But I Love Him

by Amanda Grace

  “What about this?” I say, showing her some sheets of beach balls and pails and little sand castles.

  “Sure. Sounds good!”

  I nod and toss a few sheets into the basket. It is filling up quickly, as if Abby intends to document every day of her life.

  “I think we probably have enough. Let’s go to the beach and find some sea glass. Then we can both get started.”

  Abby nods and reluctantly leaves the spinning display of stickers behind as we head to the cashiers.

  I link my elbow with hers. “What page are you doing first?”

  She smiles. “Well, I have this really annoying friend, see. So I was thinking I’d put together a few pages and draw little horns all over her and black out her eyes.”

  I snicker.

  Sixty-two dollars later, we leave the store, our hands filled with bags of supplies.

  I wonder what Connor will think when I hand him my heart.

  September 19

  Two Weeks, six days

  I’m sitting on a stool at our kitchen counter, swinging my legs and slurping at the milk at the bottom of my cereal bowl. There are cartoons on in the background, even though I’m too old for them. I don’t really watch them anymore, but it wouldn’t be Saturday if they weren’t on.

  My mom is up. I can hear the water running. Sometimes her showers last forty-five minutes, and I have no idea what she does during that time, but when she emerges she never looks fresh and relaxed; her eyes are puffy and she looks like the walking dead.

  I don’t really know what she does at any time, really. We’re strangers in the same house. I want it to be different. I want to hug her and say I love you. But I don’t think she’ll magically hug me and smile and say I love you too, and that’s what she does in my mind when I say it to her, and I’d rather have that than reality.

  My dad would be so disappointed if he knew what had happened to “his girls.” He tried to so hard to be the glue for so many years, so many rounds of chemo, so many everything. Even as my mom took on that haunted look toward the end and even as I cried myself to sleep those last couple months, he couldn’t change the facts, and then one day it was done and he was gone.

  I try to remember my mom before he died. Those days before she died with him. I try to remember the times she’d declare it was girls’ day and no dads were allowed, and I’d grin at him when she said it, and we’d get our nails done and go shopping and eat six-dollar fruit smoothies.

  She was a good mom. She was everything I ever needed or wanted. And cruel reality stole her from me, and she became something else, and I became no one to her, because she can’t see through her own tears long enough to realize how much it hurts me.

  I know if it had been reversed, Dad wouldn’t do this. Even when he was really dying he stayed strong and was there for me. Even when he was sick he would sit in a lawn chair, all wrapped up in a blanket, shivering against the cold just so he could hang out at the park with me. And my mom was next to him, every single time. We were a real family then.

  I wish one day I would look up and she would be standing there at the finish line of a race, beaming at me. I wish she would stop wallowing long enough to be proud of me, long enough to see that I’m growing and becoming someone, something. But she never will.

  She doesn’t really even have friends anymore. They just drifted away like sand on the wind, and it became just us. And now it is just her.

  Eventually her shower turns off and after several long moments of silence, I hear her walking across the ceiling, down the hall, and down the steps. Her footsteps are soft and quiet, like a mouse.

  I finish the last drop of Fruity Pebbles–flavored milk and turn to see her.

  Her blond hair is still damp and tangled, but her mask of makeup is on and she’s wearing a cute button-up blouse with khaki pants. Even on weekends she looks like a lawyer. I think that’s all she wants to be. Just a thing and not a person.

  She sits down next to me and grabs the cereal box, and I twist around and watch the cartoons from my seat at the counter, and for a long time we just sit there and I listen to her eat and try to concentrate on the cartoon dog on the screen.

  “Sleep okay?” she asks.

  I don’t know why that’s her favorite question. Maybe because I think she doesn’t sleep at all. Maybe it’s her veiled way of asking if I’m okay.

  “Yep. You?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I want to tell her it’s a lie, that she would look rested if she slept at all, but I don’t.

  And I decide I can’t do this same song and dance today. So I just blurt out, “Do you want to … I don’t know, do something today?”

  She stops chewing even though her mouth is full and looks over at me. “I have a lot of new cases to review. Some other time?”

  Some other time. It’s always some other time. I want to know when that other time is, but maybe if I knew, I’d never ask again.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  And then I slide off my stool and go upstairs to change into jeans and a tank top, and I will leave and be gone all day, because that is what I do.

  And today will just be another day in a long chain of disappointments, but that is how it is now.

  That’s just how it works.

  September 14

  Two weeks, one day

  Cross country starts today. It is my fall sport. It signals that school has begun, that the leaves will soon drop, and that my schedule will be full again.

  Blake and I will be captains this year, him of the boys, me of the girls. He’s better than I am, but I’m the only senior girl on the team this year, so I win by default.

  We jog side by side through the outdoor halls and courtyards of the school, toward the woods and trails behind the football field. There are twenty-seven runners behind us, their footfalls sounding out a rhythm that pushes me forward with each beat. We keep an easy pace, talking all the while. Those who fall back will be cut. If Blake and I can talk and they can’t even run, they are not cut out for this.

