The Locket

by Stacey Jay

  They were cool against my face, soothing to my stinging feet, full of wonder and faith. The whole world seemed brighter, sweeter, even the rain a kinder, better version of itself. Life and time were back to what they should be. I knew it. I could feel it with everything in me.

  By the time I reached the end of Skylar Street, I was positive that Mitch was alive, even before I made it around the bend and saw the family van pulling into the Birnbaums’ driveway or the long, lean shadow leap from the car and dash through the rain toward the garage.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 7:10 P.M.

  He was alive! Mitch was alive!

  I screamed his name—once, twice—but he couldn’t hear. I was still too far away. But that was okay. I was nearly there. Soon, I’d be able to throw my arms around him and squeeze, to feel the heat and breath and life inside him, to know without a doubt that this nightmare was over!

  The thought fueled my flagging muscles, soothed the numbness and pain in my scraped feet. I sprinted the final stretch, flying past the drain where I’d lost my mind the night before and the remaining houses before Mitch’s. By the time I reached his driveway, I was breathing so hard little spots pricked at the edge of my vision, but I didn’t slow down until I reached the garage, until I stepped inside and saw the boy I loved with my own eyes.

  There he was. Mitch. My Mitch. Slightly damp and wrinkled, wearing an old pair of jeans and his faded red OMG , WTF, BBQ! hoodie. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  I sucked in a deep breath and silently sent out a prayer of thanks. Even if he hated me, even if he told me to go away and never come back, everything was going to be all right. He was alive. The force of my gratitude was dizzying, making me sway on my feet. The emotion was so intense, so overwhelming, that it took a few seconds for me to realize that Mitch hadn’t heard me come inside.

  Or that he was singing.

  “Hair like a Muppet, but it makes me smile.” The lyrics echoed through the empty garage, haunting and sweet over the rhythm of the rain. Mitch was sitting on a stool with his back to me, strumming his guitar, singing that song I hadn’t heard in this life. Not yet.

  But I knew who it was about, and what it meant.

  Hope curled in my chest, a thread of smoke in a pile of wet firewood. I tiptoed toward him, bare feet quiet on the concrete. I didn’t want him to hear me coming. I wanted to listen, to soak in the sound of his voice. It was so lovely, so perfect. I’d never listened to something so intently, never felt music sneak into my soul and light me up from the inside. I would never take Mitch or his songs or his heart for granted again. Ever. The locket had made sure of that.

  My fingers came to my chest, brushing against smooth skin. The scars were gone, erased, as if the past two weeks had never happened.

  But they had happened. They had pulled me apart, nearly destroyed me. They’d ripped my life to pieces and shown me I had the strength to put them back together again. I wasn’t afraid to fall anymore. I was too grateful for this chance to worry about the danger lurking in the next step up the ladder. Nothing was going to keep me from telling Mitch how much he meant to me, how much I loved him, how much I hoped—

  “Sarah, this song’s for you. Sarah, the things you make me do.” His voice was rich and smooth, but the words made me flinch. My stomach lurched. “Sa-sa-sarah, won’t you be my girl?”

  Sarah. He was singing about Sarah.

  A choking sound filled the air, cutting off the music. I didn’t realize it had come from me until Mitch spun around, nearly dropping his guitar. “Hey!” He ran a nervous hand through his hair and jumped to his feet. “You scared me. I thought you were out with . . . Are you okay?” His gaze tracked down my body and back up again, the concern in his eyes growing. “Why are you all wet? Where are your shoes?” He set his guitar in its stand and took a tentative step forward. “Katie?”

  My tongue moved in my mouth, but I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stand and stare as the pain of realizing he didn’t love me seeped into my skin, chilling me in a way even the rain hadn’t been able to manage. He loved Sarah. It was Sarah’s name he’d whisper while they were kissing, Sarah’s skin he’d run his guitar-calloused fingertips over when they were together. I’d had my chance and I’d lost it.

  But . . . that was . . . okay.

