Suffer Love (26 page)

After grabbing a bowl and a box of granola, I sit on a barstool while he sits at the table. He doesn't talk. Doesn't ask me about school or even Sam. The silence is so heavy, it's a deafening ring in my ears. Dad's laptop is on the counter, the browser open on a retail site.

Kites.

I slide it toward me. The online shopping cart is filled with stuff Dad needs to make a sled kite—line attachments, cross spar, wing spar, keel. A single tear escapes and I wipe it away, furious that I'm upset by this. Dad's making our kite. Without me. Why do I care? Didn't I tell him I didn't want to do it? Haven't I told him to get out of my face about the Kite Festival, about movie night, about sushi, about reading his stupid papers?

I have.

That's what I thought I wanted.

But I never really believed he'd listen.

I feel a hand on my back, and I turn to find Mom standing there in her faded purple robe. The one she's had since before I was born and reminds me of lazy Christmas mornings and snow days home from school. Her eyes flick from Dad's to mine to the computer screen, her mouth bending downward into a pitying frown as she smooths my hair back from my face.

“I'm going back to bed.” I launch myself off the stool before she can stop me. Back in my room, I grab my phone. I find Sam's name, my hand trembling over the screen. A slow, hot current flows up from my feet and twitches into my fingers. I hurl the phone. Its protective case cracks against the pale blue walls and leaves a tiny dent. I'm tempted to unearth the phone and throw it again so I'll never be able to call him. So I'll never spend another second of my life in that place where I forget what he did.

Instead, I bury myself under my mountain of blankets again.

Here, I'm safe.

Here, I'm protected.

Here, I'm alone.

“That sick son of a bitch.”

Kat's voice always sounds funny to me when she swears, like she's a little kid playing at being a grownup, but this time her tone is edged in pure fury. I close my locker on Monday morning and turn to face her. I haven't spoken to her since Friday when she discovered Charlie. We texted a few times over the weekend about her date, but I never called to tell her about Sam. She was high on Ajay Desai, and I couldn't bring myself to shoot her down quite yet.

“Who?” I ask, sliding my books in my bag before homeroom.

“Who? Are you serious?” She folds her arms and glares at me.

I blow out a breath. “How did you find out?”

“Ajay. He told me last night. He
knew
this whole time. Can you believe it? I hung up on him. They're both sick sons of bitches and I hope their dicks fall off and they go bald at twenty-one.”

“God, that's a little harsh.” Still, I crack a smile at the thought.

“That's the edited version.”

“It's not Ajay's fault, Kat.” We start heading down the hall. Sloane Waters catches my eye and smirks, her glossy lips reflecting the fluorescents and nearly blinding me. I look away.

“He didn't tell me. You're my best friend. He knew about this crazy
Twilight Zone
link you had to Sam, and he didn't tell me.”

I stop and pull her into the doorway of an empty classroom. “This is not Ajay's fault.”

“But—”

“No.” I put my hands on her shoulders and shake her a little. “Ajay's a good guy and he adores you. He bought you a
pig,
for crying out loud. This . . . thing with me and Sam wasn't his to tell. This was Sam's doing. All Sam. Only Sam. Totally. Sam.”

Her body slumps against the wall. I know she's crafted this pissed-off front out of some sort of loyalty to me. It's sweet, but I'm happy to release her from that obligation.

“Ajay did seem really sorry,” she says. “He said Sam's pretty bummed. Like, really broken up about it. I mean, like, a shades-drawn, Bon-Iver-playing-constantly, spending-hours-at-the-batting-cages-hitting-ball-after-ball-after-ball kind of broken up. Can you believe—”

“No, I can't believe it. And I don't care.”

She frowns, but stays mercifully silent.

“And you should call Ajay,” I say. “Please. I'm sure Charlie wants to see him, at least. Give him a slimy, snorty kiss.”

Kat smiles a puny smile. “How are you feeling about all of this?”

