This Lullaby

by Sarah Dessen

  “Thank God,” Jess said as they traded, both of them wincing now. “Because this stuff I’m drinking tastes like shit.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Chloe said, ignoring this. “Patty sent the picture to your mom?”

  “Yep,” I replied.

  “But she got the pictures developed at Flash Camera.”

  “Correct.”

  Chloe swallowed, considering this. “And Dexter knew it was her, and what the implications were, so he showed it to you to get you back for dumping him.”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which all I could hear was the sloshing of ice, creaking of straws, and a few doubtful murmurings. Finally Jess said, “I’m not getting the logic of that, exactly.”

  “Me neither, now that I think about it,” Lissa agreed.

  “There is no logic,” I said. “He was just being a jerk. He knew it was the one way he could really hurt me, so he did it, just when I’d tried to make amends and had my guard down.”

  More silence.

  “What?” I said, irritated.

  “I think,” Chloe began tentatively, “that there’s really no proof that he even knew that you knew her.”

  “Wrong. He met her at my mother’s cookout. And she was at Toyotafaire too.”

  “Not naked,” Lissa pointed out.

  “What does that have to do with it? Naked or not she still had the same face.”

  “But,” Chloe said, “how could he have known it was Don that took the picture? Or even that it was in your mom’s room? I mean, I haven’t even been in there. Has he?”

  Now, I was the quiet one, as this logic—if it was even that—suddenly began to click together in my head. I’d just assumed, in my shock, that Dexter had seen my mother’s bedroom, and especially that ugly biblical tapestry. But had he? For all he knew, it was just a picture of a woman who worked for my stepfather getting her kicks taking nudie lingerie pictures in someone’s bedroom. Anyone’s bedroom.

  “I’m all for you being pissed at Dexter,” Chloe said, tapping her nails on the hood of the car. “But it should be for a good reason. Face it, Remy Starr. You’re in the wrong here.”

  And I was. I’d been so ready to blame Dexter for everything, from my mother’s marriage dissolving to making me trust him in a way I hadn’t anyone else in a long time. But none of it was his fault.

  “Oh, my God,” I said softly. “What now?”

  “Go find him and apologize,” Lissa said decisively.

  “Admit it was a mistake, don’t find him, move on,” Chloe countered.

  I looked at Jess, but she just shrugged and said, “I have no idea. It’s all you.”

  I’d yelled at him. Told him to fuck off, thrown the picture at him, and stalked out even as he was trying to explain. I’d dumped him because he’d wanted more from me than to be a faceless, smelling-of-sunshine-and-chlorine summer boyfriend, made to order.

  So what had changed? Nothing. Even if I did go to him, we’d already be too late, no time left to make a foundation before we were flung to opposite coasts, and everyone knew that kind of relationship never worked.

  It was just like my mother said. Everything, in the end, comes down to timing. One second, one minute, one hour, could make all the difference. So much hanging on just these things, tiny increments that together build a life. Like words build a story, and what had Ted said? One word can change the entire world.

  Hey, Dexter had said that first day he sat down beside me. That was one word. If I’d talked one minute longer with Don in the office, Dexter might already have been called away and gone when I came out. If my mother and I waited maybe another hour, Don might not have been at the dealership the day we went shopping for her new car. And if Jennifer Anne hadn’t needed that oil change on that particular day of that particular week, maybe she wouldn’t have ever looked over a Jiffy Lube counter and seen Chris at all. But something, somehow, had made all these paths converge. You couldn’t find it on a checklist, or work it into the equation. It just happened.

  “Oh, man,” Jess said suddenly, tugging at the cuff of my jeans. “Check this out.”

  I looked up, my mind still reeling. It was Don. He was driving a shiny, brand-new dealer-tagged Land Cruiser, which he parked on the other side of the Quik Zip. He didn’t see us as he got out, hitting the remote door lock, and went inside, smoothing a hand over the thinning hair on the back of his head as he did so.

  “God,” I said. “Talk about timing.”

  “What?” Lissa whispered.