  It doesn’t take long for us to hit our stride. We have been on this team for three years together. We have worn down these paths with our own feet, first as gangly, slow freshmen, and now as the veterans who hold the team together. Today, the sun is shining in its full glory, a last day of summer weather before fall defeats it.

  “I got Bellnik for history,” Blake says as we enter the woods and the shade of trees.

  “Ouch.” My feet are making pleasant little crunching noises now as they fall upon the first leaves of autumn. I know I should hate that an entire school year stretches out before me, but on days like this, I just revel in it. In the promise of a new year and new sports and crisp weather and winter holidays.

  “I know. And I got Miss Valentine for pre-cal.”

  “Double-ouch,” I say. My breathing is steady. My muscles are warm. I’m happy and comfortable and ready for a long run.

  Blake glances back at the runners behind us. Some of them are already thinning out, and we’ve only gone two miles. “There will definitely be some cuts next week.”

  I nod and look over at him. His cheeks are flushed with the blood pumping through him and his dark hair has lost its perfectly gelled look. It’s a mess, thanks to the wind and the branches we duck under.

  Sometime over the summer, he grew up. He doesn’t look like the kid from junior year, arms and legs too long and scrawny for his body. Now he looks fit, and healthy, and good.

  And as he looks back at me I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Have I changed?

  “You keeping up okay?” he says.

  I grin. “Absolutely. I could sprint the next two miles.”

  “Is that a challenge?” he asks, returning my smile. His Adidas track pants are swish-swish-swishing with each stride.

  I glance back at the rest of the team, wondering if they can handle picking up the pace.

  Half of them can. And that’s enough. “Yes.”

  And then I ta
ke off. I crank it up a notch and my legs are flying now, leaping over twisted tree roots and splashing through puddles, and I can hear Blake’s thundering steps behind me, and it pushes me harder, faster, until the forest streams by in a blur of brown and green. Everything disappears, and all I can hear is my breathing and my heartbeat in my ears, and it is just me and the run.

  When the trail forks, I take the left path, the longer one, knowing it’s not part of the plans but unwilling to turn back toward school. I can still hear him behind me. He’s keeping pace.

  But he’s not passing me.

  We run on and on, until we are miles into the woods and I know we have to stop. My throat is turning sore with the cool air and my legs are beginning to feel the push.

  And when we stop, and I finally see him, his face is reddened with exertion and his T-shirt is damp, but he’s grinning a smile as wide as my own. “We lost them all. I’m betting they took the right turn. The turn we’d planned on. Rick probably took them that way after we lost them.”

  I grin sheepishly. “Can’t say I blame ’em. We must be three miles from school if we cut through the trees. Four if we follow the path.”

  I lean against a tree, one foot propped up on it as I regain my breath. My chest is rising and falling, expanding as large as it will go as I rake in more oxygen.

  “I say we follow the path. How long are we going to have weather like this? We can walk back. It won’t take more than an hour or so.”

  I look up at the sky through the canopy. It’s a vibrant blue. It must be barely four thirty. Plenty of time for a long walk, and it might end up being the last one of the season.

  When I look down again, he’s closer. Standing in front of me, inches away. He’s still breathing a little hard. His eyes are looking straight at me, intense.

  “What are you—”

  And then he kisses me. It’s salty, the taste of his mouth mingling with his sweat, and he still breathes heavily through his nose. I’m so stunned I don’t move. For just a second, I actually want this, until finally I come back to focus and turn my head away, and our lips part.

  For one millisecond, I regret it. For just a moment I think I might turn back to him and throw all my good sense away and kiss him.

  But then I think of Connor, and I know I can’t do that. “I … uh, I’m kind of seeing someone.”

  Suddenly I’m breathing hard again. Why does it feel so wrong and so right at the same time? Why couldn’t we have done this last spring? Why didn’t Blake just call me, or stop by Subway this summer? I’d even told him I could give him a free sandwich, knowing I’d have to pay for it after he left. But he never stopped by.

  He turns around, so his back is to me, and I don’t know what he’s thinking. He just stands there, one hand cocked on his hip, staring down at a nearby stump. Why isn’t he looking at me? “Who?”

  “You don’t know him. He doesn’t go here. It’s only been a couple weeks, but it’s getting serious pretty fast.”

  “Oh.”

  And we just stand there like that, me staring at his back. “Blake, I’m sorry. Any other time—”

  “We should get back. It looks like rain.” His voice is curt. He doesn’t want a conversation. He doesn’t want my explanation, he just wants this over.

  It’s a lie. There’s no way it’s going to rain. But I don’t correct him. I just stare at his back for another long, silent moment, trying to find someway to make sure what happened didn’t just ruin our friendship, and yet I know there are no words that can fix this or make it so that it never happened. So I just follow him back down the path.

  “Okay. Sure.”

  And for more than an hour, we don’t talk.

  September 12

  One Week, six days

  After our third date, we go back to Connor’s house. For some absurd reason, I feel nervous. I know his parents might be home. I’ve never “met the parents” before. Does this mean our relationship is real? That he’s officially my boyfriend? Or does this just mean we’re hanging out some more?

