by Lena Maye
I lean my head on the headrest. The dark-blue roof of the SUV is the same color as the sheets I had as a little girl. Except my bedding had pictures of swirling galaxies all over them. They matched the 3D solar system hanging from my light and the plastic star stickers covering my ceiling. I remember Sloane snuggled against me. She’d talk over the sounds of our mom bringing home some guy. And our father’s anger in the morning.
Maybe it’s time I talk to someone about it.
“I’ll try the therapy,” I say. And I mean it.
I reach my fingers out to Kima. “Take care of her, girl.”
“Go,” Sloane orders in cop-voice. “Take care of yourself.”
Twenty-Two
Claire is dressed in skinny jeans and a black sweater with ruffles on the shoulders. It’s something I would wear. She plops into a swivel chair.
I hang onto one arm of a leather lounger more than twice my size. I feel like the only thumbtack on a huge bulletin board.
Claire asks me boring questions about my address and phone number and my “interests.” Thank God she doesn’t ask me about guys or moms or sisterly confessions.
When she’s done, she gives me a wide smile. “So, what’s on your mind?”
What an awkward question to ask someone. I’m about to jump out of the chair and get the hell out of her office when I realize—there is something I want to talk about.
“How do you know Sloane?” Saying her name makes my chest constrict. I bite down on my lip to stop it from trembling.
“Would you like to talk about her?” Claire leans on her armrests. Her level of interest in me is annoying.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about… I was wondering why she picked you as her therapist.”
“Well, I suppose it’s public record anyway.” She gives me a thin smile. “She pulled me over for speeding.”
Am I supposed to be comforted by her mistake-making humanness?
Okay, so I am comforted by it. My expectation of a therapist was an old white guy staring down at a legal pad with a timer click-click-clicking in the background.
She’s got an iPad and a nose ring.
I try to sit forward on the chair, but the thing sucks me back. “Sloane pulled you over and decided to spill about her life?”
She swivels in her chair. “It might have been more than one ticket.”
“How many?”
“Oh, one or two. Maybe seven.” She does that Oh, I’m so silly shrug and looks down. I hate women who do that little gesture. But when she looks up again, her lips cut a hard line. That I can appreciate.
“Did something happen last night? Your sister said you may want to talk.” Claire sets her tablet on her lap.
Framed diplomas hang behind her organized desk. I squint at them. “You went to CU?” The University of Colorado was in the stack of acceptances I turned down to stay close to my mom.
She arches a waxed eyebrow. “Yes. I have a counseling degree.”
“When did you graduate?”
“Two years ago.” She taps her finger on the tablet. “Twenty-six.”
“What?”
“I’m twenty-six years old. That’s the information you’re angling for, correct? I know I look young.”
I point to myself. “Asian girl. I can’t buy a lottery ticket without getting carded.”
“I know, right?” She gives me a laugh. It might be a pity laugh.
I don’t want the fakeness and prepared questions. I want to know something real about her. “Does your age make you uncomfortable when meeting new, um, patients?”
There’s the eyebrow raise again, but this time it’s not so smooth. “Yes. I feel very uncomfortable about it.”
“Then why don’t you take out the nose ring?”
“I don’t want to compromise who I am.” There’s an underlying steadiness in her words—like steel under velvet. I like that too.
“That was succinct. You’ve rehearsed that answer before.”
“Only in my head.” She checks the phone on her desk. “It felt good to say it out loud. Thank you for the opportunity.” She taps on the tablet. “Why are you here, Jean?”
Another terrible question with no answer. “I have no idea.”
“I’m happy to talk about nose rings and speeding tickets, but I don’t think those are the real reasons.” She tilts her head.
“I'm here because Sloane drove me,” I say dryly.
Claire nods towards the door. “You’re the one who chose to walk in here.”
Well, crap. She’s got me there.
“I guess I want to say some things out loud too.” My voice is too sharp, but it’s not directed at her. Not unless she asks me another unanswerable question. Or maybe I’m tired of my intricate defense network. That it’s so damn exhausting to fight all the time.
“Cool. Let’s give ‘saying things’ a try. You can talk about whatever you want. Things that might be stressing you. Family. College. Or your future, maybe?”
I want to tell her to fuck off and stop suggesting topics. But Sloane trusts this woman, so I will too. The least I can do is give it a try.
“My future?” I shrug. “It’s just a huge blank, white wall.”
Her brow creases. I said something to therapy about, I guess.
“Have you made any plans for after college?”
“No.” A metal sinker grows in my stomach with every question. “Not exactly. I mean, getting the fuck out of Rock Falls.”
I shift, but the chair is too damn cushiony. My fingers pound out a rhythm on the leather.
Little Miss Nose Ring is watching it all like I’m some fucking movie of the week.
“To do what?” she asks.
“I haven’t made plans yet.” I give up on the chair and stand. “And I know the next question: ‘Why the fuck not’?”
“I wasn’t going to ask it like that.” Her gaze rises to follow me. She doesn’t seem concerned about my standing. Even when I pace.
“I have to look after my mom, and I’m broke and…” Excuses. I stop speaking before something stupider comes out.