  “Nothing.” We all watched as he moved down the aisle of the Quik Zip, picking up a bottle of aspirin and a bag of potato chips, which, I figured, was the chosen meal of adulterers. Even when he was checking out he didn’t look at us, glancing instead at the headlines of the newspapers stacked by the register. Then he walked out, fiddling with the lid of the aspirin, and got back into his car.

  “Asshole,” Chloe said.

  It was true. He’d hurt my mother badly, and there wasn’t much I could do to make her feel better. Except maybe one thing.

  Don started the car and headed toward us. I lifted up my Diet Zip, feeling the weight in my hands.

  “Oh, yes,” Lissa whispered.

  “On three,” Jess said.

  He didn’t see us until he was right next to Lissa’s car, and by then I’d already put my whole arm into it, my cup sailing through the air and smacking right against the windshield, exploding soda all over the shiny hood. He hit the brakes, swerving slightly, as two other cups crashed against the back door and sunroof, respectively. But it was Lissa’s, surprisingly, that had the best hit. It nailed his half-open window perfectly, the lid breaking off on impact, sending a wave of ice and 7UP smack in his face and down his shirt. He slowed down but didn’t stop, the cups sailing off as he jerked into traffic, the car leaving a wet trail as it drove away from us.

  “Nice shot,” Jess said to Lissa. “Great arc.”

  “Thanks,” Lissa said. “Chloe’s was good too. Did you see that impact?”

  “It’s all in the wrist,” Chloe said, shrugging.

  Then we just sat there. I could hear the buzz of the Quik Zip sign overhead, that constant hum of fluorescence, and for a minute I lost myself in it, remembering Dexter standing in this same place not too long before, waving after me. Arms open. Calling me back, or saying good-bye. Or maybe a little bit of both.

  He’d always had that fearless optimism that made cynics like me squirm. I wondered if it was enough for both of us. I would never know from here, though. And time was passing. Crucial minutes and seconds, each one capable of changing everything.

  I drove off, with my friends watching me go, all of them grouped on Lissa’s hood. As I pulled onto the road, I glanced into the rearview and saw them: they were waving, hands moving through the air, their voices loud, calling out after me. The square of that mirror was like a frame, holding this picture of them saying good-bye, pushing me forward, before shifting gently out of sight, inch by fluid inch, as I turned away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knew from experience that there were nine decent reception halls in town. At the fifth one, I found Truth Squad.

  I saw the white van as soon as I pulled into the parking lot of the Hanover Inn. It was parked around back, by the service entrance, next to a catering van. As I got out of my car, I could hear music, the faint beat of bass guitar. Through the long windows that broke up the building, I saw people dancing. The bride was in the center, a blur of white, trailing tulle, leading a conga line around in a wide, lopsided circle.In the lobby, I passed some girls in hideous baby blue bridesmaids dresses, complete with big bows on the back, as well as someone wheeling a big ice sculpture depicting wedding bells. The sign next to the door said MEADOWS-DOYLE reception, and I slipped in the far door and moved along the back wall, trying to stay hidden.

  The band was onstage, in their G Flats garb. Dexter was singing an old Motown song, which I recognized as
one of their regular covers, and behind him Ted was strumming his guitar with a bored, irritated expression, as if just standing there was paining him.

  The song ended with a flourish, provided by John Miller, who then stood up for applause. It came, but barely, and he sat back down again with a sigh.

  “Hello everyone,” Dexter said into the microphone in his game show host voice. “Let’s give another big congratulations to Janine and Robert, the Doyles!”

  Now, a big cheer as the bride beamed, blowing kisses at everyone.

  “This next song is a special one from the bride to her groom,” Dexter went on, glancing at Lucas, who nodded. “But the rest of you, feel free to sing along.”

  The band launched into the opening chords of a song I barely recognized as one from a recent blockbuster movie. It was a power ballad, totally schmaltzy, and even Dexter, who was usually the best sport of the bunch, seemed to deflate when he had to deliver a line about loving you till the stars are gone / and the heart I have just turns to stone. . . . Around the second chorus, Ted actually started gagging, stopping only when he had to concentrate hard on the guitar solo that wound up the final verse. The bride and groom, however, seemed oblivious to this, staring into each other’s eyes as they danced, their bodies pressed together so closely they were hardly moving.

