“No, Becca. It’s fine.” He holds his hands, palms out, between us, warding me off like I’m rabid. “Darby’s got a warped point. At least I know I won’t regret walking away from you.” Shaking his head again, he backs away a few paces before turning and striding back inside.
When he’s gone, I turn on Darby. “Don’t ever meddle in my life again.”
Darby crosses her arms over her chest and shrugs. “But that’s what friends are for.”
I growl deep in my throat as I walk toward the back gate. When I pass Darby, I don’t regret reaching out and shoving her in the shoulder. She loses her balance and topples with a giant splash and a loud shriek into the pool.
“Oops,” I grumble. “Sorry, friend.”
I walk around front, pulling out my phone. I’m so angry I’m shaking. Screw you, Charlotte, for leaving me all alone with this giant mess. And damn you, Darby Jones, for making sense in your own twisted fashion. And fuck me for not getting out of my own way sooner.
I’m done with regret. My life. My terms. I flip to my contacts and listen to the ringing on the other side.
As soon as Max picks up I start talking. “I’m going to kiss you.”
“What? Becca? Are you okay?”
“It’s the only way. I think about it all the time—kissing you. And so if we just get it over with, then, you know, I’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“Whether or not you’re worth risking my life over.”
“Risking?”
“Yes. Because if I fall for you, Max, and then something happens like—” I don’t explain. I don’t have to. “Well, I wouldn’t survive that—not again.”
“Where are you?”
I sigh. “Thomas Harrison’s house.”
There is a heavy silence on the other end of the line. I imagine the string between the two tin cans Charlie and I used as phones in the fort in the backyard one summer—we pulled so hard it snapped.
“To be more specific, I’m walking down the street in his fancy neighborhood, away from his house. He’s drunk, and I think he forgot that we weren’t actually rehearsing the play.”
“Did he—”
“He kissed me. But, Max, I don’t want to kiss Thomas. I want to kiss you.”
There’s a beat of silence that drags on for what feels like years before he asks, “Are you okay—you’re not hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m just pissed at myself and embarrassed, and there may be a reward for my head since I kind of pushed Darby in the pool on my way out.”
Max laughs, and I can hear his truck coughing to life. “I’m on my way, but stay on the phone, okay?”
I nod, which is dumb, but my throat is too full of apologies and regret and longing, so I can’t say anything. “Wait, Max.” My voice shakes with the weight of a new realization. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Becca, I said I’m on my way, didn’t I?”
The grin on my face is the stuff of romantic legends. It’s downright Arthurian.
I’m sitting on the curb outside the gates of Thomas’s neighborhood when Max pulls up.
He stops the truck and gets out, meeting me around the front, the headlights blinding us like twin spotlights.
His hair is a rumpled mess, and his shirt is tucked up in his jeans on one side, and in the bright lights, I notice that he’s got a long purple splatter of paint running up one leg and across his T-shirt.
He’s perfect.
I don’t stop walking, but collide into him—giving in to the irresistible force of my emotions. I erase any space between us. I slide my fingers through the inky hair at the nape of his neck and pull his face down toward mine. When my lips finally find his, all the tumbling, crashing chaos inside me stills on impact. This moment, this one right here, is worth my life.
Act Third
Scene One
[Becca’s house]
Max holds my hand as we walk up the steps to my porch. The street is mostly dark, but my parents have left our porch lights on. I’m smiling on the inside because this feels like fiction, but it’s not. I squeeze Max’s hand, and he gently returns the pressure. That’s real. He’s real. Which means I’m real, too.
“You there, Bec?”
“Huh?” I blink and pull myself back from wandering further into my thoughts. Max chuckles.
“You kind of spaced out on me.”
“Sorry, I was thinking of a book.” He gives me a wry smile and steps closer. “The Velveteen Rabbit.”