When was the last time I really helped Mom? I go over there and spray the weeds with Roundup. How does that matter? And money? There are scholarships and loans and a thousand different ways for me to stay in school. What’s the real reason? “I want to do something after college. I can’t see what it is.”
“Do you want to?”
I stop. My pacing is annoying even me. “I don’t even know how to start.”
She grips her iPad. “How do you prepare for a vacation?”
I sink back into the cushions. “No trips to Disneyland.” My father took us to Denver for the weekend sometimes. We’d go to the planetarium and stare up at the stars. Afterwards Sloane and I would watch movies in the hotel room until morning. I don’t think that’s what she means.
Claire gives me what’s probably supposed to be an encouraging smile. “Name a place you’d like to visit.”
Finally a question with an answer. “Korea.”
“Okay, so imagine you’re going to Korea. Do you throw everything in a bag? Or do you make a list?”
Ding, ding, ding. There’s an answer for this one too. “List.”
“Do you think you can make a list of all the possibilities for after college? Don’t worry about if it’s something you want or if it’s possible. A list of things that could be.”
“Are you giving me homework?”
“I prefer the term self-work.”
“Does this mean I’m supposed to come back? What about the cost?”
Claire swivels in her chair. “It’s paid for.”
“By who?” Sloane can’t afford this. Kepler…
“By someone who wanted to help out.”
“Help,” I repeat vaguely. I trace my finger over the folded fabric of the chair. “What do you think it means when someone wants to help you?”
Claire stops spinning in her chair. “That’s a good question, Jean.”
Her silence tells me I’m supposed to be the one answering it. I fumble for an answer. Thinking of how Kepler’s always chasing after me with that word. “Maybe when someone wants to help you it means they love you enough to care what happens.” I take a breath. “And maybe I just want to stop being so angry all the time.”
Claire nods. “We can work on that too.”
When I get home, the door is unlocked. I open it an inch, listening. Mackie and Cassie were arguing in her room when I left, but now I don’t hear anything except our too-loud refrigerator clunking on.
“You can’t avoid me.”
I swing open the door.
Cassie sits on the arm of the couch, staring at me. “I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate you right now.” Her hair is yanked back into a tight ponytail that makes her eyes look huge. “Except maybe my mom when she caught us sneaking out to go over to David Lace’s house. Do you remember that?”
I can’t tell if she’s extending me an olive branch or an electrified baton.
“I remember he made sea-otter sex noises,” I offer.
“They were worse up close. I couldn’t concentrate. Ouy! Ouy! Oh!” She giggles. “I can’t make that sound.”
“What about that one Brian dude who did all the screaming?”
“I know! They were so high pitched. I actually wore earplugs the second time.”
“He must have been decent to garner a second time,” I say. “Considering the screaming.”
“But not good enough for a third.” Our laughter sputters out at the same awkward time. She still sits on the arm of the couch. I stand in the doorway clutching my keys.
“How did the fundraiser go?” I ask.
“Besides your assholery? Good, actually. We raised six thousand.”
“Wow, Cassie. That’s huge.” I hang my keys by the door and step into the room.
She nods. “There’s a car seat non-profit in New York that heard how good we did. Their director called me. There might be a place out there for me.” She shrugs one shoulder. “If I want.”
New York. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Things with Mackie…”
I take a breath and prepare to head into the hard stuff. It worked to start the conversation with Sloane. “Are you and Mackie going to be okay?”
“I don’t think so.” She hugs her arms across her chest.
“God, Cassie, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t about what you said to him—although I’m not forgiving you for that.” Cassie points a finger at me. Bruise-colored nail polish. “He’s mad because I slept with Devon. I’m mad because it happened a long time ago, and it’s like he can’t get over my past.”
I sit next to her, and her eyes fill up.
“It was like he caved in on himself.” She shakes her head. “All the effort and time and pain we go through on the off chance we could tolerate someone for a couple of years.” Cassie takes a huge breath. “I’m not embarrassed about my choices. I’m not. But I think I’ve made mistakes. Ones I’ll never come back from.”
I stare at my beaten-down best friend. Is this what love does? Turn us inside out and flip us around and shake us to the core? I ache for her in ways I didn’t understand a few weeks ago.
I wrap my arms around her. Even though I’m not forgiven, she sinks into my hug. Given enough time, Cassie and I will always come back to center.
“Maybe you should take that New York offer,” I whisper into her hair. Cassie slides around so easily for guys. She accepts things no girl should accept. It’s like she can’t say no, and I’m terrified Mackie is enough of a prick to take advantage of that.
But it’s not my choice.
Twenty-Three
I should tell Kepler the truth about what I did—what happened on the golf course. I lean over the sink, scrubbing the dishes. My hands are red from the too-hot water. I should tell him when I talk to him tonight. Or as soon as I see him. Or next weekend after his organic chem exam. Definitely before there’s a Drawer.
And I don’t even know how to find out if Pink-Shirt Guy is okay. I’d called the hospital pretending to be his sister, but they wouldn’t tell me anything except that he was released a few hours after admission. Does that mean he’s okay? I squeeze my eyes shut and let the hot water run down my fingers.
