I balance myself on the railing next, noticing Matt watching me intently the entire time. Instead of grabbing the roof, I grab his outstretched hands.
His grip is tight around my wrists as he pulls, and my arms shake as I hang like a leaf, suspended in midair. I can never get used to this part. My heart beats loudly as I dangle; I put full trust in him and his grip. I feel the roof on my stomach and throw my legs on top. Sitting down, I let out a breath and look over at him. Our laughter echoes around us. With my feet solidly planted, I finally feel safe. Well, as safe as possible while being so high up.
We walk away from the edge onto the center of the roof. For a place that’s constantly broken into, it’s surprisingly clean. Either the janitors are up here regularly, or everyone is very cautious to leave no traces behind. There’s a low wall we lean against, sliding down to the floor, mere inches from each other. We look out toward the town and I can’t believe I’m up here, with him.
The view is beautiful. It extends widely, showing a maze of streets, buildings, and trees I grew up around.
“It’s weird to think my entire life is laid out down there,” I say.
“Kind of cool, too. I mean, everything is a memory that way, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I say, looking at the shopping center across the street. “Meg, Jake, Barker, and I used to sneak off campus during lunch and eat at that sandwich shop,” I say, pointing down at the red-and-white storefront featuring a giant smiling sandwich. “Then, last year, when we finally were able to leave campus for lunch, we kind of forgot about it. It wasn’t as much fun going once the risk was gone.”
“I remember you telling me about that,” he says, listening eagerly as I continue my visual trip down memory lane.
“I love the smell of the bakery next door. I feel like if I smell onion bagels anywhere else, it’ll always remind me of here,” I say wistfully. “Meg and I would go every Friday morning before school to celebrate the last day of the week.” Matt nods, as if he remembers, too.
I keep looking and see how familiar every corner, every street is. I know that just out of eyesight is the field that hosts a yearly carnival. Matt took me before he left; we went on rides, ate baby pink cotton candy, and petted farm animals. It’s all there, a map of our past laid out in front of us. It makes everything seem so close, as if I can touch each spot just by reaching out.
“Remember when the ice-cream place named a cone after the Pepperpots?” Matt asks, pointing down to the shop next to the bakery, adding his own memory to the mix.
“Yeah, and you all got to choose a flavor. You chose chocolate—”
“Which you said was really boring,” he interrupts.
“It is!” I laugh. “Barker chose cookie dough.”
“And Jake topped it off with mint chocolate chip because it matched his hair at the time,” Matt concludes, and I smile at the memory. “What color is his hair now?”
“Black.” He dyed his hair not long after I did. We never needed to talk about why.
“I love the ice cream there,” Matt says.
“It closed about two months ago.”
“What? Really?” he asks, almost insulted.
“Yeah. I guess we were its best customers.” I watch his eyes wander the surrounding roads, probably wondering what else changed since he’s been gone. “We all ordered the Pepperpots cone on the last day. I think Jake ate it in three bites.” I smile, remembering the moment. “Barker had just gotten a cowbell, so we went out to celebrate, which was when he heard about the store closing.”
Matt looks down, tracing the roof with his finger. I get the bottle out of my purse and hand it over. He opens it with ease, using a corkscrew from his pocket.
“You carry a corkscrew in your pocket? It’s as if you knew this would happen,” I comment.
“I’m just always prepared,” he says, smiling and handing me the bottle first. I take a swig. It’s still cold from the store, and it feels good going down. Much better than the drink Evan gave me earlier. It’s sweet, almost fruity. I hand it back to him and he takes a sip the same way. It’s weird sharing a drink with him. It’s weird drinking with him to begin with. I’m so conscious of his body next to mine, despite the fact that we’re not even touching.
“Your bracelets,” he says, pointing to the hand that gave him the bottle. I look down at the single string bracelet on my wrist, still surviving through everything.
“Yeah,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “Um, I cut some off.” “Some” was an understatement, and he knows that. I had so many lining my wrist last year, but after he left, I cut off all the ones that represented nights with him. Each bracelet was a physical reminder, and they all burned my wrist.
“What’s that one from?” he asks, pointing to the remaining knotted pink-and-purple one.
“My birthday this past year. It was fun,” I say, and I know this admission hurts him, since he wasn’t here for it, and every other event he was here for I removed. I turn to him and hold his gaze; I want him to see how I’ve moved on.
“Truth or dare,” Matt says, changing the subject. He’s bringing the conversation back to something he’s familiar with, something he’s part of.
“Didn’t we play Never Have I Ever?” I ask, remembering that night.
“Yeah, but that’s not as much fun with just two people. Plus, we were always good at dares. Plus, you have to say yes.”
“Ugh,” I groan at his rule, as well as the memory. “Okay, dare.” There is no way I’m choosing truth. Not yet, at least. I feel a drop fall on me and look up, but there aren’t any clouds visible, just the sky.
“I dare you to do a cartwheel. Right now.”
“On the roof?” I ask, deadpan.
“On the roof.” He smirks, as if the cartwheel will lead to something even crazier.
