chapter nineteen

I drive back to Avilla alone. I listen to Christmas music on the radio, pop songs then oldies then blues then country, a soundtrack for a time of year that’s meant to be filled with love and hope and resolutions. I’ve never been dumped before, but with fifteen whole days between now and the debacle with Andi, I have some perspective. I also have a truckload of mostly unwanted advice from my friends about how to handle things. What I don’t have is any idea what, if anything, I’m going to do when I get home.

I drive through rain, sleet and snow, but the closer to Avilla I get, the more sunshine I start to see. Less forest, more desert. I swap my sweater for a T-shirt, roll down the windows and turn up the music. I still don’t have a game plan, but at least I look the part.

It’s dark when I reach town, glowing Christmas lights twined around palm trees and cacti and window frames. I take my time navigating the quiet streets. I tell myself I’m absorbing the atmosphere, but really I’m putting off the moment I climb the stairs to my old room and lie in a bed just feet away from Andi.

I turn onto our street, park in front of the house and grab my bag from the backseat. I’ve taken all of eight steps when the door bangs open and my mom bounces onto the porch, arms open.

“I missed you!” she exclaims, hugging me tightly. My brothers don’t get to come home for the holidays so I’m the recipient of all her pent up affection.

“Hi, Mom.”

My dad appears over her shoulder, a dishtowel in his hand. “Hey, Kell,” he says.

“Hi, Dad.”

My mom lets go and I hug him too, hearing my mom fuss over my hair and my weight and my luggage; basically everything in sight.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Do you want something to eat? I made lasagna.”

“That’s okay. I ate on the road.”

I follow them into the kitchen and take a seat at the island as my dad continues to dry dishes and my mom re-dries them. Their Christmas decorations are minimal now that there are no kids in the house; the tree stands in its traditional spot in the corner of the living room, lights off, a few presents scattered at its base.

“We were surprised you didn’t drive back with Andi,” my dad remarks absently. “She said she took a bus.”

“Her exams finished before mine,” I lie. I try to ignore the ache in my chest, but knowing that Andi’s not acknowledging us hurts more than I expected, even though that’s been the whole unspoken history of our convoluted relationship. I open my mouth to add to the lie, then close it. Then I open it again. “Actually, we broke up,” I hear myself announce. “And she hates me.”

My parents pause in their dish drying, eyebrows raised, dazed by the confession and all it implies. I don’t think it’s a shock for them to hear that someone might hate me, or that I had a relationship end. It’s the implication that Andi and I had anything, ever, that could end, that’s the shocker.

“Oh, Kell,” my mom says eventually. “That’s...disappointing.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

“What happened?” my dad asks.

I want to blow it off, downplay everything, but acting like things meant less to me than they did is what got me into this situation, so instead I tell the truth. I leave out the really personal details, but they get the gist of it. Andi came to Burnham. We got together. I fell for her but never really admitted it. Then, when I finally did speak up, it was to tell the whole athletics department that I didn’t love her.

Their eyebrows have now risen all the way up, disappearing into their hairlines.

“Oh,” my mom says.

“Hmm,” my dad says.

“Yeah,” I say.

After a second my dad reaches into the fridge and pulls out two beers, popping off the tops and sliding one bottle across the island.

“I guess that’s my cue,” my moms says.

I sip the beer, icy cold but only about ten percent satisfying. “You can stay.”

“Nah.” She comes over to kiss the top of my head, say goodnight, and disappear upstairs.

My dad comes to sit on the stool next to mine. “Well.”

“Well.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty awful.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I frown at him. “Andi hates me. Weren’t you listening?”

“I mean, what’s the problem with you? Why didn’t you just tell her you loved her instead of letting everything blow up like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because I’m an idiot?”

He looks thoughtful. “You’re not dumb, Kellan. You act like it sometimes, but you’re not. The problem is you’re too handsome.”

I snort into my beer. “That was my second guess.”

“It was obvious,” he continues. “When you were little. That’s why I told you not fall for anyone. I didn’t want you to get a girl pregnant and be trapped in a life that would make you miserable. That would tie you to this place and make you wonder what you were missing.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

He looks surprised. “What? No. Is that what you think happened? We planned for you kids. Well, we planned for your brothers. You were a shock. I mean, a delight.”

I roll my eyes.

“Maybe it wasn’t the life I thought I’d have,” he adds, “but it turned out to be the only life I wanted.”

This is so contrary to what I’ve always believed that I’m having trouble absorbing the words. I pick at the label on my beer and try to process things.

“Your brothers had it,” he continues. “That look. Like they were just biding their time here, counting the seconds until they could leave. And every time one left I’d watch you and see that same hope on your face, the same anticipation. And I didn’t want anything to stand in your way.”