  The song finished and everyone clapped. The bride was crying, her new husband reaching up to wipe her eyes while everyone made ain’t-it-sweet noises. Truth Squad left the stage squabbling, Ted and Lucas already at each other, with Dexter and John Miller lagging behind. They all disappeared out a side door as the canned music came on and the staff wheeled the cake, four tiered and covered with roses, onto the dance floor.

  As the door shut behind them I moved to follow, but something stopped me, and I took a step back, pressing myself against the wall and closing my eyes. God, it was one thing to come over here on a wave of post-Don soakage euphoria, but another thing entirely to actually do this crazy thing. It was like driving on the wrong side of the road, or letting my gas gauge get down to flat empty before refilling, something that went completely against my nature and everything I had, up until this point, believed in.

  But what had that gotten me so far, anyway? A string of boyfriends. A reputation as a cold, bitter bitch. And a secure bubble that I’d drawn so tightly around myself that no one, not even someone with the best of intentions, could get in, even if I wanted them to. The only way to truly reach me was to sneak up, crash in, bust past the barricades on the equivalent of a kamikaze mission, end result unknown.

  That night at the Quik Zip he’d told me, so angrily, that everything he’d said to me, from the first day, was true. Then, I had blanked, not remembering anything. But now, as I pressed my back into the wall, it came to me.

  I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common, he’d said. A natural chemistry, if you will.

  That had been right after he’d crashed into me. My arm had been still buzzing at the funny bone.

  And I just had a feeling that something big was going to happen.

  I remembered, suddenly, how ridiculous this had sounded. A car dealership soothsayer, telling my fortune.

  To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together.

  Meant to be. He hadn’t known me at all. Just seen me from across a room.

  You didn’t feel it?

  Not then. Or maybe, deep in some hidden, misplaced spot, I had. And when I couldn’t find it later, it came looking for me.

  “They’re about to cut the cake!” some woman in a green, shimmery dress was calling out as I pushed away from the wall, headed to that side door. Halfway there I got lost in a mass of people, all depositing their empty drinks on tables and pressing toward the dance floor. I navigated through them, past suits and tuxedos, crinkly dresses and a thick cloud of mixed perfumes before finally coming out on the other side. The door to the parking lot was open now, and as I stepped through it I saw the band had disappeared, with only a few tangerine peels remaining, scattered around the curb.

  From behind me, I heard a drum roll, followed by a crash of cymbals, and the best man was at the microphone, holding his glass aloft. John Miller was behind his drum set, picking at his teeth, while Lucas snuck some more beer into a cup off to the side of the stage. Ted was standing glumly next to his amp, as if he’d lost a bet. I craned my neck, looking for Dexter, but then a large woman in a pink dress stepped in front of the door, blocking my view. And suddenly I just knew I was too late.

  I stepped back out into the fresh air, crossing my arms over my chest. Bad timing, again. It was hard not to think this was some kind of cue from the universe, letting me know that this wasn’t the right thing to do. I tried, and failed. There. It was over.

  But God! Who could live like this, anyway, with the kind of guesswork that was enough to make a person crazy, just sailing along, taking the bumps here and there, no course navigated whatsoever, with any big wave capable of just tipping and sinking you entirely. It was madness, stupidity, and—

  Then I saw him. Sitting there on the curb, under a streetlight, knees pulled up to his chest. And for one second, it was like I could feel the timing clicking together, finally, pieces falling into place. Behind me, the best man was winding up his toast, his voice sounding tight, emotional. To the happy couple, he said, and everyone repeated it, their voices blending as one. To the happy couple.

  And then I was walking toward Dexter, folding my fingers tight into my hands. I could hear the cheers as the bridal couple cut their cake. So I took the last few steps of this long journey fast, almost running, before plunking myself down and knocking into Dexter, just enough to tip his balance for a second. Because I knew, now, this was how it had to begin. The only way was to crash in.

