Every Last Promise (17 page)

I shake my head and stand, sliding the phone into my back pocket. She could ask for it and I would give it to her. The proof.

Why doesn't she ask for it? Take it. Make the choice for me.

“It won't fit . . . probably . . . in your trunk.”

Each slow step I take away from Bean feels impossibly heavy. When I finally reach my bike and get on, it creaks. Like it always does.

“Okay,” she says. “Probably not. But I'll call you tomorrow. We'll talk. Until then . . . get home safe.”

“I will,” I say, already pushing off on my pedal. “Night, Bean.”

When I pass Jen's house again, I don't get off my bike. I don't look at the house.

I just ride away as fast as I can, knowing why Bean didn't ask me for the phone.

She thinks I'll do the right thing.

THE HOUSE OVERFLOWED. PEOPLE
sat on the counters in the kitchen. Danced in the family room and spilled out onto the deck. Lined up for beer on the grass and milled anywhere they could find space.

My phone buzzed nonstop as people posted and tagged photos of me and Jen and Selena and Bean, me and them, online. I held a red cup half full of water because as long as it looked like I was drinking no one gave me a hard time about it. Like Steven, who had just asked if the beer had finally loosened me up. I'd responded with a silent glare.

Even though I wasn't drinking, my limbs naturally began to feel like a paper Halloween skeleton, joints held together with brass fasteners, flinging this way and that. My laughter came quicker as the night wore on. It was hard not to get caught up in everyone's good mood: summer freedom was here. For some, it was the end of their years in this town, the first of the last parties before college. For others, it was a respite before the hard farm labor that would fill their summers.

Bean had stripped to her swimsuit and was laughing at someone's joke in the hot tub.

“Come in with us,” Jen called across the lawn to me from just inside the back door as she headed in to change
into her own bikini.

I shrugged and turned back to Bean. Someone splashed her playfully and she slapped a wave of water back then held up her hands to shield herself. She giggled herself into hiccups. The bottom of her hair was curling from dampness.

“Later,” I told Jen.

She was at my elbow. Someone bumped my back as they stumbled across the deck, pushing me into Jen. It was hard to hear Jen with all the shouting and laughing around us. “No,” she said. “Now. Come on. There won't be a lot of laters with you in a year, remember?”

“Like you said at the river party, we have a whole
year
.”

“A whole
nothing
if you would just stop being such a baby and come to college with me.”

“
I'm
the baby? You're the one who's scared to go alone.”

We watched Bean climb out of the hot tub and slip into her dress and flip-flops.

Jen elbowed me in the ribs. “Don't be a jerk. You could at least apply to a few schools. Just in case you come to your senses.”

“And waste my time and application fees? I
know
I'm staying here. What's the point?”

“The point is what if you change your mind?” Jen's voice was rising. Her cheeks splotched pink. This wasn't her talking; it was everything she'd had to drink. Or else this
was
her, and the alcohol was finally letting her say it. “The point
is you're being stupid and throwing your whole life away on this town when there's a whole world out there.”

“I'm not going to change my mind.” My voice rose, too. I paused. Took in the flush on her neck. Then softer, “I'm sorry, Jen.”

“Sure you are.” She yelled the last of it. “You don't
get
it. No one requires anything from you! You can stay . . . go . . . who cares? But with me . . . everything I do is measured. Against—” Jen pressed her lips together. Both our glances shifted to where her brother stood.

I didn't say anything for a second. “Then it'll be
good
for you to get out,” I whispered.

Her eyes met mine. Glassy with the things she didn't admit to anyone very often. “Whatever, Kayla.” She turned back to the house, gathering her hair in a ponytail as she walked.

I turned away and looked for Bean again.

She was far enough across the lawn that I couldn't see her any longer. Or else she'd turned the corner at the stables. It was where I wanted to be, I realized. With my gentle horse. Away from all the noise here. The night had grown, suddenly, too stressful. Too full of movement. Too claustrophobic.

The sounds of the party faded steadily as I picked my way across the grass. One heel in front of the other, balancing on the front of my shoes so the backs didn't sink into the soil. The sequins that had been so pretty on the hanger scratched painfully at the delicate, inside skin of my upper arms. A
spring wind plucked hair in groups of three and four strands from my updo and whipped them across my face; a few stuck in the gloss over my lips.