“Well, your plan worked. I left.”

“I thought you liked it at school.”

I sigh. “I did. I do. It’s just complicated now.”

“I’ve got bad news for you, Kell. It stays complicated forever. That’s what keeps life interesting. Things are boring when they’re easy.”

I think of my first year at Burnham. Easy. Uncomplicated. Awesome. My second year, slightly more complicated, slightly less awesome. My third year. Andi. The polar opposite of easy. As for awesome...well, she has her moments. I drink more beer. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What have you tried?”

“Talking to her. Right after the banquet. She slapped me and told me to leave her alone so she could get over us. She said she’d been in love with me forever and all I’ve ever done is break her heart.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“Harsh but true.”

“Well,” he says. “It sucks to feel like you’re alone in something, especially something as messy and messed up as love.”

I think about Crosbie. He told me once that the thing that hurt most about learning about me and Nora was not that he was the last to know, but that he’d feared that the thing that frightened him most was true: he was the only one in love in their relationship. He’d been terrified that she loved me while he loved her. It wasn’t the case, of course, but it put him in a vulnerable, scary position and he hadn’t known what to do about it.

I don’t think Andi’s worried I love anybody else; she’s just afraid that I don’t love her. That I never have and I never could. But she’s wrong.

I glance out the window toward the backyard. I can’t see much beyond the dark, but there are a thousand memories swirling around out there. Fighting with Andi, playing with Andi, fighting with her some more. Stealing beer from the fridge, forcing ourselves to drink it and act like it was good. Sneaking into her room, my room, the basement—anywhere we could be alone. It’s never been easy, but it’s always been worth it.

“She’s wrong,” I say.

My dad touches his bottle to mine. “So convince her.”

“I’ll try.”

“But don’t use the words ‘you’re wrong,’” he adds. “That never ends well.”

* * *

It’s after midnight when I carry my bag up to my old bedroom. The driving, the beer and the confession have left me exhausted, but I perk up slightly when I see a light on in Andi’s room, glowing behind the closed curtains. My instinct is to crawl across the bed, shove open my window and call out to her, but my instincts haven’t served me well of late, so instead I drop my bag and go into the bathroom to take a cold shower and clear my head.

When I come back, I still want to talk to Andi. It’s been ten days but it feels like eternity. It’s hard to believe we went two years without speaking and I don’t want that again. I don’t want that for another day, and definitely not for the rest of my life. Maybe it’s selfish, but there you have it. It’s not just about what I want, but what I’m ready for.

I dig through my drawers for shorts and a T-shirt, stopping when I see my old superhero T-shirt, too big for me in first grade, and more than a little too tight now. Still I put it on, count to ten, and open my window. The warm night air wipes some of the staleness from the room and I lean out. “Andi,” I whisper loudly.

No answer.

“Andi. I know you’re in there.”

Still nothing.

“Will you talk to me, please?”

A hand appears behind the curtain, flashes me its middle finger, then yanks down the window and locks it.

I stare at the glass like it’s a set of bars, then flop back onto my mattress and stare at the ceiling instead. How many times had I found myself in just this situation growing up? And what had I done about it then? Nothing. I’d just let things fester, let them fade, then eventually we’d move past them and carry on being friends. That’s not an option anymore. Things have changed. We’ve changed. And there’s so much more at stake. Crosbie and Nora had some time apart, then they got together and talked things over and made up. But it doesn’t look like anything so mature or practical will work with Andi.

I grab a golf club from the corner of the room, crawl back onto my bed, and lean out to tap on Andi’s window. It takes a full minute of tapping before the curtain yanks back and she glares out at me. 

“Open the window!” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

“I told my parents about us!”

Her jaw drops and she pushes up the window furiously. “I hope you’re lying!”

“Totally serious. I’ll tell everyone.”

“There’s nothing to tell, you ass!”

“There’s everything. I should have said a lot of things sooner, but I didn’t. I wasn’t ready. I wish I had a better reason, but that’s the truth. I’m ready now.”

“Well, I’m not.”

There’s a fine line between being persistent and being stalker, and I’m trying to tread it carefully. “I think you are,” I tell her. “I know you’re angry and afraid and—”

She manages to look even angrier, pieces of hair falling out of her bun. “What?”

“But that doesn’t get us anywhere. Remember how my dad told me not to fall in love—”

“You really told your parents? I thought you were lying!”

“No, I really told them. I told them the truth. I lied to everyone at the banquet. I just wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

“Well, that’s ironic, because I’m the last person who wants to.”

