The fourth plate sits cold and untouched at Libby’s empty chair. And later, when we’re all cleaning up the kitchen, my mom wraps the plate in plastic wrap, making the edges painstakingly smooth, before she slides the whole thing into the fridge with a sad carefulness that makes me cringe.
Even a Libby who is M.I.A. can’t ruin my night, I decide, as I pad across the grass. It’s nine o’clock, and I have baggy flannel pants on, and there’s definitely studying I have to do. Yet here I am, barefoot in the cool grass, tiptoeing around in the dark to find Mitchell. It’s a beautiful night, and I’m pushing the disappearing Libby to the back of my mind.
That’s what I think, at least, until a mysterious car squeals into the parking lot, pounding heavy metal music echoing from inside and making the windows shake. I bite my lip and sneak a little closer, wondering who it could be, even as the answer sneaks into my head: Libby.
I can’t exactly make out who’s in the car, but from the shuffling and laughing, it sounds like a whole lot more people than that vehicle is legally equipped to hold.
The car comes to a shaky stop, and someone turns the music down.
“Your stop, little lady.” A booming male voice drifts across the parking lot, and a chorus of laughter follows.
“I know, I know.” Libby’s voice this time. “I’m trying to—Jesus, Greg, could you at least pretend to move out of the way—?”
More laughter and then the door closest to me swings open. Libby tumbles out, dressed in a very tiny skirt and a top that I can tell is see-through from all the way over here. I can just barely make out a large guy with a girl perched on his lap in the backseat.
“Watch where you’re going, bitch.” The big guy grins and pulls the door shut after Libby as the crowd in the car hoots with laughter.
I cringe, and my face floods with heat.
Libby brushes herself off and flips the guy off. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and saunters up to the driver’s door, leaning in and planting a kiss right on the driver’s lips. I can’t tell who it is in the dark, but his outline definitely looks big. And tall. And clearly older than her.
The guy is the one to break the kiss, reaching up and tousling her hair. “See you tomorrow, babe.”
“Tomorrow.” Libby steps back and waves.
Someone turns the music up again, and the angry screamo singer fills the night air as tires burn their way out of the parking lot.
Libby stares off after the car long after it disappears into the night, arms crossed. Slowly, she turns in the direction of home.
I want to be able to let this go. She was just with some friends. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
But I find myself marching up to her as she makes her way home. My bare feet disguise my footsteps, so she doesn’t hear me until I speak.
“Libby.”
She whirls around at the sound of her name, almost falling off balance. Her expression relaxes when she sees me. And then, a half-second later, it tenses again.
“What are you doing out here?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Taking a walk.” I’m not really sure what to say. “Who were those people?”
“Oh god. I knew it.” She shakes her head. “I knew you were about to interrogate me for no reason.”
“It’s a simple question, Libby. It’s not an interrogation.” I roll my eyes. “What’s the big deal? They’re your friends, right?”
“Right,” she snaps.
“So why can’t you just tell me who they are? I’d tell you if you ever asked who I was hanging out with.”
“That’s because your answer is always Leah,” she sneers.
It’s true. Well, now there’s Mitchell too, but Libby doesn’t need to know that. Even so, her answer still stings. “It’s because they’re older, isn’t it?”
“They’re in high school. And soon, I’m going to be in high school. So what’s the big deal?”
“You’re going to be a freshman. There’s a big difference between a senior and a freshman.” I take a step closer and sniff the air. “Jesus, Libby. You smell like beer.”
“Josie, you are not my mom.” She takes a step backward. “Some of the other kids had a few beers. But I didn’t. It’s not a big deal.”
“Some of the other kids? Like the one driving the car?”
“No, not the one driving the car.” Her voice becomes more and more shrill as she talks. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”
“That guy called you a bitch.” For some reason, this is what bothers me the most.
“He was joking. God.”
“If he was really your friend, he wouldn’t joke like that.”
“Please. People call each other that all the time.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and turns around. “I’m done with this.”
“Libby.” I mean for my voice to come out strict, but it comes out pleading.
She snaps back around. “What?”
I bite my lip. “Could you just promise to try and be careful? Please?”
She rolls her eyes at this. And without an answer, she turns and makes her way to the cabin, leaving me standing alone in the dark.
I start following her but stop, turn, walk a few steps in the opposite direction, and then stop again. My heart is pounding in my ears, and for some stupid reason, my hands are trembling.
Where am I going again? Mitchell. That’s right. I’m on my way to see Mitchell.
But I stop again, after just a few steps toward his cabin. My confrontation with Libby has me all worked up. I can’t see Mitchell like this. He has enough to worry about without worrying about me.
So I can’t go find Mitchell. And I can’t go home, because I might say something I regret. To Libby or to my mom or to both.
So I trudge toward the Sanctuary. There are no lights on, and it looks nice and dark and quiet. I’ll be able to be alone.
But of course, I’m not. Because when the door swings open, I see a low fire smoldering in the stone fireplace. And sitting in front of the fire is a person, cross-legged and jabbing at the embers with a long stick. A messy-haired, lanky, broad-shouldered person.