  My eyes squeezed shut. No, it wasn’t okay. It was far, far from okay. It hurt like hell. But not the way losing Mitch had hurt, not even a shadow of that kind of pain. He was alive, and he was going to be happy and in love. I was just going to have to love him enough to put my feelings aside and be happy for him.

  “Katie, I’m going to go call your—”

  “No, wait,” I said, stopping him before he could turn toward the door leading into the house. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. And to let you know that . . . Isaac and me . . . we’re over.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry.” He really did look sad to hear the news. The regret on his face twisted the knife in my chest another quarter turn. “Was it because of—”

  I nodded. “Someone told him. I should have told him, but I didn’t, but I should have,” I babbled, failing to hold back the stream of stupid. “Anyway. It’s okay. Breaking up was the right thing to do. It’s for the best.”

  “No, it isn’t. It never should have happened. I never should have . . .” His eyes fell to the oil-stained concrete beneath our feet, his hair flopping into his face. “You were really upset that night, and you’d been drinking. I knew that and I still . . . did what I did. I shouldn’t have.”

  “I wasn’t that drunk,” I whispered. “I knew what I was doing.”

  “Yeah . . . well.” He looked up, eyes so beautiful they broke things inside me and healed them at the same time. A wave of pure, unselfish love rushed through my chest, leaving me breathless.

  He was alive. All that light and intelligence and silliness that was Mitch still sparked inside him. His father wouldn’t have to grieve, all the people who loved him could go on loving him, and the world would be a better place because this boy was going to live a long, full life. In the end, it was all that mattered.

  “Still, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay.” And it would be. Eventually. “I just wanted you to know. You should probably talk to Isaac. Not today, but . . . soon.”

  “I will.”

  “So . . . can we be best friends again?” I sucked in a breath, so close to tears I sounded like I’d inhaled a helium balloon.

  Mitch smiled, that soft smile that meant he still loved me the way he’d always loved me, as a friend, as chosen family. Maybe someday I’d come to love him like that again too. Maybe . . .

  “We never stopped being best friends. Don’t be crazy, Minnesota.”

  “Okay. Good.” I tried for a smile and failed. “I’ll work on the crazy.” I pushed the tears pressing against the backs of my eyes away and kept them there, even when I realized I still owed my friend a final, painful thumbs-up. “And you should probably know that Sarah saw us . . . out by the pool that night.”

  “Sarah Needles?” he asked, brows drawing together.

  “She told her little brother and he told Isaac. I don’t know if that’ll make a difference when she hears the song, but . . . I thought you should know.”

  “When she hears what song?”

  “The song you were singing. The song you wrote for her.” The words stabbed me on their way out.

  “That song’s not for Sarah.” Mitch shook his head. “I mean, it is for her, but it’s not for me. Not from me.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. “It’s not?”

  “It’s for Michael.” Mitch stepped closer, a half smile quirking his full lips. “He wants to sing it to her at our next gig. We’re playing Jukebox Java on Thursday and she said she’d come.”

  “But what about the Muppet hair?”

  “Sarah kind of has hair like a Muppet, don’t you think? In a cute sort of way?” he asked, so close I co
uld smell the scent of cinnamon and apple tea and wet boy clinging to his hoodie. Nothing had ever smelled so good. Ever. “Do you think that will hurt her feelings? I thought she’d think it was funny, but—”

  “I thought I had hair like a Muppet.” I stared up at him, breathless, a part of me still afraid to hope. “Because it’s red. And fuzzy.”

  “Well . . .” He reached out, smoothing a damp strand behind my ear, fingers lingering in my hair. “You have hair like a Muppet too.” His tongue swept out to dampen his lips. “Does that make you mad?”

  “No.” I shook my head, gently, careful not to disturb his hand on my face. “I love it.” The tears I’d been holding in spilled down my cheeks, silent and sweet, even as my lips trembled into a smile.

  “You do?” His other hand came to my cheek, cupping my face. “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because I love it. I really do.” I made a sound that was half laugh, half sob and fisted my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, knowing I’d never be able to get him close enough. “I love it so much.”

