by Meg Haston
“I can tell.” She fiddles with the gate until it springs open. “My mom made me play singles with her this morning. She got an eight A.M. court at the club. Apparently, it was an important opportunity for us to spend quality time together before I abandon my family for the completely inaccessible and faraway land of Georgia.” She settles next to me on the stoop. “And I got the courtyard primed after lunch, no thanks to you.”
I rub my temples. “Sorry. What are you up to tonight?”
“You mean, what are we up to? We’re going out. This is the obligatory forget-that-man blowout.”
I consider arguing and decide against it. I need this, and Leigh knows I need this. Anything to take my mind off Wil. Anything to get out of my head.
“Should I even ask where we’re going?” I sip the last of my coffee.
“Bonfi—”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Nothing school related.”
“You don’t have to drink, but you have to go,” she says firmly. “Wil Hines is having a rough time right now. And we feel for him, but we are not going to stop living our lives.”
“Aren’t we?” I groan. The space between my sheets beckons.
Her eyes glint like slick river stones. “Get moving.”
I shower and shave my legs while Leigh picks out suitable bonfire attire: my good cutoffs, my pink bandeau bikini top, and a black tank top she finds in Mom’s closet. I let my hair air-dry and I leave Mom a note that I’m going out.
Leigh and I cross the street to get to the beach access. One of the preteens almost mows Leigh down on her bike, and Leigh yells, “Watch it, Miley!” and the girl curses her out. Up close, the girls don’t smell like strawberries and summer. They smell like used cigarettes and older boys. I fire Your dude’s not worth it thoughts in their direction, but they’re too far gone. The thoughts skitter on the asphalt and disappear.
It’s prime beach time. We wind our way around surf-seeking dogs and little kids building sand castles and a lot of ugly tattoos. The water is flat and velvet, a faded royal blue. Above it, a faint moon is rising in the afternoon sky. My nerves bubble as we walk. I don’t know how to be sober at a bonfire. What if I need something to blur the edges, to melt me just enough? What if Wil shows? What if Ana—or Buck—
I grip Leigh’s arm and shake my head.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“You can. And if you decide you want to leave, just give me the signal, and we’ll leave.”
“What’s the signal?” My mouth tastes like gritty sand.
“How about ‘Get me the fuck out of here’?”
“Hilarious.”
The bonfire is at the beachfront house of a senior girl named Loren. Her parents are out of town on business. The house is small, and set far off the beach. It’s a tiny tiled bungalow with sandy floors and fake leather couches shoved up against white walls. The galley kitchen is pockmarked beneath fluorescent lighting: scratched countertops, nicked cabinets. The place is run-down but comfortable, and reminds me of home. Someone puts the Allman Brothers on the stereo, a fighting song. I nod at a girl pouring vodka into a coffee mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD.
“I don’t suppose you want a beer?” Leigh asks.
“Nah.” I follow her outside. There are fire pits scattered throughout the ratty yard. One of the blazes spotlights Ned Reilly, who was informally voted Most Likely to Die a Virgin junior year. Ned’s chatting up Susan, a cute brunette girl from my freshman-year math. She’s laughing loudly and leaning in close. She spent a lot of time on her eye makeup, and it looks good. Despite his too-large teeth and plaid short-sleeved button-down, it looks like Ned has a legitimate shot at discarding that superlative tonight.
“Be back.” Leigh makes a beeline for the keg, and adrenaline overtakes me. Calm down, I tell myself. It’s just a party.
“Bridge! Hey!” Ned waves me over, and Susan sizes me up and looks unsure. She gives me a too-bright smile.
“Hey, guys. What’s going on?” I make sure not to stand too close to Ned and I give Susan a halting hug, which is weird since we don’t know each other.
“Haven’t seen you out much this year,” Ned says. “I saw your brother a while back. A couple of bonfires ago.”
“I heard.” I groan. “If I can make it through the rest of this year without killing him, we’ll consider it a success.”
“What are you doing next year?” Susan changes the subject, and I like her.
