This is what he wants me to give up?
It’s been hours since Dillon drove off and I’m still shaking over the whole thing. My Rome research is supposed to be a distraction, and mostly it’s working. I stumbled onto this website searching for religious motifs. I shudder again at the words engraved on a sign in the crypt:
What you are, we once were.
What we are, you someday will be.
It’s a reminder, as the friars meant it to be, that life is short.
Exactly. I wish I could show this to Dillon. I wish I could call him right now, except that I’m too pissed to share anything with him.
SORRY
he texted a while ago.
Me too
I texted back.
I’m not sure what I’m sorry about. That he got so mad? That he tried to put an elbow through his truck door? That I just found the most awesome site and I can’t share it with my boyfriend because he’s too busy coming up with conspiracy theories to listen?
My phone beeps with a new text. I sigh and dig the cell out of the folds of my comforter. Now what?
But it isn’t Dillon. It’s Jace. I relax as I read.
Found a coin in my book with a similar back. The woman may be Faustina, wife of Marcus Aurelius
Should I have heard of her?
Said to have ordered deaths, instigated revolt, and slept with gladiators.
And they put her on a coin?
Gotta love those Romans
I pause to reply because I’m laughing.
Thx. Will check Dad’s database.
I’ll keep looking more tomorrow
This is where being the daughter of Dr. David Lorde comes in handy. As a professor, he has access to ASU’s huge online library system, which means I also have access. I’m not sure who else is applying for the internship, but the database is a definite advantage for me.
I set the laptop on my bed, unfold my legs, and stretch. I can feel how late it is in the stiffness of my shoulders and back. I’m already wearing the tank top and boxers that I sleep in. My teeth are brushed, my face is washed and moisturized, and my hair is brushed out. Normally I sleep with it loose, but I had to pull it back in a pony because I keep twisting it, and every time I twist, I’m reminded of why I’m in such a…twisty mood.
Hair out of sight, Dillon’s flying elbow out of mind.
The living room lights are dimmed, and at first I’m not sure it’s him. “Dad?”
He’s a shape on the couch, but as soon as I speak, he shifts into a more upright position, murmurs, “Hmmmm?” and blinks owlishly.
“Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Just about to,” he says. He clicks on the lamp on the table beside the couch. The memory book is sitting there, along with a half-full glass of wine.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Some research for my application.”
“Is this the assignment you told me about at dinner?”
I nod. “Do you mind if I use your computer?”
“You want to access the library?”
“I think I know who’s on the coin. I want to check it out.”
“Of course, baby.”
I start for his office but then find myself slowing down, Dillon’s voice echoing in my head. My pulse skips.
No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
But…
My feet turn and take me back to where I’m not sure I really want to be. Hesitantly, I rest a hand on the worn leather chair facing Dad. “Can I ask you something?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “About your research?”
“About the internship. You didn’t have anything to do with it, right? I mean, you didn’t use your influence to get Mrs. Lyght to ask me, did you?”
“It wasn’t influence,” he says.
It feels like I’ve swallowed a brick. Oh my God. I sink onto the arm of the chair, my research forgotten. “You knew about it?” I choke out. “Before I came home and told you…you knew?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You acted surprised!”
“I didn’t. You were excited and I let you tell me your wonderful news.”
I scrub my fingers through my hair, yanking strands of it from the rubber band. “Dillon was right,” I breathe. “You arranged this.”
He looks bewildered. “All I did was make a suggestion. You were the obvious choice.”
I’m so angry that tears scald the corners of my eyes. “How could you?”
“It’s a fabulous opportunity. I did it for you.”
“Because you want me to go to Rome or because you want me away from Dillon?”
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me! I’m in love with Dillon. You know that.”
“You don’t know what love is,” he says. “You’re barely eighteen.”
“What does that mean?” I throw my hands wide. “Are people my age incapable of love? Is there a certain age when I’ll suddenly wake up and be able to experience that emotion? When is it, Dad? You want to tell me? Because I really don’t know.”
“Emma—”
“No!” I snap, anger pouring out in waves I can’t begin to contain. “I’m sorry I’m so young, and if I could have waited another few years to meet Dillon, then yeah, I would have. But it didn’t happen that way. We met when I was seventeen and we fell in love, and it’s every bit as real as if we were twenty-five or thirty or four flipping hundred!”
He blinks slowly in time with the shake of his head. “You don’t know what’s real at this age. It’s all hormones and crushes and exploration.”
“Oh, please.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Then how can I love you, right?” I give him the same professorial quirk of my eyebrows that he likes to give me. “I mean, I’m only a child.”
“That’s not romantic love. It’s not the same thing.”
“Why isn’t it?” I demand. “Because you say so?”
“I’m only saying that a separation wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
“For who?” I snap. “For you? How could you do this?”
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” He looks honestly confused.
I want to scream. Dillon and I fought over this—and Dillon was right! I slide his wineglass toward him, the deep purple liquid sloshing against the crystal.
“Here, Dad, drink up. At least this you understand.”