“I know it’s taken me a long time—”

“Too long, Kellan.” She tries to close the window but I stick the golf club inside so she can’t manage that last inch. I hear her curse furiously as she tries to push it out, but I don’t let her.

“Give up!” I suggest, grunting at the effort. “Because I won’t!”

“Knock it off!” She pushes the window back up and tries to wrench out the golf club.

“No. I didn’t fight back the last time you shut me out, and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“I don’t. It was the nicest thing you ever did for me.”

“No,” I counter. “Inviting you to my fourth grade birthday at the trampoline park after you sabotaged my third grade party was the nicest thing I ever did for you. This is the second nicest.”

More hair falls loose as she continues to fumble with the club. “You have no idea what nice means! And your birthday party sucked!”

“It only sucked for you because you kept breaking the rules and got banned from the park!”

“It sucked because you were there and the rules were stupid!”

“I don’t want to fight with you like this,” I say, breathing hard. It’s ridiculously difficult to maintain a battle with a golf club between two houses.

“Then let me close the window.”

“Let’s go outside.”

She gapes at me. “What? Let’s take this outside?”

“No, you psycho. Just meet me outside. Right now. Come on.”

“No. I—”

“You don’t get to freeze me out again. You froze me out last time because you were afraid. Because if you told me I hurt your feelings I’d know you cared and I’d tell you I cared and I’d still leave and we’re both have to admit we felt sad.”

She blinks rapidly. I don’t know if she got something in her eye or she’s trying not to cry; the odds are pretty equal.

“I feel something, Andi. And I know you do too. But we get to decide what that is. It doesn’t have to be like this. Come outside.”

She shakes her head weakly. “I’m too—”

“Emotionally fragile?”

She glares at me. “No.”

“Cowardly?”

“No.”

“Then meet me outside in thirty seconds.”

Her jaw sets stubbornly. “If I do this, you’ll leave me alone for the rest of the holiday? And the rest of the school year? The rest of my life?”

The thought makes my stomach churn, but I nod. “Yes.”

She purses her lips. “Fine.” She lets go of the club and disappears from sight. I race downstairs, pull on my sneakers and reach the driveway just as Andi steps outside, quietly closing the door behind her so she doesn’t wake her mom.

She frowns as she takes in my T-shirt. “What are you wearing? Can you even breathe?”

“Come on.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away.

“We’re not going anywhere! It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“In Avilla. We’re probably the only people awake.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Not far. Just come with me.” I don’t try to take her hand again, just start down the driveway, relieved when I hear her reluctant footsteps start to follow.

We don’t speak for the next four blocks. The night is quiet and warm, the stars and moon out in full force. Christmas lights and ornaments have been shut off, leaving large, hulking figures lurking in the darkened yards. From the corner of my eye I see that Andi’s wearing shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, her bare legs gleaming in the street light. If I never get to feel them again I’m going to regret this more than I already regret everything else.

We stop in front of the elementary school. “What?” Andi mutters. “Why are we here?”

“Because.” I lead her inside, past the bike racks and the flag pole, to the playground at the side. It’s bigger and nicer than it was when we were kids, but the sandbox is still there, the seesaws, the jungle gym. “Have a seat,” I say, pointing to the swings. They’re child-sized and she has to wiggle to fit onto the wooden plank seat, but she does, her toes dragging in the sand.

I walk to the base of the slide a few feet away and sit down. The school’s emergency lights glow nearby, casting us in their pale shine.

Andi sighs. She looks tired, but she’s here. That’s a good sign. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“This is where we first met.”

She looks doubtful. “It is?”

“Yeah. You guys hadn’t moved in yet, so I’d never seen you before. Your mom brought you to the first day of school so you wouldn’t miss out. I was just here, minding my own business on the playground, when I came down the slide and there you were.”

“You were wearing that superhero shirt,” she says slowly.

I touch the collar. “Wearing the same shirt as you. My mom bought mine too big and said I’d grow into it.”

“And Felix Eisman saw us wearing the same shirt, said that meant it was for girls, and you were wearing a dress.”

“That’s right.”

“And you picked up a fistful of sand and threw it in my face, then ran away.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. My bad.”

She pushes a piece of hair behind her ear and waits for me to get to the point.

“I took off the shirt and never wore it again. When I went home shirtless, my brothers joked that girls were already tearing off my clothes, and my dad warned me not to fall in love.”

She nods slowly. “Right.”

My heart is pounding so hard I’m lucky I’m sitting down. “But he was too late.”

She stops nodding, brows tugging together as she tries to comprehend.

“I was sitting on this slide, in this shirt, when I fell in love with you. I was five years old and I didn’t understand what was happening.”

Even in the dim light I can see the tears fill her eyes.

