Chapter Eleven
Imagine the chaos a normal family must experience in the morning after one of its members attempts suicide. The phone calls to therapists, the tears, the apologies, the constant hovering and smothering and chaotic mess of everyone thinking, “How did this happen?” and “How did we not see the signs?”
I stare at Sagan’s bedroom ceiling, painfully aware that everyone in the house other than Sagan left a few minutes ago. Or else, I’m assuming because I heard the door slam several times and no one bothered to check on me. I wonder what that must be like—to live in a normal family. A family where people actually give a shit. Not a family like ours, where everyone goes on with their day like I didn’t just try to kill myself a few hours ago. A family like ours, where my father still wakes up and goes straight to work. A family where my mother still refuses to leave the basement. My twin sister leaves for school. My step-uncle leaves for his new job. And no one who shares any sort of blood relation to me sticks around to make sure I’m okay.
I get it. They’re all pissed at me. I said some really hateful things in that letter and by this point, everyone has read it more than once, I’m sure. But the fact that Sagan is the only one here right now proves that nothing I said in that letter got through to them. Everyone is still blaming me.
I sit up in the bed as soon as Sagan’s bedroom doorknob begins to turn with a knock. I’m disappointed—yet somehow relieved—to see my father peek his head in. “You awake?”
I nod and pull my knees up, hugging them. He closes the door behind him and walks over to the bed, taking an unsure seat on it.
“I, um . . .” He squeezes his jaw like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You want to know if I’m okay? If I’m still suicidal?”
“Are you?”
“No, Dad,” I say, frustrated. “I’m a girl who found out her parents were having an affair, so I took my anger out on a few illegal substances. It doesn’t make me suicidal, it makes me a teenager.”
My father sighs heavily, turning to face me full-on. “Either way, I think it’s a good idea for you to see Dr. Criss. I made you an appointment for next Monday.”
Oh my God.
“Are you kidding me? Out of all the people in this family, you’re forcing me to go see a psychiatrist?” I fall back against the headboard in defeat. “What about your ex-wife who hasn’t seen the sun in two years? Or your daughter who’s one heartbeat away from being a necrophiliac! Or your son who thinks it’s okay to molest his sister!”
“Merit, stop!” he says, frustrated. He stands up and paces the floor before coming to a pause. “I’m doing the best I can, okay? I’m not the perfect father. I know that. If I were, you would have never gotten to a point where you would rather be dead than live with me.” He turns for the door, but then he pauses and faces me again. He hesitates a moment and then lifts his eyes to mine. His expression is full of disappointment, and his voice is much quieter when he says, “I’m doing the best I can, Merit.”
He shuts the door and I fall back onto the bed. “Yeah, well. Try harder, Dad.”
I wait for the sound of the front door closing before going across the hall to my bedroom. I change, brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then make my grand entrance to Quarter One. No one is there to greet me or tell me how happy they are that they were only placebo pills.
I walk to the kitchen and take a seat at the table. I stare at the marquee outside. It’s the first morning it hasn’t been updated since we moved in all those years ago. The same message Utah put up yesterday is still there.
IF THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE EARTH WERE COMPRESSED INTO A SINGLE CALENDAR YEAR, HUMANS WOULDN’T EVEN APPEAR UNTIL DECEMBER 31ST AT 11:00 P.M.
I have to read it a few times for it to actually sink in. Are humans really that insignificant? We’ve only existed for one hour out of an entire year?
Sagan walks into the kitchen from the backyard. He’s holding a water pitcher. “Morning,” he says, his voice cautious. I stare at him a moment and then look back out at the marquee.
“Do you think that’s true?”
“Do I think what’s true?” he asks. He walks over to the table and takes a seat with his sketch pad.
I nudge my head to the window. “What Utah put on the marquee yesterday.”
Sagan looks out the window and stares at the marquee in thought. “I’m probably not the right person to ask. I believed in Santa until I was thirteen.”
I laugh, but it’s a pathetic, forced laugh. And then I’m frowning because laughter is only a fleeting cure for melancholy, which seems to be my constant state of mind here lately.
Sagan puts down his pencil and leans back in his chair. He stares at me thoughtfully. “What do you think happens when we die?”