“I’m going to FIU.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Miami. Assuming I don’t get arrested again.”
“I have a friend who goes there actually, and he loves it, so good for you. I guess they don’t care if you get arrested, which is awesome. So.” Ned’s face turns the color of a late-August burn.
“Hey, Ned?” Susan makes her smoky eyes big. “Why don’t you get Bridge a drink?”
“Yes. Yes.” Ned looks relieved. “Beer? You like beer, right?”
“You’ve heard, huh?” I raise my eyebrows.
“No! No. Definitely not.”
I mercy-interrupt. “How about a Coke, Ned?”
“You got it.” Ned zooms across the patio and into the kitchen.
“Oh my God!” Susan shakes her head. “I swear, the part of his brain that controls social interactions needs a reboot or something! Like, I picture these frayed wires, just lying around, sparking, connected to nothing.”
I laugh. “But he’s so sweet. Are you guys—”
“He is, right?” She looks past me and smiles a little. “Kind of. I don’t know.”
I hear Ana’s laugh, followed instantly by Thea’s. My stomach dips.
Leigh slides up next to me and gives Susan a nod. “Our democratically chosen leadership has decided to grace us with her presence.”
“Democratically chosen.” Susan snorts. “Do you ever just look around while you’re at school and think I am living in high-school parody hell and I’m the only one who knows it?”
“Yes!” Leigh says. “Isn’t it so depressing? But you know what helps?”
“Knowing we’re almost out of here?” Susan kills the rest of her beer.
“Weed.”
“Aaand one Coke. Straight up. Virgin. Or whatever.” Ned chokes a little on the word virgin.
“Ned.” Susan sighs.
We decide to head out to the beach. I finish my Coke, and I’m a pleasant combination of loose and awake. In the sand, Leigh plays with my hair. Susan tells us about the gap year she’s taking before she applies to college. It’s a tradition in her family, taking a year to do community service in Costa Rica.
“The truth is, I don’t know what I want to do,” she says. “Maybe that makes me kind of uninteresting or unmotivated.”
“I think you’re interesting,” Ned says sweetly. He puts his hand on Susan’s knee and she lets him. “And smart.”
“I wouldn’t care if it was just me, like in a vacuum. I’m only eighteen, right? Who knows what they want at eighteen?” She wiggles her toes in the sand. “But in comparison, when everybody else seems to have the grand life plan laid out, it’s like shit. I’m behind in this huge race I didn’t even know I was running.”
We nod, all of us. We are tired, depleted, and we haven’t even started yet.
Leigh goes for another round of beers and another Coke for me, disappearing into the party swell behind us. It’s getting dark. Susan leans into Ned until they’re one shadow. I could lose myself here, with these familiar people I don’t actually know at all. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, but I suddenly feel a wash of regret. Disappointment that I didn’t get to know the Susans and Neds of the high-school universe when I had the chance. I’ve spent high school bombed with Leigh or wrapped up in Wil.
“Here we go,” Leigh announces. She sinks to her knees in the sand and distributes the cups.
I chug my Coke and drop back into the sand and watch the sky, the sweet liquid sloshing around in my stomach. I slide my fingers and my toes under the cool grains and wat
ch the dark navy shift overhead. Leigh lies next to me.
“Don’t freak out,” she whispers. “But I have to tell you something.”
“Hm?”
“In a few seconds, please remember that I didn’t want to tell you, because we’re having such a great time and all. But I figure you’d want to know.”
I sit up. Sand slides into my bra. “Leigh.”
“Okay, okay.” She looks at the sand. “Wil’s here with Ana.”
Sweetness rises in the back of my throat. I jump up. It’s too dark to see, but I would know Wil’s lines anywhere. He’s leaning next to Ana, sipping a beer. She slides her arm around his neck. I look away.
“They are together,” Leigh says softly.
“I’d kill for a beer,” I tell her without shifting my gaze. “Two, while you’re up there.”
“Bridge,” she pleads. “We should go. I don’t think a drink is a good idea.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say fiercely. “I have just as much of a right to be here as they do.”