  Mitch’s eyes were full of the same wonder that made my skin too small, that made me certain I’d have to grow a larger one to contain all the joy and amazement and hope and happiness being with him made me feel. “We aren’t talking about Muppets now, are we? I really hope we’re not talking about Muppets.”

  “We’re not talking about Muppets.”

  “Then what are we talking about?” he asked, as breathless as I was.

  “We’re talking about you. About how much I love you.” Mitch’s face swam as tears filled my eyes again, but I ignored them. I wasn’t upset, just too full. I’d never known love could feel like this, like a never-ending fall into blissful possibility and coming home to an old friend all at the same time. “I’ve probably loved you forever.”

  He smiled, happiness bursting out all over him until I could have sworn I felt the echo of it along my skin. “You have?”

  “I was just too stupid to figure it out until . . . I . . .” How to tell him? What to say? How to explain a nightmare that began with a wish to undo something I knew now I’d never give up? “I . . . I started thinking about what it would be like if you really did stay away from me like I’d asked you to, if you weren’t a part of my life anymore. It was . . . the most horrible thing I’ve ever imagined.”

  “Worse than breaking up with Isaac?” he asked, showing me the hint of uncertainty that lurked inside him, making him wonder if he was a consolation prize.

  “It felt like you’d died,” I said, willing him to do what he was best at, to look down into the heart of me and see the truth. “And I wanted to be dead too if I couldn’t be with you.”

  “That’s the . . . darkest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he said, searching my face. I met his eyes and raised him a soul-filled stare, showing him I had nothing left to hide.

  “It was dark without you.”

  “And that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me tight, hugging me like he knew what it felt like to be lost.

  “So say it back,” I whispered.

  “I love you too, Katie Mottola. I love you so much,” he said, his voice breaking. “I love you a sick, disgusting amount that is probably unhealthy.”

  I pressed my lips together again, trying not to cry any more. I didn’t want to do anything to interrupt the words spilling from my best friend’s mouth.

  “The past two weeks have been the most miserable two weeks of my life. I’ve lost weight, my dad threatened to put me in therapy, and I actually went down to the Catholic school and got an application to transfer at the end of the semester.”

  “You did?” I asked, terrified at the thought of BHH without Mitch.

  “I did, even though it about gave Bubbe a heart attack,” he said, his lips easing that little bit closer. “But I couldn’t stand the thought of looking at you for the rest of the year and knowing that you’d never be anything more than my friend. It made me want to go emo and paint black teardrops under my eyes and give up funny shirts forever.”

  I looked up at him, thrilled to see his lips only inches from mine. We were going to kiss. And this time it would be just him and me—no guilt, no shame, just two people doing what felt so, so right. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Then he kissed me, really kissed me, kissed me until I couldn’t see or smell or taste anything but Mitch, until my nerve endings were fried from the pure overload of awesome and my head spun in dizzy circles like the rain falling outside the garage door.

  By the time he pulled away—breath coming as fast as my own—I was pretty sure Mitch was made of magic. Or maybe the two of us together was what made the magic. Real magic. The kind that came from loving someone, the kind that couldn’t be wished into existence and wasn’t always convenient but was worth every ounce of effort and every bit of pain.

  “Come on, let’s go find you some dry clothes and make a birthday pizza.” Mitch slipped his hand into mine and pulled me toward the door.

  “Dry clothes and birthday pizza sound amazing.”

  “You stick with me, kid. I’ll show you all about living large.”

  “I don’t need to live large. I just need you.” I smiled and squeezed his hand. “And clothes, and pizza, and some dry socks.”

  He leaned down and kissed me, just once, a light brush of his lips against mine that warmed me all the way down to the tips of my sockless feet. “All that can definitely be arranged.”

  And it was.

  Acknowledgements

  First up, a big shout out to Mel Francis for the hours of emergency brainstorming aid. Without her, this book would never have been born. (Thanks, Mel!) Also thanks to Caren Johnson, my agent, and the entire team at Razorbill. Much love to my amazing family, especially my adoration-worthy husband. And lastly, to my readers. You continue to amaze me every day with your pure awesome.