I’ll Meet You There (13 page)

Josh chuckled and grabbed a Coke for me and a can of Bud for himself. “Yeah, she’s
cool like that.” He took a long sip, then looked off toward the front door. “When
I first got home, there were some reporters. Wanted to know about the war.”

“You didn’t want to talk to them?” I asked.

He played with the can’s tab, twisting it around until it finally broke off. “Some
guys are cool with reporters, talking to them all the time and stuff. We had a couple
embedded ones for a while, and they were okay, I guess. I mean, it’s weird having
someone take pictures of you right after some shit goes down, but I started to forget
they were even there. Just part of the landscape. But I don’t want to talk about …
I just don’t want to get into all of it. Especially with reporters who were never
there.”

I took a sip of my drink, watching him as he finished off his beer in one long gulp.
Somewhere between walking down the hall and drinking the Coke in my hand, the annoyance
I’d felt in his room had slipped away. I was starting to notice things again. Like
how he had great hands—tan and strong looking. Or how he’d rub his stubble when he
was thinking and the way he’d tilt his head down, then look up at me and smile.

Dammit.

“I love the Marines,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I was a punk-ass kid when I went
in, and now I’ve had the chance to serve my country. I miss the hell out of it, if
you want to know the truth.”

“Really? Even after—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Even after.”

I thought of the picture tacked to his wall. The laugh I could almost hear.

“You ever felt like you belonged somewhere?” he asked.

I knew I didn’t belong in Creek View—it had always felt wrong, like a too-small shirt
or seeing Christmas decorations in June. But then where did I belong? It was a hard
question to answer. I only knew how to live my life in negatives; it seemed like everything
I
was
could only be seen in relation to what I
wasn’t
. Like Josh said, I was “good,” but only because I didn’t screw up.

He started whistling the
Jeopardy
theme song, signaling I’d zoned out for way too long, and I blushed. “Don’t rush
me,” I snapped. “That’s a deep question.”

“You’re totally stalling.”

“Okay.” I drank the last sip of my Coke and pushed the sides in. The crunch of metal
was oddly satisfying. “I’ve never been somewhere I belonged, but there are places
where I think I could be happy. Like San Francisco. Well, do art museums count? Because
I feel like I belong in them.”

Josh nodded. “Art museums count.” He threw his can in the trash bin by the door. “I
hear the Skylar Evans Gallery is pretty cool. And it’s free.”

Did he realize how he was sometimes able to say the perfect thing? Because if he was
trying to get in my pants, it was working.

I gestured to the front of the house. “I’m getting Subway for Marge and—wanna come
with?”

Here I went again, asking him out. But it felt like I didn’t have any control. With
him, I never knew what the hell I was gonna say or do.

He smiled. “Yeah, sure. How ’bout I drive and we’ll get your car when your shift is
over?”

“You’re gracing us with your presence this afternoon?”

“Get your ass to the truck, Evans.”

I saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

He shook his head. “We’re gonna have to work on that salute.”

*   *   *

The Subway closest to us was part of a truck stop ten miles up the road, in the same
area as the Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and the gas station Chris worked at. It was always
pretty busy, full of people stopping during their long treks up or down the highway.
I sighed as the automatic doors slid open and I walked into a wall of cold air.

“I bet there’s air-conditioning in heaven,” I said.

“Maybe it’s just the perfect temperature—low seventies with a breeze?” Josh said.

“Look at you, getting all philosophical.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

We were halfway to the counter when a woman with two little boys stopped us.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Josh. “I don’t mean to bother you. But I just wanted to thank
you for your service.”

The Marines shirt he was wearing plus the prosthetic leg sort of screamed war hero,
but from the look on Josh’s face, it was obvious he thought he was anything but.

He cleared his throat a little and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Thanks, ma’am,”
he said. “I appreciate it.”

She put her hand on the boys’ shoulders. They were both staring at his prosthesis,
and I couldn’t tell if they were freaked out or just fascinated. “You see this young
man?” she said to them. “He’s a real American hero.” She looked up at Josh, smiling,
while the boys leaned into her side, suddenly shy. “Our church is keeping all of you
in our prayers. It’s just so amazing, what you’re doing over there.”

