The Way Back to You (3 page)

“It isn’t like that here. My dad keeps set office hours.”

“Which don’t happen to be Thursday afternoons?”

She giggles. “Definitely not.”

I push the door to leave, and cold air hits my face like I’ve opened a freezer.

Danielle follows me out. “Oh, no. The Dirty-Pawed Avenger strikes again!”

At first, I can’t figure out what she’s pointing at, but then I spot a brown, smudgy trail across the hood of my vehicle, leading to a black cat that almost blends into the paint job. “Whose cat is that?” I ask.

“She’s a stray. Always on the hunt for a warm engine. When
she first turned up here, she was such a tiny thing. Every Sunday she goes from car to car. It’s kind of funny.”

The temperature outside has been in the twenties and thirties for weeks; no wonder the poor cat is curled up so tightly.

Matty barrels out to join Danielle and me, and the vibe gets weird as they smirk at each other in embarrassed, secretive ways. I guess it’s all good for Matty, though. He’s been telling me for months he likes Cloudy “
only
as a friend,” but I didn’t believe it until now.

“Well, it seems I have no choice except to become the villain who sends this stray cat back to the mean streets of Bend, Oregon.” I give Danielle and Matty a quick nod and start down the stairs. “See you guys at school.”

“Kyle, wait!” Matty calls out. “You want to do something tonight?”

I turn. “Nah. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Well,
obviously
tomorrow.”

I lift the corners of my mouth into the approximation of a pleasant expression to hide my irritation. “Right.”

Official baseball tryouts aren’t happening until after we get back from midwinter break, but Matty decided everyone who played varsity last year (aside from the guys who graduated, obviously) should hang out Friday night for some preseason bonding or whatever. I told him this morning I’d go (after he guilt-tripped me for leaving him to make the announcement yesterday), but the truth is, the closer it gets to the start of the season, the less I want anything to do with the team.

Without waiting for Matty to say more, I skip down the stairs. Before I even reach the bottom, my false smile dies and
depression slams into me all over again. I came here for answers, for a sign, for
something
. But there were no statues, no nuns, no priests, and no helpful strangers. All I got out of this was Matty on my case again and muddy little paw prints all over my vehicle.

“Sorry, Dirty-Pawed Avenger.” I’m at my driver’s-side door now. “It’s time to find another heater.”

It turns out the cat is actually a kitten. She keeps lying there with her eyes squeezed shut, so I step forward and give her a light poke in the side. “I mean it. I’m going home now.”

She curves herself into an even tighter ball. Her stomach rises and falls as she breathes. What was Danielle talking about, saying she was
tiny back whenever she first came around? She’s still super little now.

Aside from a carnival-won goldfish, Dad and I have never had a pet, and Matty’s cat, Hercules, is the only one I’ve spent much time with. He likes to show his “affection” by hooking his claws into my legs and biting my wrists, so I haven’t always been his biggest fan.

I rub the kitten between her ears. Her glossy black fur is softer than it looks. She responds by butting her head against my hand, flicking her tail, and opening her eyes.

Her eyes, which happen to be green. Bright, bright green. The color of a 7Up can, to be exact. My heart stops for a second.

She blinks at me and I blink right back.

I don’t know what this means, if it means anything. I really, really don’t. But I can’t help hoping maybe, just maybe, I’ve found the answer I was seeking after all.

W
e finally pull into a parking spot.

“Thank God,” I groan, reaching forward to click off the radio. The sounds of overlapping guitars and the la-la-la-ing singer cut off abruptly, the speakers now mercifully silent. I shudder all over like the power button was covered in raw meatloaf. “No more music by sad boys.”

Zoë, in the passenger seat, crosses her arms over her chest. “You said I could choose.”

“My mistake.” I put my Honda in park and turn off the engine.

“Anyway, they’re not
sad
. They’re—”

“Crybabies.”

“Passionate,” she says, decisively and dreamy-eyed.

“Oh, gag.” I snap off my seat belt and twist to grab my puffy coat from the backseat. Slipping it on, I say, “Just so you know, on the way home we’re listening to someone who wears glitter.”

