The Way Back to You

by Michelle Andreani

  His smirk flattens when he sees my expression.

  I absorb the sight of Zoë in a chiffon dress, the one she bought for our grandparents’ anniversary party. She’s holding an old-fashioned, boxy piece of luggage by its handle. Mom brought it home from a yard sale as decoration, but Zoë’s been eyeing it for its intended use ever since. If blood wasn’t pooling in my brain, I’d laugh.

  “Remember when we talked on the phone fifteen minutes ago?” I say to her, keeping my voice low. “Did I black out during the part when you told me we’re in the same city?”

  Zoë throws Matty a stunned look. Perhaps she was expecting a group hug instead of a crazed girl ready to breathe fire. “We wanted to surprise you,” Zoë tells me.

  I glance between her and Matty. “We?”

  “Technically, it was my uncle’s idea,” Matty says. “He even persuaded my parents—the guy is shockingly charming for a dentist. And when I checked in on Zoë yesterday, I told her about it, and she jumped on board. Long story short: we got here a couple hours ago.”

  Two women slip between us to ogle a tall arrangement of feng shui coins mounted on bamboo stalks and cinched together like a bouquet.

  “How?” I ask him. “You don’t have your car back yet.”

  He clears his throat. “We rode the bus.”

  When I glance at Zoë, she stops fidgeting with the small silver digital camera in her hands and gives me a perky nod. “It was so fun, Cloudy. We drove through this big chunk of eastern Oregon, and then through Nevada, and maybe even some of Area Fifty-One. The driver wouldn’t tell us, though.”

  Matty props his hands on his hips, so at ease wherever he is. “Zoë questioned him about it until, like, two in the morning, too. Persistence must be a family quality.”

  “You took my little sister on an overnight bus ride to another state? I could have you arrested!”

  He shrinks away from me. “She wanted to come!”

  “I did,” Zoë tsks. “God, you’re acting like he kidnapped me.”

  Moaning, I rub my temples. “You are so lucky I can’t tell Mom and Dad about this.”

  Her glance swings over to Matty, and he raises his eyebrows at her, some kind of signal.

  “There’s something else I should tell you,” Zoë says.

  A ripple zigzags through my stomach. “What?”

  She chews her lip, inhaling deeply. “I told Ashlyn’s mom about the trip. She knows you and Kyle have been seeing the recipients.”

  I rock back as if the news is a physical force. “What?”

  “The dishwasher started leaking all over the kitchen floor.” Zoë’s voice wobbles when she’s panicked, and it’s doing it now. “I was scared it would ruin the wood, and I didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Montiel was the only adult I could think to call.”

  My mind is on overload. Thoughts are racing through it like a news ticker, and I can’t keep up, so I cover my face with my hands to force it still. But it’s already a fight for me to breathe. “So?”

  “So when she came over, she asked me where you were.”

  Heat slashes through me, and I let my arms fall. “You couldn’t come up with some excuse?”

  “I couldn’t lie to her, Cloudy.” She shakes her head. “Not about this.”

  Matty is nodding at her side. They’re teammates and I’m playing defense. “When did this happen?”

  She watches the toes of her ballet flats on the shiny floor. “Sunday.”

  “And after texting me a thousand times this week, you’re only telling me this now?”

  “I was afraid you’d come straight back if you knew. And Mrs. Montiel’s not mad at you or anything.”

  “How could she not be mad at me?”

  “She wishes you’d been honest about it. She said it could’ve gotten her into a lot of trouble—not to mention you, too. But she was also kind of proud that you’re doing this. She didn’t think you seemed all that interested in the recipients last week. She didn’t think you’d go see them.”

  My chest tightens. “Is she going to say anything to Mom and Dad?”

  “Maybe. But she’d probably rather have us tell them.” Zoë pats me softly on the arm. “She does expect you to give her all the details once we’re back.”

  I just want to be back now.

  No. I just want it to be last week, when the biggest thing on my to-do list was putting together that stupid gift basket. Way before Mrs. Montiel ever told me about the recipients and those emails.