“Okay. Okay.” Her eyes shift from Ned to Susan, which is unnecessary.
“He’s fine when he’s with her,” I whimper. “He just can’t be around me without losing it.”
“Am I missing something?” Ned asks.
“You’re not missing anything. I’m just toxic. I’m like this toxic, terrible person that people can’t stand being around.” My eyes sting.
“Bridge. My darling. Love of my life. Let’s go home,” Leigh suggests. “It’s like my mom always said: Nothing good ever happens after”—she checks her cell—“9:27.”
“Fine.” I can’t tear my eyes away from him. Them. Wil sees me, too. There are history magnets in us, and that’s why we always find each other. Wil raises his hand like can you come here a second? and I look away. Leigh leans close to my ear.
“Talk it out,” she says. “It’ll kill you if you don’t. I’ll catch up with you later.” She disappears into the crowd.
I find his eyes and he’s still watching me. Come on, I tell him silently. His head dips, like he understands. I wander through the house and into the front yard where it’s quiet, finally, and I can wait for him. The grass feels good under my feet.
“Hey,” he says behind me. I don’t turn around.
“Hey.” It’s killing me that we are the kind of people who just say, “Hey.” Strangers say, “Hey.” Not us.
“We should talk,” he tells me.
“It’s not fair, what you’re doing,” I say.
“What I’m doing?” I hear him behind me, feel his hands on me, warm and rough. He spins me around, gently, and we’re so close. This feels right, him and me, the two of us, and he doesn’t see it.
“Yes!” I shove him, hard. “What you’re doing. Pushing me away again and again. Not letting me be there for you. Not being there for me! I lost someone when your dad died, too. Whether you want to think that’s important or not.” I clench my jaw hard enough that my head starts to spin. “I loved him, too. I miss him, too. I think about him and about you all the time.”
“That’s the thing, Bridge.” Color creeps into Wil’s face. “You think you loved him. You can think you love a person and it turns out”—he bends over and spits in the grass—“it turns out you didn’t know them at all.”
“Don’t say that to me ever again, Wil. I’m sick of hearing it.” I start down the street. “I’m going home.” Heat from the asphalt rises. The air smells like beach tar. I think I’m walking toward the water, but all the houses look the same. Wil would know. He’s like a human compass who can always find water.
“Hey. Hey.” He runs after me and matches my stride. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You don’t know him. You don’t. And I didn’t, either.” His voice splits like warped wood.
“What are you talking about, Wil?” I stop. I peer into him, try to read the jumbled colors in his eyes and the pulse throbbing beneath his jaw.
“Nothing. I’ll walk you home.”
“No. Tell me. I’m not going anywhere until you—”
He wrenches away from me. “He hit my mom, okay?” The words explode out of him; rocket into the sky like fireworks. “He was a drunk asshole, and he beat my mother.”
Everything stops.
No. He’s lying.
Not Wilson.
Not—I close my eyes and claw at the memory of the Wilson I knew. The man who served apple wedges and peanut butter with calloused hands. The man with yellow tulips and Anastasia’s doughnuts. Wil is telling me that all these memories are a lie. Everything I knew about Wilson was a lie.
“Wil. Don’t,” I beg. Hot tears pool behind my lids. It’s not fair, what I’m asking. I close my eyes and I picture Wilson, just behind the clouds. I reach for him, for the person I thought he was. “Please don’t say that. He couldn’t.”
“He fucking did. He hit . . . my mom . . . and sometimes I wake up and my very first thought is I’m glad he’s dead.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “Can you believe that? Can you—” His face shatters into a million shards and then he’s crying. And I know it’s true. It’s been true for I don’t know how long, and I wasn’t there. It was true when I saw him at Publix, holding tulips. It was true when he held the door open for me at Nina’s. Maybe it’s been true forever.
The Wilson I knew slips away, just like that. I should have been there. I should have kept Wil close to me, and I failed.
“Wil,” I murmur. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It was his.” Wil lists forward, a vessel seeking shelter, and I pull him into me. I erase all the space between us. I despise the skin and bones keeping us so far apart. I hug him tight and close. I stroke his wet cheeks.
