Twenty-Three
I almost wear my hair down for once. Josh would always go on about how you have to look your best for a party. I even almost wear a dress, old habits dying slowly, so he could smile all slow and molasses-sweet and say it was a good choice.
But I don’t.
Because tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about broken hearts and promises; about the end of an era. About getting some answers.
So, I come as me. Jeans, freckles, questionable social graces, and a T-shirt that says ENTROPY? IN THIS ECONOMY?
A cow moos, and I yank my phone out of my pocket. I’m breathless when I answer, and my words tumble over each other. “Ash? Hey, I didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight. What’s up?”
“Hey.” His voice is cautious, and the tiny pause makes something flutter inside my chest. “I heard about this great sushi place over in Statesville, and I was wondering if you wanted to go?”
The flutter turns into a swarm. “More fieldwork?”
“No,” he says firmly. “I want us to go. Just me and you.”
“Oh. Oh.” My voice is reed thin. “I—I wish I could, but I’m at…” I trail off, staring at Derrick’s door. What am I doing?
“It’s okay.” His words are hurried. “I know it’s last-minute. Are you out with the girls?”
I shift my bag on my shoulder, the letter burning a hole in the bottom. “Actually, no.” I pick my next words carefully. “It’s the fourth letter. I’m going to deliver it in person tonight—”
“Got it.” His voice scrapes over me like sandpaper. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”
“Wait, no! I just wanted to give this last one to him to—”
“You don’t have to explain, Marlowe. I guess this is the end of the contract, huh?”
It’s as if some higher power has reached down and pressed pause and all my systems power down.
He continues, despite my silence. “I really appreciate everything you did on your end. The band is really starting to take off.”
His voice wraps around me, and I thaw enough to squeak out, “Ash, wait—”
“Good luck, Marlowe.”
I blink as the call dies.
Shit.
Did Ash just ask me out? Does he think I’m still trying to give Josh a love letter?
I consider sticking the letter in this topiary and calling Ash back, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I need this. I need to finish this. Full circle, beginning to end, a real resolution.
I don’t bother knocking. Sorry, ancestors, and Derrick—although I don’t really mean it with you, because you’re a fake friend who’ll smile at me one day and pretend I don’t exist the next.
The house is starting to fill up with ugly Christmas sweaters, and I’m just grateful I didn’t have to pull out the monstrosity that lives in the back of my closet. The tinsel around the collar makes me want to peel my skin off.
That’s another thing. I’ll no longer be entertaining suggestions on dress codes from anyone—not for dates, parties, dances, or anything else. I may not always read the vibe right, but if I misstep, at least I’ll be doing it in clothes that I like.
“What are you doing here?”
Tiffany’s in rare form tonight. Her face is as red as her sweater with Santa holding a six-pack.
“Tiffany. Always a delight.” I shift my bag, waiting for her to get it out of her system.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says, her objection duly noted.
“I don’t intend to stay long.”
“Did he invite you here?” She imparts so much emphasis on that pronoun it almost sounds italic. Or capitalized. Or akin to God.
“No, he didn’t.”
Her lips twist into a smile, and the transition is jarring. “Well, you should go see him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled you’re here.”
My head spins and even though my brain is yelling Danger, Will Robinson, I can’t tell where it’s coming from. “You want me to find him?”
“Absolutely. He’s up the stairs, second door on your left.” Her tone has slid into a sweetness that makes my teeth hurt. Full of something bad for you, but you can’t identify it through the sugar.
I don’t want to spend any more time with her or trying to puzzle it all out. I head for the stairs, avoiding the banister that’s already sticky from Fireball and whiskey Cokes that have sloshed onto it from overfilled red Solo cups and flasks.
I’m about to go up when I see a familiar blond head, wearing a familiar red headband that I saw at breakfast this morning.
My come-to-Jesus with Josh can wait a moment.
I walk up behind Blue and tap her on the shoulder, and her brilliant smile deflates at the sight of my face.
“This doesn’t look like Whitney’s house.”
“We’re only stopping by for a moment!” Her cherry-red lips press into a thin line. “Are you going to bust me?”
“Are you doing anything I would need to bust you for?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“No,” she says, a little too quickly. “What’s going on? I thought you didn’t come to these parties anymore.” She doesn’t say since the breakup, but I hear it anyway.
“I don’t.” I look up the stairs. “I just have a little unfinished business.” Her eyebrows bunch together, but I jump in to avoid any more questions. “I’m going to go take care of something. Will you promise me you’ll be safe?”
She nods, concern still written across her forehead. I know she wants to ask more, but I’m already heading back toward the stairs.
Sometimes when these parties were still finding their momentum, the boys would go upstairs and play video games until things reached a fever pitch. I’d stay downstairs, helping set out cups, tidying up messes, and playing house—a role I realized too late I didn’t want.
