Every Last Word (24 page)

W
e’re sitting on my living room rug, doing homework at the coffee table, when AJ scoots closer, runs his hand around my back, and
starts kissing my neck.

“Sam,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I think we should tell people.”

That’s when I realize this isn’t the beginning of the typical post-homework making out on my living room rug we’ve been doing nearly every day for the last two weeks. I
don’t know how to respond, so I kiss him, but my mind’s off somewhere else, caught up in a thought spiral that’s a lot like the guilty one I have about Caroline, but worse.

AJ isn’t like the guys the Eights go out with. He’s not popular. He’s not his brother, deemed acceptable even though he’s a year younger, because he’s not an
athlete in
any
way. He doesn’t dress like our clean-cut jock friends, especially when he wears that ski hat (which I admit, I find kind of sexy). He walks around campus with his head
down, avoiding interaction, and he eats lunch with two people who appear to be his only friends: Cameron and Emily.

Of course, none of this is the real AJ, but that’s the AJ they’ll see.

He reaches over, grabs me by the waist, and pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling his hips, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my fingers in his hair. I look at him, seeing
him the way
I
do: slightly scruffy but beautiful inside and out.

“There’s a reason I think we should start telling people,” he says.

“Oh?” I ask curiously.

“Devon called me last night.”

“Oh,” I say, already panicking.

She knows I’ve been researching her
….Okay, stalking her.

“Did she call for any particular reason?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound jealous, or worse, freaked out.

Caroline’s baseball trick works a lot of the time, but I’m still checking on Devon. A lot. And I want to stop, but I can’t, because telling someone with OCD to stop obsessing
about something is like telling someone who’s having an asthma attack to just breathe normally. My mind needs more information. The rabbit hole still hasn’t come to an end.

“No. She called to say hi. To see how I’m doing.”

Breathe. She called to say hi.

“And you told her about us?”

“No, but I wanted to. I think I should.”

Breathe. He wanted to tell his ex-girlfriend about us.

“I’d want her to tell me if she had a serious boyfriend.”

Serious.

I bring my hand to the back of my neck and dig my fingernail in three times, but I don’t know why I’m upset. This is good.

“What’s the matter?” AJ asks.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. I can tell. Your forehead gets all crunched up when you’re thinking too hard.” He kisses my forehead and I feel the muscles relax under his touch.

One. Breathe.

Two. Breathe.

Three. Breathe.

I know what I need: information about the two of them. Information I can’t find on my own.

“I need to ask you something,” I say, interlacing my fingers behind his head, forcing them to stay still and not scratch against anything. I look right into his eyes. “You
loved her. Last time I checked, you weren’t sure if you still did.”

I bite the inside of my lower lip three times and hope he doesn’t notice.

“I did love her,” he says. “But I don’t anymore, not like that. I mean, I still care about her, but…” He’s fumbling through this but he sounds sincere.
“Trust me, you don’t have any reason to be jealous, Sam.”

Not jealous. Just obsessed.

I start to correct him, but then it occurs to me that I’m better off leaving this where it is.

“Seriously, I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, “but this…” He wraps his hands around my waist and kisses me, pulling me closer to him. “This is
different.”

The thoughts are already losing some of their power. Maybe with a little more information, I can kill them completely. “How is this different?” I ask.

“I never told Devon about Poet’s Corner. She never met any of my friends, not even Cameron. She knew I played guitar, but I never showed her my songs or anything.” He laughs
under his breath. “That day you were in my room and I handed you my clipboard…It kind of surprised me. I’ve never done that before.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’re just…different, Sam. In every way that matters.”

We.

He doesn’t say we’re better. He doesn’t say he loves me more than he loved her. And that’s okay; he doesn’t need to, because now his fingers are in my hair and his
mouth is on mine, and my thoughts are all about him and this
different
thing we have, and my toxic Devon-thoughts are scattering away in all directions. They might return, but I no longer
feel the impulse to check on her. The rabbit hole has come to an end—at least for now—and I’ve landed in wonderland, a peaceful place where my mind can finally relax and quit
pleading for information.

“Thank you,” I whisper, not necessarily to him, but of course that’s how it comes out.

“You’re welcome,” he says, kissing me with even more intensity. I feel his hands travel underneath the back of my shirt, his fingers pressed into my skin, inching my hips
toward him.

“You should stay for dinner,” I say, pulling my hands away and attempting to change the subject. “Paige keeps asking about you.”

“Will your mom mind?”

“Only if she walks in and catches us like this.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He takes both of my wrists, guiding them around the back of his neck, positioning my arms right where they were. Then he kisses me again, moving slowly
from my lips to my cheek to that spot right behind my ear that he knows I can’t resist. And when I’m sure he can’t see me, I bring one hand to my jeans and scratch my leg three
times.

“I think we should tell people,” I say.

“H
ey, Colleen. Happy Wednesday!” I say, closing the door to Sue’s office behind me. Even from where she sits behind her
desk, I can tell Colleen’s taken aback, like we’re actors in a play and I just went off script. For the last five years, she’s had the first line.

“Hi, Sam.” She stands, eyeing me suspiciously. “Water?”

“No, thanks.” I rest my elbows on the counter and she stares at me, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

“Then go on in. She’s ready for you.”

I feel a bounce in my step as I walk down the hallway toward Sue’s office. I’ve been eagerly awaiting our session, and I can’t wait to see the expression on her face when I
tell her what I’ve decided to do.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Hey.” I kick off my shoes and sit down, folding my legs underneath me. Sue hands me my thinking putty, but I just hold it with one hand and squeeze a few times. I’m not sure I
need it today. I’m light, not fidgety. Excited, not nervous. The whole thing feels a little strange.

