by Jolene Perry
“I’ve never been suspended. My parents have no idea what to do with me,” I tell him. “They can’t decide if I’m actually in trouble or not. Or…” I glance at Mom who is giving me this weird half smile. “Or really how to act when I’m in trouble, or whatever.”
Mom laughs a little, but she really can’t argue. I’ve never been called to the principal’s office, much less suspended.
“Why don’t you two unload the Costco run?” Mom asks.
Hartman jumps forward a little and walks for the open trunk. “No problem.”
“And go straight into the office,” Mom says. “The family is setting up early for services.”
We seem extra busy lately, but Dad’s done a lot of work to earn a good reputation and Paradise Hill is growing.
Hartman swallows, and I wonder how much different it is for him to watch people be sad than it is for me. One: I grew up with this. Two: The only people close to me whose funerals I’ve gone to were my grandparents. Three: His dad died not all that long ago, so being here probably makes him feel sad all over again.
Which makes me wonder why he’s here.
He stacks a few items on top of one of the large Costco boxes and walks for the front door. “I can get the rest of it,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
Whatever. I reach in, stack a few things on top of the other box, and follow him.
“Wait!” I call, and he holds open the door for me.
“I said I’d get it,” he whispers.
Angel wags his brows at me the second I step inside. Not him too.
Dad shoos us into the offices and presses a finger to his lips. There are more people in here than I’d guess by the few cars outside. Hartman and I running in and out of the lobby is maybe a bit disrespectful, so we’ll hole up in the office. Or the house.
“Why are you here?” I ask once the office door closes behind us.
“I wanted to see you.”
When I drop my box in front of the snack closet, he sets his next to mine.
I’m not sure how to respond to his simple honesty. “I’m not that interesting.”
“I actually find you very interesting.” He cocks his head to the side. “So, did you really hit Bryce in the face?”
I bend my wrist a few times and make a face. “It was sort of a blur. I don’t remember much. Now I need to try to convince my parents to let me out so I can go see Bree.” Hartman’s face is scrunched in something that looks like confusion, so I keep rambling. “Bree always tells me everything.” Only now she doesn’t. “But there’s new stuff that Bryce knows.” Which is like knives in me. “And that I don’t, so—”
Tears well up in my eyes so fast that I start blinking at light speed.
“Have you…” Hartman winces a little. “Have you talked to Bree since this morning?”
“Not yet.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a quick swipe at my eyes. “She hasn’t answered my texts, but with her recent absenteeism from my life, I figure we’ll talk when she’s not busy anymore. We always do.”
“You hit her boyfriend. She’s not…” He stops, his gaze darting around the room.
“Is she mad at me?” I ask. How could she be mad? It’s not like he was actually hurt! And she was drunk anyway.
“She made it sound like maybe she was a bit…upset…” His lips are pursed together in an awkward way. “Or maybe a lot upset.”
A strange wailing sound comes from the lobby, and Hartman stands up a little taller.
Bree’s mad at me? I mean, being preoccupied with a new boyfriend is one thing. Anger is quite another. And seriously, she’s the one who has totally ditched me for a guy.
“What is that?” Hartman whispers.
“I guess the family’s having a hard time. Some are worse than others.” The sound carries through the door again. I’ve heard this a million times, but I still close my eyes for a moment to push away the cracking feeling of someone else’s grief.
When my eyes open, Hartman has the office door slightly open and he’s peeking out down the hall toward the lobby.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I’m curious.” But he isn’t leaning against the wall like he’s curious. He’s leaning against the wall like…like he needs to watch. He clutches the door so tightly that his knuckles are white.
“How…” He glances back at me, his brown eyes seeming a little more chocolaty brown than before. “How do you watch this? How do you listen to people who are heartbroken?”
“I cope.” I lean back, watching him. “Didn’t we just have this conversation yesterday?”
“How?” There’s a desperation in his voice that I don’t understand.
I stand next to him and lean against the wall. “I do horrible things like keep track of the ages that people died and play guessing games on how they ended up downstairs. It’s disrespectful and horrible but…”
He softly closes the door. “It gets you through.”
“I’m afraid sometimes that—” But I stop. This isn’t something I’ve ever admitted to anyone.
He cocks his head to the side. “What?” His voice is soft like pillows or my favorite blanket or fuzzy socks.
The words are sticky in my throat before I push them out in a voice somewhere between talking and whispering. “I just don’t feel like normal people do.”
“You don’t.”
My gut feels as if someone kicked me.
“I don’t either,” he says. “No one does. We all see the world through a different lens.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
Hartman shrugs. “Your view of the world is a little more warped than most,” he teases. “But that’s okay.”
“It makes me warped. And I’ve come to terms with that. I just…I don’t know how to not be me.”
“That.” He leans in so close I smell…He smells like the inside of his car, which makes me smile. “I think that’s good.”
He’s so warm and his eyes are so…deep and his voice…I think I’m melting.
“Oh,” I squeak.
He slips his hand into mine. “Show me your house?”
I’ve only held a guy’s hand a few times. Does he like me? I look at our hands together—his thin fingers, our pale skin—and hold on.