  And she’s known about us since Sunday, when we were driving out of Sacramento and down to LA. She’s had five days to believe the worst of me. To imagine all the ways I’ve invaded her privacy and taken advantage of her kindness. I may have had a noble excuse for doing it, but it doesn’t change the fact that I went behind her back to get what I wanted.

  I guess I’m doing that a lot.

  “And now,” Zoë chirps, “I can also give her details! Of the wedding, anyway.”

  Suddenly, the floral scent is too much. It makes my head soupy and my stomach queasy, so I focus on one thing: Zoë. Here. The suffocation presses at me from all sides.

  “You have to stop.”

  Zoë’s skin is a little pale. “Stop what?”

  “You can’t be here,” I shoot back. “You have to leave.”

  “Cloudy?” Matty says it like he’s not sure I really am Cloudy.

  “And don’t text me anymore,” I tell her. I don’t know where that came from, some dark pit inside of me, but it feels sharp enough, so it feels right.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “You keep texting me, and you expect me to be there all the time to give you attention. But you’re always there. You’re at home, and at school, you’re even on the cheer team. And now you’re here, too? You’re like one of those fruit flies that won’t get out of my face, and all I want is for you to leave me alone!”

  We’re both too quiet. Then: “Screw you, Cloudy.”

  “Zoë—”

  “I’m only trying to be a part of your life. Being in your face is the only way you’ll pay attention to me—and that doesn’t even work. I’m the one who gave you the idea for this trip, and you didn’t ask if I wanted to come! But I’m doing the best I can. And maybe if you’d be honest with me for once, instead of pretending everything is perfect, I’d know what to do. I’m trying so hard, and you don’t care.”

  I’ve started moving, doing the only thing that’s been keeping me from falling apart so far: getting away.

  Behind me, Zoë calls out, “Where are you going?”

  I follow along whatever wide hallway I find first, blowing by a salon, and a restaurant, and windows overlooking the enormous pool area. Air clatters around in my chest, and I press a hand to my stomach. When I blindly round another corner, what I see in front of me freezes my struggling lungs.

  A young bride—not Sonia; I tell myself she’s not Sonia—and another girl are standing, huddled together, in front of a large, gilded mirror on the wall. The bride is in a floor-length, eggshell-white dress with lacy cap sleeves; her friend’s is navy blue, the hem hitting at midcalf. Instead of passing them, I scuttle backward, farther into a corner. The bride’s face tightens in worry while her friend fiddles with the neckline of her gown. When the friend leans away, brandishing a pair of cuticle scissors, they giggle.

  “I guess you get what you pay for,” the bride says, smiling and shaking out her skirt.

  Her friend dismisses that with a wave. “It was just a stray thread. Besides, you are so not self-centered enough to truly believe today would go a hundred percent smoothly.”

  They both laugh again, working jointly to smooth out the delicate embellishments on the bride’s bodice. Their closeness is as tangible as anything else in this hallway. I feel it like bulky hands on my shoulders; I feel it until it wraps around my throat and squeezes.

  I’ll never stand like that with Ashlyn on her wedding day.

  I’ll never know what dress she’d wear
. Satin, organza, lace, cream, ivory, blush—I’ll never be with her when she chooses one.

  I’ll never room with her at college, or help her move into her first apartment, or sit next to her on a plane. I’ll never snip a thread from her clothes. I’ll never laugh with her again, or talk her down from a freak-out, or look in her eyes.

  Or belong with anyone as much as I did with her.

  And the rest of my life will be one never-ending reminder of that.

  My brain is doing the news-ticker thing again, and no matter how many breaths I take, it won’t stop or slow down. I’m off-kilter and the ground is spongy under my feet and nothing is stable or right side up.

  I double back the way I came, getting far from the two friends. My legs pump, and my strides get shorter and shorter as a bitter taste crawls up my esophagus and my eyes begin to burn. I make a right and find myself in a dead end—but then I spot the door to the ladies’ room. I burst inside and hurry by the row of sinks, straight into a stall. There’s a loud metallic clink as I slam the lock shut.

