The Night We Said Yes

by Gibaldi,Lauren

  A few minutes later, our food came out. After eating, we sat back, full and energized.

  “So, where to next?” Jake asked, rubbing his stomach. He had a trace of barbecue sauce on his lip, which was slightly endearing. Jake could be careless with all of us, but when he decided he wanted to be, or perhaps just when he saw it would benefit him, he could pull off his Mr. Perfect routine so well that, at times, he needed imperfections to remind us he was human.

  “We can’t end it as the night we ran from a party. Let’s make it the night we . . .” I started, waiting for someone to chime in.

  “Go to a bar?” Jake asked.

  “Riddle me this, how would we all get in?” Meg asked.

  “Touché,” he answered.

  “Go bowling?” I added, knowing no one would agree.

  “You always suggest bowling.” Jake rolled his eyes.

  “I like bowling!”

  “Skinny dipping?” Jake offered instead.

  “Anyone notice how Jake’s ideas are always appealing only to Jake?” Meg asked.

  “You suggest something then,” Jake challenged Meg.

  “Oh, hey, how about this,” Matt interrupted. “One night at my last school in Italy we said yes to everything. Like, we made suggestions and, within reason, we said yes to them. It’s kind of . . . liberating.”

  We paused for a second, taking his proposal in, and I gave a pointed look to Meg. I wasn’t a daredevil, but for some reason, the idea seemed to excite me. A crazy night was just what I needed after Nick and everything.

  “The night we say yes,” Jake said. “Brilliant. Now, let’s go skinny dipping.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  NOW

  9:40 P.M.

  From Wing King, Matt and I end up at the Shop & Shop, the hilariously named side-of-the-road store where the owners clearly gave up on a title halfway through the naming process. The parking lot is empty, except for his car. We would have gone to the supermarket instead had we wanted to run into people we knew, but when you’re buying alcohol underage, it’s best to go where IDs aren’t analyzed. Or required.

  “Good thing this was in my car, and not my wallet,” Matt says, handing me his fake ID.

  “You look more like Chris now,” I say, holding his older brother’s old driver’s license. At a quick glance their faces are the same, so much more so than a year ago, but upon further inspection, I can see they’re still so different. They have the same light eyes and dark hair, but where his brother’s face is smooth, the Matt in front of me has worry lines etched in. I’ve never met his brother, since he was already away at college by the time Matt moved here, but I know they’re close. I wonder if he knows about me.

  “I guess,” Matt answers, taking the ID back and stuffing it in his pocket. He looks distracted for a second, and then quickly erases the thought.

  “You okay?” I ask, wondering why my comment might have affected him. He’s always liked to talk about his brother.

  “Fine,” he answers quickly. “Are you still Bertha?” he asks, referring to the fake ID Jake got for me right after we realized Matt and I were the only ones who couldn’t get into clubs. Matt had his older brother, and I had Bertha, some unknown girl who was about six inches taller and one hundred pounds heavier than me. But Bertha always worked.

  I smiled. “Sadly, no. I retired her when my cousin gave me her ID. I look a lot more like her than our girl Bertha.”

  “It’s probably for the best.” Matt sighs, looking down at his steering wheel. “As long as the ID’s inaugural run was here.”

  After Matt and I both got our IDs, we tried them out at the Shop & Shop, where they worked perfectly. I couldn’t go in there anymore once he left. So when I got my new ID, Meg had taken me to a Kiki’s, a relatively new karaoke bar with lenient ID policies. It worked there. But I can’t confess I’ve been steering clear of this store all year on account of him. So instead I say, “Of course.”

  “Well, good,” he says, pleased, then adds, “I’ll go in.” He nods toward the store. “Anything you want?”

  “Surprise me,” I answer. It comes off smoother than I had intended. I really only say it because I don’t know what I want. Whenever I drink, it’s at a party where the only option is usually beer.

  With a raise of his eyebrows, he gets out of the car and walks into the store. I stay behind, scrolling through the music on his iPhone. I did it earlier while he was driving so I knew he didn’t mind. I recognize most of his music, except for a few songs here or there, which, although ridiculous, feels weird, feels like he’s musically cheating on me. I used to know everything he listened to, every song and every artist, so each time I pass something new, it’s another reminder that so much time has gone by. That he can like new bands. That he’s moved on.

  It was awkward again, driving here from Wing King. And while the drive wasn’t as silent as it was before, it still didn’t reveal anything new, anything important. It seemed like we didn’t work when we were in motion. But when we were seated face-to-face, it was like we could see at least a little bit of our old selves in each other.

  I keep flipping through the iPhone until I come to the photo folder. My finger pauses right above the button. Should I open it, or is that a complete invasion of privacy? Seeing as I’m already going through his music, I suppose he wouldn’t mind if I went through his photos, too. Right?

  I press the button and immediately gasp because it’s my face I see. Not my face now, but mine from a year ago when it was still happy, still unscarred. I’m laughing and Matt’s giving me that oh you face he used to make when I was acting silly. I remember the afternoon—we were at the springs, splashing in the water. Meg was on the edge, her feet just dangling in the water, when she took the picture. Moments later Jake pushed her in and I can almost still feel the water hitting my face, and Matt’s arms wrapped around my waist. I can’t help but smile.

