He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  And then I do hang up.

  I expect him to call right back, but he doesn’t. Which is probably better. Too upset to drive, I leave my phone on the seat and get out of the car to stare at the river, feeling like its rushing torrent matches my current vibe perfectly.

  I don’t know what I thought Jack could do, why I thought he could help. He’s the one who ran away and refuses to come back. And maybe I overreacted to what he said, but the fact remains that he’s clueless about Perry, and about being female, apparently. At least with Mom, even though I disagree with her methods, she got it.

  Crap!

  Mom.

  I head back toward the car at a run, hop in, start the engine, then dial.

  “Libby?” she says, her voice coming on the overhead speakers after only one ring.

  “Mom!” I say, trying to sound casual. “Have you talked to Dad recently?”

  “No, I’m still at work—just finishing.”

  “Great. How about I come get you?”

  When I’m halfway to the Inn, Jack finally calls back but I ignore it, and then, just as I’m pulling into the parking lot, it rings again. No thanks. I turn on Do Not Disturb just as Mom’s approaching, and banish Jack from my thoughts. He’s not here, and I don’t have time to worry about him right now. Once Mom is in the passenger side, I drive a few yards away to the far side of the parking lot.

  “What’s going on?” Mom says, her own spidey senses alert.

  “Remember how it’s been nice that Dad hadn’t found out about the Perry situation?”

  “Uh huh . . . ?”

  “Well, now he has,” I say, and then explain.

  “That’s certainly inconvenient,” she says when I’m finished, “but if he’s posting with a fake name, no one will know it’s him. And I hate to say it, but so what if someone figures it out? Your father arguing with people is nothing new.”

  “It’s not just that, Mom,” I say, trying to stay calm enough to ease her into the RicksNotRolling situation. “Do you know what he’s doing down there in the basement all day? He’s being a troll. On the internet.”

  “You mean . . . he’s playing some kind of computer game? With trolls?” The confusion and consternation on her face would be hilarious if the situation wasn’t so awful.

  “If only. But no, Mom. A troll is . . . You really don’t know what a troll is?”

  “Small, wrinkly faced creature with crazy neon hair,” she says, crossing her arms. “Alternately, massive brutish creatures who eat hobbits and turn to stone in the sunlight. Your father, despite his many shortcomings, is neither of those.”

  “No, Mom. I mean, yes, but no. Let me try to . . . You get newspapers online, right? Do you ever scroll down to the very end and read people’s comments?”

  “Oh!” she says. “No, those comments sections are full of crazies. What type of a person wants to spend their time having pointless arguments with complete strangers?”

  I just look at her.

  “Oh,” she breathes, and then wrinkles her nose as if she smells something rotten. “Oh, how awful. And yet predictable.”

  “If you want evidence, I have screenshots. Um, those are pictures you take with your computer of things on the internet.”

  “I know what a screenshot is,” she mutters. “Don’t be rude.”

  I pull up the screenshots, hand her my phone, and watch her pale as she swipes through them.

  “Good lord,” she says finally.

  “Something is wrong with him, Mom.”

  “Obviously.”

  “No, I mean really wrong. But the main issue right now is he’s using one of his troll names on the residents group, and as soon as he posts this big ‘exposé’ and starts outing people who want to be anonymous—”

  “Oh no,” she flaps her hands in front of her face, trying to fan herself. “No, no.”

  “Someone will figure out it’s him, and then if they Google the troll name . . .”

  “They’ll find the rest of it, and at that point we may as well move. Not to mention it’ll undo everything I accomplished when I went to see Perry.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Damn it,” she says, using up her full yearly quota of swearing. “All right. Take me home, and then you go somewhere else for a couple of hours while I handle this.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to use my feminine wiles.”

  Eww, I think but do not say.

  “Not to underestimate your . . . wiles,” I say, looking at her doubtfully, “but are you sure they’re equal to this situation?”

  “Quite,” she says, and I decide not to ask any more questions.

  19

  THE STOMP

  I’ve had three more calls and five texts from Jack, but I’m driving around Pine Ridge while Mom works her “wiles” and ignoring him. I’ve got stolen technology in the trunk of the car, there’s nowhere I can show my face in town without causing a ruckus, Yaz visits her grandparents on Thursday nights, and I feel like I’ve already taken up enough of Emma’s time today with my problems.

  Which leaves Noah.

  Admittedly, this business with my dad did drive him out of my mind temporarily, but now I’m thinking about his offer for me to come over and “stomp around.”

  But I’m also thinking about how he took off early from school, and how he may be in the middle of dealing with this Ava thing, and how the fact that I want to know what’s happening so badly, even in the midst of a family crisis, is exactly the reason I should stay away. If there’s anything possibly going to happen between us, which could be entirely my imagination, I should stay away. For a day, at the very least.

  But if he is my friend, which he is, and I need somewhere to hide out for a while, which I do, there’s nothing wrong with that, right?