  My spine presses against the door as I fan my face with my hands. But it’s too late. The tears are hot tracks running down my cheeks, singeing proof that I am weak. That I am a liar—not only because of the things I’ve said to other people, but the things I’ve told myself. Because I’m nothing but afraid.

  I am. I’m terrified of this—of feeling all of this. I’m afraid of the things I walled away so I wouldn’t have to deal with them. I’m not sure if I can survive it, if I’ll come out the other end. So I’ve shoved it somewhere, cramped and neglected, until I didn’t miss Ashlyn anymore.

  But I miss her. I miss her. No matter how much I force myself not to, I miss her.

  The stall goes blurry and my lips part in a sob. My shoulders push back into the stall door once more; it makes a shaky noise but barely budges. After all the escaping I’ve done, I’ve managed to end up here. Trapped. And now there’s only me, alone, with nowhere else to run.

  Kyle

  Back when my dad brought me to Las Vegas, we watched fountain shows at the man-made lake outside the Bellagio but never came inside the hotel. Now, as I’m stepping into the Bellagio’s lobby with my nerves rattling, I’m hit with the scent of fresh flowers, and all I can think is that Cloudy would love it here.

  Aunt Robin and Uncle Matthew’s time-share is nice. But this? This is so far beyond. It’s gold and cream and white and marble as far as I can see. It’s hundreds of blown-glass blossoms in every color of the rainbow mounted to the ceiling. It’s pillars and archways and extravagant floral arrangements and potted plants taller than I am.

  This is the very definition of whoa and Cloudy has chosen to miss it.

  When I woke up this morning, I’d wanted to explain why I lashed out about Oatman. I’d wanted to tell her that I know she took me on this trip and to Shannon only because she was trying to help me. I’d wanted for us to head outside, find Arm together, and bring her safely back to the condo. Basically, my intention was to try to reverse everything I did wrong yesterday before the wedding at eleven o’clock today.

  None of it ended up happening. Cloudy left before I dragged myself downstairs for the breakfast buffet at eight a.m. (The only reason I know she slept in our suite at all is because the clothes she wore yesterday are in a pile and her bed’s unmade.) Cloudy has no clue Arm is lost; she never came back during the two hours of my (once-again failed) search during daylight hours, or while I was ironing my shirt and slacks and getting ready.

  Obviously, she’s avoiding me and I deserve it. I wish I hadn’t shut her out. But for her to text that she’s not attending the wedding? To refuse to pick up when I call? Why would she be like that? We don’t know the soon-to-be-married couple, but truthfully, us coming here was more about Ashlyn than them anyway. And Cloudy not coming here shouldn’t be about her and me.

  Even though it feels impossible, I have to accept that Cloudy made her own choice. I have to stop thinking about Shannon. I have to get through this alone.

  Keeping in mind the directions to the chapel the Bellagio valet listed off when he took my car, I make my way across the lobby, spotting people wearing business suits, tank tops and shorts, and everything in between. The sign I’m supposed to keep an eye out for is “Convention Center.” (I’m guessing they don’t have a “Chapel” sign in the main lobby so fewer random weirdos will try to sneak into weddings.)

  I’m not sure if there’s going to be a guest check-in for the ceremony, or if attendees will have to show invitations to be allowed in. No matter what happens, though, whether I’m able to witness the wedding or not, I just want to catch one glimpse of Sonia. I want to know without a doubt that she’s happy on this day, which was made possible with the help of her seventeen-year-old heart.

  As I approach the far end of the lobby and walk past a fountain designed with cherubs on pillars, the fragrance in the air becomes even more noticeable, and strong incense now competes with the flowers. I slow my steps to stare ahead into the huge indoor garden spread before me. The theme is entirely Asian, with a gazebo, paper lanterns hanging everywhere, bamboo stalks shooting toward the domed-glass ceiling, and . . .

  Two life-sized panda bears constructed from flowers and leaves!

  I don’t believe in fate, but coming across plant sculptures of Ashlyn’s favorite animal at this time when she’s so very much on my mind makes me glad I’m here.

  Stepping into the garden for a closer look, I breathe deeply and stand perfectly still, taking it all in.

  Beside me, Matty says, “Ashlyn would have loved this.”

