Bright Before Sunrise (22 page)

“How did that make you feel?” she demands and I wonder if I look half as shocked as Felix does. To him she says, “Thanks.”

He manages a dizzy-looking leer and says, “Anytime.”

“Well?” she asks, shaking her hands in my direction. She makes a sound of disgust and storms out of the kitchen. Maya stays to glare at me, but Sasha follows her and then a door slams upstairs.

I look at my full cup, tempted to gulp it down. Instead I slide it toward Jeff and Maya. I stand. He gives me a punch in the shoulder. “Good luck.”

26
 
 
Brighton
 
 
11:32 P.M.

“Hey, Brighton. Jonah thought you left.” The couple from earlier comes down the stairs and heads straight for Digg and me. It was Jeff who spoke—he’s actually smiling, but his girlfriend isn’t.

Digg clearly doesn’t appreciate his brother butting in, because before I can answer, he’s already asking, “What do you want?”

They both ignore him, so I do too, playing with the tab on my untouched soda as I answer, “I’m waiting to hear back from a ride. Tell him not to worry, I’ll be gone soon.”

“You can’t leave already. It’s early,” says Digg. He puts a hand on my arm, like he expects me to bolt out the door this very moment. His touch makes me want to. I pull away.

“Stay,” agrees Jeff. “Jonah will be glad you did.”

“Where is he, anyway?” I ask, ignoring the blatant lie.

“He’s with Carly,” says Maya. “Knowing those two, it’s probably going to be a while. I’m sure they’re getting back together. He looked
so sad
.”

I keep my face perfectly still, frozen in a socially acceptable bland expression.

Jeff shrugs. “I think they’re done. So tell me about Cross Pointe. What’s our boy doing if he’s not playing baseball?”

“Was he any good?” I ask.

Digg chokes on his beer, and Maya almost drops her cup. Even Jeff is looking at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. He was an All-State pitcher sophomore and junior year.”

“Oh.” My cheeks go hot, but really, why should I be embarrassed? It’s not like Jonah voluntarily shares information about himself with me, or anyone at Cross Pointe. I do know the CP team roster, though, so I can say with a 100 percent certainty: “He doesn’t play anymore.”

“We know. So what’s he up to? What’d you mean by ‘no one knows him’?” Jeff asks, sitting on the arm of the couch next to me. Maya fits herself against him, and the two of them look at me expectantly.

“Um …” The blush has spread from my cheeks to my neck. I can’t think of a single thing to tell them, and they’re starting to exchange looks as my silence drags on. Do they think I’m hiding something or that I’m the type of girl who apparently goes to a party with complete strangers? I wish I could spin the question around: ask
them
about
him
. Or the version of Jonah that lived in Hamilton, because
he
seems completely different from the guy I pass in Cross Pointe’s halls.

“He …” I pause again. “He just does the typical stuff, I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Jeff looks disappointed. Maya squints suspiciously.

They watch me through another few seconds of videogame gun noises, then she takes Jeff’s hand and tugs him away. “I’m bored. Let’s check what’s going on upstairs.”

Digg gives them a curt wave, then turns back to me. “Little brothers suck, huh?”

I smile noncommittally and check my phone.

27
 
 
Jonah
 
 
11:34 P.M.

I trudge up the stairs and rap my knuckles on Jeff’s bedroom door. “Carly.”

“Go away, Jonah.”

The thing is, I didn’t feel anything when she kissed Felix. Maybe because I knew it was her being petty. Maybe because I was too surprised to be jealous. Or maybe …

I take a deep breath and knock again.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” says Sasha.

Walking away now is tempting. I can say I tried and go back downstairs and get blitzed, or just go out to my car and leave. Maybe I can drive around until I find Brighton. If she called someone from Cross Pointe for a ride, they can’t be here yet. And maybe she’ll listen to me.

Not likely.

I look at the door again. I’ve seen Carly and Ana in these situations so many times. But this fight isn’t about a shirt that was borrowed and stained or snooping through someone else’s text messages. I don’t feel like participating
in all the screaming and name calling that the Santos girls go through before they get to their “I’m sorrys” and hugs.

But ours isn’t the sort of history I can shrug off. Or want to shrug off. Years and years of friendship before it changed to girlfriend and boyfriend. I’ve texted her first thing in the morning every day since I’ve had a cell phone, and except for the rare fights we’ve had over the past two years, I’ve ended every night with her voice breathing, “sweet dreams” in the phone at my ear. My stomach twists when I think of a lifetime of mornings and bedtimes without her. And without her, the only action my phone will see will be Mom calling to ask me to pick up diapers or tell me when to be home for hellish family dinners.