A horse snorted. It didn't sound like Caramel Star, but I wasn't sure which one it was. I could barely hear anyone from the party anymore, as though my ears had been submerged in water. My chest was hot from my argument with Jen; I sucked in breath after cool breath, willing my muscles to relax. The tall, dark outline of the barn loomed above me. I heard someone laughing.

“Bean?” I called.

Sitting with Bean, letting her calmness wash over me. That was what I needed.

But there was something else in the air. It was nothing I could point to: the smell of the horses was right, the stars overhead were right, the rising chorus of night insects the farther I moved from the party. Everything was
right.

But when I walked into the barn, I heard other sounds. Muffled laughter again.

Muffled . . . something else. Not laughter. Something desperate.

I reached the corner of the barn where I knew, if I turned, I'd find the source. Dragged my fingertips across the weathered wood, catching my pinkie on a tiny splinter. There was a glow around the bend. Just the hint of light. Voices. Boys.

I rounded the corner, Bean's name soft on my lips.

IT FEELS LIKE PINS
pricking my skin, waiting for Bean to call. I wander the house like a ghost, pouring then slowly slurping at a bowl of cereal. Washing my hands in the bathroom too long, the warm water running over and over my fingers. Drying them and the skin feeling uncomfortably tight. Hanging in my closet the dress I'd tossed on the floor last night, then changing my mind and stuffing it in the garbage.

My head pounds.

When will she call?
I ask the Kayla in the mirror as I swallow aspirin and a glass of orange juice.

Turn off your phone
, I tell the Kayla who sits on the edge of her bed in a daze, instead of finishing the homework due on Monday.

I don't turn off my phone. I stop waiting and call Bean. Her phone rings, but she never answers. Where is she?

What is she doing?

Leave the house
, says the Kayla who doesn't answer when her brother, sitting beside her on the couch and staring at the TV, asks a question.
Run
.

Caleb nudges me in the arm. Ella opens one lazy dog eye to watch us.

“What?”

“Dude, wake up. You're like a zombie. I was asking what time we should go over. I don't want crappy seats.”

“Soon,” I say. I reach over and let one of Ella's smooth ears slip through my fingers. My body feels like an anthill, millions of little bugs scurrying inside. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. It's still two hours until the homecoming game starts. Steven's phone is upstairs and I swear I can hear the video playing through the floorboard above my head. The telltale . . . something.

I stand and reach for my shoes in the entryway. Force my voice not to shake. “We'll join some tailgaters. Get your jacket. Let's go.”

The parking lot for the community center across the street from the high school is half full when we arrive. Smoke rises from the grills. The sound of sizzling sausages and smell of barbecue sauce fill the air. Caleb's feet have barely hit the ground before he's grabbed by former classmates with cans of cheap beer. I follow him to a corner of trucks, where a portable radio is broadcasting the local college game and a table is set with chips and Jell-O shots in our school colors of red and gold. I toss one back when no one is looking.

In the next hour, the lot fills to capacity and soon after overflows down the road. Selena joins me first, then Jen. But I can't stop looking around for Bean because she has to be somewhere, doing something, and I need to know what. How much time before Jen and Selena find out what I know?
How long before the false safety I've built around myself crumbles? People start putting away their grills and Bean's entire family still isn't here. It could be that they just decided not to come to the game this year. Or there's something else keeping them home. A sick cow. Family movie night.

“I know you never drink, but you should try one of these before they all get packed up,” Selena says, holding yet another Jell-O shot toward me. “They're good. Plus school spirit and all that.”

I nod dazedly at Serena's mischievous smile, squeeze the little plastic cup into my mouth and swallow. She laughs, surprised. “That's a first.”

My feet are starting to feel light.

I've stopped caring about Bean.

The first row of seats is reserved for Jay's family. As Selena and I sit behind them, I crane my neck around to look for my parents and almost lose my balance. I see Caleb about a dozen rows back with some of his friends, but my mom and dad aren't here. I check my phone for a text, but there's nothing telling me the rest of my family is running late.

I look up because the crowd begins to get antsy, like a tiny electric current is traveling the length of the bleachers. With a blast that vibrates in my ears, the marching band announces its presence. As the uniformed musicians take the field, we rise to our feet and roar. I clutch Selena's sleeve to remain steady.

The biggest game of the year is about to begin.

