy-looking red gummy, and pop it in my mouth.
Ash lurches up. “You didn’t have to—”
I close the bag and toss it back in the drawer as I chew. The gummy isn’t nearly as juicy as it looked. It’s kind of chalky. “Can’t touch Welch’s,” I say. “How long does it take to work?”
He looks at me with amazement in his eyes. “Depends on the person, I guess.”
I’m glad he thinks I’m amazing, because I only feel shaky.
My mom likes to tell me horror stories of WEED OVERDOSE, like it’s some epidemic.
People going paranoid and running into the street, people falling asleep and never waking up, people getting so sick they throw up for hours.
I don’t think any of her stories are true.
And if they are, I know I’m not going to get that way from one gummy.
People use marijuana to medicate for cancer, why shouldn’t we do it for feelings too?
My mind is already taking close stock of my body, trying to figure out if I’m feeling effects or if I’m making myself think I am. To distract myself, I turn and look down at Ash.
“This might be blunt,” I say, “but do you like me, or something?”
His face turns tomato red again. He huffs, his mouth twisting into a kind of terrified smile. He props himself up on his side. “What makes you think that?”
“A few things,” I say. “You already had my phone number when I didn’t have yours.
You were pretty forceful about telling me I wasn’t bothering you.
You invited me over to look at your computer.
And you just said there’s a bunch of stuff you had to tell me, but you’re clearly uncomfortable about it and wouldn’t have told me normally, so I feel like that’s probably some kind of declaration or something. ”
“Okay, well, shit,” he says.
“Am I right?” I love being right.
“I thought it would be weird,” he says. “Since you were Alissa’s best friend.”
I stand up. I’m too excited to stay sitting. “You like me?”
He flips onto his back again, crossing his arms and scowling at the ceiling. “I guess.” I’m smiling the biggest smile I’ve smiled in days, in weeks. Ash glances at me. “Why is your face like that?”
“Nobody’s ever told me they liked me.” No one I believed; no one who wasn’t joking around.
“Okay. So, cool.”
He’s grumpy. Why is he grumpy?
Oh.
“I like you too,” I say.
His jaw unclenches. “You do? Why didn’t you start with that?”
“It hasn’t happened often.”
“You’re weird,” he says.
“Everyone knows that,” I say. I sit back down, pulling my legs up on the bed.
I feel light, almost bubbly. I had a crush on Ash when I was twelve, because he was older and athletic and cute and good at things.
But I buried it because he was Alissa’s brother and he was terrifying and I didn’t think he even noticed me.
He’s watching me again, and he looks almost scared.
Ash Whitaker looks scared. Of me.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Uh. Yes.”
I lean over him, one hand braced above his shoulder, the other beside his ribs.
My hair falls around me, so I scoop it to one side.
Ash pushes himself up onto his elbows, scooting me back.
His breath comes out in short, sharp bursts.
His eyes are beautiful, a kaleidoscope of gold and green and blue.
Any worry about kissing someone for the first time leaves my head as I press my lips to his.
His lips are dry. Soft. I can feel the ridge of his scar, like a topographical landmark on an unfamiliar map. I pull back, and we look at each other, breathing hard.
Ash looks down. “Sorry. The scar is gross, I know—”
“It’s not gross.” Because I know he’ll let me, I run my thumb over the scar. His lips part and his breath washes over my wrist. “It’s you.”
He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, firm but not painful, and he pulls me in for another kiss.
My lips part. I never understood what a hungry kiss meant until now, with his body up against mine, his fingers against my skin, his tongue teasing mine.
Because I am competitive, and because I learn quickly, I won’t be outdone.
I rake my fingers through his hair, tease him back.
It is the best I’ve felt in what might be my entire life.
We ease through rises and falls of burning urgency and sweet, slow touches.
I always thought that when I made out with someone for the first time, my mind would shut off, but I’m still thinking.
I’m thinking about Ash’s breathing, how heavy it is, which means he’s excited.
I’m thinking about the smoothness of his hair.
I’m thinking about what this means for us, what it will be like when we stop kissing.