Zoë’s eyes scrunch up behind her glasses. “Glitter? Really?”

“Glitter”—I count it off on one finger, then more—“with a
fondness for drum machines. And clapping.”

“I’d rather crawl home.” She grins and slides out of the car.

As soon as I open my own door, icy February air ribbons in. It has to be the coldest day of the year so far. The sun is about to set, and the sky is a mix of purples and pinks against the pine trees that border the Target parking lot—possibly the only parking lot in Bend without a mountain view.

We make our way toward the big red bull’s-eye, Zoë bobbing beside me in her green Converse sneakers and orange knit cap. The lot is mostly empty for a Friday evening; everyone’s probably skipped out for midwinter break vacations already.

Zoë and I are not so lucky, however. We’re homebound while Mom and Dad are away on a cruise to Mexico. They haven’t taken a trip by themselves since Zoë was born and now they’re going for it. Which is all very nice until you get to the part where they ditch their dependents for ten days. I’d be on board with fending for myself if it wasn’t the reason why Ashlyn’s parents asked Zoë and me over tonight. Accepting their invitation felt more like a sentencing. I dread being back in that house, but I couldn’t refuse. Although there’s always the chance I’ll break an ankle and have to cancel before dinnertime.

“Candy first,” I announce once we’re inside. The Montiels aren’t expecting us for another hour, so I’ll fill up every minute of it with distraction.

Usually, the cosmetics section is always the first stop in Target, a tradition that began when Ashlyn and I both got our driver’s licenses and could be here on a whim. Makeup, then
magazines, then kitchen appliances, where we’d screw around with the coffeemakers. That’s the way we worked through this place, no matter what—except for some quieter nights, when Ashlyn would dare me to do full twisting layouts in the patio furniture department. She’d always ask me in the same way, her eyes lighting with a challenge, as if she didn’t already know I’d take the dare.

The makeup section never comes first anymore, if I go there at all.

Zoë stands by while I grab the essentials: a bag of sour gummy worms for my personal stash and some Dum Dums for the gift basket I’m making for tomorrow’s cheer event. Zoë eschews empty calories and preservatives, and is obviously of alien stock, so she ignores the candy.

Then she follows me to the home decor department, where I pick a stalk of fake daffodils that I’ll cut up and drop into the basket for extra flair. If it were warmer, I’d pluck real ones from our garden, but these will do. Afterward, Zoë leads me to the DVD section. She is the last human being under thirty who still visits it, and five bucks says she leaves with something black and white and boring all over.

I’m elbow-deep in the comedies when Zoë comes up behind me and shoves a DVD case under my nose. I’m surprised it was made this century; on the other hand, it looks like it has enough slash and gore to trigger a fit.

“Come on, Zoë.” I raise an eyebrow. “A scary movie?”

Bunching her lips to one side, she says, “So what?”

I peer over her shoulder at the other racks. “No new
docudrama snoozefest out this week?”

“I’m allowed to like different things, you know.”

She passes the case over, and I take it, reluctant. I barely read the story synopsis on the back cover, focusing instead on the snapshots of attractive, desperate-looking actors, their eyes and mouths open wide. A creepy, bloody movie is so un-Zoë—oh, but there’s the magic word: subtitled.

“It’s a foreign film.”

“Korean,” she clarifies.

“How did you even hear about it?”

“This boy Owen told me. It’s one of his favorites.”

My fingers freeze. A month ago, Zoë came home from school jabbering nonstop. Owen had recommended a thriller about a guy who’d had a brain transplant; afterward he started having visions of his donor’s life, and isn’t that just so metaphysical. Zoë speculated, out loud, to me, about whether it could actually happen, but I shut her down. It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t worth wondering.

“Sounds like This Boy Owen needs a rom-com weekend,” I say, tossing the DVD back at her.

She blinks at me. “He has exceptionally eclectic taste.”

I force an interested smile, steering the topic elsewhere. “So what’s up with you and This Boy Owen?”

