What's Broken Between Us (15 page)

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T
his is what a Friday night should be. Graham with his arm around me. The vocal stylings of a band from Indiana ringing through the air, which smells entirely of coffee. I so need this—
fun
—after that awful fight yesterday with Jonathan. I haven’t seen him since slamming the door to my room after we got home from the diner. I’m rolling on two mochas; enough caffeine that my foot is tapping faster than the music. I try for a twirl, and Graham laughs.

“Nice moves,” he says, pulling me closer.

Jonathan’s wrong about us. So we’re not like Sutton and him? They were a mess of feelings, a concoction of uncontrollable urges, complicated even more by the fact that Sutton’s anger was
easily sparked, and Jonathan’s talent for igniting it was directly proportional to his flair for flirting with other girls. We’re the anti-Jonathan-and-Sutton. Graham is a “lightweight” and I hate anything that tastes like Pine-Sol.

Even if I’m wrapped up in denial about everything I’ve done to ruin what I have with Graham, I don’t care. It’s hard to forget the events of last weekend, and I’ve been so overly nice to Graham, I wonder if he is suspicious. But as far as he knows, I barely talk to anyone else, so even if he suspects something, there’s nothing for him to pin his doubt on.

I put my arms around Graham’s neck as we dance in the crowd, and when the applause erupts, he leans down and kisses me, quickly. But perfectly.

I could do
this
all day and all night—kissing, dancing, laughing. The only reason I stop is because my phone starts to ring. The name on the screen makes my head swirl.
Standard Dad’s cell.
I haven’t seen him since Thursday night either.

Graham sees the screen and nods toward the front door, telling me to take it outside where it’s probably quieter. But the sidewalk outside the coffee shop looks just as crowded as the inside—and just as loud. I move toward the back, down the hallway, thinking the bathroom will be a better solution, but of course there’s a line. The door at the end of the hallway is marked
EXIT
, so I push through it.

By the time I’m in the back lot, next to the Dumpsters, my phone is no longer ringing. I’m about to call him back when my phone beeps, signaling a new voice message.

I pace back and forth as I listen to my dad’s voice, intelligible but still muffled by background noise on his end. “Hey, Amanda, it’s Dad. I was hoping you could swing by and pick me up from Newton’s. I just think . . . it’s a better idea for me to get a ride. The cab company said it’d be an hour wait. That’s insane, right? Anyway, sorry to interrupt your night, sweetheart. I don’t mind waiting for a cab, if you’re busy.”

It’s unlike any message I’ve ever received. From anyone. But especially my dad. I’ve never heard his voice trying so hard to be upbeat, and failing so miserably. I never know what my dad is up to on a Friday night, but I never assumed it was drinking alone at Newton’s, a dive bar by the overpass. I cover my mouth, frozen and staring at my phone like any second there’ll be another message: “Just kidding! Everything is fine.”

I look up because I hear footsteps. Henry appears from behind the Dumpster.

“What are you—” I don’t finish because Henry’s buttoning his pants, refastening his belt.

“I’m not proud of it, but have you seen the line for the bathroom?”

“And coffee is a natural diuretic.” I’m relieved to see him; relieved to be speaking to him. But I feel like I’m going to burst out laughing—crazed, manic laughter—because here
he
is, smiling, and looking just as relieved to see me. A mere five minutes ago I had convinced myself that I could forget my feelings for him, but now that he’s here in front of me, they’ve detonated and are exploding all over the place.

“Is that the reason you’re back here, too?” he says.

Some of the bottled laughter escapes, and we stand there for a second, laughing together like we really are crazy. Before I can wrap my head around it, before I can even pose the question,
What are we doing?,
my phone starts ringing again. I answer it with a trembling hand.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, pressing my phone against my ear and turning away from Henry. “I can come get you.”

“Okay, thanks.” He sounds like himself, though the background is noisy. “Do you know where to go?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there soon.” I hang up before he thanks me again. “Shit,” I say, running my hand over my eyes as if this will make it easier to focus. This is such a mess. What am I supposed to say to Graham? I don’t want him to know; I don’t want to watch his expression turn sympathetic, don’t want to hear him tell me it’s okay when it’s not, it’s so obviously not. He’ll rest his hands on my shoulders, and I’ll be able to see in his eyes that he’s thinking about my brother—
this is what Jonathan should have done
.