I glance back at the marquee. “I have no idea. But if that marquee is true and humans really are that insignificant to the earth’s history, it makes me question why a God would go through all the trouble to revolve an entire universe around us.”
Sagan picks up his pencil and puts the end of it in his mouth. He chews on it for a moment before saying, “Humans are romantic creatures. It’s reassuring to believe this all-knowing being who has the power to create anything and everything still loves the human race more than any of it.”
“You call that romantic? I call it narcissistic and ethnocentric.”
He smiles. “Depends on the perspective you look at it from, I guess.”
He resumes sketching like he’s done with the conversation. But I’m stuck on that word. Perspective. It makes me wonder if I look at things from only one point of view. I tend to think a lot of people are wrong a lot of the time.
“Do you think I only see things from one perspective?”
He doesn’t look up at me when he says, “I think you know less about people than you think you do.”
I can feel myself instantly wanting to disagree with him. But I don’t, because my head hurts and I might be a little hungover from last night. I also don’t want to argue with him because he’s the only one still speaking to me at this point. I don’t want to ruin that. Not to mention that he seems wise beyond his years and I’m not about to compete with him intellectually. Even though I have no idea how old he actually is.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” he says.
“Have you always lived in Texas?”
“I’ve spent the past few years with my grandmother, here in Texas. She died a year and a half ago.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say anything in response. “Where are your parents now?”
Sagan leans back in his chair and looks at me. He taps his pencil against his notebook and then drops it on the table. “Come on,” he says, scooting his chair back. “I need out of this house.”
He looks at me expectantly, so I stand up and follow him to the front door. I don’t know where we’re going, but I have a feeling it’s not this house he wants to get away from. It’s the questions.
An hour later, we’re standing in the antiques store, staring at the trophy I couldn’t afford to buy a few weeks ago.
“No, Sagan.”
“Yes.” He pulls the trophy from the shelf and I try to take it out of his hands.
“You aren’t paying eighty-five dollars for this just because you feel sorry for me!” I stalk after him like a tantrum-ridden toddler.
“I’m not buying it because I feel sorry for you.” He sets the trophy on the register and pulls out his wallet. I try to grab the trophy but he moves so that he’s standing in my way.
I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want it if you buy it. I only want it when I can afford to buy it myself.”
He grins like I’m amusing him. “Well then, you can pay me back someday.”
“It’s not the same.”
He hands the guy behind the register a hundred-dollar bill. “You need a sack?” the guy says.
Sagan says, “No, thanks,” and picks up the trophy and heads to the exit. Once we’re outside he turns around and hides the trophy behind his back like I didn’t just watch him buy it for me. “I have a surprise for you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
He laughs and hands me the trophy. I take it and then mutter, “Thank you.” I really am excited to have it, but I hate that he paid this much money for it. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not used to getting gifts.
“You’re welcome,” he says. He throws his arm over my shoulders and says, “You hungry?”
I shrug. “I don’t really feel like eating. But I’ll sit with you if you’re hungry.”
He pulls me into a sandwich shop a few doors down from the antiques store. We walk to the register and he says, “I’ll take the lunch special. And two sugar cookies, please.” He looks at me. “What do you want to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
“Two waters,” he says to the woman behind the register. He asks for them to go and then we take them across the street and sit at one of the tables next to the water fountain where we first kissed. It makes me wonder if he brought me here on purpose. I doubt he did.
The same question has crossed my mind many times, though. If he doesn’t see Honor as more than a friend, why did he kiss me at this fountain when he thought I was Honor? Because he definitely thought I was Honor. Not even the best actor in the world could have faked the confusion and shock when she called him on his cell phone.
I don’t ask him about it, though. Our conversation hasn’t veered in that direction and I’m not sure I can handle his answer right now. I’m too exhausted from the last twenty-four hours to add more heaviness to our conversation.
“Have you ever had one of their sugar cookies?” Sagan asks.
“Nope.” I take a sip of my water.
“It’ll change your life.” He hands me the cookie and I take a bite. And then another. It really is the best cookie I’ve ever eaten, but he exaggerated.
“When is the life change supposed to happen, exactly? Do I have to eat the whole cookie to get the results?”
Sagan narrows his eyes at me. “Smartass,” he says playfully.
I finish the cookie and watch as he takes a bite of his sandwich. My eyes are drawn to a new tattoo on his arm. It looks like GPS coordinates. I point to it. “Is that one new?”