The warning bell rings and we join the throng. “I don't know. I guess I have to be fine with it, right?”

“No, you don't. This totally sucks. I really liked Sam. He was the miracle that pulled you out of your meaningless groping phase.”

I try to think of a snarky retort, but I barely slept all weekend. I've got nothing.

“Did he say why he didn't tell you?” she asks.

I shake my head. “He just sat there.”

“Have you talked to Livy?”

I freeze in midstride.

“Livy. God, I haven't even thought about her in all of this.”

“I'm sure she's upset,” Kat says. “She's so sweet, she's probably just as heartbroken as you are.”

“Right.” My head is starting to pound. I feel myself getting angrier and angrier, thinking of all the lives tangled up in the ridiculous farce that is me and Sam. It's like a Shakespearian comedy.

Except no one's laughing.

As third period English approaches, I start to freak out. There is no part of me that wants to see Sam, and honestly, I don't trust myself to keep my voice steady if we have to work on our project today. Halfway through second period, I get a pass and dive into the nearest bathroom. I force air in and out of my lungs, murmuring to myself under the fluorescent lights to get it together.

He's just a guy, Hadley.

He's just a guy.

I fling on the tap and splash some water on my face. This always seems to work in movies. Cool water equals calm. I'm on my third desperate dousing when the graffitied door creaks open. I glance up at the mirror and meet Jenny Kalinski's huge brown eyes.

That party seems like a lifetime ago. Since then, I've managed to avoid this moment. Shame coils tight in my stomach and I grip the side of the dingy sink to hold myself up.

“Hi,” she says, sliding her ballet flats over the yellowed tile.

“Uh. Hi.”

She glides to the sink and takes a bottle of contact solution out of her bag. “My contact is inside out.” She proceeds to pluck a tiny clear disk right off her eyeball.

“Yeah. I hate when that happens.”

“You wear contacts?”

“Oh. Um. No.”

She squirts some solution into her palm and smiles like she knows I'm drowning in my own nervous sweat here. “So, you and Sam?”

“What?”

“You and Sam Bennett? You're dating?”

“No.”

She frowns. “Oh. I could've sworn Josh—”

“Well, Josh was wrong.” It comes out a lot harsher than I meant. I press the heel of my hand into my eyes and push until I see color.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't know.”

God, now she's apologizing to me. I nod, my fingers itching for the door, my feet aching to run. I take a deep breath and force myself to look at her. She pops her contact back into her eye and blinks rapidly.

“Jenny. I . . .”

She slides her gaze to mine.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “For that night. With Josh. I really didn't know you were together, but I shouldn't have—”

“Hadley, stop.” She tosses the bottle into her bag and turns to face me. “It's okay. Only a few people knew we were dating. Summer romance and all. I know Josh well enough to know that he wasn't in a good place that night and acted like a total jackass.”

“But Sloane—”

“Sloane already hated you and she thrives on drama. The girl could write a bestseller about all the crap she blows out of proportion for the hell of it. I didn't know she was going to do that stuff to your locker.”

I lean against the sink and exhale. Her words sound nice. They even
feel
nice, but something's still gnawing at me. “But you're with Josh. Now, I mean.”

She sighs, then purses her lips. “Yeah.”

“But he lied. And he cheated on you.”

“I know that.”

“But you were so upset that night.”

“Of course I was.” She zips up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “But I was upset long before I ever got to that stupid party.”

“So why?”

“Because that's what I want, Hadley.”

I just stare at her.

“You think I'm an idiot,” Jenny says. “You think I'm one of those girls who make excuses when their boyfriend gives them a black eye or sleeps with their best friend.”

“I just . . . I don't understand.”

She hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “I don't understand the things you do either.”

Her voice is gentle, even kind, but I still flinch. I press my fingertips together to steady myself.

“You don't have to understand it,” she continues. “I know Josh, with all of his faults. I know what he's been through, what scares him, what makes him nervous and happy and sad. And I know what happened that night wasn't about him trying to get laid.”