  His house is cute. The lawn is perfectly mowed in diagonal stripes leading up to a red front door. There’s a picket fence and everything. It’s like the house you’d picture if you thought of the perfect family place, the American Dream.

  He smiles at me as I walk up next to him on the sidewalk, and he slips his hand into mine. I love how comfortable we’ve gotten already. I love how he just holds my hand or slings his arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. I’ve never had more than a date or two before. I’ve never had someone just want to be close to me and I’ve never been comfortable like this.

  We walk up the drive like that, hand in hand, and he pushes open the door.

  “Mom?”

  The house is quiet. There’s no one home.

  “Guess she’s not here. Want to see my room?”

  I nod. I could follow him anywhere.

  He leads me through the living room and we turn at the hallway, and then we’re walking through a white-paneled door and we’re in his room. It has hardwood floors and sliding mirrored doors, and a big bed that seems to take up the entire room, and I’m trying hard to pretend I don’t notice it. Why does this feel so weird? Why am I drawn to it right now?

  I roll my eyes, careful to be sure Connor doesn’t see my thoughts written all over my face.

  “This is great,” I say. The room is small and bare, like he’s never taken the time to put posters or pictures up.

  “Thanks. I know it’s not much, but it’s mine.”

  He sits down on the edge of his bed and lies back, staring at the ceiling. I stand there awkwardly until he pats the spot next to him, so I sit on the edge like he did and lie back.

  This is surreal. I’m lying on a bed next to him. Fully clothed, my feet still on the ground, but still, sort of crazy.

  “Sorry my mom’s not here.”

  “It’s okay. No biggie. Where’s your … dad?”

  God, why did I just ask that? I know his dad is an alcoholic! Why did I just ask that?

  “He’s been gone a few weeks. They’re kind of separated right now.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  His abrupt statement jars me. The room feels heavy.

  “He’s kind of a jerk, and whenever he’s gone, life is just … so much better. But it won’t last. He’ll be back once he weasels his way back in. For now, though, it’s all good.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway,” he says, laughing. I laugh too. I’m glad he’s got a sense of humor. “Want a milkshake?”

  I grin. “I think that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  And so we spend the rest of the afternoon gorging ourselves on ice cream and waiting for his mom to come home, but she never does. I leave just before curfew, and he is alone when I leave him.

  September 6

  Seven Days

  Today is our second date. It’s only been three days since our first one, but we couldn’t wait any longer. I can’t get him out of my head. I can’t stop thinking of that cute smile, of the way it felt when he told me I’m beautiful, or the way his eyes lit up when I opened the front door and he saw me.

  Today we’re bowling. I’m a terrible bowler, and by the ninth frame I have a whopping thirty-two points. But we just keep laughing every time I hit a gutter ball, and I can’t wipe the grin off my face no matter how many times I miss the pins.

  Connor is good. He left out bowling on his list of hobbies. He played in a kid’s league once, I guess. He probably won it all, if he was this good. He’s two points shy of two hundred and he just got a strike, so I’m guessing he’s going to top that.

  I bowl two more gutter balls and then switch back into my street shoes while I watch him get another strike, his arm rolling the ball straight down the middle as if it’s effortless. When it’s all over, he has a two-forty. Amazing. Is he this good at everything?

  I wait for him while he takes off those red and wh
ite shoes and switches back into a pair of Vans. He’s wearing this dark V-neck sleeveless thing, like a sweater vest or something, and it looks kind of silly on him. I’ve known him less than a week and I can tell it’s not his style. But I also kind of think it’s cute, because I’m pretty sure he put it on for me.

  I think he saw my house and got all intimidated or something, because his outfit has trying too hard written all over it, in the most adorable way. And I want to tell him not to worry about impressing me, but I know that means pointing out that his outfit is all wrong, so I’m not going to do it. I just keep smiling to myself when he’s not looking, and think about him trying on a dozen different shirts.

  He holds the door open for me and when we walk across the lot to his truck, he slips his hand into mine. I smile at him when he does it, and try not to let my heart leap when he gives my hand a little squeeze. I have that nervous energy around him again, that adrenaline-charged heart. I don’t know how he can have this effect on me, but he does. Seven days after meeting him and I can’t stop obsessing over every smile and look and laugh.

  He opens the truck door for me and I slide in. Once he’s inside, I look over at him and smile, and then it happens. He leans over to me, and before I know what I’m doing, I close my eyes and his lips are on mine, soft, and we’re kissing.

  We’re kissing.

  I forget to breathe. When he pulls away, I let out a long sigh and then take a big ragged breath to fill my lungs.

  “Sorry. I didn’t want to wait and have that awkward front door thing.”

  I grin at him.

  “Fine with me. But I still want another at the front door.”

  He grins back at me and fires up the truck. “I think I can handle that.”

  I think I can too.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” he asks.

  I chew on my lip to keep the grin from spreading from ear to ear, the grin that gives me away as a silly lovesick girl after only two dates. “Yes. Tons.”