My phone dings, and I drop the bowls into the sink. I spent the last hour making a sweet-potato-noodle dinner for Cassie. A Mackie-distraction. Or maybe a distraction from myself.
I stare Kepler’s text: On the 1:30 flight home tomorrow.
It’s not the first text I’ve received from him today. He sent me a random hi this morning. A selfie outside a crazy smash-faced building. A pic of his signed intent-to-enroll form. Graduate physics program at MIT. God, that’s fucking sexy.
And I should tell him. The thought rings in my head with every step that I take. With every fucking breath. I’ve lied to him before, but the weight of this one is so incredibly different. Because I can’t even guess what he’s going to do.
If he’ll be able to forgive me. He was so clear—no breaking other guys.
And the worst part: it’s going to hurt him.
The guilt follows me everywhere. Even on my run Friday morning. It’s double when I get home and see the yellow Post-it as soon as I’m turning up the walk.
Kepler
8 pm?
I blow on my fingers to warm them up and pull out my phone. I don’t wait until I’m inside to text him an If you’re lucky.
Luck has nothing to do with it. I go through three outfit changes before settling on a fuzzy white sweater, tall boots, and a skirt that I hope gives Kepler a few dirty thoughts. I’m biting my nails when his car shows up at ten after eight.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I ask Cassie. She’s huddled under a blanket with a book.
“Just go,” Cassie says. For the tenth time.
“If you need anything—”
“Go!” She waves the book at me. “I need you to go. One of us needs a happy ending.” She flips through the pages. “Besides, I think being alone is what I need right now.”
I remember all the miles on my running shoes. Time alone over a pot of soup thinking about boys and breaking. Maybe that’s where Cassie is now. I grab her hand before she leaves. “You’ll tell me if you need me?”
She shakes her head at me. “I’m getting to the sexy parts, and you’re distracting me.”
I give her a grateful smile. Then I bury it, take a breath, and open the door.
Kepler strolls up the front walkway in a white t-shirt and a gray hoodie, casual as can be. And seemingly not concerned about lateness. Or the cold.
“You’re late.”
He stops in the walkway. Hair smoothed back in a way that makes every part of me want to leap across the fifteen feet separating us.
“I had to make a stop.” Kepler’s gaze travels down me, lingering on the tall boots.
“A stop for what?”
He dislodges his hand from behind his back and extends a single flower. That gets me to cross the cement.
A white orchid with a vibrant pink center. Petals strong and soft. One side a perfect mirror to the other. I take it, cradling it in my palm. It’s breathtaking.
“I’m glad you like it.”
I clutch the little flower between my fingers. “It’s perfect.” I cover the arcing petals with my other hand as Kepler leans in for a soft kiss. His tongue slides against mine before the sharp edge of his teeth catches my bottom lip. A hiss bubbles up before I can stop it.
When he breaks away, he leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. He’s so close I can smell the cotton in his shirt.
When he opens his eyes, it happens. I see it—that look. The one that needs something. His fingers dig into my hips, but not hard enough. I swallow and try to hang on to him. I have to get out of my head.
He leans close to my ear. “I didn’t think Asian girls were supposed to kiss like that.�
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I snap back to myself in an instant. “What the fuck? Did you seriously say that?”
His eyebrow arcs. “Aren’t you all supposed to be demure and sweet?” His voice lilts into a teasing rhythm.
“Fuck off, Kepler.” The corner of my mouth rises hopelessly into a smile.
He grips my hips and pulls me against him, the flower trapped between us. “There’s the woman I wanted to see.”
“You’re such an asshole.” I twist away from him and am halfway down the walk before I crash to a halt. “Where is your car?”
There’s a yellow Jeep sitting in front of my house. Kepler stops behind me—so damn close his breath warms my neck. “This one is better suited for tonight’s destination.”
I glare over my shoulder. “You sold your car?” Damn. I liked driving it.
“No.”
My mouth falls open a little. “How many vehicles do you own?”
His eyes narrow. “‘Vehicle’ is a broad term, Lo. Are we talking about vehicles licensed to drive on roads? Or other forms of conveyance?”
I sigh and step up to the door. “Most people don’t have to separate it out like that, Kepler. I’ve got a car. And my feet.”
“That’s not exactly true, Lo.” He reaches around me to open the door, and waits for me to get in. But he pauses before shutting the door. “Like a drawer in Boston, modes of conveyance are things I can easily give.”
The door shuts, and I watch him cross in front of the Jeep and open his door, my heart launching up into my throat.
I have to tell him. Tonight. Before there’s something more that happens than The Drawer.
He nods at me and then turns over the key.
Nothing. He tries again, and the engine starts but doesn’t catch.
I smooth my hand over the armrest. “Well, so far, I’m thinking your other car might have been a better option.”
“It just requires a little finesse.” Another crank. Another failed start.
“We could take my car?” I gesture towards the disaster parked in the driveway. “I don’t want to get stranded.”
“It’s a brand-new Jeep. We aren’t going to get stranded.” A fourth crank, and the engine fires to life and Kepler pulls away from the curb. “Besides, your car wouldn’t make it.”