Dillon is waiting when I come outside the next morning.
During the fall, he picked me up every day, but since baseball has been in full swing, he has practice after school and I usually drive myself. But today we need to talk.
The sky is a cloudless blue, the air fragrant from the thick hedge blooming next door. I breathe in the morning, trying to relax as I walk down the drive. The truck windows are tinted, so I can’t see inside. Is he watching me? Is he thinking about the door the way I am? He’s popped the dent out, so I can only see a slight indent, and only because the sun is shining in just the right way.
I picture him working on it last night. He would’ve been mad, the way I was. Is he still? I’m wearing a shirt I know he likes—red, sleeveless, ribbed over my stomach, and tucked into jean shorts with a red corded belt. I wore it for the first time on Valentine’s Day. That was a good night.
The door pops open and Dillon is leaning across my seat. He’s not mad. I can see that right away. Wary, maybe. Unsure. We both have things to be sorry for.
“Hey,” he says as I climb in.
“Hi.” I close the door and face him in the shaded coolness of the truck. He meets my gaze with a hesitant smile and then reaches behind his seat and lifts up a white bakery bag. I don’t need to read the logo to recognize it’s from Doe’s Donuts, my favorite. A sudden heat presses against my eyes as a laugh rises in my throat. I unzip my backpack and pull out a bag of my own.
When I hold it up, his eyes get a little shiny. “You baked?”
“Blueberry muffins.”
He smiles and
wiggles his bag. “Chocolate long john with sprinkles. Otherwise known as Apology Donut.”
He hands me the bag and takes the one I hold out. I open the waxy edges and breathe in the smell of fresh-baked chocolate. He’s doing the same, sniffing the still-warm muffins.
“When did you have time?” he asks.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He kisses me, his mouth so gentle that when he pulls away, I’m as melty as the chocolate frosting.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He rests his forehead against mine. “So am I.”
“I still think you overreacted,” I begin.
“Emma—”
“But you were right,” I add before he can say more.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine.
“My dad did know about it. He…suggested Mrs. Lyght recommend me for the internship.”
His eyes darken three shades from night to stormy night. “I knew it. That goddamn—”
“Dillon,” I say sharply. “He’s my dad.”
“And he’s trying to break us up.”
“He’s not going to.” I put my hand on his chest just above his heart. “Only we can do that.”
“And we’re not—”
“Ever.”
He lets out a deep breath. “Then tell him and Mrs. Lyght exactly where to shove this internship.”
Next door, Mr. French is backing out in his white sedan. He waves at me through the windshield. I wave back, smiling as if everything is just perfect. Dillon drums his fingers on the steering wheel. I watch the car drive off as I say, “It’s still a great opportunity.”
“Are you kidding me?”
I lock gazes with him. “My dad’s reasons for doing it were wrong. I told him that, too, and I told him that I love you and he needs to respect that. But it’s still an amazing internship.”
Dillon twists his hand over the wheel so tightly it makes a squeaky sound. “He wins?”
“No!” I say. “I win. I get Rome for a year and you forever.” I dip my head to follow the drop of his gaze. “Dillon, come on. Why can’t you see what this means to me?” I hold my breath, hoping. Hoping…
The sun skims the edge of his cheek. There’s a thin triangle of stubble on his jaw where he missed shaving. The sight makes my breath catch. He’s always so careful but this is affecting him as much as it is me. This is love. This is why we’re going to be okay.
He lets out a long breath. “I’m tired is all. I didn’t sleep on the cruise. I haven’t slept well since I’ve been back.”
“I haven’t been sleeping much, either.”
We’re quiet, the engine a low hum.
“Will you at least try to understand?” I ask.
“But I need you to understand, too. Things are hard right now,” he says. Dillon looks up at me, his jaw moving as if he’s chewing over some heavy emotion. “I keep picturing this old tent my dad had. We went camping a couple of times and I remember how we’d stretch out the canvas and then he’d anchor it to the ground with these heavy iron stakes and a flat-edged hammer. Four of them—one at each corner. No matter what kind of weather we had, that tent was solid.” He runs a fisted hand over his thigh. “I feel like that tent, Emma. And one by one the stakes have been pulled up. You’re the last stake, and if you’re gone, then what’s keeping me here?”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s how I feel.” That look of panic is back in his eyes.
I lean forward so I can squeeze his arm. “I’m always going to be here for you. No matter what.”
We touch foreheads again, pressing against each other. Somehow, I feel closer to him than ever.
“So what are we going to do?” he asks.
“We’re not letting this come between us.”
“That’s what I want, too, Em.”
“Okay, then.”
“Okay.”
We stay the way we are, just our foreheads touching while the sun creeps up a little higher on the dash.
I hate to break the spell, but we’re going to be late for school. As if he’s thinking the exact same thing, he lifts his head and smiles weakly. “Then the way I see it, we have only one problem.”
I tense.
“There are two muffins in this bag, and I really don’t want to share.”