Zoë’s cheeks redden and her eyes go round. She’s fallen for it. “We have some of the same classes. That’s it.”

“If he’s trying to woo you with the slaughter of innocents, I feel like I should know more about him. Like, okay: How many decapitated dolls does he keep in his locker?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Enjoying well-made horror films does not make someone a psychopath, Cloudy.”

“
De
-fensive.” I waggle my eyebrows.

“It’s not like that,” she says, a little breathless, so it’s obvious that it’s
exactly
like that. “He has a girlfriend, anyway.”

I watch her for a moment more, a familiar slump in her shoulders.
He has a girlfriend, anyway
must be the Marlowe sister motto. “Well. Plenty of other single doll decapitators out there for you, I promise.”

And if anyone knows that feeling something for a guy who’s into someone else is a black hole, so willing to suck you in and twist you up, it’s me. Better to cut the heartstrings now while they’re not so tangled.

I HEAD TOWARD the toy section so I can pick up more things for the gift basket. The squad is raffling them off at tomorrow’s fund-raiser for the public library. On my way across the store, my phone buzzes in my bag.

Cheer Insider is obsessed with you! Slight exaggeration, but let’s talk, please?

A text from my friend Jade, with a screenshot of
Cheer Insider
announcing our interview—including my solo profile—on their Twitter. Super.

Jade lived in town and cheered with us until two years ago, when her family moved to California. We keep in touch and meet up every summer at cheer camp—ideally, we’d also meet up at Nationals every year, but the Bend squad didn’t get past Regionals last season, and Santa Monica’s didn’t get there this time.

I tap out a quick reply to her last message—
HUGE exaggeration. Talk later?

I might miss her more than ever these days, but I’m not as eager to discuss the interview as she is.

I’ve just pressed send when I see him.

Kyle.

Even with his back to me, I can tell.

I really hate that I can tell.

And I hate the emotional lightning storm that immediately charges up in my body. Z
ap!
Excitement.
Zing!
Dread.
Sizzle!
Full-body tingles.
Singe!
All-consuming guilt.

He’s standing in front of a display at the end of an aisle, his hands in his pockets, the hood of his black coat coming up to meet the straight line of his short blond hair.

I can’t help it: I flash back to him at the hospital, and there’s a heaviness in my limbs. It was the day after the accident, and Ashlyn was still in a coma. All I wanted was to be there when she woke up. But my car had stalled on the ride over, and I was beyond stressed because it was time wasted, less time for me to be with her. Kyle was already there, though, near the waiting room. His stance was exactly the same as it is now, with his hands in his pockets, except then he was staring at a vending machine. He stood there longer than the hospital’s snack selection was worthy of: old, crappy chips versus older, crappier candy bars. So part of me wondered if he was even hungry. There were a lot of blank stares all around then. I ended up blowing past Kyle and heading for the ICU. I doubt he even noticed.

I’m about to do the same now—pass behind him and go
straight for what I’m really here for—but I stop when I see what has him so preoccupied. An entire wall full of bright, plushy cushions shaped like animals. Why the hell is Kyle shopping for a Pillow Pet?

At the pep rally, Matty was certain that Kyle wasn’t backsliding. That he’s okay. But a seventeen-year-old guy with no younger siblings, shopping in the stuffed animal department, seems definitively
not
okay. So the same part of me that needed to ask Matty about him two days ago needs to get closer—just to make sure he’s not about to rip the heads off those pillows and wear them as hats.

He picks up a koala in one hand and a panda in the other. He’s deliberating.

Holy shit.

“Kyle.” His name slips out before I can wrangle it back.

He startles, straightening up as he whips around to face me. I’m instantly aware of my messy hair and salt-caked snow boots. “Cloudy. Hey.” His fingers tighten on the koala, his voice a low, thundery rumble. “What’s going on?”

Crack!
Heat.

“Here with my sister. How about you?” I peek at the shelf behind him. “Redecorating?”

“Um,” he says, following my glance. “Not exactly. Just looking, I guess.”