It should be so easy to think of an excuse for why I need to be taken home right this second—but I can’t concentrate. My thoughts keep coming back to the image of my father in his starched and creased button-down shirt, with his clean-shaven face and graying eyebrows, sitting alone, throwing back so much whiskey he has to call his seventeen-year-old daughter to pick him up. Standard Dad wrecked. I don’t want to see him like that.

“Amanda?”
Amander.

“Can you—I need—” It feels like so much effort to ask this, to admit to this. Henry steps closer. I focus on his foot. The way his shoe makes a crunching noise as it hits the dirty pavement.

“I need a ride home,” I manage.

“Let’s go,” is all he says.

I follow him around the side of the building to his car.

I mean to say thank you, but my mind is a frenzy of worry over what I’m going to find at Newton’s, and how I’m going to explain this disappearance to Graham.

As soon as we’re on the road, Henry asks, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

I spill everything. Once I start talking, it’s easy to keep going.

Henry nods along. He doesn’t say anything until I’ve gotten it all out. “Okay.” His voice is steady and calm. “I’ll take you to Newton’s. If your dad’s car is there, you can drive it back. If it’s not, I’ll take you both home.”

I close my eyes. I hate the possibility of Henry being around for whatever transpires after my father comes out of Newton’s. But I find myself saying, “Okay,” and feeling tremendous relief.

“And here’s what to say to Graham.”

“What?”

“Type this, verbatim: ‘My mother called to say she was outside waiting for me—needs me home straightaway. I’ll call you tomorrow.’”

I do as he says, switching out “straightaway” for “right away,” editing out the British, and press send. Just a few seconds later my phone beeps.

“Shit.”

“What’s it say?” Henry asks.

I read the text out loud. “‘Is everything all right? Do you need anything? What happened?’”

“Tell him everything’s fine and your mum just needed you to help her with some last-minute stuff that she couldn’t get done on her own tonight.”

I’m typing everything he says, substituting “mother” for “mum.” It sounds like something that Graham will believe.

Graham responds in seconds. I don’t wait for Henry to ask before I read him the latest text. “‘Ellen said she saw you leaving in Henry Crane’s car. What’s really going on?’”

“Tell him to bugger off,” Henry mutters.

“I’ll just tell him the truth.” I bend my legs up so I can lay my head against my knees.

“It’s none of his business, Amanda,” Henry says. “It doesn’t have to be.”

I don’t say anything else, and neither does he. I turn my phone off, and the rest of the ride is completely silent.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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M
y dad is waiting outside Newton’s when we pull up. He’s standing next to his car, leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed in front of him, staring at the ground.

“Thank you,” I tell Henry.

“Of course,” he says.

Henry drives toward the parking lot exit but doesn’t leave. He parks on the other side of the lot. Probably so my dad won’t see him.

My dad doesn’t notice me until I’m approaching him. I hope my hey-how’s-it-going smile doesn’t look as painful and misplaced as the one he’s giving me when he passes me his keys.

“Thanks, Amanda.”

I thought that maybe he’d have trouble walking. Maybe his eyes would be heavy the way Jonathan’s eyes always get when he’s drinking. Maybe his words would run together. But he doesn’t appear to be drunk at all.

We’re quiet at first. Just the low hum of talk radio in the background as we cruise down the road. Henry trails behind us but turns left when we get to the second light.

“Sorry you had to take time out of your Friday night to come get me,” he says. He’s trying so hard to sound positive.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t even seem drunk.” I think it might make him feel better. Less ashamed, maybe.

He chuckles, quickly and quietly. “I don’t know that I really am drunk.”

I look at him. His eyes are glassy, and he sniffles, like he might be about to cry. My instinct is to get out of the car and run away, ditch him and the car right here in the middle of the intersection. If he really does cry, I won’t be able to handle it.

“I had a whiskey and some beers,” he tells me.