Just before halftime, we are ahead by one touchdown with Highland Hills High at our fifteen yard line. Their quarterback has been giving Jay a run for his money, but confidence in our star player hasn't waned. On the next play, Highland Hills throws an interception and our fans go wild. Grant High's defensive team jogs off the field, to be replaced by our offense. They form a circle, waiting for Jay to join them and give directions. We have less than a minute to create a bigger lead going into the second half of the game. Momentum is key.

Jay's taking a really long time to get on the field.

“Geez, Jay, can't it wait?” Selena mutters.

I follow her gaze, tilting my head to see around the slew of coaches and players on the sideline. I'd watched the first quarter of the game as a blur, but as the shots wore off, the players became clearer.

Jay's on his cell phone. He turns his back to the field, realizes there are hundreds of people in that direction, too, and positions himself parallel to the field, holding his hand over his mouth and phone so whoever he's talking to can hear him. The sun glints off the Roman warrior emblazoned on the helmet sitting on the bench beside him.

Suddenly, he shoves his phone into his bag and grabs the strap with a strong fist, knocking over his helmet as he stumbles on a patch of grass, and by the time he's stood up
again, there are two police officers at the sidelines. I pull my arms close to my body as all my muscles tense.

Jen, turning around to say something to us, notices what we're looking at. Her mouth hangs open silently for a second before she says, “Probably here for the halftime show.”

I nod but I know better.

They're here, and Bean isn't.

I check my phone again. Nothing.

The officers spot Jay and walk over to him before he can get onto the field.

It's taken a very long time from interception to this point. Days, it feels like. My blood is thickening like fudge. I hold my breath. The field spins as though I had twice as many Jell-O shots. Beside me, Selena sniffs. A shiver runs up my spine.

And then one cop moves behind Jay and tilts her head down close to his. Says something. Puts two fingers on his elbow, just barely, and tries to move him along. As though she doesn't want to cause a scene. As though thousands of people aren't watching. But the coaches run toward them, mouths open, screaming. One coach throws his clipboard on the ground and flings a finger in the cop's face. Players on the field come rushing back to the sidelines. Two more officers approach and I can't see Jay for the shoulders and shouts and rushing family members obscuring him from view.

I am suddenly alone in my section. The field is a riot.
Another cop pulls out handcuffs and tries to hurry Jay out of there. I get a two-second peek of Jay, his arms behind his back, his face expressionless.

There is panic among the coaches. People trying to shut them up, hold them back. A wall of football fans forms across the exit, arguing with the officers trying to get through with Grant High's star player. The officers patiently wave their arms, there is shoving, there is shouting, there is a call for backup.

But it's not for the player in handcuffs. Jay is calm. All he does is scan the crowd. When his eyes fall on me, he pauses. Even from here the blue of his eyes is piercing. Clear and calculated.

The shiver in my back expands until my shoulders are trembling and goose bumps rise along my arms. We could be the only two people here, the way all noise and movement around me cease. I want to call across the stands, ask him if he remembers saying he would dedicate this football season to me.

Jay works the muscle in his jaw once, tears his eyes away from me, and lets the officers move him out of the stadium. Before he is completely out of sight, I see him flash his coaches, the cheerleaders, the fans, his
aw-shucks
grin.

I don't move as the crowds slowly find their seats again and the second string quarterback is brought onto the field. There is still a game to play, even though the stands are thick
with confusion. Jen's family doesn't return and neither does Selena. It's cold in my empty row.

The halftime show is weirdly subdued and the marching band can't seem to agree on one tempo. The dance team looks like they forgot to choreograph their performance. I've lost sight of where I am. There is too much color and not enough oxygen and the white lines on the field bleed into the green of the grass and the red of the uniforms; everything looks like mud and blood.

Caleb appears beside me, says something. The stands are emptying. At some point, the game ended.

Caleb packs in the next room. He's too quiet. I need slamming doors right now. Something to distract my brain. It's too busy racing, reliving Jay in handcuffs, the ride home in a quiet sort of panic. There's a mania to the way my eyelids flutter, my feet pace the room, my fingers clench and unclench fists.

Not knowing what else to do, I brush my hair and I want to pull it tight, tightly, tighter. Anything to keep from wondering where Bean is right now, from trying to imagine the way Jen feels right now. Anything painful to take the place of the staggering in my chest, the heady pressure that hasn't faded since the arrest stole the air from the stands.