“But—”

Jesus Christ, Hadley, give it a rest . . .

Sam's words come back to me, hard and real. I feel marooned, stranded on a desert island, watching the last rescue boat float away. Because everyone else is moving on. Everyone else is
letting it go.

The warning bell for third period echoes against the tiled walls. “I'll see you later,” Jenny says. As she passes me, I search her face for any signs of pain or doubt or even anger. There's nothing. Just a smooth, unlined surface.

Peace.

Something I haven't experienced in months.

But as Jenny leaves, the door screaming with age behind her, tears sting my eyes as I realize that isn't exactly true.

She won't even look at me.

Or talk to me.

Ms. Artigas, God bless her, picked today for us to work on our Shakespeare projects for the entire class period, so now Hadley and I are sitting in silence, as far apart as possible while still giving the appearance that we're collaborating.

Before I can even attempt a conversation, Hadley slaps a sticky note on my notebook.

We're done with scene 1. You work on 2. I'll work on 3.

“Hadley. Can we—”

“No. We cannot.”

She flips her book open and angles away from me. I rub my eyes, which are burning from getting only milliseconds of sleep between bad dreams, Mom's silent treatment, and Livy's pendulum of emotions this weekend. It didn't help that I've slept on my floor for the past two nights, bent into my old camping sleeping bag from three years ago that's now too short for me, while Livy wheezed herself to sleep in my bed.

When I told her what happened with Hadley, she immediately reached for her inhaler and started gulping.

“Look, I should've said something sooner,” I told her. “I shouldn't have let myself . . .” What? God knows I tried to stay away from Hadley. Or maybe I didn't. I don't even know anymore. The truth is, I regret a shit-ton of stuff that happened between us. I regret that she found out before I could explain. I regret that she's hurt and I wish I could make it all go away for her. But I didn't regret
Hadley.
It's no secret that there wasn't a lot about my life that got me up in the morning with anything other than a fake smile plastered on my face, if I even managed that.

But Hadley. She was the real smile under all my bullshit.

“But she thinks you're this complete jerk,” Livy said, her fists bunched at her sides. “How can she think that? I can't let her think that.”

“Livy, there's nothing you can do.”

A muscle worked in her jaw, making her whole face appear hard and angry. She spent the rest of the weekend waxing and waning between pensively staring into space and looking like she wanted to rip the head off a puppy.

I didn't fare much better.

Now, sitting this close to Hadley, it's as if I'm looking at a beautiful hologram. I can see her, remember how her hair felt sliding through my fingers, taste her on my tongue. But if I try to touch her, to reach out, I know she'll disappear.

My arms and legs slice through the water. Since everything happened with Sam, the pool is the only place I feel halfway normal. Here, I can turn off my brain and let my muscles take over.

Over the last few days, Mom and Dad have been talking more and more. She's home by five every day and they cook dinner. Sometimes, an actual joke or a smile slips out. They went to therapy three times this past week and came back each time
not
tied in knots. The air in the house is still thick enough to choke on sometimes, but they're both trying
.
Dad's giving me space and Mom's inching her way closer, both of them hovering on my edges and waiting for me to send up the white flag.

Thanksgiving was relatively normal. My grandparents came down from Lexington. My parents cooked a huge meal. We gathered around the table and I mumbled my way through the annual “What's everyone thankful for?” tradition. But the entire time, I felt like I was just watching everyone else, observing, as if they were characters in a TV show.

Two days after Thanksgiving, I'm swimming again, numbing myself with adrenaline and speed. After an hour of laps and a scalding-hot shower, I run into Henry on my way out of the locker room.

“Hey, Hadley.” His chiseled chest drips wet from his own swim.

“Hey.” I go to move around him, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.

“I've been meaning to ask you something for a while now.”

“Oh?”

His lips curve into this half-smirk, half-smile thing that used to make my knees go soft. “Ever reconsider letting me take you to dinner?”