This isn’t a surprise. When my father drinks, he has either a couple of glasses of red wine, or a whiskey and a few beers. This is what he always drinks when we go out to eat. He’s never asked someone else to drive.

“I’m probably fine,” my father says. “But I don’t know . . .”

I nod, grateful I have to watch the road so I don’t have to look at my dad. I know all too well what’s been eating at him—the
lingering and constant thought waving from miles ahead: one false move and things can go all wrong. One false move and you can ruin things for yourself, and for other people, too.

He clears his throat. “If you ever need a ride, for any reason, at any time, call me and I’ll come get you. I won’t ask questions. I won’t be angry. You won’t get in trouble. Just, if you can’t drive, call me, and I’ll gladly pick you up.” It’s so cliché, so Standard Dad, I’m surprised he’s never said it before—even after the accident.

“Okay,” I answer quickly.

“You know that, right? That you can always call me?”

I’m nodding. But it’s a lie. If I were ever in trouble, where I needed a ride, I would call a cab. I probably would’ve even waited an hour for its arrival.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” he says. The leather squeaks as he shifts in his seat. “I just . . . I thought it was something you already knew.”

I speed up when we get to the last stoplight before we reach our house. The longer we’re in this car together, the more time he has to confess that he never made this offer to Jonathan. And then I’ll have to reassure him that what happened that night wasn’t his fault either. How far does the blame go? Does it extend all the way to conversations my parents should have had? Hypotheticals:
We’ll drive you.

I can see the guilt in my father’s eyes:
I should’ve been stricter, should’ve been looking for signs, should’ve thought to address this subject.
I get it. It’s regret over things he never thought twice
about before, but can’t stop overanalyzing now. There are no solutions. This is just our life now. Some wounds don’t heal; they aren’t supposed to.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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H
enry calls around midnight. His voice on the phone, groggy and low and carelessly British, is the voice I missed for sixteen months, and still miss.

“I’m outside,” is all he says.

I don’t even bother with a jacket as I hurry out the front door and head across the street, where Henry is parked two houses down.

“Everything peachy?” he asks. He notices my pajamas and turns on the car, cranking up the heat.

“Yeah,” I say. “My dad was fine. He just . . . didn’t think he should drive.”

“And Graham?”

He sighs at the same time that I do.

“I’m afraid to tell him the truth,” I admit.

My heart beats so furiously I swear it’s passing through the car, thudding against the pavement.

“Tonight would have been unbearable if you weren’t there.” I let the words fly. “How’s that for the truth?”

I’m aware that the worst thing I could do right now is look at Henry, but I do it anyway. He smiles, and I have to grip the edges of my seat so I don’t maul him with kisses.

“I was happy to see you, too,” he says, “
and
I’m always happy to be of service.” His smile is muted, fading quickly, and he stares vacantly ahead, transfixed on something in the distance.

“Henry . . .”

“That must’ve been really hard, for your dad to call you.” He runs his hand over the top of the steering wheel, back and forth, watching his fingers move across the leather.

“It was strange,” I say. “He gave me that whole spiel about how I’m supposed to call him if I ever think I shouldn’t be driving.”

Henry’s hands stop moving, and he leans his head back against the headrest, turning slightly to look at me. “Had you ever needed to call him before?”

“The one and only time I’ve ever been drunk I was at home with Dawn in my room, with no plans to go anywhere else. We were playing Monopoly.”

Henry smiles, but I catch him biting the corner of his lower lip.

“Have you?”

“Needed to call someone—yes,” he says roughly.

“Who did you call?”

He hesitates. “No one.” He rubs his eyes. “I never called anyone. And it always turned out fine, so . . .”

“It happens all the time,” I find myself saying. It’s like we said that day in econ, when we talked about the diffusion of responsibility—we’re all more aware now. “But what were you thinking?” The words fall out, and I shake my head. I sound like Patricia Johnson, like this is a bad
Lifeline
interview. “You probably weren’t thinking at all.”

The truth is: I want insight into my brother, even though he and Henry are so different.

“I
was
thinking.” He looks at me with stormy eyes. “Like the night of Sutton’s graduation, I didn’t care. All I wanted was to see you. I knew it probably wasn’t the best idea for me to drive. And I did consider not going to Sylvia’s. But not seeing you that night felt . . . unimaginable.”