I pause outside the door. That’s another thing. I like video games, and I would have really liked to sit out a few parties. I’m not going to become one of those couples again who can’t do anything apart, like the terrible Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald in A Rake for the Holidays. Separate interests are healthy. All my spare threads and puzzle pieces are finally laid out in front of me. I can see the big picture.
I take a deep breath, and just marvel at the air in my lungs (not yet tainted by Marlboro Reds, or booze, or sweat), and the peace I have, arriving at this point.
I reach for the knob, but I can’t bring myself to turn it.
I don’t know why, after all this time, I’m almost inclined to leave the door closed. How the ache from our breakup has faded into something that barely registers anymore.
I shake the thought loose and flex my fingers. Closure is important. He should get this last letter, if anything to know that there are no more coming.
I push open the door.
It’s dark, and there’s no glow from the TV to light the way. Something scratches at the periphery of my brain, some realization I can’t even process.
I hear the rustling, and the breathing, and I know I’m not alone. I scramble for the switch, and I light it all up at the same time a female voice says:
“Get out of here!”
And then there’s no denying it, and it’s Josh who’s swearing “Marlowe,” as if it’s my fault he’s mostly naked with a sophomore underneath him.
Isabel, I think her name is. She’s on the squad with Blue.
I’m stock-still, envelope clutched in my hand, brain unable to send any commands to my limbs or mouth while it processes everything else.
It’s not until Josh says “It’s not what it looks like” that I start to laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
“What has gotten into you?” Josh asks finally. He’s turning an ugly mottled red, and finally I pull enough air back into my lungs.
“It’s not what it looks like?” He scowls as a few errant, unhinged giggles fall out again. “Of all the stupid things to say to me.”
He gives me a look as if to say That’s enough, and I almost start laughing again because I do not care. He has cut all the ties between us, and nothing he says can touch me at all anymore.
“Did you think I would say, Oh, gee, Josh, it must be another one of those Marlowe misunderstandings. Let me just pop out to the hall while you put on some pants, and I’d love to listen?” I grab a plastic water bottle off the dresser next to me and hurl it at his head.
He deflects with his forearm, his face an open book of confusion. “Marlowe, what the hell has gotten into you?”
“God, you really are a dipshit.”
Blue bursts through the door. “I thought I heard yelling.” She takes in the scene in one blink. “Oh shit.”
“Can everyone get the hell out?” Isabel scowls, straightening her clothes.
“I swear I didn’t know,” Blue says, eyes roving my face. “I knew Isabel was sniffing around him, but I didn’t think she was dumb enough to try to hook up with him.”
“Hey.”
Blue grabs a second bottle off the floor and chucks it at him, hitting center mass. “That’s for being such an asshole to my sister.”
My eyes water a little, because she made a choice, and this time it was me.
Josh stands up, trying valiantly to pull his own clothes into place, and maintain the high ground. “Marlowe, let’s talk outside.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” The words come out so easy. His shirt is on backward, and he looks so put out that I almost start laughing again. “You know what’s really funny? I think out of the two of us, I was way more romantic.”
I take a step closer to him. “Because I romanticized everything about you. The way you would keep me in this little box, and I didn’t realize how small you made everything in my world until you set me free.”
His jaw tightens, and he can’t meet my eyes for a minute. “You don’t mean that.” He nods toward the door. “Let’s go talk—”
“No.” I fling the last letter at his feet, relishing the surprise that ripples across his face. “That’s the last one. Feel free to choke on it.” I brush the hair out of Blue’s face, and smile until she believes it. “I’ll see you at home, Blue.”
“Look, Marlowe,” Josh says, raking his hair with his fingers. “This whole thing with Isabel is nothing.”
Isabel storms out, but I’m locked in place by the twinge of desperation in his voice.
“Sometimes guys just need to sow some wild oats. I was going to ask you out again at the end of the year.” He raises his eyebrows like I’m a naughty child who’s forgotten something important. “You know? For Clemson?”
Us going to the same school. The apartment together junior year. Him going off to med school, and me inventing grafts he can use in surgery until we’re both shining. Or at least, he is.
I smile again, but he doesn’t look deep enough to see it’s not happiness, but satisfaction. I know what I want. His expression smooths over, and the lines of his body relax.
“I’m not dating you again, Josh.” There’s no anger in my voice, although there probably should be. There’s just the relief of having escaped such a narrow life. “I don’t love you, and I’m not even sure I like you as a person anymore.”
He rocks back as if struck.
“There’ll be no apartment at Clemson, and I’m not even all that sure about biomedical engineering anymore.” I spin for the door and toss over my shoulder, “I might want to teach math. Or become a mycologist.”
I’m texting my lifeline before I even hit the first landing, and by the time I get to the front door the reply says, ten minutes.
