by Bryan Bliss
Dad is shaking when he turns to me. “Get your stuff together. We’re going to the recruiter. Now.”
“Dad,” I say, my voice, my entire body—trembling.
Dad is calm, like the moment before a tornado is about to touch down. “Thomas, get your stuff and get in the truck.”
“Can I talk to you?”
I don’t know what to say, but I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of pretending that Jake isn’t messed up, that I’m not scared. I’m so tired of playing a part that’s been created for me. Whether I go or not, that feels secondary as I stand here. All I want is for him to listen to me, just once. To understand what it’s been like keeping all of this inside me.
“Don’t you see what’s happened to him?” I ask.
Dad shakes his head. “Sometimes a soldier has to give something back to his country. That’s the job. That’s what you sign up for. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“Is it the job for us all to ignore it? To pretend like it isn’t happening right under our noses?”
“Son, what do you think this is about? Do you think I didn’t come back from Iraq feeling like shit? Of course I did. But I got a job. I was a father. If you don’t understand what I’m telling you, maybe it’s better if you don’t go.”
I’ve heard this speech thousands of times. Suffer silently. Be a man. I’m so sick of it. My phone buzzes, and when I look at it, Dad grabs the phone from me. As soon as he sees it, he nearly implodes.
“Is this your problem? ‘Are you coming or not?’ He mimics a stereotypical girl’s voice, throwing a hand in the air with a flourish. “You’re willing to throw everything away for some girl?”
“It has nothing to do with her,” I say.
Dad throws my phone at the driveway. It shatters, plastic and glass spray across our lawn. I stare at it, at him. And then I turn around and start limping back to my truck.
“Hell, no,” he says, reaching for my shoulder. When he tries to spin me around, I slip away, even though my leg is killing me, and try to double-time it to the truck. He catches me easily and pushes me against the hood like a criminal. He stares at me without speaking, eye to eye like he’s looking for an eyelash. A piece of glass. I don’t look away. I try to channel everything Jake has ever been about, the fierce certainty he had with every decision.
He shakes his head, finally letting go of my shirt like it’s covered in stains. Like he’s going to get his hands dirty. Dad lets me off the hood and stares at me for a long time before he shakes his head and goes into the house. He doesn’t slam the door, just closes it. The way he has a thousand other times in his life.
Mom runs over to me, but I don’t know what to say to her. Everything I’ve wanted and planned for in the last few months is here, and I can’t move.
“Honey, he doesn’t mean it. He just wants you to be happy,” Mom says. I’m too tired to argue with her, to clarify the definition of happy. Jake comes up beside her and stares at me, like he wants me to say something. Instead, I hobble past both of them and walk into the kitchen, where he sits, drinking coffee and staring at the newspaper. He doesn’t say a word as I go to my room, as I reappear back in the kitchen with my duffel bag. I pause at the door, giving Mom a quick kiss. She tries to hold me back, to connect me to this place—this person—one last time, but I pull away.
Before I can get in the truck, Jake catches up to me. He closes the truck door and leans against it, crossing his arms.
“So?” he says.
“I’m still not going to the army.”
“And what is that going to prove? That you’re exactly what he thinks you are?”
“Maybe. But I can’t stay here.”
He nods and opens the door. “That may be true. But that doesn’t mean you have to do something stupid to spite him.” He motions for me to get in. When I’m in the driver’s seat, the ignition cranked, he closes the door and leans into the window.
“Thomas, you might be scared, but you’re not a coward,” he says. “If you don’t want to go, fine. Don’t go. But you need to let them know. You need to stand up to it.”
I only want to escape the responsibility. To drive away, pretending that he never went to war and that I never signed up. Play Lost Boy until the army or my father tracks me down. How many months could I grab before that happened? One? Five? But even as I think it, it feels wrong. A piece that doesn’t quite fit in my puzzle. And as much as I want to deny it, I can’t.