My laugh is full of relief. “Idiot. They’re both for you.” I open my bakery bag and pull out my donut. We still haven’t resolved things, not fully, but I feel lighter. Hopeful. As Dillon drives us to school, I sink my teeth into fresh dough and warm chocolate. Apology Donut is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“I like toilet paper,” Hannah says. “I’m not giving it up.”
“I’m not saying you have to drip dry,” Jace retorts.
We’re sitting at our usual lunch table outside. It’s one of those round picnic tables with three curved benches and we’re all in our spots as if there are nameplates. Dillon to my left, Jace next to him, Hannah to my right sharing her bench with Spence, who is already halfway through a pizza, while the rest of us have teriyaki rice bowls from the food truck that comes twice a week. Hannah also has her usual bag of pork rinds, which look as disgusting as they sound.
Jace spears a chunk of chicken with a plastic fork. “I’m just saying that if our principal wants to start an environmental program, then we should be using recycled products.”
“Have you ever used recycled toilet paper?” Hannah asks.
“The toilet paper isn’t recycled,” Jace says.
Hannah tosses a pork rind. Dillon shoots out a hand and catches it in midair. “Are these actually made of pork?” he asks, sniffing it suspiciously.
“It looks like a plastic shower ring,” I say.
Hannah grabs the pork rind and drops it into one of the potted palms that surround the patio. “We’re not talking about my lunch. We’re talking about my right to little pillows of softness.”
I sense a Hannah-rant on its way. This group has such a strange mix of personalities. I wouldn’t have put them together, but my image of the group is still shifting—shaped by each new thing I learn. Like Dillon and Hannah going to prom last year.
Hannah shudders now as she winds herself into full drama mode. “We had reclaimed postconsumer whatever toilet paper at acting camp last summer, and let me tell you, one swipe and you’ll know exactly what happened to the newspapers our generation stopped reading.”
Spence flutters his lashes—his version of an eye roll.
“What about our landfills?” Jace asks.
Hannah dismisses that with a wave of her fork. “I don’t want to hear about landfills.”
“What about global warming? What about our ability to feed and clothe nine billion people while sustaining a crumbling ecosystem? What about mutated alien zombies created from too much fluoride in our water?”
“I worry about mutated alien zombies,” Hannah insists. “Who doesn’t? It’s my ass that wants Charmin Ultra Soft.”
She looks to me for support, and I have to nod.
Jace throw up his hands. “And that,” he says, “is what’s wrong with our society. We’d rather save our asses than the world.”
“How many rolls of Charmin do you need for nine billion people?” Spence asks.
“Extra for you,” Dillon says. “Because you’re full of shit.”
Spence grins through a full mouth.
“Well, it’s good that we have you,” I tell Jace. “You’ll figure out a way to stop the zombies.”
He sighs. “I always have to do everything.”
A siren wails from the street opposite the school and we all pause to listen. The noise quickly fades, which means no one has been caught with drugs or driven through the school fence.
“So did you tell everyone about the internship?” Jace asks me.
I feel Dillon stiffen as Hannah and Spence both say, “Internship?”
“Next year,” I say. “I have a chance to work at a museum in Rome.”
“Italy?�
�� Hannah’s voice rises.
“Who’d you have to sleep with to get that?” Spence asks. “The pope?”
“Fortunately,” I say, “that’s not my assignment.” Then I explain the project. “It’s all due a week from Monday, but it’s a long shot.”
Hannah wipes her mouth with a napkin. “When did all this come up?”
Mentally I try to relax but it’s hard when I can feel Dillon so tense beside me. “Right before spring break.”
“And you didn’t mention it?” Hannah looks from Dillon to me.
“I wasn’t sure I’d even apply until yesterday afternoon. Jace knows because he turned up at the library as I was going through the paperwork.”
“But”—Hannah shakes her head—“what about next year? ASU? You and Dillon in the same dorm—I thought it was all set?”
“It was,” Dillon says. “It is.”
I swallow. “This just came up and it’s…”
“Rome,” Jace says, finishing my sentence for me. “This is the real deal. Emma’s not going to get a chance like this more than once.”
“Why not?” Hannah asks. “She’s not even a college student yet. She can apply for something like this every year until she’s out of grad school, right?”
“Why take that chance?” Jace counters. “The opportunity is here now.”
“Dillon is here now,” Hannah says. She exchanges a pointed look with Jace. I feel like I’m missing something, but that’s the norm with Hannah. I’ve tried to overlook the things I don’t like about her, for Dillon’s sake, but I’m about ready to give up on that.
“What if you get it?” Hannah asks me.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Hannah pauses and licks her lips. “You’re just going to break up?”
“We’re not breaking up,” I snap. I want to smack her and tell her to shut it. Dillon and I worked it out this morning and now she’s winding him back up. “We’re going to Skype every day.”
“For a year?”
Spence puts a hand on her arm, but she brushes it off. “Sorry,” she says. “I just don’t get it.”
Dillon wads up his napkin and throws it in his bowl. “I’ve got to go.”
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