He looks at his arm and nods. “Yeah, I did it last week.”
“What do you mean you did it?”
“I do my own tattoos.”
I tilt my head and inspect a couple more of his tattoos. “You did all of these?” I suddenly find them much more fascinating than I did prior to this knowledge. I want to know the meaning of all of them. Like why he has a tiny toaster on his wrist with one slice of bread. Or what “Your turn, Doctor” means. Or what the flag stands for. I point to the toaster. “What’s this one mean?”
He shrugs. “It’s just a toaster. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to the flag.
“It’s the Syrian Opposition flag.”
“What does that mean?”
He runs his thumb over the flag tattoo. “My father is from Syria. I guess I did it as a tribute to our heritage.”
“Is your father still alive?”
That question changes something in him. He shrugs and takes a drink, looking off to the right. It’s like a wall raises behind his eyelids when he doesn’t want to elaborate. Which is pretty much all the time. I respect his need for privacy about his family and I grab his arm and turn it over to look at the rest of the tattoos. “So some of them have meaning and some are just random?”
“Some of them are random. Most of them have meaning.”
I run my finger over the GPS coordinates. “This one has meaning. Is it where you were born?”
He grins and lifts his eyes, meeting mine. “Close to it.” The way he looks at me when he says that makes me too flustered to ask another question. I continue to inspect every tattoo on his arm, but I do it quietly. I even lift his shirt sleeve so I can look at the ones on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind as long as I’m not asking invading questions about why he got each of them. “Are you right-handed? Is that why they’re only on your left arm?”
“Yeah. I’d rather practice on myself than someone else.”
“You can practice on me.”
“When you turn eighteen.”
I shove him in the shoulder. “Come on. That’s seven months away!”
“Tattoos are permanent. You need to give it more thought.”
“Says the guy with a toaster on his arm.”
He arches an eyebrow and it makes me laugh.
I immediately recognize how weird it feels to laugh after last night. I almost feel guilty—like it’s too soon. But I like that he forced me out of the house today. I feel a lot better than I would if I were holed up in my room all day and night like I’d planned to be.
He shakes his head. “I’m not giving you a tattoo. I’m only an apprentice right now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“On the days I don’t have school or work, I sometimes go to the local tattoo shop. They’re letting me learn the ropes.”
“Do you go to college in Commerce?”
He nods. “Yeah, three days a week. I work the days I’m not in school, and then I try to fit in the tattoo shop one or two nights a week.”
“Do you want to do tattoos as a career?”
He shrugs. “Nah. I have other plans for my future, but I enjoy it as a hobby.”
“What’s your major?”
“Double majoring in political science and Arabic.”
“Whoa. That sounds serious.”
He nods, tight-lipped. “Well, there are some serious things going on in the world right now. I kind of want to be a part of that.” The wall goes up again. It’s invisible, but somehow I see it every time.
I have so many questions. Like, Why is he majoring in Arabic? And political science? Does he want to work for the government? What serious things going on in the world does he want to be a part of? That’s the last thing I’d want to be a part of. This just proves how different he is from me. He’s already working toward his future, which sounds quite serious, and I still don’t even know if I’m going to return to high school next week.
I feel like such a . . . child.
Sagan finishes his cookie and then picks up my trophy and inspects it. “Why do you collect these?”
I shrug. “I don’t have any talents. Since I can’t win them on my own, I just collect other people’s awards when I have a shitty day.”
He runs his thumb over the small plaque on the front of the trophy. “Seventh place is hardly an award.”
I take the trophy from him and admire it. “I didn’t want this one for the title. I only wanted it because it was ridiculously expensive.”
Sagan smiles and grabs my free hand, pulling me up. “Come on. Let’s go to the bookstore.”
“There’s a bookstore here?”
He shoots me a crooked grin. “You know very little about the town you live in.”
“Technically, I don’t live in this town. I live fifteen miles from here.”
“You live in this county. It’s all the same.”
We walk down Main Street until we get to a small bookstore. When we walk inside, we’re greeted by a woman standing at a register, but she’s the only one in the store. It’s quiet, other than a soothing Lumineers song playing in the background. I’m shocked at how modern it looks on the inside. It didn’t have this much promise from the outside. The walls are purple, which is my favorite color. There are several bookshelves lining the wall full of books. The rest of the bookshelves are full of candles and merchandise.