“You know I’m terrible at these,” I protest. “My cartwheels look more like cart-falls.”
“They can’t be that bad,” he says, egging me on.
“My legs are never straight, so I look stupid. Also, have you forgotten that we’re on the roof? What if I cartwheel too far and fall off?” I ask him.
“I’ll save you,” he says, and I feel my cheeks redden a little.
“I can just picture myself cartwheeling over the edge to my death as you scream on in horror. Or regret.”
“Probably regret. Had I known you would have died, I might have picked another dare.”
“Might have?” I ask.
“I really want to see this terrible cartwheel now. Should I record it? Just in case the news crews need evidence?”
“Imagine the headlines: ex-boyfriend challenges ex-girlfriend to cartwheel, leading to her demise, tonight at eight.” I say it quickly and laugh and when I look at him, I realize he isn’t laughing anymore. Perhaps I went too far. So I do what I have to do.
Brushing the dirt off my jeans, I get up and find some empty space that isn’t close to the edge. He stands up and turns around to watch me prepare for my flip. I can do this, I really can. I tuck my shirt in, hold my breath, and go.
My hands hit first, crushing against small pebbles and bits of concrete. Then I’m upside down. And then I’m falling, legs first, hitting the ground hard.
“See, no death,” Matt calls out, applauding as I straighten up and take a bow. It was far from good, but a noble attempt. I look down at my hands; they’re pockmarked from the pebbles.
“Oh, don’t you dare think I’m not getting you back. Truth or dare,” I call out, walking back.
“Dare,” he says, with a cheeky grin. He rocks back and forth on his feet, waiting for his punishment.
“Okay.” I think. “I dare you to do a handstand.” An easy dare, truly inconsequential, but I never perform well under pressure. And I can’t dare him to do something crazy like streak across the roof. We still have boundaries. I take a sip from the bottle and wait for him to accept.
Without a word, he places his hands on the ground and kicks his legs up. They don
’t last long in the air, flailing in place before falling down with a thud. He rolls over onto his back and laughs.
“I’m not meant for extreme sports,” he says, propping his body up on his side and grabbing the bottle from me.
“I don’t think handstands are considered extreme,” I answer, scooting closer to him.
“Remember when Jake tried to jump out of a moving car?”
“Because he’d watched The Fast and the Furious and figured he was meant for racing!” I squeal, laughing at the memory.
“Good thing you were driving close to the side of the road.”
“And the side of the road had grass instead of a sidewalk,” I add. “Meg and I made green bracelets to commemorate that night, and celebrate Jake not dying. We were pretty stupid back then, weren’t we?” Matt drops his head and sits up. He messes up his hair as he puts the bottle down, not meeting my eyes. “Oh. I mean, that night, not—”
“It’s okay. And we were. At least I was,” he says, and places his hand on my arm. He’s done it so many times in the past; every time I ever felt nervous or excited or overwhelmed, he always placed his hand on my arm to stabilize me. He knew it had some sort of calming effect. But this time, instead of slowing down my heart rate, it only accelerates it. And I don’t want that. I don’t want that, I repeat to myself, willing myself to remember. I look up at him and he blushes, dropping his arm. I look down and feel another drop.
“Um, truth or dare,” he continues, leading us right back to the game. The present. Right back to where we’re sort of comfortable.
“Dare,” I answer, of course.
“I dare you to yell as loud as possible.”
“That’ll definitely not get us caught,” I say sarcastically.
“Well, you picked dare . . .” he taunts.
“Okay, okay,” I relent. I walk cautiously over to the end and know exactly what I’m going to yell, the exact same thing we yelled just a year ago. “HELLO, ANTARCTICA!” I turn around quickly, cracking up, and run back to him. I grab his arm and pull him behind the structure we were leaning against, so we’re almost hidden from the night surrounding us.
“Of course you said that,” he laughs, and we’re so close I can smell him. He smells like summer. And he’s looking at me with eyes so sad and kind I can’t help but smile. Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking my gaze.
I pull it out and, as expected, it’s Meg.
Status?
I text her back the one word, knowing she’ll understand.
Roof
OF COURSE. No making out.
I look back up at Matt. He’s turned away, picking a folded piece of notebook paper up off the ground. “That was Meg,” I explain.
“She must be worried.”
“She wanted to let you know the knives are sharpened,” I joke, and he laughs.
“Ouch. Hey, look at this,” he says, handing me the piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask, reading what it says. “‘We claim this roof in the name of Katie, Michelle, Joe, and Sam.’”
“Looks like someone else has been hanging out up here,” he says.
“I recognize the names. They’re a year younger than us, seniors this year. They’re in drama, I think.” I pause. “I guess it’s their turn to own the roof.” I give him back the paper.
“Well, they have to know about the original owners,” he says. “Do you have a pen?” I cock my head at him, then nod and walk over to where I had left my purse. Finding a pen, I bring it back to him.
“Original explorers, E, J, M, and M, grant you ownership,” he recites as he writes. “Better to leave our initials rather than names, you know?” I nod and watch as he climbs up a little higher and shakily puts the paper under a rock on the platform.