I try to think back on that night, try to remember if Henry had been tipsy. Maybe I just couldn’t tell. I’d had nothing but water all night and
I
felt tipsy—like I’d had ten glasses of champagne—or however many it takes to feel like you’re flying. Like you’re untouchable.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing it, closing his eyes. This is what eats at him, keeps him up at night. This is what he tries to forget when he kisses me. Not who my
brother is—but who Henry is, or almost was. How close he came to ending up just like Jonathan.

I think about changing the night—giving back Henry. He’d stay at Matt’s party; Graham would keep Grace occupied; Jonathan and Sutton would be having too much fun to leave. My mind is a blur, but if I could just get it straight, the new order of the night, then maybe I could forget this pesky feeling that’s tugging at me from every angle—a compilation of our mistakes that made it possible for Jonathan to walk out of that party and get into his car.

“Amanda,” Henry says softly. “Should I not have told you?”

Instead of answering him, I lean over the center console and wrap my arms around him, tighter and tighter and tighter until he’s clutching my shoulders and burying his face in the crook of my neck. He pulls back and is about to kiss me—but suddenly there’s a sharp rapping on the window.

I whip around in surprise. Henry’s arms fall away and he leans back. It’s Jonathan, I can tell by the baggy hang of his T-shirt, the only part of him I can see through the passenger window. He walks to the front of the car, under the glow of a streetlight, so there’s no choice but to notice him.

Henry’s stare is unwaveringly angry. It’s the first time he’s seen my brother since before the accident, other than watching him on
Lifeline
. I open my door and step out, leaning against the door and leaving one foot in the car.

“What, Jonathan?”

But he’s staring through the windshield at Henry. I’m not the reason he’s here at all.

Henry gets out of his car all the way, shutting the door behind him.

“Do you want me to see your sister?” Jonathan asks him.

Henry’s eyebrows shoot upward. “No,” he says. “I—I don’t want you anywhere near her.”

Jonathan nods. “Then tell her to stop calling me.” His eyes shift to me. “Are you coming inside?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second.”

Jonathan hesitates—a flash of my brother from before the accident, reluctant to leave me out here at night alone in a parked car with a boy. He walks slowly walks toward the house, looking back at us twice.

Henry and I climb into his car, but it’s like all the air has left.

“I should probably go inside,” I say.

Henry nods. “Yeah.” He looks at me, and I don’t know if I move first, or he does, but I’m kissing him and he’s kissing me back; my fingers play in his hair, and he keeps a hand behind my head, holding me to him. Because outside of these suffocating circumstances, and burdens that we’ll never really be free of, this is all we have.

Jonathan’s sitting on
the stairs in the dark, waiting for me, when I walk inside.

“Not now,” I say. I’m not in the mood to hear his opinion
about Henry and me.

“I was warned, you know, about the two of you,” he says, standing.

I don’t like the way he’s now towering over me, looking down at me.

“Is that what Sutton told you during your forty-eight seconds of conversation?” I push past him and start heading up the stairs. I don’t even look to see how he reacts to this comment.

“No,” he says. “It was Grace.”

I whip around to find him still on the stairs, leaning against the railing, watching his hands as they fiddle with the hem of his shirt.

“She told Sutton and me we weren’t the real Crane-Tart love story. I always thought she was kidding.” He winces. “Then I saw you with him at Sylvia’s.” He looks up at me. “Or I saw you guys leaving, anyway.”

There are a thousand things I want to say—so many apologies they get caught in my throat. I’m frozen at the top of the steps, as he walks toward me.

“You looked really happy,” he says, one hand on my shoulder. He leans in and gives me a kiss on the top of my head, before he goes up the rest of the steps.

I shake myself out of it, or try to, and follow him down the hall. It’s the first time he’s said something honest about that night—about Grace. I feel bad for being angry at him. But he goes into his room, shuts the door, and locks it. He doesn’t
answer when I knock. It doesn’t matter that I’m there jiggling the handle, calling his name for I don’t know how long. He never answers.