“One of your top three,” Max says, showing off his impeccable listening skills. We spent an hour sitting in Max’s truck outside Thomas’s fancy neighborhood and talking about silly little things. Things that don’t feel like much on their own, but when you add them up, they give a relationship weight and heft—substance to keep it standing. Like the heavy pincushion bottom of the Velveteen Rabbit, filled with sawdust to keep him upright.
“Mom would read it to me when I was little and tell me I was like the little rabbit. She said one day I’d look up from my books and find that someone had made me real. And that always scared me because the Skin Horse says it’s painful, becoming real, and I believed him. And he’s right because love is…messy.”
Max smiles at me, a half grin, like I’ve said something that may be amusing, but he’s not sure. And then it hits me. I’m talking about Charlotte and how loving her, her fierce friendship, made me real, but maybe that’s not what he thinks I’m talking about and—“Not that we’re in love.”
I want to open the door and get as far away from this sudden embarrassment. I can feel a verbal onslaught building in my chest; it’s not going to make this situation any better. “I’m not saying that we’re in love because that’d be crazy. I mean we’ve only just, and I don’t know the first thing, really.” Max’s eyes and his smile have been growing larger with every stupid word I utter. I can’t look at his beautiful face any longer, so I drop my gaze to his chest and focus on the flickering flames of his Fahrenheit 451 shirt.
“Finished?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says, tipping up my chin so he can look me in the eye. His laugh is a low note on a cello. “I’m going to kiss you now. It’s the only way to know.”
“You probably should have done it fifteen seconds ago. Would have spared us both.”
“No. I like your book recommendations,” he says, his crooked smile hovering above my lips. His eyelids slide closed, and I should close mine, but his lips look so wonderful. I watch them until I’m about to go cross-eyed, then close mine.
Max’s fingers tangle in my hair as he cradles my head. He hugs me so tightly that I can imagine those burning red flames from his shirt spreading across my own chest, engulfing us both. I pull him tighter, afraid I can no longer breathe on my own, and if he takes his mouth from mine, I will surely suffocate with want.
There’s a knocking, and I think for a second it’s my racing heart, but Max pulls away and cocks his head, looking at the front door. “I think someone’s knocking.”
“But we’re outside.”
There’s another series of rapid-fire knocks. I reach out and open the door. Dad is standing in the foyer looking sheepish.
“We heard a car and I looked out the window and”—Dad clears his throat—“your mother wants to know if you two would like to come in and have some ice cream.”
“Why’d you knock?”
“Well…” Dad’s mouth twitches. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Please let the warped wood of the floorboards swallow me alive.
Dad looks at Max. “Good to see you again, Max. I’m trying really hard to be cool right now.”
Max shakes his hand. “You’re doing an excellent job.” They nod at each other, and, yes, this is all very civil but—
“Tell Mom I said, ‘We’re not hungry for ice cream’.” I step between them and grab the doorknob.
Dad’s eyebrow curls. “Right. Will do.” He’s about to turn away when
he adds, “But she’s got toppings.”
“Bye, Dad,” I say, closing the door.
Max is chuckling, his hands shoved in his pockets. I lean the crown of my head against the shut door, staring down at my shoes.
Max whirls me toward him, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Your dad is a good guy. He seems very”—he pinches his face up, searching for the right word—“hip?”
I lace my arms around him, laughing as I look up at his face. He schools his expression into one of mock seriousness. “But, Becca, next time someone asks if we want ice cream, remember the answer is always, ‘Yes, please.’ Who doesn’t love ice cream?”
I let go of him and step back to swat him. “Fine,” I say, laughing. “Go enjoy some ice cream with my parents.”
Max’s crooked canine shows in his wide smile as he gathers me up in his arms and squeezes me in a giant hug that takes my breath away. “I’m going to go,” he whispers, dropping kisses along my jaw before letting me go. “We’re still on for the museum tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Enjoy your dessert.” He draws his lips across mine, and everything in me melts.
Inside I find Mom leaning on the kitchen island scooping bowls of ice cream. Dad drowns his in chocolate syrup.
