Friend Is a Four Letter Word (8 page)

For example, my bed. My bed is heavenly. Full of feather stuffed pillows and plush blankets that I sink into. I push the piles of clothes off of my bed with my feet and stretch out. I wonder where I’ll sleep where I’m going. I probably won’t have a nice bed like this for a while.

Unfortunately, thoughts like that make it really hard to relax.

My purse is on the edge of my nightstand so I grab at it, dumping the contents onto the floor. I have to do some circus like movements in order to scoop my phone off of the carpet without leaving my bed, but in the end, it’s worth it.

It’s late. Too late to call any of my friends—not that I have a ton of them to choose from.

Nolan is about my only local friend, really and I think I may have just killed that.

I scroll through the list before stopping on CARTER.

It’s earlier in the West Coast. It wouldn’t be impolite to call at this hour there.

I’ve called him a few times… mostly when it’s so damn late I’m half out of my mind with sleepiness and he’s home from work. We tell each other stupid stories about our days or talk about funny things that happened at school or work. We talk about what we miss from our childhoods and what we hope for in our futures. Our talks are deep but careful, entangled but guarded.

But our texts? Our texts are on fire. We turn into sexier, braver people when we communicate with words on a screen.

We’ve been texting for the last several months and many of our messages are innocent—some of them are just quick ‘hellos’, some have to do with peanut cravings… but just as many have gone into darker, hotter territory, the kind of delicious stuff that we started but never finished on Christmas Eve. And some those texts are us telling each other exactly what we’d do to the other if they were there.

It’s a game. An innocent flirtation. We’ve never talked like that on the phone, though. My fingers tap on the screen, circling his name, wishing I had a picture of him to use as my contact. But all I have is his sexy-as-hell voice and the strange back and forth of our relationship.

I should do this.

I need a minute. Some courage. A sign.

I glance out the window and then look down at the sill. There’s a smattering of glitter and, when I follow it with my finger, I see that there’s a card wedged between my bed and the wall. I pluck it out and it’s a simple, ridiculous card from my Gramp, a man I love and who has always loved me for being a ‘spitfire.’ I look at the front of the card, which features a polar bear in a Santa hat surfing. My Gramp scrawled a note inside: ‘Merriest Christmas, honey bear! Never stop being your crazy, amazing self, kid! Lots of love, Gramps’.

Surfing and my Gramps telling me to go for it? It’s a sign enough for me.

I take the last sip from the clear, glass bottle and press CALL.

I’m already too lit to care that this may be a bad idea. That he may be sleeping—getting his rest for work tomorrow. That he may have a girlfriend he hasn’t mentioned and she may be balancing on top of him at this very moment. Instead I just tap my foot casually and wait for him to answer.

“Shayna?” he says. “Are you okay?”

It isn’t what I expect him to say. “Okay?” I repeat.

“It’s just… earlier than you usually call,” he says, and some of the magic that weaves around us when I call late at night is sapped, missing.

I regret calling, and search my brain for a possible excuse that doesn’t make me sound like a total lunatic. “Right. Sorry. Look, are you busy? I understand if you are. It wasn’t importa—”

“I’m not busy,” he reassures me. “Never too busy if you need me.”

“Right,” I say, feeling my cheeks light on fire. “But it was so, so stupid.”

“Really?” he drawls. “Stupider than an urgent message about boiled peanuts?” I hear his keys or loose change hitting a table. I hear a muffled scuffling and imagine him taking off his jacket and tie. When he sounds settled he says, “You never did answer me back, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.” I curl my legs under myself and drag my finger through the last little sprinkling of glitter left on the sill, like it’s magic. Fairy dust or something from my childhood, now so long gone and far away. “I wanted to, but I was out.”

His laugh is deep and full. “Don’t apologize. I just wanted you to remember nothing you could be calling for could be more ridiculous than the reason I was bothering you.”

“You were really missing boiled peanuts?” I ask, smiling a real smile for the first time in I don’t know how long. “My grandmother has the most amazing recipe ever.”

“Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to taste them myself someday. I think Quinn and I are heading home for a week or two soon.”

I can’t read the tone in his voice. Is he happy? Homesick? Was his flirty text just a tease, or does he really miss me?

So I take a deep breath and ask. “Carter, what did your text mean? Are you missing… home?” Not ‘me.’ I don’t ask if he’s missing me.

“I miss some things about home. But I don’t miss feeling trapped. I don’t miss having my father looking over my shoulder, judging my every move, and deciding I come up short. I don’t miss feeling like I’m in some cage.” His voice has a bitter clip, like he’s venting. “I don’t miss looking after my mom. I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s the truth.”

And here’s where the weirdness of what we have gets clear. Because venting is pretty personal, right? So that means…

“I miss being able to talk to you one on one,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “I know we never got much time to just hang out, but it’s pretty rare for me to feel an instant connection to someone like I felt with you.” His voice dips low and seductive, like this is more of our game, just upped a level.

And I want to play. Damn, I want to play so bad it burns.

But this is also real. I’m about to walk out on and away from every single person who cares about me. I’m so nervous, I’m shaking.

It’s crazy and so dumb, but I close my eyes and wish for one more sign.

“Weird,” Carter says, breaking the awkward silence we slipped into.

“What’s weird?” I ask, my voice breathy.