  My words come without thought. “I know.”

  Then I turn and gape at my cousin.

  “It’s rad that they have the Chinese New Year decorations up.” There’s worry in Matty’s eyes, but his lips are upturned. “Except, I don’t know about you, but I’m fighting a serious urge to hug that baby panda. I don’t even care that it’s made of flowers.”

  And just like that, I’m fighting a serious urge to hug him. “Matty. Holy crap!”

  “I know, I know. I get that this is yours and Cloudy’s deal and you’re pissed that I’m—”

  “No!” I shake my head. “I’m not pissed.”

  He drops his hands. “You’re not? Because I have, like, a whole argument ready if necessary.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Of all the places in the world that either of us could be right now, we both ended up in Bellagio Las Vegas. Somehow, he managed to show up when I needed someone. And now I’m not alone.

  Matty breaks into a grin. “I’m tempted to check you for a fever, but I’ll just go with it instead.” He lightly punches my arm. “Hey, Zo! Look who I found.”

  Ten feet away, Cloudy’s sister has on a red ruffled dress and is resting her elbows on a fence. She glances up and, spotting us together, grabs the very old suitcase at her feet. The way her shoulders are hunched gives me a clue that either it’s much heavier than it looks, or she’s not as enthused as Matty.

  “This is such an amazing surprise,” I say as Zoë comes to stand beside us.

  “Aaaand we’ve officially arrived in Backward Land.” Matty is still grinning as he bounces on the balls of his feet. “It’s a magical place where my cousin is happy to see us, and your sister wants to cut our hearts out with a spoon.”

  Zoë gasps and looks around, as if Matty was shouting curse words in front of the three little kids running past. Her voice is hushed and urgent. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that where Sonia or her family might hear you.”

  For a second, Matty falls silent, mulling it over. Then: “Oh, shit! I wasn’t even thinking about”—he lowers his voice—“the heart thing. I was quoting a movie.”

  She lifts her eyebrows high over the top of her glasses.

  “I swear!”

  I want to grill Matty about when it was that he talked to Cloudy and what she told him, but he isn’t ready to let
Zoë’s scolding go. “You’ve seen the Robin Hood movie that’s always on TV, right?” he asks us. “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves? It takes place in England, but Robin Hood sounds American because Kevin Costner couldn’t get the accent right.”

  Zoë shakes her head, but I nod.

  “Well, there’s this one part. It’s classic. Professor Snape—as the evil Sheriff of Nottingham—gets slashed across the face with a knife by Robin Hood. So he yells, ‘I’m going to cut your you-know-what out with a spoon!’”

  “‘You-know-what’?” Zoë asks. “That’s what he yells?”

  Matty heaves a playful sigh. “No. It’s that one word, which starts with an h and rhymes with dart. Can you please try to keep up?”

  She giggles, almost against her will, it seems. “I read somewhere that modern American accents are more similar to Old English than modern English accents. So it’s possible Kevin Costner was the actor in that movie who spoke most authentically.”

  Matty’s jaw drops and he turns to me. “Wow. This is what this girl does. Turns a person’s whole world upside down. We were by the little pond around the corner and she told me ‘koi’ isn’t the Japanese word for goldfish. They’re two totally different kinds of fish. Who knew?”

  I clear my throat, anxious to steer the conversation back to where it started. “So, you were saying you talked to Cloudy?”

  Zoë deflates again, and Matty shoots me a look, like that’s the one question I shouldn’t have asked.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Cloudy isn’t the best at handling surprises. That’s all that’s going on,” Matty says, firmly. “It’s something we’ll need to keep in mind the next time we take a Greyhound bus adventure behind her back. I do have to give her credit for the dramatic exit, though. The flowers wilted in terror.”

  “Are you saying you saw her? Here in the Bellagio?”

  “Here in this very conservatory,” Zoë says. “Five minutes before you walked in.”

  “Don’t you love being able to say we’re in the conservatory?” Matty asks. “It’s like the game of Clue, except it’s our lives. I accuse Miss Cloudy Marlowe of committing the crime. In the conservatory. With the spoon.”