“It took me a long time to figure out what it was,” I continue. “And way too long to decide what to do about it. I just knew that if I told you, if I said it, it would change things. I knew how you felt—there was no going back if I put it out there. And I wanted to know what else was out there. I had to see.”

She nods, the tears spilling over and running down her cheeks in smooth tracks.

I keep going, unwilling to lie, wanting whatever comes of this to be built on the truth. “You know I looked a lot. But it was pointless. I always knew, under everything, that I’d already met the only girl I’d ever feel that way about.”

“But you kept looking,” she says, wiping a tear from her chin. “You liked looking just fine.”

“I had some good times, but none of them were real. Then you showed up and things got very real.”

She exhales, her breath shuddering.

“I didn’t want to admit that I’d missed you for the past two years, but I missed you in ways I can’t even explain. Then I didn’t want to admit that I liked you, because you didn’t want to be associated with me and I didn’t want to be desperate. Then I didn’t want to admit that I wanted you, because I’d had you before and I was still trying to recover from it.”

She swipes at her eyes with her sleeve.

“I’m sorry I threw sand in your face. The shirt looked better on you.”

She laughs, the sound watery but promising.

“If I could go back and be six years old again, I’d come down this slide and ignore Felix Eisman and do everything differently. If we could go back to the summer I propositioned you I wouldn’t tell you it was just practice, because it wasn’t. And if we could go back to that baseball game, I’d kiss you on camera, so everyone could see what I didn’t have the balls to say. I love you, Andi. I always have. I always will. I don’t want to pretend for another day. Give me chance and I’ll never break your heart again.” 

She sniffles. “God, Kellan. That’s a lot of words.”

“It’s everything I should have said a long time ago. I’ll keep going if you want.”

“I don’t think I can’t take anymore right now.”

I wet my lips. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait for you.”

“How long?”

“How long will I wait? How long do you need? An hour? A day? A week? Not past New Years. That’s too long.”

That earns me a tiny smile. “I mean, how long do you think this will last? I’m afraid of the same thing you are, but for different reasons. You worried that if we got together you’d be forced to stay, but I was worried that if we got together I’d spend my life in your shadow. Living your dreams, not mine.”

I lift my hands. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t have a plan. I declared my major and my feelings for you, and that’s as far as I’ve gotten. My options are open. I want to be where you are. Probably not in Avilla, but anywhere else.”

“I don’t want to stay in Avilla, either.”

“See? We’re very compatible. As for what happens next, I hope you say yes. Give me—give us—another chance. Then ideally we sneak into your basement and fool around until you remember why no one else is as great as me. Then tomorrow I’ll buy you a Christmas present, because I forgot to do that. Then the next day, you’ll open the present, and remember again why I’m so great. Then we’ll spend the next several days in your basement and my basement and my room and your room, and we’ll just fuck our brains out.”

She covers her face with her hands.

“Sorry. We’ll...make love?”

“No, we’ll fuck our brains out. It just seems wrong to say so at a playground.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

She uncovers her face, trying not to grin.

“Don’t hide it,” I say, standing up and moving close enough to brush my thumb over her bottom lip. “Let’s not hide anything anymore. We’ll just constantly announce whatever we’re thinking.”

“I’m wondering what ever happened to Felix Eisman.”

“He went to prison on drug charges.”

“Seriously?

“No. I don’t know. But I hope so. That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

“What did you think I would say?”

“Something you’ve been dying to tell me your whole life, maybe?”

She sighs. “Fine. It was me who threw your sneakers on the power line. I’m sorry.”

“You’re killing me, Andi.”

She knots her lap, watching her fingers twist. Finally she looks up at me. “I love you, Kellan.”

I smile. It starts small and then it just grows until I’m grinning like an idiot. “Well it’s about time you said so.”

She laughs. “I’m thinking of my mom’s face when she hears about this. She’s going to know it was you who gave me a hickey that summer. She marched me off to get birth control the same day.”

I step in between her knees, nudging the swing back so she’s high enough to kiss when I duck my head. “I’m going to give you a lot more than a hickey, Andrea Walsh.”

“Yeah?” Our mouths are so close our lips touch when she speaks. “Like what?”

“You want me to tell you or show you?”

She curls her fingers in the hem of my shirt. “Show me.”

So I kiss her. Finally, permanently. I kiss her like she’s the first girl and the last girl and the only girl. Because she is. The first girl I fell for, the only girl I’ve fallen for, the last girl I’ll fall for. For all of the uncertainty in my life, the question marks about classes and jobs and the future, this is something I know for sure. I can feel it. I can do it. I can say it.

I love Andrea Walsh.