  I knocked him sideways, startling him. But once he got his equilibrium, and his wits, back, he just looked at me. Not even one word. Because we knew it had to come from me this time.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  I took in his dark curls, the smell of his skin, that cheap tuxedo with the loose threads on the cuff. He was just looking at me, not pulling back, but not moving closer either. And I felt a sudden whirl in my head, knowing this leap was now inevitable, that I wasn’t just on the cliff, toes poking over, but already in midair.

  “Did you really believe, that first day, that we were meant to be together?” I asked him.

  He looked at me and then said, “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  There was only so much space between us, not even a real distance if measured in miles or feet or even inches, all the things that told you how far you’d come or had left to go. But this was a big space, if only for me. And as I moved forward to him, covering it, he waited there on the other side. It was only the last little bit I had to go, but in the end, I knew it would be all I would truly remember. So as I kissed him, bringing this summer and everything else full circle, I let myself fall, and was not scared of the ground I knew would rise up to meet me. Instead, I just pulled him closer, my hand sliding up around his neck to find that one place where I could feel his heartbeat pulsing. It was fast, like my own, and finding it, I pressed down hard, as if it was all that connected us, and kept my finger there.

  November

  Chapter Eighteen

  Melanie knew she had a choice. There was a time when she would have run after Luc, and the security he’d provided. And in another, more distant past, Brock would have seemed like the answer to all the questions that still woke her in the night, heart racing, wondering how she’d gotten here. The choice was clear, and yet not clear at all. As Melanie boarded the train that would take her to the station in Paris, she picked a window compartment and sank into the seat, pressing one hand against the glass. The countryside would soon slip away, replaced by the beautiful skylines that were the backdrop for so much of her past. She had the entire trip to figure out what her next step should be. And as the train pulled away, gaining speed,
she settled back into her seat, relishing only the forward motion, as it pulled her toward her destiny.

  “Remy?”I looked up to see my roommate, Angela, standing in the open doorway of our room. “Yeah?”

  “Mail call.” She came over and sat down beside me, dealing out envelopes into two piles. “School crap. Credit card offer. Something from the Jehovah’s Witnesses . . . that must be yours. . . .”

  “Finally,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for that forever.” Angela was from L.A., taught aerobics part-time, and never made her bed. She wasn’t a perfect match for me, but we got along okay.

  “Oh, and this big one’s yours,” she said, sliding a large manila envelope out from under the calculus textbook she was carrying. “How’s the book?”

  “It’s good,” I said, marking my page and shutting it. It was only a bound galley of Barbara Starr’s newest, The Choice, but already three girls on my hall had asked me to borrow it when I was done. I was thinking, though, that they would be surprised by the ending, just as my mother’s editor and publisher had been. I’d been a little shocked myself, reading the manuscript on the plane on the way out to school. I mean, in romance novels you just expected the heroine to end up with a man, some man, at the end. But Melanie, instead, made the choice of no choice, packing up her Paris memories and heading across the world to start anew with no lingering loves to hold her back. Not bad for an ending, I thought. It was, after all, the one I’d planned for myself, not too long ago.

  Angela left the room, headed to the library, as I picked up the manila envelope and opened it, dumping its contents into my lap. The first thing I saw was a bunch of pictures, bound with a rubber band: the one on the top was of me, squinting, the sun bright in my face. There was something wrong with the picture, though: it seemed out of balance. There was also a blurred edge on the top, and a weird kind of afterimage splayed across the left side. They were all a bit off, I realized, as I flipped through them. Most of them were of Dexter, and a few of me, with several featuring John Miller. Some were of inanimate objects, like a tire or a tangerine, with the same defects. Finally, I realized what they were, remembering all those warped wedding cameras Dexter and the rest of them had been toting around most of the summer. So the pictures had come out, after all, just as Dexter had predicted. They weren’t perfect, though, as I’d maintained. In the end, like so much else, they were good enough.