Josh nodded and put his hand on the small of my back, gently pushing me toward the
back of the truck stop, where the Subway counter was. He was just trying to get away,
but at that moment, the only thing I knew or understood in the world was the heat
of his hand.

“Thanks,” he said to her. “Thanks a lot. It’s our job, but we appreciate the support.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You take care of yourself now, okay?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

She walked away, but there were others smiling at Josh now, and when we got to the
Subway counter, the girl insisted on giving him a discount. Josh wasn’t beaming with
pride—he’d grown quiet and distant, like he couldn’t wait to get back into the safety
of his truck. Two more people stopped to shake his hand on his way out, and he thanked
them. They’d all smile at me, like I was somehow deserving of praise too—one woman
even hugged me and said she appreciated what “our military families” were doing. By
the time I found my voice to try to explain, she’d already gone off to the convenience
store part of the truck stop.

“I wonder if she thought you were my sister or my wife,” Josh said.

I blushed and kept my eyes anywhere but near his. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I usually use the drive-thru is how I do it,” he said as we walked back into the
heat of the day. We got into the truck, and he started blasting his air-conditioning.

“You don’t like it,” I said.

I could see that he’d wanted to melt into the ground every time someone stopped him.

He sighed. “It’s … it’s just kinda weird when people thank me. Happened at the airport
too, because I was in uniform. This old lady came up to me and said, ‘Thank you for
your sacrifice,’ and it was really, like, sweet of her, but … I mean, I want to say,
‘Don’t thank me. Just don’t pity me either.’ I can’t stand people’s pity.” He ran
his hand over his head and looked over at me. “It’s nice, and I know they mean well.
It just feels weird, being thanked for something you wanted to do in the first place.
Does that make any sense?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.” I curled up on my side and looked at him. “But it’s
okay to be proud of yourself, Josh. You did good. You know?”

He stared out the window, at the endless highway. “I tried to. But some of the stuff
that went down…” He shook his head. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

“Subject change,” I said. “If you could go on vacation anywhere in the world, where
would it be?”

“Hawaii.”

I made a face. “Really? But it’s technically in the U.S. You could go
anywhere
—Thailand, India—”

“Nope. All I want to do is lie on a beach and drink more than I should. Plus, they
speak English in Hawaii.” He looked over at me. “You?”

“St. Petersburg,” I said immediately.

“Russia?”

“No, St. Petersburg, Florida.
Yes
, Russia! I want to go to the Hermitage. It’s one of the biggest art museums in the
world, plus it’s in the czar’s Winter Palace, which is so freakin’ cool. But, actually,
if I could have two places—”

“No dice. You said
one
.”

“Okay, but it’s too hard to choose between the Hermitage and the Louvre.”

“Which is…?”

“The museum of museums. It’s in Paris.”

“Nope. You gotta choose.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

I sighed. “Well, Paris is more practical. It has the
Mona Lisa
.”

He smirked. “That painting sucks.”

“
Josh!
”

“Oh, come on. That chick is ugly as hell. I don’t see what the big deal is about.”

“You’re impossible.”

The Paradise came into view, and he looked over at me. “Hey. Your mom find a job yet?”

I leaned my head back against the seat, my good mood instantly gone. “No. It’s … no.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

It occurred to me that we were the same, in a way. Both of us treading water, pushing
against forces we couldn’t control.

“Yeah,” I said. “Help me eat these chips?”

I held up the little bag of Lay’s I’d gotten at Subway. We put our hands in at the
same time, and I jumped back with a nervous laugh.

I wondered if he’d felt the same charge I had when our fingers touched. I snuck a
look out of the corner of my eye. He threw a chip into his mouth, a little smile playing
on his face.

Yeah. He’d felt it.