I’m thinking about how far this is going to go. How far I want it to go.
We break apart in one of those sweet, slow moments and lie facing each other. Ash brushes my hair behind my ear. He doesn’t mind that I don’t break eye contact, because he doesn’t either.
“Was the computer a ploy?” I ask.
He snorts. “No. I thought you’d want to see it.”
“I do. But I’m not upset this happened too.”
“Me either.”
My leg is thrown over his hip. I run my fingers down his back lazily; he arches into me.
I feel like the hunter in the woods. People assume because I don’t like to be touched, because my brain works differently, that I would be cold or unfeeling, but the opposite is true: This is natural to me.
My feelings and instincts are so intense I’m just selective about who I share them with.
“I should go home soon,” I say.
He makes a noise of disapproval. “Don’t like that. Homework?”
“Healz wants to run the Fenhallow Underground tonight. Now that he believes I’m good at the game, he’s totally fine grouping together.”
Ash laughs. “What a dick. You were serious about winning world first, huh?”
“I don’t make that up.”
“I’ll get on in a bit and group with you,” he says. He kisses me on the lips, the jaw, the neck. I don’t want to get up, but if I don’t, I won’t do anything else today.
The front door opens downstairs. We both sit bolt upright.
“One of them is home early,” Ash says. “It’s fine that you’re here. I mean, they would have seen your car—”
“I walked over,” I say. My heart is hammering. I don’t want to see or talk to Alissa’s parents. I don’t want them to know I was here, in her room.
There’s another elm right outside Ash’s window. When we were younger, Alissa and I used to joke about climbing it to play pranks on him. I scramble out of the bed, grab my coat, and hurry to unlock the window and throw it open.
“You’re not serious right now.” Ash grabs my arm. “You could fall.”
“I won’t,” I say, pulling my arm from his grasp and sliding the screen up. Of course there are no branches close enough to reach.
“Wait.” Ash touches me again, not grabbing me, only to get my attention. “I’ll go downstairs, distract whichever one of them it is, and you sneak out the front door.”
“Ash, you here?” It’s his mom. Her footsteps start up the stairs.
“Okay,” I say.
He leaves the room to intercept her. I edge up to his bedroom door and peek out. He’s stopped her on the third step.
“I made chili, there’s some in the kitchen if you’re hungry,” he says.
“Oh, that’s nice.” She sounds distracted. “What were you doing?”
“Playing games.”
“How was school? Do you have any homework you need to get done?”
“Some reading for English. I’m going to do it later.”
“I don’t want you to get behind.”
“Come on, I’ll get you some chili. I want more anyway.”
He herds her off the stairs and toward the kitchen. I sneak out of his room and down the stairs. This house isn’t nearly as old as mine, but I’m careful to step on the outer edges of each step so they don’t creak. I can hear Ash and his mom talking as they move into the kitchen.
“Your dad and I wanted to talk to you about the memorial,” she says to him. “We understand why you said what you did, but we still think you should apologize to Pastor Mitchell.”
Ash is quiet. I pause behind the column at the bottom of the stairs.
“No,” Ash says finally.
Mrs. Whitaker lets out a fluttery little laugh. “What?”
“I’m not going to apologize to him. I don’t think he deserves an apology.”
“We didn’t raise you like this—”
“Like what?”
“To be so hurtful.”
“I’m being hurtful? The guy thinks suicide is a sin, Mom!”
“He doesn’t, and you would know that if you spoke to him—”
“Even if he doesn’t, you’re okay with him using Alissa as a cautionary tale? He doesn’t care that she’s dead. Nobody but us cares that she’s dead.”
The raw pain in his voice makes my stomach roll over. I shouldn’t be hearing this. I need to leave. Now. I creep for the front door and wait for Mrs. Whitaker to speak again before I turn the knob. When she does, her voice is thick with emotion.
“Other people do care, Ash. . . .”
I close the door as softly as I can behind me, and then I’m off. I fly across the street, through the trees, back home.
Ash is right. We are the only ones who care. If there was anyone else in the same boat, they would understand why we’re acting the way we are.
They wouldn’t ask us for apologies.