I try to sneak back out, but Mitchell turns at the sound of the creaking door.
“Josie?” He squints in the darkness. “How’d you know I was in here?”
“I didn’t.” I stand awkwardly by the door in case he wishes I would leave.
But he scoots over and pats the smooth stone floor to his right. I cross the room and settle into the spot next to him, knees pulled up to my chest. We’re only an inch apart—maybe even closer—but we’re not touching.
He looks at my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My reply comes automatically. I glance at him, notice the slump in his shoulders, the way his lips are pressed together. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” But he sounds hesitant.
We sit in silence for a minute. A long minute. It’s borderline awkward, the not-talking and the not-touching, after what happened in the truck this afternoon. I think about leaving. But I don’t.
Mitchell pushes his stick farther into the flames, until the end finally ignites.
“It’s stupid. You know?” He studies the mini-fire as it slowly creeps up the stick.
“What? Playing with fire?”
His lips curve upward. “No. Playing with fire is awesome.”
“You know what they say. Those who play with fire . . .”
“Have a great time,” he finishes.
I laugh, and he shakes his head. “What I meant was, it’s stupid how we humans have this natural compulsion to always be okay. To assure everyone that everything’s fine, even when it’s not. Like it’s a sign of weakness to be upset or something.”
I pull the bottom hem of my flannel pants down over my cold toes. “Maybe it all goes back to natural selection. Survival of the fittest.”
“Be okay or die?” The corners of his mouth turn up.
I nod. “Exactly.”
“Well
.” He carefully pulls the end of the stick toward his face, and with one quick breath, he blows out the flames. “I think that’s stupid.”
The fire pops, and then the room is quiet. I sigh.
“It’s just this thing.” I fidget. “With Libby.”
He points at me. “Don’t do that.”
I frown. “Do what?”
“Don’t just your problems. It’s just this thing with Libby. Like it’s not a big deal.” He shakes his head. “If it’s a big deal to you, then it’s a big deal.”
I stare at him, and he stares back, his eyes wide and serious, and my heart melts a little bit. I’m still not used to this Mitchell, the one who’s serious and real and not all happy-go-lucky and booming laughter and easy smiles all the time. It still knocks me off balance sometimes.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “I saw her, just a minute ago. Out there.” I nod toward the door.
“Libby?”
I reach down next to me, running my fingers over the cool stone floor. “She was in a car stuffed with high school kids, and some were drinking, and I just got upset—”
He clears his throat and raises his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay. I got upset. Because . . .”
He pokes a burning log with his stick, and sparks fly up. “Because why?”
“I’m not . . . I don’t really know. Because she’s my little sister and she’s growing up too fast, I guess? And my mom isn’t looking after her like she should. I mean, I don’t even drink and I’m eighteen. She’s fourteen. I barely knew what a beer looked like at fourteen. It’s like she’s moving on fast-forward. Like if I were to leave for a month, I’d come back and she’d have turned into some kind of alcoholic drug-dealer, and I wouldn’t even recognize her.”
“An alcoholic and a drug-dealer?” Mitchell snorts. “That’s actually pretty ambitious.”
I wince. “I’m rambling. I know.”
“No, you’re not.” He uncrosses his legs, pulling one knee up to his chest. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Sometimes, with family . . . you have to take a step back.” He exhales. “And I know that sounds harsh. But sometimes you have to disconnect yourself. Because there’s nothing you can do.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
But I don’t know if he’s right or not. I take a deep breath in and then slowly let it out. I glance sideways; his profile is illuminated by the flickering firelight, his dark-brown eyes turned warm and chocolaty, his skin pink and flushed, his lips pressed together in a firm straight line.
“So.” I nudge his shoulder. “Your turn.”
He snaps his stick in half and tosses the pieces into the flames. “My dad wants me to talk to her.” He leans forward and rests his chin on his knee. “And the rational part of me knows I should. But the bigger, angrier part of me can’t do it. In a very real and literal way. Like, I cannot get my legs to physically move, or my mouth to speak actual words to her without feeling like I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” He pauses. “And then another part of me feels guilty and terrible, like the shitty person I am.”
“I feel like that. When I think about my dad, I feel like that.”
He glances at me. “Really?”
I nod. “Like I can’t ever forgive him. Not in this lifetime. Not in a thousand lifetimes. And like I can’t believe my mom can.”
“Exactly.” Mitchell bites his lip. “The thought of her getting to live here, with him—and my dad, just allowing it—it makes me want to leave and never come back.”
The fire in front of us has shrunk into a pile of seething embers, burning with a dull red glow.
Out of nowhere, Mitchell laughs.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” He grins at me.
I can’t help it—I lean into him, pressing my shoulder into his, wanting to feel his warmth and his soft sweatshirt, wanting to be a part of that smile.
I shrug. “All the best people are messy.”
All of a sudden, his arms are around me, and I am in his lap and leaning against his chest, and all I can hear is the steady thump of his heart.
I feel comfy and warm and safe, and also nervous and clumsy, like the slightest shift in my body weight might hurt him.
I pull away slightly and whisper, “Am I crushing you?”