“Do you still collect them?” I yell up, though he’s not more than three feet higher.
He climbs down before answering. “Not really. I mean, every now and then . . . it’s a hard habit to break . . . but, I don’t know.”
“What?” I ask.
“After living here, the desire kind of died,” he answers, looking at me.
“Truth or dare,” I respond.
“Dare,” he says, looking at me with expectant eyes and a slight smile. I feel another drop fall on me, but I ignore it because dares are more important.
The game goes on for a while, with both of us only picking dares. We can’t handle truths yet. They’ll come out eventually, but right now we scale rafters, yell to the night, and perform rap songs. We speak in dares, letting each other open up through actions rather than words. We keep going because we don’t know what else to do. And we don’t want to end the night—not just yet.
The bottle is half empty and I’m buzzed by the time Matt finally says, “Truth.”
We’re sitting next to each other, leaning against the wall as we were when we first climbed up. We’re both out of breath and he’s looking at me, his eyes a little droopy. I’m taken aback, unsure if I’m ready to actually talk. I bite my lip and try to think of the perfect question as my heart rages inside my body.
“How was school this year?” I start easy.
“Fine,” he answers plainly, looking away, out toward the road we drove up earlier.
“You can’t just answer ‘fine,’” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “I need details.”
“It was school, you know? New school, new life. The house we had was nice—and Texas was fine. Lots of accents. I didn’t really fit in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t own a cowboy hat.” He smiles, looking back at me. “Anyway, isn’t it my turn? One question and all.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shoot.”
“Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” I answer automatically.
“How was school for you?”
I think before I answer. Honestly, the beginning started off miserable after Matt left, and then nothing really . . . happened. I didn’t date anyone else; I was still hung up on him. But I can’t tell him that.
“The last year of high school is supposed to be magical and wonderful—at least, that’s how it goes in movies. But they don’t tell you it’s also stressful and scary. I didn’t know where I’d end up for most of the year. I didn’t know what would happen next.”
He nods. “And you love knowing.”
“Yeah, exactly. I mean, it wasn’t terrible,” I continue. I don’t want him to think I spent the entire time pining after him. “I had Meg and everyone. And we had some fun times. But I guess I just expected . . . more.” I look down and shake my head, not wanting to look at him. After a moment, I say, “Anyway, truth or dare.”
“Truth.”
“Did you make a lot of friends in Texas?” Specifically female friends with whom you happened to make out. Of course, I don’t add that last part.
“Some. None as cool as you guys though.”
I stop myself from adding that he could have kept us as friends. That he didn’t have to lose or miss us. That we were always still here, waiting for him. I look over and see our shoulders touching. How we got so close, I don’t know, but despite everything I find myself leaning even closer. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth.”
He pauses and I can tell he’s unsure whether he should ask what’s coming. “Did you . . . date anyone this year?”
I want to say yes, hundreds of people. That I moved on quickly, and fell in love over and over again, and that he was just a speck of a memory. That he didn’t break my heart, and leave me lost for the past six months. But I settle on the truth. Because we’re opening up and all.
“No.” I continue using the game as a buffer. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he answers without thinking.
“Did you?” It slips out, really. I want to know if his year mirrored mine. Did he move on, or was he alone? Was he miserable, or did he leave someone new behind?
“I did not,” he answers easily, not leaving a second for contempla
tion. I smile and then catch myself. He can’t see how happy that makes me. I notice a flicker of a grin cross his mouth. “How . . . are you?”
And just like that, the game is gone. It’s only us now.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically. It’s the same response I’ve been giving this entire year, no need to change it now. I am fine; he just doesn’t need to know that fine has many definitions.
“You can’t just answer ‘fine,” he says, reminding me of my earlier rule.
“I can and I will,” I shoot back with a grin. I think about what I want to know next, and finally give myself the courage to ask. “Why UCF? Really this time.” It’s what I need to know. What I’ve been waiting to ask. What I’ve been too scared to ask. Was it for me?
“I was offered a scholarship,” he says, pushing his hair back and looking away. My heart drops, but I don’t take my eyes off him. “Good school and all.” He thinks, and then looks back at me. My breath catches as our eyes meet. “This was the only place that’s ever felt like home. I wanted to come back. I wanted to feel what I did when I lived here. I know you can’t go back to a time as easily as you can go back to a place, but I wanted to try. I like it here.” My heart is thumping madly, a tiny drum going off. “I like the people.” He pauses again, an awkward silence coming between us. Then he says quietly, “Did you ever think of me?”
“Yes, did you ever think of me?”
“All the time.” With each word we grow closer. His breath is heavy as he leans toward me. I feel him again, only this time it’s actually him. He’s actually touching me, looking right in my eyes and tipping his chin down. My body, my brain tries to stop me, but I don’t. I feel myself falling again and I don’t want to stop. I don’t want a safety net or parachute. I want to plummet through this feeling forever. I want to forget everything that happened and start over. I want him.
Just as our lips are about to touch, the drops that were slowly falling culminate to form a torrential downpour.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The Night We Said Yes Page 8