Then his eyebrows do the Thing. The Thing where they kind of slope up in a slant, like he’s contemplating something too big, and it makes me want to smooth them flat. The Thing has done bad things to my insides since he walked into my
biology class sophomore year.

I used to wonder if being attracted to Kyle felt like a weather event to Ashlyn, too. Or maybe it was more serene for her, because her feelings weren’t constantly battling. The first time she told me about him, her eyes were as lit up as sparklers.

“Kyle. Ocie.”

She’d steered me into an alcove under the stairs. Her grin was so giddy and nervous, I giggled before I knew what was going on. At the time, Kyle felt like my little secret, although he was hardly a secret at all. “The guy who stole my bio notes all last semester?”

Ashlyn had put her palms to her cheeks, endearingly shy. “I like him,” she whispered. “A lot. I think I like him a lot.”

My smile was so big and stiff; I must have looked like a wax figure. “Since when?”

“Seven thirty-three. This morning.”

“Ashlyn,
what
? He’s been here for months—”

“I know! I mean, I’ve seen him around Matty’s house before and I’ve always thought he was cute. But he walked me inside the main entrance and held the door open for me, and all of a sudden I have cartoon hearts in my eyes.
For Kyle.
”

I pressed my spine into the wall. “Does he like you, too?”

“Maybe?”

A tornado rioted through me. I could have told her the truth, and she would have dropped it. But then what? That weirdness would be a constant wedge between us. And in that moment, I believed that giving Kyle up could be simple, but I’d never forgive myself for ruining this for Ashlyn. I wouldn’t carve that
line into our friendship. What I didn’t anticipate was that keeping the secret could be just as damaging. And that I wouldn’t get over Kyle the way I wanted to. “What are you going to do?”

“Invite him to Winter Formal. They’re announcing it at the assembly later, and I could ask him right away.” She bounced up on her toes, and her expression was so hopeful it made my stomach hurt. “You’re a bold, self-sufficient woman. Tell me: Should I just do it?”

It was as if poisonous gas had leaked from the heating system. I knew Kyle would say yes—he’d be a total cretin not to. Ashlyn was a star. She was warm, and fierce, and the prettiest person I’d ever seen. She was happiest when she was making other people happy. So I told her yes. Ask him.

“Ashlyn loved pandas,” I blurt out now, motioning to the pillow in Kyle’s right hand. I brace myself to melt from embarrassment. As if he doesn’t know that Ashlyn loved pandas. As if he didn’t adopt the symbolic kind for her on one of their monthiversaries, only to have her agonize over what to name it (Pandy Warhol). As if that’s not the reason he picked up that pillow in the first place.

“I remember,” he mumbles, putting both pillows back on the shelf.

“I’m sure.” It comes out snappy and I peek over my own shoulder, reflexively checking for the exits.

We stand opposite each other, shifting and silent. A woman pushing a shopping cart filled with paper towel rolls sashays between us. It’s like she can’t tell we’re even in the middle of a conversation. I guess we aren’t, really.

“Hey, do you want to . . .” I trail off, gesturing behind me. “I need to buy something for a gift basket. You could help. If you’re not busy.”

And maybe if we’re walking, and he’s not looking at me, I won’t be such a disaster.

Kyle’s mouth opens a bit, and he hesitates before letting out a strangled “Okay.” Then he scoops up the shopping basket at his feet and follows my lead until we get to the action figure aisle. We’re completely uneasy around each other, and it sucks, but it’s all my doing, anyway.

Talking to him used to come easy,
too easy
, for me. I was actually impatient for first-period bio and dissecting virtual animals—after all the animal-rights speeches from Ashlyn, I refused to slice into the real ones. It meant sharing a computer with him, one focal point for a few minutes. But outside of class, there was always Matty, and his other friends, and eventually, Ashlyn. After she asked him to Formal, they started getting closer, and I purposely forgot how to talk to Kyle.

So shopping with him will be new.

“What are you looking for?” he asks. We’re alone, and it seems darker in here, not as starkly bright and exposed as the center aisles.