  The next photo is of him and his brother. I don’t recognize it, but from Matt’s glasses I can tell it was taken more recently. They’re waving to the camera, and I can only imagine what the story behind the photo is, because I wasn’t part of his life at that time to actually know.

  The next photo is one I also remember. We were at Meg’s house, where Evan was having a bonfire in the backyard. It was soon after Matt and I met, soon after we started dating, so everything was new and exciting. The touch of his hand still shot tingles up my body. Meg pulled me away quickly to giggle about everything and he took a picture of us just barely illuminated by the fire. Meg’s blurred, but I’m in focus, shaded in orange and glowing.

  The last photo is of the Pepperpots performing. They’re mid-song and I can hear Jake’s voice in my head. His mouth is open and the lyrics are just screaming out of him. Matt is absorbed in the music, plucking the bass, trying to get his feelings out into song. It was one of their last performances before Matt left. I know because I took the photo.

  I can’t believe he still has them all on his phone. I can’t believe he never deleted them. And I’m not entirely sure what that means.

  My phone buzzing in my purse jerks me back. I pull it out to see the ever-expected call from Jake.

  “Hey Jake,” I answer.

  “So Meg says he’s back,” he starts, straight to the point as usual.

  “Yep. I’m out with him now.” I pause, then, “I mean, I’m out with him, but he’s inside right now; I’m waiting. So I can talk.”

  “Where are you?”

  I pause before answering, because he’ll know. Of course he’ll know. “Shop & Shop.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I think he has a plan,” I admit, looking up to see him wandering around the shop. He looks unsure and nervous, scratching his head at each turn. He’s looked unsure and nervous all night.

  “Screw his plan. Why are you even with him right now?�
�� Jake says stubbornly. And though he asks it, I know he already knows the answer.

  “I’m . . . hearing him out,” I say, keeping it light. “You would have, too, if he found you first.”

  “Hell no. He left, end of story. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to know why he left the way he did. And why he’s back.”

  “Who cares why he’s back! Ella, come on. After what he did to you?” He doesn’t add the unspoken “and me,” but I know he means it.

  “Jake, you were the one who was going to drive to Texas to get answers. You were the one who was just as pissed as I was. Let me at least find out what really happened.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then . . . maybe we can stop guessing,” I say.

  He sighs, struggling with himself. Matt was another person on Jake’s long list of people he trusted that let him down. He had a different reason than me to be upset, but his reason was still important.

  “Jake.” I close my eyes, because I don’t want to explain myself.

  “Fine, just . . . whatever.” He gives up and I know there’s so much more he wants to say, feels like he needs to say, but can’t or won’t. That’s not him. “He was a dick to you; I’d hate to see him do it again.”

  “I know,” I say, touched by his compassion. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’s recording?” I change the subject.

  “Awesome, as always,” he says, and I smile because I know he’s compensating.

  “I’ll talk to you later. Tell Barker I say hi.”

  “Will do,” he says, then, “You know I’ll still kick his ass if I need to.”

  “I know,” I say before hanging up. Just like Meg and I don’t do apologies, Jake and I don’t do good-byes.

  I glance back up and Matt is still walking through the aisles. My heart leaps and I’ve almost gotten used to it. I close my eyes and think of what Jake said and didn’t say. He would be here too, despite his refusal. He’d want to know. I’m not just doing this—hanging out with him to see what happened and what might happen next—for myself. I’m doing it for all of us. For the nights Matt helped Jake out of trouble when he challenged guys to drink-offs. For the nights Matt sat and just listened when Jake just needed to vent about Meg, and couldn’t clearly come to me. For the assurance he gave Jake that the band could get even better, and how, in time, it did.

  I realize I’m still holding Matt’s phone, so I put it down in the cup holder. Also inside it is a piece of paper with writing that isn’t his. It’s another found object, just like the sheet music I discovered earlier. We used to pick these up all the time together, after he told me about his habit. I guess he didn’t stop doing it, either, and I’m not sure if it makes me comforted or sad.

  My phone buzzes again. It’s a message from Barker.

  Matt’s in town? Weird. Call if you need.

  I smile, thinking of Jake, flustered, reciting the development. And of Barker, stopping their recording session to send me this. I think Barker really took it to heart after Matt left, since he was the one who introduced us, so he’s always checking up on me. It’s cute in that really-I’m-fine kind of way.

  A few minutes later, Matt materializes in front of the car. I want to tell him everything that’s happened—how I saw the photos, how I spoke to Jake—but the words aren’t forming. Maybe it’s not the time to start opening up again.

  “Hey,” I say instead as he sits down inside. “All okay?”

  “Yeah,” he answers, stuffing a brown paper bag in the backseat. “No problem at all. Didn’t even look at my ID.”

  “What did you get?”