“Not cool, guys,” I say, pulling one of the bowls toward me. Dad hands me a spoon and gives me an apologetic kiss on my forehead.
Mom feigns innocence, her voice lilting in all the wrong places. “What? It was a legitimate question. Who doesn’t love ice cream?”
I snort and reach for a spoon.
Dad takes his ice cream into the family room. Mom passes me the caramel syrup as a peace offering. We each take a bite before she apologizes. “I am sorry, Becca. I didn’t mean to interru—”
“Stop. Please, just don’t.” Mom’s blonde hair is pulled up in a ponytail with wisps falling around her face. It makes her look younger. I shrug. “It’s fine. I guess it’s your parental responsibility to embarrass the crap out of me.”
She nods. “True, and given your reclusive nature, we’ve never really been given an opportunity to fulfill that responsibility. There was talk of stripping us of our official membership cards.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“More and more like a real teen every day.” She mutters this with a mouthful of ice cream. “So what happened with Darby?”
The huge bite of ice cream I take does nothing to cool the anger pooling in my stomach. “Oh, she was too depressed for a party, a real wet blanket,” I say, remembering the way her dreads stuck to her forehead when she emerged from the water. “She didn’t want to hang out anymore, so I got a ride from Max.”
“A ride, eh?”
“Mom, I swear—” She giggles. “Is there real rum in your Rum Ripple ice cream? Are you drunk?”
“Sor-ry,” she mumbles, but she’s still smirking.
“It’s not like that with Max.” My throat clenches, and I struggle to swallow. All my old panic is flooding back in. “I really like him, Mom.”
Her eyes soften, and she reaches out to cover one of my hands with hers. “I know.”
“But what if something happens?”
She looks pensive, her face pinching up on one side. “Well, what if something doesn’t happen?”
The storm of crazy whirling thoughts that were threatening to pull me under just moments ago burns out. She’s right. I take a deep breath and release it. Flipping my hand so I’m holding hers, I squeeze. “You are seriously out to win some parenting points tonight, aren’t you?”
Mom squeezes back. “You know it.”
Scene Two
[Becca’s room]
Mom and Dad are on the back porch stargazing. They’d invited me to join them, but I’d rather relive my night with Max up in my room. I flop into my bed, remembering the way my lips tingled from Max’s kisses. A real kiss feels so much better than I imagined—so much better than any of the writers said. A part of me longs to try to find the words for the way his lips brushed along my jaw like feathers and the zing of powerful energy that coursed through my body when he pressed them to mine.
I don’t know if there are enough words, or the right words, but I crave a way to capture it. Without thinking I pull out my phone and open my messages. I’m about to open a new text message when my fingers freeze.
I was about to text Charlotte.
I want to tell her about my first kiss.
I want her to squeal and be happy for me.
I got a part in a play. I got the meanest girl in drama to be a little less of a bitch—okay so she may have stabbed me in the back, but I think it may have been partially accidental—she did look sort of contrite just before I pushed her in the pool.
I kissed a boy—a beautiful, kind, adorable boy who really seems to like me. Me. Becca Hanson.
Why, Charlotte? Why aren’t you here for any of this?
And then I realize how long it’s been since I’ve missed her. I think about her often, but this sinking, clawing, heart-shredding sensation of missing her has been gone from my life for a few weeks now. What kind of a crappy friend am I? I’m worse than Darby.
I throw the phone at the wall, hoping it’ll shatter into a thousand satisfying pieces. Thanks to the superhero-powered strength of the protective case Charlie got me, it thuds into the wall and flops to the floor.
I’m so tired. So tired of wrestling with this feeling, this grief left over from Charlotte’s death. It’s always there—even when I don’t notice it. Every day. Every hour. Every breath. It’s there for the bad stuff and worse yet, it’s there for the good stuff. It taints everything. It consumes me.