I walk down to the mailbox, and suck in air in cloudy, puffy gulps. I start counting, and by the time I reach one hundred and twenty-eight, I see headlights. Josh calls, and I immediately send him to voicemail. He tries again, and then the phone goes silent.
Odette and Poppy bundle me into Odette’s car, and after briefly asking me if I want to go home—absolutely not—we head south to Poppy’s house.
I sit numb and white-hot furious, and let it wrap around me like a little shell. His stupid face, his stupider comment, and me—the most stupid of them all. Because the second I saw his shocked (but still perfectly perfect) face, I had already realized my mistake.
I had opened the wrong door. I didn’t need to hold up all my feelings to him like some pitiful show-and-tell. I’d already moved on.
They lead me inside, gently push me into a seat at the kitchen table, and slide a full glass of water in front of me.
“Marlowe, come back to real life,” Odette whispers.
I throw back the glass, water leaking out of the corners of my mouth and down my shirt. “Fire, I need a fire.”
They exchange a look and sit down as a unit.
“Marlowe, sweetheart, what’s this about a fire?” Odette trips a little over the endearment.
“Set a fire. A trash can or a bonfire.” I wave my hand, the options numerous and irrelevant. “Maybe something in the cul-de-sac. I think I have some matches.” I dig in my bag.
“Well, you heard her.”
Poppy glares. “I am not starting a trash-can fire in the cul-de-sac, Odette. If I knew we were summoning demons or something, I would have driven to your house.”
“I need to burn it.”
“Josh’s car?” Odette hazards.
“Disco cats.” I want to get rid of it; its continued existence on this plane makes my skin crawl. I don’t want to inhabit the same space and time as my pathetic little scribblings about love, and tropes, and lessons. I want it to be as charred and nonexistent as every scrap of feeling I ever had for Josh Stallings.
Odette chews on her lip. “The grill?”
Poppy rolls her eyes but leads us to the deck. We get it turned on, managing not to blow the doors off or lose any eyebrows. Odette pulls up one of the grates to access the flames below.
“Are we thinking medium rare, or more of a well-done situation?” Poppy asks. I hand her the notebook, and she hesitates.
“Are you sure? This was for you more than it was ever for him. Don’t you want to look through it first?”
I shake my head. “I’m not losing the books I loved, I’m just killing the evidence that they came into my life because I let someone convince me I wasn’t enough. That I needed to learn something that I didn’t feel.”
“Fair enough,” Poppy says, and she snatches it up and tosses it into the flames. The pages curl, retracting into the cover like a turtle, and slowly each cat winks out of existence and crumbles to ash.
Odette collapses into a deck chair, the orange glow from the grill bathing us in a warm light. “Are you going to tell us more about what happened? Did he blame all y’all’s problems on you, high-five his douchebag friends, and then do a keg stand?”
I’m emptied out, and only have the energy for the TL;DR. “Pants gone. Isabel Sawyer under him. He told me it wasn’t what it looked like.”
Odette lunges out of her chair with an outraged pterodactyl shriek. “He is the worst.”
Poppy pulls in a shaky breath. “Okay, did you murder him? Is there a body back there that we need to take care of? I don’t know if I can get my hands on that much lye, but I’ll try.”
I’m pretty sure she’s joking, so I just shake my head. “Witnesses.”
“Ah, yes, the sophomore.”
It’s not what it looks like.
I bury my face in my hands. “I can’t believe he thought I would listen to him. I can’t believe I spent months trying to get back with him. I am that stupid.”
Poppy makes soothing noises and pats my lumpy bun, stuffed full of pencils for stability. “I’ve seen you do Pythagorean triples; you’re going to have to come up with a better defense.”
Odette circles us, her face beet red. “That absolute himbo asshole, I’m going to—” She paces the deck, muttering under her breath.
I sigh. “Is this just a testament to how messed up I am? That I hated the idea of change, and was so scared I couldn’t be someone that anyone else could love, that I convinced myself this was the pinnacle?” I slump back in the chair, my chin tipped up into the sky. “Oh, God, Momma was right. Christopher was the bad guy.”
“So where do you go from here?” Poppy asks, scooting her chair closer.
“Where is there to go? I get to spend the rest of senior year thinking about things that actually matter.”
“And Ash?”
A deep ache pulses through me. I can’t face that part yet. His voice on the phone, and what hit me as soon as I opened that door, before I even knew how little Josh deserved any of what I had been so determined to give him: I am head over heels for Ashton Hayes.
“That’s a whole different mess,” I say. Odette stomps back and I point at her chair. “Sit, I’m too tired to keep watching you.”
She slides against the gray vinyl, her anger popping like a balloon. She doesn’t say anything, just reaches over and grabs my hand so tight it goes numb.
We sit there in the cold until my face and limbs get heavy, and I can’t feel anything at all.