  He may not even be home.

  I’ll just . . . drive by and see.

  Noah’s house and his dad’s snow removal/landscaping business is on an acreage just on the other side of the river at the far edge of town, which is still only a three-minute drive, and maybe a fifteen-minute walk, from Main Street.

  When I get there, I pull onto the shoulder, trying to determine whether he’s there, though short of actually seeing him, that’s going to be difficult. And what if he sees me out here on the road, staring at his house?

  Stalker vibes. Not good.

  I’m about to leave when I hear honking, and suddenly I see him, pulling up in his stepmother Jen’s car, right behind me.

  Busted.

  He jumps out and comes toward me, and I open my window.

  “Hey!” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, casual, like I’m not having one of the most messed-up days ever, and like even in the middle of that messed-up day I’m not still dying to know whether he’s finally single and . . . “I was just . . . going to text to see if you were home. Didn’t want to bug Jen or your dad.”

  “You okay?” he says, those brown eyes of his all too perceptive.

  “Ish?”

  “You’re not.” He states it as a fact.

  “Well,” I say, with a tense shrug, “I thought I’d take you up on that . . . stomping thing. And also I might need you to harbor some runaway technology.”

  “Runaway technology?” he says, looking intrigued.

  “Long story.”

  “You know my Plan B if architecture doesn’t work out is to be a spy, right? Come on,” he says, and gestures toward his house.

  We both drive in, and meet a minute later on the cobblestone path to the front door. Noah lives in one of those gorgeous old redbrick farmhouses, with antique trim and a big, many-windowed addition at the back.

  “So, runaway technology?” he says. “Is that code for ‘stolen’?”

  “Kind of.”

  His
eyes widen. He looks so worried I almost laugh.

  “Oh, it’s nothing illegal—it’s my dad’s phone and our modem. It was a . . . preventative robbery,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Dad’s on a tear about Perry and I’m trying to keep him contained. You could think of it like holding on to someone’s car keys when they’ve had too much to drink—my dad shouldn’t have internet access when he’s upset.”

  Or at all.

  “It’s way more spy-like if I hide it,” Noah says. “I could bury it behind the barn.”

  “If that makes you happy,” I say. “But let’s wait till I hear from my mom, because it may not even be necessary. She was going to try to talk to him. Or something.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had a day,” he says, his angular face going serious again.

  “Yeah, things are a little intense.” I glance down at my phone, insides roiling. Jack has stopped calling and texting, and there’s nothing from my mom yet. “I’m . . . not trying to come here in a crisis and then refuse to talk about it, but . . .”

  “But you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “For a bit. If that’s okay.”

  “This is exactly what the Stomp is for,” he says. “Shall we?”

  I nod.

  “Unless you need to stomp alone. That’s cool too.”

  “No, let’s go,” I say.

  * * *

  —

  The Stomp goes through the copse of trees that separates the yard of the house from the landscape yard. It winds around the old barn where the snowplows are parked, involves some optional and nonoptional climbing over rolls of sod, giant boulders, and a small hill of quarry stone, and then rolls out onto the surrounding fields, over a tiny creek, around fallen branches, and so on.

  It’s hard at first. My body feels like a boulder I’m having to drag uphill. My shoulders are tense, my chest and back feel tight, and there’s a thrum of panic, barely under control just beneath the surface of everything. Basically I just want to crumple into a fetal position and rock back and forth until this is all somehow over.

  But I’m with Noah and he’s sharing this very cool thing with me. He sets a good pace, checking back over his shoulder frequently to make sure I’m all right, and I’m far too stubborn to lag behind. Before long my breath is coming faster, and soon I’m warm enough, even in the crisp spring air, to have to take my sweatshirt off and tie it around my waist. I have my phone in my pocket and I’m on alert for my mom to call or text, but the tightness in my chest is loosening and my thoughts have stopped racing. I’m still super emotional, maybe even more emotional, but I can actually take a full breath.

  “I feel better already,” I tell Noah, coming up close behind him.

  “Told you so.” The trail is wider here, and he slows down just enough that I catch up and walk beside him.

  “When I was younger and my parents were getting divorced, I had a couple years where I was just pissed off all the time. It was my dad who sent me outside to burn it off. ‘Go stomp it off, son.’ He used to let me kick the pile of pea gravel to wear myself out.”

  “I remember your angry phase.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course,” I say, with a sideways glance to make sure I’m not digging into something I shouldn’t be, but Noah’s expression is peaceful.

  “Hope I wasn’t too obnoxious.”

  “Nah, just gloomy and a little edgy. All that gravel kicking must’ve purged the worst of it.”

  “It’s very satisfying. It’s dusty, but it doesn’t do any damage. Anyway, that’s when we made the trail, and I still use it.”

  We walk for a few more minutes then head up a hill where a beam of the day’s last sunlight hits us, and pause there. The view is stunning, with rays of light streaking golden across the field.