Jake reaches across me and works the stick shift into first gear. “Can you get it into second? You can drive it in second as long as the engine is running smooth.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask. Jake looks at the gearshift, still in first. “Not the truck. Do you think I’m not a coward?”
He looks surprised, almost offended, as he stands straight and looks from me back to the house. When he leans back into the truck, he stares into my eyes for a good ten seconds before he says anything.
“I think courage is somewhere between doing what you want to do and what you need to do,” he says. “And that’s on you, man.”
He nods and clears his throat, pointing down to my leg. “Can you work the gas and brake?”
I test the pedal with my foot. Even though the pain forces my eyes closed, I nod. When I open them, Jake is still staring at me. I try to think of something to say to him, some kind of validation for the decision I’ve made. He smiles, slapping the roof of the truck once before turning around and walking back down the driveway.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I park at the top of the bridge, carefully lower myself out of the truck, and listen for Mallory’s voice—for cussing or crying, I can’t be sure. When I don’t hear anything, all of the adrenaline disappears, and I crash. I slide down the embankment, not sure what I’ll find, if she’ll still be waiting. But like so many times before, when I duck underneath that crumbling concrete, there’s Mallory.
“Shouldn’t you be gone?” she says, monotone. Barely even looks at me.
As always, I have no idea what to say to her. I try to force a joke. “Aren’t you supposed to be married by now?” But as soon as it leaves my mouth, I know it’s wrong. It sounds petty, cruel. And I see her cringe.
“That was the plan,” she says. I open my mouth, and she says, “Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”
“I can leave.”
“Well, go already,” she says sharply.
“Hey, you texted me,” I say.
We stand there, facing off like two kids, waiting for the other to speak, to move, to do anything.
“Yeah, like an hour ago. Glad you had time to fit me in.”
I tamp down my indignation, the evidence I want to raise in my defense. I was getting the truck back. I don’t have a phone. Jake. But she already looks defeated, her face smudged with dirt. As if she had been down here digging holes. I take a cautious step forward, slowly sit next to her.
She doesn’t say anything.
“So, how was your graduation?” I ask. First she smiles; then she shakes her head. Like she doesn’t want to let herself laugh.
“It’s all unicorns and rainbows over here,” she says. “You?”
“Pretty much the same.”
She laughs once. “God, this is so fucked up.”
I let that statement define the evening, everything about the last few months as we sit in silence. The new day streams before us, already getting warm. I can see cars in the distance, can hear a plane traveling overhead. I could sit here all day—for the rest of my life—and wouldn’t be worse off.
“So, you’re getting . . . married,” I say.
She doesn’t immediately react, just stares out past the bridge. A faint smile appears on her face. “What were we thinking? What a damn cliché.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He seems like a good guy.”
“He is,” she says, her words fading away into the growing sound of the cicadas. She turns to me and says, “I wanted to do it. I really did. But one day I
started worrying: What if I meet somebody else later? What if we don’t like living together? I don’t want to end up like my mom, nineteen and pregnant. Working full-time to pay for day care.”
“That sounds terrible,” I say. She laughs, louder than I expect.
“I know. Why do you think I quit that shit?”
I laugh, too, and in that second it feels like I can breathe.
“Really.” She continues. “It freaked me out. So last night at the party, I thought: Okay, just tell him you’re not ready. He’ll understand. But you know what happened.”
“I could take you to see him,” I say. She shakes her head, looking at me sideways.
“He’s so pissed at me right now. After you guys left, we talked, and I tried to explain it. But all he could hear is you and me. I told him it wasn’t like that.”
She puts her hand on mine, and the weight of it is extraordinary. We’re both looking out into the sun when she says, “You know I love you, right?”
My chest tightens because I’ve always known. Still, it’s not the sort of thing we say to each other. We were beyond words, beyond needing anything to solidify who we were and what we meant. But now, with her hand on mine, how wrong could I have been? How easily you forget the essential parts of yourself.
So I say: “I guess I love you, too.”
“Wow. Thanks for that, Thomas.”