Sue stares at me for a good thirty seconds before she says anything. “Well, you certainly look happy today. I take it you’re having a good week?”

I nod, but “good” doesn’t really capture it.

Ever since the lying/spying incident a couple of weeks ago, the Eights have been especially nice to me. Alexis keeps complimenting me on my outfits, and she seems to actually mean it. Last week,
Kaitlyn asked me if I wanted to co-chair the junior prom committee with her, and I think she was genuinely happy when I said yes. And when Olivia’s dad got last-minute VIP tickets to a Metric
concert, she invited me to join them.

Caroline came over to my house after school yesterday, and we sat in the backyard working on a new poem. It was about opening your mind, lowering your walls, and finding friendship where you
least expect it. I’ve been trying to write it on my own for weeks now, but I couldn’t seem to find the right words. As usual, Caroline knew exactly how to make it better.

And then there’s AJ. I was terrified when he suggested telling people about us, but if I don’t think about the “glass half empty” parts—like the Crazy Eights’
reaction or making things weird with the Poets—and concentrate on the positive elements—like the two of us walking to class holding hands and kissing whenever we want to—it makes
me giddy.

When I fill Shrink-Sue in on everything, she says, “Well, no wonder you’re in a good mood.” She closes her leather portfolio and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees,
giving me her full attention. I can’t read her expression, but she’s waiting and listening, urging me to keep talking, without saying a word.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation a few sessions ago,” I say, forming my putty into a cube. “I told you I didn’t care what the Eights think, but
that’s not entirely true. I do care. AJ and Caroline and the rest of my new friends shouldn’t be a secret. It doesn’t feel right.”

“I like the sound of that.” Sue’s smile is huge and warm and contagious. She looks so proud of me right now.

And I should feel proud of myself, but there’s something below the surface that’s nagging me, and I can’t pinpoint it.

“Why are you scratching?” Sue asks. I pull my fingernails away from the back of my neck and stab them into my putty instead.

“I’m nervous.”

“What are you most afraid about?”

It’s a good question. I’m not afraid of the Eights kicking me out of the group, although it’s entirely possible they will. And I’m not afraid of them coming after
Caroline or AJ anymore. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I look at her. “They’re not going to understand what I see in him.”

God, that sounds so shallow. And horrible.

“Tell
me
what you see in him.”

“I’ve told you,” I say, shifting to pull my legs to my chest and resting my chin on my knees. “He’s wonderful.”

“What’s so wonderful about him?”

She’s not going to let this drop. I shake my head and look past her, out the window, watching a tree limb whipping around in the wind. “I don’t know. I can’t explain
it.” I stretch out my putty and say the first thing that pops into my head. “He plays guitar, and, well…that’s just hot.” I hide my face behind my hand so she can’t
see my pink cheeks.

“I’m sure it’s extremely hot, but I was sort of hoping for something less superficial.”

“Fine.” I stop fidgeting and give her my undivided attention. “I’ll give you ten non-superficial reasons.” I hold my thumb in the air and begin counting. “He
writes thoughtful, funny, inspiring words. When he picks up his guitar, my heart starts racing before he even touches a string. People pay attention to him when he talks. He’s humble. He
kisses really well. He thinks my man-shoulders are sexy.”

I stop, waiting for a reaction to those last two, but Sue’s still in the same position, wearing the same expression. I hold up a seventh finger. “He’s kind to people,
especially his friends. When he talks about his family, you can tell that he genuinely likes them. He can’t swim. At all.” I laugh, picturing that hybrid dog-paddle thing he did that
night I took him to the pool. Then I blush, remembering how he kissed me in the water that night. How I wrapped my legs around his waist in the deep end, both of us clothed but kind of acting like
we weren’t.

“That’s nine,” Sue says.

I drop my feet to the floor and sit up again. “When I’m with him, Sue, I don’t feel sick or labeled or broken. I feel
normal
. He makes me feel totally and completely
normal.”

She leans forward. “Does he know about your OCD, Sam?”

I stare at her. Didn’t she hear what I said? Didn’t she hear the
tenth
thing?

“Of course not. The second he finds out, I
cease
to be normal. He makes me
feel
normal because he thinks I
am
normal.”

Sue doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. She crosses her legs and sits back in her chair. “If he’s all those wonderful things you said about him, he’d understand,
wouldn’t he?”

“I’m sure he would, but that’s not the point.”

I think about that day we stood in his living room and he said, “Everyone’s got something. Some people are just better actors than others.” I came so close to telling him
my
something. But I chickened out. If I told him back then and it scared him away, that would be one thing, but now there’s too much at stake.

I can’t lose him.

“You once told me that my OCD was made worse by the people I chose to have in my life. You’ve wanted me to distance myself from the Eights, to find new, less toxic friends, and I
have. We can be the ‘Poetic Nine’ or some other stupid moniker, I don’t care. I like them. I like who I am when I’m with them. I’m getting better at saying what I
think. I’m not as afraid of my thoughts, maybe because I’m not holding on to them so tightly anymore. I feel like my mind is under control now. Like I’m…better.”

“What does that mean to you, Sam? To be ‘better’?”

Sane. Healthy. Not sick. Not crazy.

“Someone normal! Someone who doesn’t need medication to sleep or keep her thoughts under control. Someone who doesn’t need
you
.”

I clap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. “I’m so sorry,” I say into my palm.