But nothing hurts enough for that.

“I'm leaving.” Caleb pokes his head in my room. He
balances on one foot for a second, lopsided as he tries to even out his thoughts.

There's so much he could say, could ask.
Who are you, Kayla? I should have warned you, Kayla. Kayla . . . about Hailey . . . about that night last spring.

But he goes with: “I guess I'll see you soon?”

“Maybe.”

I told him yesterday that I
might
drive to Missouri State to visit over Veterans Day weekend. It would depend on whether I can get behind the wheel of a car without hyperventilating.

Caleb crosses my floor and squeezes me in a big-brother hug.

“You should try. It'd be good for you. To get behind the wheel again. Try to be . . . normal.” He pulls away, giving me an encouraging smile. “Let me know either way.”

I nod. If I could wrap my head around my thoughts I might say more to him about how great it's been to see him, how much I enjoyed the view from Point Fellows on our hike, how I get it.
I get it now
. But I don't.

“Drive safe,” I say.

“I'll call when I get there.”

I stand at my window and watch Caleb's truck lights cut through the twilight and then they're down the road and out of sight and all I can see are the lights left on at the houses across the fields.

My mom materializes in the doorway. She keeps her hands occupied by wiping them nervously on a dish towel, again and again. “Do you want to talk?”

Dad is reorganizing his spotless shed out back. Again.

A truck comes up the road. Because he is where I am when I need him. As though he knows everything. But he can't know everything, because if he did, he would never come again.

He is too good for that. For secrets. For me.

“I have to go,” I say.

Mom bites the inside of her bottom lip for a second and I feel sure she's going to say no, to make me stay home so that I'll talk to her.

“Don't be out late,” she says as Noah pulls into the drive and waits.

I nod and go down to meet him.

I climb in his truck and don't speak until after we've pulled out of the driveway. My arms are wrapped around my ribs and my tongue pauses on the tip of a sharp canine.

Noah seems relaxed, breathing slowly while I force my arms not to shake.

He stares straight ahead. The tips of his shaggy hair curl just slightly at the back of his ears, disappearing into the dark crease behind the lobe.

“Kayla—” he begins.

“Shh,” I cut him off.

He twists his head to catch my eye and my lungs ache at the breath held captive there; it threatens to whoosh out at the hurt in his expression but I release it slowly.

His name is on the tip of my tongue, the letters writing themselves across my lips should I only open them. I long to tell him that he made me feel like it was possible to come home again, easy to be the Kayla I liked. And that if he knew the truth, all that would change.

My lashes flutter in a series of quick blinks. My head begins to spin like a carnival ride.

“I can't talk about . . . that,” I say.

And when he looks at me again, there's a new understanding in his expression. Maybe even sympathy. Because my involvement, he knows, must be complicated.

My involvement
is
complicated.

“What do you want to do, then?” he says.

“Can we go to the river? Just walk for a while.”

“Sure.”

There is a milky quality to the sky. Like drifts of cotton floating to the stars. The air is sharp, brittle, and cold when I breathe through my nose. The quiet is small-town quiet: the white-noise musical insects and the whoosh-rush of a river.

He takes my hand and we walk a little until we find a patch of soft grass, then sit. The blades tickle the sides of my neck when I lie back and I remember a moment like this
from a lifetime ago with three girls and thinking life was perfection, that it could never change.

“I belonged here once,” I say.

Noah stretches his body out beside me. We are almost the same height. I like that our shoes are placed to nudge against each other. That our knees line up. That when I turn my head, my eyes go right to his mouth. “Why do we try so hard to belong?”

“You do realize you're asking
me
that question, right?” Noah laughs softly.

“Did you ever want to belong . . . more?”

“Who doesn't want to belong to their home? I used to beat myself up about it. Almost as much as those other guys beat me up.” He laughs again.

I close my eyes, wanting to forget that ever happened to him.

“I hated that my mom came from someplace different, the way she looked, the way
I
looked, that she grew things in our garden that nobody else did. I hated that she took me away from here for a while. It was important to her that I know my roots, but I didn't care. But then I stopped hating myself, you know? For all these different reasons. It takes a lot of energy to hate where you come from. Too much.” Noah gathers a handful of grass and begins stripping the blades in two.