As soon as we open the door between the offices and my house, his phone beeps and Mickey stops at the top of the wooden steps.
Hartman reaches for his phone, but our hands are still clasped together.
“Go! Away!” I mouth to Mickey while gesturing for her to move out of sight before Hartman sees her.
She glances down at our hands, grins far too widely, and waggles her brows.
In this moment, I really wish I were an only child. At least she leaves.
“My mom.” Hartman drops my hand and frowns a little, which tugs at his smooth lips. His face doesn’t look as long as it used to. Paired with his perfect eyes and flopsy hair, he’s actually…Maybe Mom was right in that he’s kinda cute, and cute in more ways than him knowing how to dress.
“Okay?” I ask as he types and then waits.
“My mom is still having a really hard time.” His stare is intense. “There are times when she misses me during the day.”
“Maybe ’cause you’re so cute,” I tease and mock punch him in the arm with my free hand.
But the way his eyes are suddenly on me makes me flush from my toes to the top of my head. My throat is swollen. He’s a step closer, and he’s dropped my hand to put his hands on my shoulders. All I can do is stare at this strange, cute boy in my entryway who is kind enough to carry in boxes and lie in coffins and write back his sad mother.
He bends forward and his lips touch mine.
But I’m not good at this. “Are you kissing me?”
He freezes, inches from my lips. “I’m sorry. Should I not have? I just thought…I mean…I thought…”
Even his nostrils are kind of flared as he shakes his head, his cheeks pinking at a rapid rate.
“I…” I have no idea what to say. Did I just seriously screw up?
I want to feel Hartman again. I’m not sure how all this works. Do I ask, or do I just kiss him back? And now that we’ve just kissed, how do I know when to expect it again?
“You look like I seriously screwed up.” He takes a step back. “I should go. That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Is he sorry he kissed me? Not sorry? Do I tell him I want a kiss? Do I just hold his shoulders and do what he did to me? Why am I feeling like a total amateur?
He pats his pocket and his keys jangle together. And then he slips his phone into his other pocket. He’s still staring at the floor. “Should I go?”
“I’m, um…” I touch my lips, but it’s not the same as his lips on mine. Not even close to the same. “I’m glad you came.”
His head snaps toward me so fast that I jump a little. My heart pounds again at the intense way he’s looking at me. “Are you sure?”
He’s asking about the kiss, not about staying.
I nod, but that’s all I can do.
“Okay.”
I take a step closer. I like being close to him because it reminds me how tall he is. So tall that the second I can feel his warmth, I’m craning my neck.
“You’re smiling.” He smiles.
“Yeah.”
“I like you, Gabe.”
I like you too, but those words don’t find their way out. “Can I touch your hair?”
He chuckles and leans forward, his hair flopping in front of me. My fingers slip through his curls. His hair is incredibly soft. Like baby-hair soft. When he stands upright, we smile at each other—me touching his hair felt almost as personal as the kiss.
Hartman begins to bend down, and every cell and every fiber of my body is tensed in the most perfect kind of anticipation. This time I’ll be ready for a kiss. It’ll be better. This time I’ll try not to say something stupid after it’s over.
His nose touches mine just before my lips brush his again.
“Gabby!” Dad calls.
I jump away but quickly touch a finger to Hartman’s mouth. It’s not a kiss, but it’s something. His eyes turn about a dozen shades warmer. My finger is still on his lips.
“Matthew can’t—” Dad stops in the entryway. His eyes are on Hartman and then on me and then on Hartman again, only a bit narrower.
I drop my hand.
“Matthew can’t come out,” Dad says evenly. Still staring at Hartman. But also still obviously talking to me. Weird.
Hartman holds up his phone, and all the parts of my body that were primed and ready for another kiss are now deflating.
“I really need to go help my mom,” Hartman says.
My cheeks ache, and when I touch them, I realize it’s because I’m smiling so widely.
Dad taps my shoulder. “Go get dressed, please. Your mom needs help, and you’re in trouble anyway.”
I want to walk Hartman out. Tell him about how much I loved the kiss. How we should maybe do it again.
Instead, I stand next to Dad like an idiot while Hartman fumbles with the lock on the front door, jerks when the door squeaks, and gives us an awkward wave before leaving.
“I’m pretty sure he’s your boyfriend, and I’m pretty sure I’m not at all ready for this.” Dad rubs his forehead and stares at the door for a moment.
“I don’t think he’s my boyfriend.” But I’m not as sure about that as I was earlier. We did have a quick kiss, sort of two. And I for sure would like to have another one.
I really need Bree.
Chapter 18
Mickey snores on the small pullout bed. I should have never let her stay in my room.
I’ve texted Bree like five times about the hearse and prom and that I have news…It seems stupid to tell her I kissed Hartman with a text, but…but she’s not answering me. And after Hartman said she was maybe angry, it’s like I have to hear from her. Bree doesn’t stay angry. I don’t stay angry. We work. But it’s midnight, and still nothing.
Finally, I write: Are you mad?
You hit my boyfriend! His parents are furious that he ended up at the principal’s office. He’s grounded this weekend. He might miss prom.