This grief has stolen the happiness right out of the moment. I heave my pillows at my closet, knocking some of the hanging clothes off the rack. Not enough. I want to destroy something the way heartache is destroying me. With great, heaving, sobbing sweeps of my arms, I knock the books off my bookshelf. I rip everything off the stupid bulletin board mocking me with memories of Charlotte. All the while, there is a shrieking in my head, like the wail of a siren. I toss the picture frame from my desk onto the floor and stomp on it with the heel of my shoe, smashing the glass.
The sound of the glass crunching, like the hollow bones of a finch being crushed, stops me. I slowly lift my heel, and a whole new wave of guilt and grief washes over me. I bend to pick up the framed picture from my birthday last year. Charlotte smiles from the middle as Charlie and I flank her, moons to her planet. A shard of glass cuts my hand as I grab the broken frame.
The pain is exquisite. Red, hot, and real, the pain flares and drips over my hand like the blood pooling in my palm. I toss the picture aside and squeeze my hand, gasping as the pain bites deeper. Tears prick at my eyes, but don’t fall.
The cut isn’t deep, but it bleeds, and while it bleeds the screaming in my head gets quiet.
My phone beeps from the floor. A text from Max. I stand over it to read the message.
MAX: Miss you.
As I’m reading, another one comes through.
MAX: That was lame. Sorry. I was just thinking of you and
And what? And what, Max? I grab a wad of tissues, clenching them in my cut hand. I hold it above my head—I’ve read about first aid—and stop to grab my phone.
MAX: Sorry. Again. Meant to delete but hit send instead. I should stop now. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you. But not in a creepy way. Just happy thoughts, you know?
He’s having happy thoughts. I look around my room, at my clothes spilling out of my closet and the floor full of books and debris. Why can’t I have happy thoughts?
ME: I know.
I pocket my phone and pick up—carefully—the smashed picture. I wiggle the photo out from under the broken glass. One corner is creased, but otherwise it’s okay. I turn it over and read Charlotte’s loopy script written on the back. “The gang,” it says in blue ink along the bottom right corner.
I look from the picture to my cut, the blee
ding already slowing.
I’m struck by how time passes and we’re moved along in its current, sometimes so slowly that we don’t even realize we’re moving until we look around one day and don’t recognize the shore.
My life is repairing itself around the hole where Charlotte was, just as the skin of my hand will seal up my cut. If I’m lucky I’ll have a scar—something to mark the trauma long after it’s gone. But I can’t stop the process of healing. Not if I’m living.
Maybe that’s what Juliet was thinking. Maybe she just really didn’t want any more scars.
Scene Three
[Max’s truck]
Max picks me up Monday morning as promised. There’s a surge of adrenaline spiking through my chest when I slide into my seat next to him. I wonder how it’s possible that Elizabeth Bennet only ever suffers mild flutters when she sees Mr. Darcy. I feel like my body is about to explode. What’s wrong with me?
Oh God! I’m the ridiculous Bennet sister. I’m Lydia!
Max’s eyes look sleepy, and his hair is pushed up in the front in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it. He gives me a quick grin that makes my breath hitch.
Victor pats my head when I get settled. “Hello, Becky dearest.”
I reach for my coffee in the cardboard drink box balanced on the seat between Max and me. “Hello,” I say, taking a sip.
“Max told me you two had a good weekend. Little rendezvous Friday (lots of kissing, I think to myself), little fun family trip to the museum Saturday (the hall of dinosaurs is dark and there’s this corner behind the triceratops…), little studying on Sunday (I’m going to flunk my calculus quiz today).”
My mouth is on fire, and I can’t lay the blame on the coffee alone. My eyes are huge in my head, like the spooky dogs in Hans Christian Andersen’s The Tinder Box. I bet I look like the dog with the eyes the size of saucers. But I’m nothing compared to Max, who whirls to swat at Victor with eyes as wide and round as the tower of Copenhagen. “Jesus, Vic. Not helpful.”
Victor ducks, snickering. “Helpful? You’re right. I’m not very helpful. But I bet Becca is very helpful. She’s your new study buddy, after all.”
Life After Juliet Page 18