“I should’ve told you,” he whispers, just loud enough. “I needed you.”
I hold him tighter. “You’re telling me now. And I’m here now. You’ve got me.”
WIL
Summer, Junior Year
IT’S the dead of August, and I’ve started running. Early in the mornings, before either of my parents are up. I need to sweat out the acid anger that’s bubbling up in my blood. And I can’t stand being in my house anymore. My dad has two speeds now: silent and screaming. It’s one or the other, one after the other, and no matter which speed he’s on, I’m always wishing for him to flip the switch.
My dad has split my mother in half. She’s two different people now: Outside Mom and Inside Mom. Outside Mom wears her bright lipsticks and covers her bruises with paint the color of a happy woman. Outside Mom tells strangers in the grocery store that her anniversary is coming up: twenty-five years, and she smiles with a closed mouth like she’s hiding the secrets to a happy marriage behind her lips. Outside Mom joined a book club with Mrs. Wilkerson, who lives three doors down. She comes home smelling like white wine. Inside Mom is a deflated balloon. Inside Mom has stopped yelling or arguing or caring about anything. She wanders around the house, not looking at me.
This morning, I’m on the beach early. I’m alone with the water, which is exactly how I like it. I pop my earbuds in and turn the volume on my iPhone as loud as I can take it. I don’t recognize the band or the song, but I don’t need to. What I need is noise, a noise other than my father screaming at my mother, or the sound of something breaking. I break into a run, following the silver line at the water’s edge. The sun worms its way higher in the sky. It’s not long before my body is humming.
It’s not just anger at my dad that’s built up in me, if I’m honest. It’s fear. I’ve always believed that the Real Me and the Real Him were the same. We were beach rats, with sand and salt in our veins. We didn’t care about college or better lives or Other People the way my mom did. We cared about real things: varnish and sawdust and a hard day’s work.
Maybe we are the same, I think as I push harder, sweat stinging my eyes. It’s humid, but there’s a breeze, and I lift my face toward the sky. I’ll bet I’m just as angry as he is. I destroyed his boat in the workshop a few month
s ago. What if I have it in me to hurt people, too? It would make sense. I’m partly him. We have the same hair and eyes. I’m not exactly sure how it works, science-wise, but maybe we have the same anger, coded in our DNA. If that’s true, I won’t ever escape it. No matter how fast I run.
When I get home, I stand at the back door, my ear pressed against it. Sweat slides into my eyes and down my temples and pools in my ears. My heart is still pounding in my chest.
“He’s not here,” Mom calls from the breakfast room.
“Good.” I find her sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea that smells too strong. She’s still in her bathrobe, even though it’s almost eleven. Her hair is messy and she’s wearing the shadow of yesterday’s makeup. In front of her are all these photographs, hard copies. I’m small in all of them. Dad and me in the ocean. Dad and me in the workshop. Dad and me. It occurs to me that Mom has lived her whole life watching us. Apart from us.
“Where is he?” I pull out the chair next to hers and relax into it. I take my first real breath. Minutes without my father are like deep breaths of ocean air.
“I don’t know where he went. I woke up, and . . .” Her voice trails off. She sips her tea.
“Hey.” I rest one of my hands on top of one of her hands. It isn’t something we do, really, but suddenly I want to slide my arms around her and hug her tightly enough that she becomes a whole person again.
She snaps when I touch her. “What, Wil?”
“Nothing, Mom.” I make my voice like air. “Nothing. I’m sorry.” I want to ask her the same question I asked her right after it happened the first time, the question she never answered. Do you think I’m like him? Do you think we’re the same? I don’t need to ask. She answers me every time she jumps at the sound of my voice.
“I’m sorry, hon. I’m just—I don’t know what I am anymore.” She releases a sigh that’s been building up for years. Her voice is watery.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” She touches the pictures longingly; traces my little boy face with her fingers.
“Mom. You’re . . . you’re my mom,” I say earnestly, but it comes out sounding thin.