“Shut up,” he whispers back. He tightens his arms around me, and I smile into his chest.
We sit like this for a full minute. Then two. Then three or four or five. I can feel the tension leaving his shoulders, feel his breathing evening out, feel his chin growing heavy on the top of my head. I close my eyes.
“I’ll be gone soon,” he mumbles, so quiet I can barely hear him. Like he’s reassuring himself.
My eyes fly open. My shoulders tense. I don’t think he notices. I’m not sure he even knows he spoke out loud.
He nuzzles my hair with his chin and gently nudges my head to the side, his lips landing softly on my hair and then on the corner of my eye.
I want to turn my face up to meet him, to feel his soft hair under my palms.
But. I’ll be gone soon.
I yank my head back and tumble out of his lap, scraping my knee on the stone floor.
“Josie?” His reaches out to help me, eyes filled with concern.
I scramble to my feet, quickly and not-at-all gracefully. “I’m fine.”
He stands so suddenly that he stumbles a little, and his face is dangerously close to mine again.
“Are you okay?” His forehead wrinkles into adorable creases.
“I have to study. I just remembered. About studying.” I sound lame, and I know it. I shift from foot to foot.
“Oh. Okay.” He kneads his hands together and opens his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off.
“See you tomorrow,” I mumble, reaching in and giving him a quick hug.
“Tomorrow,” he echoes.
But I’m already turning away, already striding across the dark room. Already out the door.
I cross my arms as I walk back to my cabin, shivering in the now-chilly darkness.
I’ll be gone soon. He didn’t mean anything by it. And I know that we’re nothing serious, nothing official. We’re nothing, period. Just messing around, just a distraction from his problems, and from mine. I’m not that crazy girl, the one who gets too attached, who makes something out of nothing. I’m not the girl who lets herself get hurt by a boy.
I’m none of those things. So I’m fine with Mitchell leaving. Totally fine. After all, I always knew he would.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mitchell
The door swings shut behind Josie as she dashes out of sight. I slowly sit back down, staring blankly at the last few glowing embers in the fireplace.
That was weird. I thought after what happened earlier in my truck, after our heart-to-heart tonight, that Josie would be fine if I kissed her again. I never get that personal with anyone. Not even Cord knows that much about my feelings. And I’ve been dying, dying, to kiss her again. It’s all I’ve thought about, all night long.
But she sprinted out of here like her house was on fire. Or like the Sanctuary was on fire. Or maybe like she was on fire. Whatever was on fire, a rejection like this definitely stings a little bit. Or a lot, actually.
Maybe I’m moving too fast. A girl like Josie—careful and thoughtful and smart—maybe she needs a little bit more time to get used to the idea of her and me. The idea of us.
Or, maybe she decided she doesn’t really like me that much. That’s a possibility. A horrible possibility, but still.
Well, I refuse to accept that. Until I hear the words Mitchell Morrison, I don’t like you like that come out of her mouth, I’m going to keep forging ahead. Full steam.
Sighing, I stand up and switch on a lamp. The room glows in the soft light, and I settle myself down on the couch with a notebook in my lap.
It’s time to plan my trip, and my summer. Graduation is in two weeks, and then I’m taking off. I j
ust don’t know where yet. I applied to a bunch of summer jobs at national parks across the country, but I haven’t heard back. I’m supposed to have some answers by next Friday, but I’m nervous. Because whether I get a yes or a bunch of no’s, I’m still driving away the day after graduation. No matter what.
I put my pen to the paper and scratch away, writing a list of things I’ll need. And then I scratch out a tentative budget.
And then . . . nothing. My pen hovers over the paper, twitching, itching to write, but my mind is a blank white space. I’m trying to picture where I’ll go. If it’ll be jagged red rocks zooming past my window or frost-tipped mountains or foam-capped waves or swamps or lakes or deserts. Moose with wet muzzles and thick fuzzy antlers, sunbaked alligators, coiled rattlesnakes, a rocky ledge piled with fat and happy seals. If I’ll need to pack sweatshirts or swim trunks or both.
I’m trying so hard to picture it, to plan, but I can’t. The uncertainty makes it too hard.
And the other hard part? Every time I try to picture myself driving—with both hands on the wheel and into some unknown American landscape—I can’t help but picture a pair of bare feet propped up on the dashboard beside me. A battered copy of Pride and Prejudice stuffed in the glove compartment. Wisps of soft brown hair tickling my face as they escape from a thick braid. A smiling face leaning out the window. Josie right beside me. Josie everywhere with me.
Shit. This is going to be a problem.
The ride to school this morning isn’t awkward, exactly. But it’s not great, either. We make small talk and chat about nothing. We’ll take things slow. I’ll give her some space.
Which is why I’m just as surprised as her when, ten minutes from school, the words, “Let’s go to the lake,” come out of my mouth.
Josie scrunches up her nose. “The lake?”
“Lake Margaret,” I say, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s go.”
“Like after school?”
“Like . . . right now.”
“Skip school.” Her voice is dubious, and she looks out the window. “I don’t know, Mitchell. We’re almost there.”
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