But she’s smiling, still holding on to me like I’m a wayward balloon, ready to float away. And I just might. Hearing her say she loves me makes me sad because the only thing we have left to say is good-bye, to officially end this night. And that’s not coming as easily. I don’t want her to move her hand off mine either, because that’s no different. A confirmation that the time has come and this is done.
I put my other hand on top of hers, and she one-ups me, like we’re kids trying to figure out who gets to bat first. I smile. She laughs. Our hands separate, and the cool air on my palm feels awful.
She stands up and, facing me, pulls me to my feet. I squint into the hot sun as she buries her face into my chest. I don’t want to be the first to let go, so I wait for her to do it, and a minute later she’s wiping away tears and laughing.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she says.
“Because you’re going to miss all of this.” I flex, pose. She laughs.
“You’re stupid,” she says, hitting me once. “So . . . what happened?”
“I told them,” I say.
“And?”
I shrug. She has to know how it went. “I’m going down to the recruiter in a minute. They’re not going to let me go with my leg like this anyway, I don’t think. But I need to go and at least talk to them. From there . . . I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
We stand there, facing each other, the skeletons of our childhood buried in the ground beneath us, the smell of the pine trees, the promises of everything we were to each other coming in every sound, every smell, every tiny speck of dirt that floats through the sunlight.
“Well, if you’re still around,” she says, “I think we should go back to the Grover tonight.”
I laugh. “I have a feeling that I’m not going to be doing much of anything for a long, long time.”
“Are you going to leave?”
I shake my head. And then we stand there, watching the sun rise higher and higher in the sky.
She moves first, leading me away from the bridge. As I struggle up the hill and she grabs my hand for balance, for leverage, I want to believe that we make our own plans. I want to believe that we are the ones in control of our lives.
But as Mallory Carlson gets in my truck—not for the last time because I know that can’t be the truth—as we pull away from the bridge, as we make it onto the road and I drive toward her house, I have to believe in whatever magic brings us down twisted roads, leading us to places we never expected. Leading us back to the place we should’ve been all along.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people to thank, and I have to start with my family. Michelle, Nora, and Ben allow me to disappear—both physically and mentally—in order to make these books happen. I appreciate that time, even if it’s spent away from all of you.
Leon Guthrie (U.S. Marines) was integral in helping me wade through a culture I respect but know very little about. His knowledge of the military and his respect for veterans everywhere allowed me to really understand what it means to live a life of honor and courage—both before and after the military. He was the first person I ever met when I moved to North Carolina, and I’m happy to still call him a friend.
Ray Veen (U.S. Army) was also invaluable. As both a writer and a friend, he has never been too busy to listen or answer questions. I can honestly say I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without his friendship.
I wish I could list all of the friends and mentors I’ve encountered in this world of book writing. Molly, Sara, Chris, Paul, Matt, Seth, Aaron, Kate, Steve, Jeff, and so many more . . . I am lucky to have access to such great people. Speaking of great people, I worked on this book while a student in the M.F.A. program at Seattle Pacific University. Thanks to Greg Wolfe and company for a truly life-changing experience.
Martha Mihalick edited this book and made it what it is. Her name should probably be on the cover somewhere—that’s how much she does for me in this process. Thank you.
Michael Bourret, my literary agent, is always on board, no matter what I want to do. Well, maybe not the professional wrestling book. But . . . maybe? In all seriousness, there is no one better to have in your corner.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRYAN BLISS has worked with teenagers for more than ten years. He holds an MFA from Seattle Pacific University and is the author of No Parking at the End Times. Bryan and his family live in Minneapolis.
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BOOKS BY BRYAN BLISS
No Parking at the End Times
Meet Me Here
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 by underworld / Shutterstock and by Napat Uthaichai / Shutterstock
Cover hand lettering by Erin Fitzsimmons
Cover design by Paul Zakris
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
MEET ME HERE. Copyright © 2016 by Bryan Bliss. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062275400
ISBN 978-0-06-227538-7 (trade ed.)
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