My jaw drops as I stare at her words and type back a quick Seriously?
Silence. More silence. I want to ask why she didn’t tell me about what’s going on with her dad and the new baby, but she’s already angry. I’m blinking back tears again. I’m not sure how we got to a place where we’re not talking. This can’t possibly last, can it?
There’s no staying in bed. I slide up the hallway in my fuzzy socks and pause in the living room. Mom and Dad are droopy-eyed on the couch, watching some show.
I need to tell Bree about the way Hartman’s hair felt, and his smile, and his soft lips, and then ask her what we do next. What does the kiss mean? What am I supposed to do when I see him at school tomorrow? I don’t remember liking someone the way I like Hartman.
I head down the stairs into the entryway and then into the offices. Grabbing a few cookies, I walk through the dark lobby.
The chapel still has a sickly floral smell to it. The coffin room is closed. The viewing room is closed.
The cool air in the large house brushes against my cheeks, and I jog faster down the long hallway to the large elevator. But when the elevator hits the bottom floor, everything’s dark.
I lean against the wall. I still remember when Bree came over to my house in middle school, and the first time she stepped into this room. It was different then. Not as many cold storage lockers. Bree stood next to me and clasped her hand in mine. “It’s weird,” she said. “But not as creepy as I thought it would be.”
Last year, we begged to do the makeup on a girl our age who’d died of leukemia. It took some convincing before my parents relented. Even after embalming, her skin had an odd tinge to it from all the meds in her body. We both cried a little, but we also both knew it was worth it. For us, for her, for her parents. And ever since then, Bree’s come down here to help me with makeup.
I’m still standing in the dark room, and I can’t imagine never sharing this space with Bree again.
I don’t hear from Hartman all weekend, and that’s okay. I mean, he totally knows the family business is busy and that I might be in trouble. He answered my texts, but only with necessary single lines. We haven’t had any kind of actual conversation.
And that’s kind of weird. I mean, we did kiss. I sort of wanted to kiss him again, but maybe…
Maybe now he doesn’t want to kiss me.
I send Bree another text. Need to talk. Come on, Bree.
Nothing. And still nothing new from Hartman.
My insides crumple at the thought of Hartman’s possible rejection. I don’t want this desperate, clutching feeling. Is this what made Bree make the terrible decision to date Bryce? To buy that awful nonexistent swimsuit? To come to school drunk? Was she just trying to keep Bryce interested in her? I let out a few slow breaths like I do when pushing away pinches of sadness, but nothing changes. I feel stuck in a really crappy place, and I’m not at all sure how to climb out.
Monday morning, I lean against Bree’s locker. I’m back at school, and I’m really not into being avoided by her anymore. She would never just push me away at school, in the middle of the hallway.
I clutch my books for first period tighter against my chest. Where is she? I scan the hall both ways really quickly but don’t see her. This bites. I let my head fall forward and rest my chin on my math text. Talking to Bree should be easy.
“Do you need something?”
I jerk my head up to see Bree’s bitch face, the one I helped her practice in front of the mirror.
“Just…I’m sorry,” I say. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Did you know he was grounded all weekend?” she snaps. “And he didn’t even do anything wrong.”
He’s done plenty of terrible things he’s never been caught for. In my mind, this was just karma c
oming back around—with a little help from me.
“Are you smiling?” Bree asks.
Oh crap. “No!” I clutch my books more tightly.
“Just…” Bree shakes her head. “I don’t think I can deal with this right now. Not on top of everything else.”
Doesn’t want to deal with me?
We stare at each other for a moment. Bree is my love of vintage, and late-night texts, and online bestie…and who I want to tell about my first kiss with Hartman and ask if his silence might mean something.
How did this happen so fast? We were tight. Not talking or arguing or not dealing together doesn’t make sense. “Why didn’t you tell me about your dad?”
She swallows. “Because I didn’t need any more reminders of how much worse my life is than yours. Because even if I had told you, you wouldn’t have understood.”
But she didn’t even give me a chance to understand. “But I—”
Bree turns and walks away.
My throat closes up, my eyes swell about three sizes, and I fall against our lockers.
It was just last summer that Bree’s parents both left Paradise Hill. We grabbed doughnuts at the all-night doughnut place and watched the sunrise from the park because that’s what we always do for each other when crappy things happen. And now she’ll only talk to me long enough to say that she doesn’t want to talk to me.
I want to find Hartman. Maybe he’ll be smarter at this than me, or have some ideas on how to talk to Bree, or…something.
What did she mean by having one more thing in her life not as perfect as mine? I don’t get it. I have an annoying little sister, an aunt who occasionally grabs my chest, and parents who work more than anyone else I know.
I don’t find Hartman in the hallway. He’s not in our shared second period. He’s not at his locker after school.
At the end of the day, I stand in the foyer and once again lean forward until my forehead is pressed against the glass. The too-bright sun is not working with my mood.
Pushing my bag against the doors of the school, I walk out into the sun. Bree is probably smashed against Bryce in the parking lot somewhere. And he probably has his gross hands all over her. Hartman is…who knows where. Maybe he’s avoiding me too.