I knock harder.

“Carly, I know you didn’t come all the way over here just to kiss Felix. Come out so we can talk.”

The door opens a crack, and one of Carly’s red-rimmed eyes peers out. “What do you have to say?”

“I’m not doing this through a door and with an audience.” Sasha’s standing on Jeff’s bed to see over Carly’s head. “Let’s go outside.”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s only going to tell you more lies,” says Sasha.

“Carly. Please.” The door opens some more, and I put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”

“Fine. But don’t expect me to believe a word you say.” She shakes off my fingers, then turns and leads the way down the stairs and through the front door like it was her idea.

I follow her outside, but I’m moving slower.

“What are you doing?” She’s backtracked from the driveway to where I’ve paused on the lawn. Unless Brighton’s ducked behind a hedge in some twisted version of hide-and-seek, she’s really not here.

I can’t win. Whether I lie or I tell the truth, whether Carly believes me or doesn’t. So the question that remains is simple: How much of my pride do I want to maintain?

“I’m looking for Brighton.”

She pulls her shoulders back and meets my eyes with a gaze that’s all cool anger. “Want to know how I knew you were cheating? You could never handle being alone for most of the week. You hate being alone.”

This stuns me because it’s not true anymore. I did. I hated being alone—and it used to be I never was. Days started with texting Carly, eating breakfast in her kitchen or in her car on the way to school. Classes/hallway/lunch were one nonstop group conversation, and afternoons meant playing baseball with Marcos on the days I didn’t have practice with the team. Then homework, dinner with my parents, followed by video games with the guys or a shift at work with Carly, a movie or some TV with making out or more if her siblings weren’t around, and a phone call before I went to bed.

Maybe loneliness is an acquired taste, or maybe it’s like plunging your hand in ice water—it hurts like hell in the beginning, and then you go numb. Either way, I’m good at being alone now. An expert.

“For the last time, I’m not cheating. I’m looking for her—so she can tell you we’re not sleeping together and you can tell her that
I’m
not the one who’s gone around telling people we are.”

I brace myself for an argument. Another twelve rounds of “
you’re
lying/am not.”

But when Carly opens her mouth and asks, “Why are you here?” the sentiment isn’t anger, it’s disappointment.

“I don’t know.” It’s one of the most honest things I’ve said all night.

“You need to do better than ‘I don’t know,’ because I can’t think of a single reason that doesn’t make you a complete jerk. Either you wanted to rub my face in it or if you’re telling the truth and nothing has happened between you two, then you wanted to call me a liar and humiliate her.” Carly’s words make my stomach sink. Both reasons are too close to true. I
am
a complete jerk—I’m worse than a jerk. “You weren’t always like this. I felt guilty when you left—but Sasha said not to and she was right, because a couple hours later you’re showing up here with the very girl you swore you’ve never touched. It doesn’t matter if that’s true anymore. I don’t know you.”

“Carly. Carly! Stop!” My voice echoes off parked cars and tree limbs. It’s loud enough for them to potentially hear in the basement. Even over the music. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“She’s exactly what I was afraid of.” This is Carly’s vulnerable voice. The one that cries during ASPCA commercials or calls me at two a.m. to tell me she misses me.

“What do you mean?” Without thinking, I lean forward and cup her elbows. It’s natural to touch her. Unnatural to stand apart.

“Jonah, you had no choice about the move—I get that—but you never let me into your new life. We used to share
everything, and now I only get a part of you. I don’t understand. What’s so good about Cross Pointe that you couldn’t share with me?”

“So
good
?” I step back and take a deep breath. Then take another one. My hands are shaking. My voice is too. “You want to hear the truth about my new life, Carly?”

The words are a boulder, sitting on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs and making it impossible to lift my head and look at her when I continue. “It sucks. I hate Cross Pointe. I’m a loser there. Both at school—where I’m invisible and ignorable—and at home, where I’m a disappointment and a screwup. I spend my whole week wishing I were
here
and avoiding talking to anyone
there
.”

My confessions poured out in rushes. Now I’m breathless and panting as I wait for her reaction. Wait for her to laugh or scoff.

Or … shrug. “Jonah, it’s a
town
. You moved, okay? It’s not the end of the world. People move all the time—you need to start dealing with it. People
change
all the time. You can’t go flipping out because I dye my hair or get a new job or apply to a college you didn’t know about. Life didn’t just freeze because you live in Cross Pointe now.”