  “The penguin wine.” He smiles. Instinctively, I smile back. Of course he remembers. It was what we drank before he left, on our six-month anniversary. I picked it out because I thought the penguin was cute.

  I shake away the memory and run my finger over my bracelet’s pattern.

  “So are we really going to Jefferson?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “If you want to,” he answers. “I mean, yes. Yes we are. It’s a night of saying yes, after all.”

  “This feels so . . . one year ago.”

  “I know.” He hesitates. “Kind of the idea.”

  It’s not until we’re a few minutes down the road that I realize he’s had this night planned for longer than I thought.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THEN

  9:50 P.M.

  After eating at Wing King, we walked back to Ross’s house to pick up our cars. We took the main roads back; they were easier to navigate than the sidewalks behind the houses we had previously crept along. Some cars passed by, but for the most part we were alone. Along the way, we made our first plan for the night.

  “So, for a night of saying yes, we need drinks first,” Jake said, walking with his hands in his pockets.

  “How do you expect us all to get them?” Meg asked, walking in step with him. Despite their fighting, they were still magnets, always drawn to each other. An attraction that couldn’t be broken, no matter the amount of pushing and pulling.

  “I’ve got an ID. Let’s grab our cars and head to Shop & Shop,” Jake answered.

  “Where to after that?” I asked.

  “We’ll decide then,” Jake responded, winking at Meg. She shook her head and I could see the crack of a smile. I looked over at Matt, but he wasn’t next to me anymore. I stopped and noticed him a few feet behind, picking something up off the ground. I walked back over to him.

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, sorry, nothing,” he said, straightening up quickly with something in his hand.

  “Drop something?”

  “No, um, it’s stupid,” he said, putting whatever he had picked up into his pocket. He started walking again, so I continued behind him. I didn’t want to pry, but I was curious.

  “What’s stupid?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then spoke. “I pick up things whenever I find them. Not, like, trash or anything, but notes and photos. Glimpses into people’s lives and stuff.”

  “So, like, found objects?” I asked, feeling him out.

  “Yeah, exactly. It started in Italy. I was walking around this little market in Florence and found a photo of three people laughing, a guy and two girls. They looked so in the moment, like the photo almost felt private. But I couldn’t put it down. What were they laughing about, you know? How did they know each other? So, I kept the photo, and since then, I haven’t really stopped picking these things up.” He paused, glancing at me. “It’s weird, I know.”

  “Not weird,” I said. “Just interesting.”

  “Interesting in a creepy way?” he asked in a self-deprecating manner.

  “Totally creepy. I’m afraid you’re going to read my diary now, or something,” I joked. “No, I think it’s cool. I like the idea of seeing people’s private moments. You can learn a lot about them.” I think about my writing, and how I do something similar when creating characters. Finding stories on the ground could be good inspiration for me.

  “Exactly!” he said, as if I was the first person to understand, and I wondered if, perhaps, I was. “I mean, I move around so much that I don’t have these things—you know, photos with friends, and notes and stuff. So, I guess it’s nice seeing that other people do.”

  “That’s really sad,” I sympathized.

  “Oh god, I’m the pathetic, sad, creepy guy now, aren’t I?”

  “No! It’s just . . .” I paused, and thought about all the photos I had hanging on my walls, all of the notes Meg and I passed, and all of the memories I had wrapped up in my group of friends. He didn’t have any of that. He was layered with life experiences, but none of them were personal. “It’s sad your life is so temporary, you know? That you don’t have a chance to have any of that stuff.”


  “Yeah,” he said. “But, I don’t know, these things don’t make me depressed or anything. They’re kind of comforting, I guess.” With a quick shrug he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “What are some of the best things you’ve found?” I asked, hoping to lighten the mood. I hoped I hadn’t made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Um, I pick up photos, mostly. Notes are pretty personal, but also interesting. Oh, I found wedding vows once.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Kind of wondered why they’d be on the side of the road. Kind of sad if you think about it.”

  “Definitely.” I wondered what kind of person would throw away their wedding vows . . . and also what kind of person would pick them up.

  “It’s kind of addictive. You’ll start noticing things now, too.”

  “I bet,” I said, pondering if him picking up other people’s found items was really his way of living other lives, since his was always in transition. I wanted to let him know that I wanted to make memories with him, even if they were just from one night. Memories that wouldn’t be tossed away and found by someone else searching for paper on the floor.

  So I reached out and held my wrist in front of his face. It was decorated with eight small, tightly knotted friendship bracelets, each of varying colors. It was something Meg and I did when we were kids, to remind ourselves we were friends. Then, last year, we brought it back on a whim. But instead of reminding us that we were friends—because, come on, we already knew that—each bracelet was made with a different purpose in mind. “This is my weird habit. Whenever Meg and I have a big night, we make a bracelet to remember the moment. So, each one represents a different experience. It’s silly, but kind of our thing, I guess.”

  “Really?” he asked, taking my wrist in his hand. “That’s cool. What do all of these mean?”

  “It’s a secret,” I whispered with a smile, taking my wrist back.

  “I see.” He smiled back. “Maybe one day I’ll make your wrist?”