“It’s just… do you remember the night we dropped Quinn off at Ben’s?” he asks.

Christmas Eve. I touch the glitter on my window.

“Yeah. I do.” I wait for him to continue.

“You calling reminded me that my mother said I took the spare keys to my father’s car with me when I left, and they were in the coat I wore that night.” His voice is off, like he’s surprised. I guess car keys could be a big deal to a guy?

“That’s great,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “Your father will be relieved.”

“It’s not the keys,” he says, his voice soft. “I found an earring caught in the sleeve. A diamond? It looks just like the ones you were wearing that night. Did you lose one?”

“I… did,” I say, remembering that I only took a single one off when I cleaned up before Christmas day. I searched high and low for that earring, and it had been with Carter all along.

“I’ll send it to you,” he offers. “I’m so sorry I never noticed before.”

“Don’t!” I cry. I hear his surprised chuckle and feel a hot blush. “Um, it’s valuable. I wouldn’t want it to get lost in the mail.”

“Okay,” Carter says slowly. “But it’s a shame that you haven’t had a chance to wear them, doll. You looked so beautiful in those earrings.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” I assure him, rubbing the little bit of glitter between my fingers. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You can’t just leave,” Mom says, her voice rising up high enough to actually draw attention from the neighbors. I know how incredibly pissed she is at me if she’s not worried about what the neighbors might overhear. She pulls the bag I just shoved into the trunk of my car right back out and tosses it onto the driveway. “David, tell her she can’t leave.”

“Shayna,” Dad says sharply. He looks over the rim of his glasses at me. “This is a terrible idea. Have you thought this through at all?”

“Of course I have,” I say, tugging the duffel back to the truck. Of course I’ve thought about this all.

For like, a solid couple of hours.

“Where are you going to stay?” he demands, pacing back and forth. Is that where I get my terrible pacing habit from? I never noticed before. “What will you do for money?” he asks, crossing his arms in triumph when I look up at him, gaping like a fish out of water.

Alright, so I hadn’t thought it totally through. My plan is to head to Quinn’s place in California. That’s it. No further plan. Money wise, I still have all of my graduation cash, which should be enough until I figure things out more.

I take a deep breath. “Look, I know you guys wanted me to volunteer at Bible class with Nolan. And I’m sorry to pull out at the last second like this—”

“Is it Nolan?” my mother asks, her hand pressed to her chest. “Did you do something to make him upset.”

I don’t bother to hide my eyeroll. Of course, if something happened between me and Nolan, it just had to be my fault.

What makes me even more annoyed is that she guessed right. Well, she guessed one piece right. There are a dozen other pieces my mother doesn’t even realize are on the board at all.

“I know this may upset you.” I put a hand on Mom’s arm, my fingers brushing the pink cashmere of her sweater. “Nolan and I decided to take a break.”

Mom bites her bottom lip and gives Dad a look that clearly says,
She’s out of her ever-loving mind and ruining her good prospects. If you don’t want your daughter to die an old maid, do something!

My father clears his throat. “Shayna, trust us, your mother and I know how much love can… hurt. Be confusing. And if things aren’t right with you and Nolan, by all means, take a break. But running away?”

I nibble on my lip, wondering how the hell I can manage this without hurting them or losing myself. There may be no way to completely avoid both of these things, but I take my best stab.

“It’s… Quinn,” I say, watching Mom wrinkle her nose in distaste.

“The wild dark haired one?” she asks, shaking her head.

There is a heaping load of irony connected to the fact that my mother thinks
Quinn
is the ‘wild one.’ She obviously has blinders on when it comes to me.

“She’s my friend, Mom. And we’ve been talking since she left for California. She’s so in love with being out there, and she said I have to see it. We’ve barely traveled since we came back from Uganda. I miss traveling.” I hold my breath and watch my parents have a very long conversation using nothing but pointed looks and head shakes.

“So… this is just a visit to a friend?” my father says, his voice measured with caution.

“Um, yes,” I half lie. Of course I want to see Quinn. And—though I’ve yet to call her—I’m sure she’d like to see me.

At least, I’m sure she wouldn’t turn me out cold.

At least, I hope I’m sure.

Shit! Why didn’t I just text her last night? Because I crashed after flirting with Carter, then woke up this morning giddy on the adrenaline of my plan. Plus, I don’t want her to tell me why it’s not a good idea. If Quinn can’t put me up, I’ll find another way. But I want to be out there, free. I want to see Carter face to face and figure it all out with him. I want to know what I want for once in my damn life.

“What about school, Shayna? You’re in the middle of a semester,” Dad says.

“I’ll take a short leave. I’ll work it out. I promise. I won’t drop out,” I say. I mean it. One thing I’ve always managed to pull off no matter how shit things have been are decent grades. I have no illusions that I’ll be able to make a decent living if I have no skills.

My father takes out his wallet and presses a few bills to me. When I shake my head, he presses harder. “Everything is outrageously expensive in California, Shayna,” he warns. “I’ll up the limit on your American Express. Take some time to see the state. But please be careful.”

His look says,
‘don’t make me regret this.’

Mom presses her fingers to her lips. “David,” she begs, but Dad puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a quick hug.

“Don’t be upset, sweetie. Don’t you remember how excited we were the first time we drove up to Vermont for our honeymoon?” Dad looks down into Mom’s eyes and smiles.