JOSH

Marge comes up to me after work today with a bottle of Jack and two glasses and she
says we’ve gotta talk. So we go outside and sit in the back of my truck and she pours
us both a double and she drinks hers all at once. Then she tells me some really fucked-up
shit. About her Army son and how he didn’t die in Fallujah like we all thought. Like
she told us. He offed himself. Came home to Ohio all messed up in the head and fuckin’
slit his wrists in the bathtub.
Jesus, Marge,
I say. Like an angry prayer.
Jesus Christ
. And I don’t know what else to say, because there’s no magic word to bring him back,
so I just hold her hand while she cries and I’m so angry at him. This dude I never
met I just want to drag him up from hell and beat his ass. Because it’s guys like
him that make everyone freak out over guys like me. And now Marge is worried I’ll
do the same, like I’m some fuckin’ coward who can’t handle his shit. I can handle
it. I can. I tell her that, too:
Marge, I’ll be okay.
And she says,
I hope so, sweet pea. I really hope so.
Which is not what I needed to hear. She goes back inside, and I get in my truck and
drive. Don’t know where I’m going, I just keep driving and driving. For some reason
I end up at Walmart and I go inside—why I don’t know—but I go inside and I’m walking
up these aisles full of shit nobody needs, just looking for the chip aisle because
I have to eat. I mean I’m here I have to do something and the lights are so bright
and “Single Ladies” comes on and I’m in the middle of an aisle full of bath towels
but I see us all dancing and smiling and fuck this place and suddenly I know why her
son did what he did and I just stand there in the towel aisle and close my eyes and
breathe.
Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.
The song ends and a Walmart ad comes on:
Don’t forget the Fourth! Celebrate our nation’s freedom in style with a new GrillMaster …
I lean my head against a towel and laugh because that is the only thing you can really
do. That or what Marge’s son did. I gotta get out of here. I walk back through the
store and out the door, past the greeter with the Support Our Troops button. Go back
to my truck, get in, roll down all the windows, and gun it. I hate the part of me
that understands Marge’s son. I don’t know what went down for that dude in Fallujah,
what he saw, who he killed, but I have some pretty good guesses. I imagine him sitting
at home by himself and seeing shit that isn’t really there and just wondering what
the point of things is. I can picture him trying to mow the lawn or fill his gas tank
or buy more milk because the milk in the fridge is expired and him thinking,
Why the hell am I doing this?
He’s tired and the nightmares won’t stop and nobody understands, they just want him
to be like he was before he left but he can’t be, he can’t ever go back because you
can’t unsee what you saw. Maybe he wasn’t a coward—maybe he knew that the war was
never going to stop and all he was doing was bringing down the people around him.
Maybe he thought it would be a relief and not just for him: for everyone.

chapter eleven

A day off.

For once, it felt good to have the sun beating down on me. Its red light pulsed behind
my closed eyes and my mind collaged strange amoebalike sculptures out of it. Fire
creatures. I was lying on a thick beach towel next to Dylan, the air heavy with the
scent of her suntan lotion—a tropical vacation in a bottle. An old boom box she’d
had since she was a kid was softly playing Jack Johnson. According to Dylan, it wasn’t
summer without his guitar and that low voice mixed in with the sound of the creek
tumbling by us.

“This feels so good,” I said.

“Mm-hmm.”

I wondered if I could put this sensation in Marge’s collage. The heat, the delicious
drowsiness of it. The way sparks of light were going off like fireworks behind my
eyes, and how my skin was melting into the sand and my problems were like a distant
itch I couldn’t be bothered to scratch.

“Sky.” Dylan’s voice was hesitant, and I lifted up my hand to shade my eyes, then
looked over at her.

“Yeah?”

She sat up, this perfectly tanned blond goddess in a flowered bikini. With her bug-eye
sunglasses and sparkling lip gloss, she looked like a model for
Seventeen
. You’d never know she’d had a baby in January.

“Your mom was hanging out at our place yesterday for a little while—when you were
working.”

I sat up. “That’s good! I’ve been telling her for weeks to go visit your mom.” Maybe
this was a sign that things would go back to normal. “Did your mom give her advice
about jobs? Or … about anything else?”