  “Painters wait all day to capture this kind of light,” I say, slightly awestruck.

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” Noah says. “One of those things that’s almost easier to paint than capture with a photo.”

  “Easier for you, maybe.”

  “No, anyone I think. Either way you gotta grab it fast.”

  I nod.

  “In September and October you can go out into the middle of that field,” Noah points off to our left, “and fall straight backward into the grass without hurting yourself. It catches you. I like to just lie there looking up at the sky, totally alone in the world.”

  “That sounds really good right about now.”

  “Best to wear pants and long sleeves, or it gets itchy, though,” he says with a rueful chuckle. “Which I learned the hard way. But the grass, after you fall in it, forms a kind of nest with circular walls. I’m always trying to imagine how to design a building that would feel like that inside.”

  “With a domed roof, maybe,” I suggest.

  “Yeah,” he says, “sky-colored, or made of glass, with light-colored wood.”

  “I can picture Yaz making it into a yoga thing.”

  “Ha. There’s already Goat Yoga, Paddle Board Yoga. This could be . . . Field of Tall Grass Yoga? The slogan needs work,” he says with a grin. “But wow, I could host my own Burning Man.”

  “Except yogis aren’t known for pants and long sleeves, so it would be more like Itching Man,” I say, and he cracks up. “Or Itching Person. To be inclusive it has to be ‘person.’”

  “Yes! ‘Itching Person Yoga Festival’!” he says, raising a fist toward the sky. “It’s going to be huge.”

  We laugh, and it hurts like it’s shaking sharp things loose inside me, but it also feels good.

  Then I turn my face to the sun and close my eyes and pretend I can stay here forever.

  “Libby . . . ?” Noah says after a couple of minutes.

  “Mm?” I say, keeping my eyes closed.

  “I went to see Ava this afternoon.”

  Whoa. Back to reality. I open my eyes and try to study his expression, but he’s shifted to look at me, resulting in the sun being behind him, which means I can only see him in silhouette.

  “Oh?” I say in a desperate effort to sound neutral.

  “Yeah. I drove the two hours, and got there in time to pick her up from school. That’s where I just got back from.”

  “Maybe this wasn’t the right day for me to stomp.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Well,” I say with an awkward shrug, “would you rather be alone?”

  “No, this is good. It’s perfect. I needed to see her. But I’m fine. It’s all good.”

  “Good meaning . . . ?” I shift to try to see his face better just as he turns back toward the sunset. Argh.

  “I mean good,” he says, and though I can normally read him, this time I can’t—not from his tone, and definitely not by staring at the back of his head.

  What the heck does “good” mean? It could mean once they saw one another in person they realized they were madly in love after all. And they’ve hashed it out and decided she’s going to go on the gap year with him. Or he’s going to give up his gap year to be with her. Or they’re going to spend a bittersweet/tragic last few months together before he leaves. Or it could mean they had an entirely pleasant breakup and he’s already remembering her fondly.

  All I know is I’m not in the mood for guessing games.

  “All right, cool,” I say, and then turn abruptly and step out of the shaft of sun and start down the hill, following the path. I’m annoyed, but more with myself than with him, because I don’t need this. And anyway I should not be hoping for declarations from a boy who just broke up with his girlfriend today.

  If he broke up with her.

  “That’s great,” I add, over my shoulder, then focus on finding my footing on the narrowing, now-shadowy path.

  I get about five strides down before he says, “What . . . ? Libby, wait . . .”

/>   I school my face into neutral before stopping and turning back to him. “What?”

  “What just happened?” he says, lifting his arms to the side in obvious confusion.

  “Happened?” I’m attempting to channel my mother and her “everything is perfect” tone while being flooded with a wave of hurt and fury that I know are unreasonable.

  “Yeah,” he says, brow furrowed, “happened.”

  “Nothing happened. We’re stomping. We should probably finish the loop before it starts getting dark.”

  “But . . .” He stands there, all bewilderment, and asks, “Don’t you want to know how it turned out with me and Ava?”

  “Only if you want to tell me. Maybe you need to have your own . . . processing time and if so, great. No problem.” Yikes. I feel like I might cry. Or start screaming at him. Trying to forestall both of these possibilities, I turn and start down the trail again.

  “I just had two hours in the car to process,” he says, following me. “And I’d already done most of the processing I needed to do.”

  “Great,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “What?”

  “‘Great.’”

  “I don’t,” I say, determined to stay focusing forward, and moving forward.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’ve said it twice.”

  “Three times.”

  “Okay, three.” I stop and face him, hands on my hips. “So what?”

  “So you’re acting weird all of a sudden. You look . . . mad, or . . .”

  “I’m fine. I’m just . . .” I look down and busy myself untying my sweatshirt from my waist, trying to shove down my freak-show overreaction. “I’m just getting cold, that’s all.” I pull the sweatshirt over my head, grateful for the few brief moments he can’t see me. Maybe I’ll just stay here.