“There aren’t that many books here,” I say, taking in the small space and the limited number of shelves.
“It’s a specialty bookstore. For charity. They only sell books signed and donated by the authors.”
I pick up one of the books from the shelf and open it to see if he’s telling the truth. Sure enough, it’s signed. “That’s kind of cool.”
He chuckles, but he continues to walk and browse the shelves like he might find something he likes. I pick up a few of the titles and inspect them but already know I won’t be getting one. I don’t have any money and I’m not about to let him buy me something else. We browse quietly until we get to a row toward the back of the store. Sagan stands in front of the books, fingering them, plucking a few out to read the backs of them. I just watch him. After a moment, his phone rings and of course he acts as though the whole world has to stop. He fishes the phone out of his pocket and looks at the caller ID. He sighs, disappointed, but answers the call anyway.
“Hey.”
He grips the back of his neck while the person on the other end talks. He glances at me briefly and then looks away when he says, “Yeah, yeah. Everything is fine.”
Everything is fine.
I’m curious who he’s talking to and if he’s referring to me and my situation when he says everything is fine.
He motions to the door to let me know he’s going to take the call outside. I nod and watch as he slips out the door to the bookstore. I walk over to a couch by the window and take a seat as I watch him on the phone.
“Can I help you find anything?” The woman behind the register is staring at me. It’s a little unnerving. She looks to be in her late thirties and her frizzy hair is piled into a knot on top of her head. She’s sitting behind a laptop, looking across the room at me, waiting on me to answer her.
“I’m good.”
She nods, but then she says, “Are you okay?”
I nod again, a little annoyed that this woman is asking me if I’m okay. That seems a little intrusive. I glance out the window again and Sagan is pacing back and forth, doing very little talking. He’s mostly listening to whoever is on the other end. He squeezes his forehead at one point, which makes me sad for him. He seems stressed and I can’t help but feel a little guilty about that.
“Is he your boyfriend?” the woman asks as she makes her way over to me. I try to keep my eyes from rolling, but I’m pretty sure it’s obvious that I’m not in the mood to make small talk.
“No.”
“Brother?” she asks, taking a seat on the couch across from me.
“No.”
She gets comfortable and looks out the window at him. “He’s cute. How do you know him?”
If I stare hard enough, I wonder if Sagan will look inside and see how desperate I am for him to come save me. Until that happens, though, I have no choice but to answer this woman’s questions. I try and answer them all at once so it’ll leave her no room to ask me more.
“He’s a family friend.” I point down Main Street toward the courthouse. “He kissed me for the first time over there. But he mistook me for my twin, which is the only reason he kissed me, so it was an accidental kiss. I’ve tried avoiding him for the past few weeks because I thought he was dating my sister. But last night I dressed up as her and kissed him again, only to find out he’s not even dating my sister. We got into an argument and he left, so I went to my step-uncle’s room and he was having sex with my brother. So I got drunk, swallowed a bunch of pills and almost killed myself. Sagan,” I point outside at him. “That’s his name. Sagan thought a sugar cookie and a bookstore would make me feel better, so that’s why we’re here.”
The woman’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t look shocked. Just a little overwhelmed by the info dump. She eventually leans forward and says, “Well, he sounds like a keeper. There really isn’t anything better than sugar cookies and bookstores.” She stands up. “You thirsty? I have soda in the fridge.”
Anything to get her away for a minute. “Sure.”
She walks toward the back of the bookstore, just as Sagan ends his call and walks inside. He glances around the bookstore before spotting me on the couch. I stand up when he makes his way over. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I nod. “Was it my Dad? He checking up on me?”
Sagan doesn’t answer me. Instead, he just slides his phone in his pocket and says, “You want to go home?”
Home.
I laugh halfheartedly. I’m not even sure home is a word that can be used to describe where I live. It’s just a house filled with people who are counting down the days until they don’t have to live with each other anymore.
I try to say, “Okay,” but I have to choke it out because it’s so quiet and there are tears mixed in with the word. Sagan doesn’t even ask me why I’m suddenly emotional. He just wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him.
I press my face against his chest and hug him back because it feels good and as strong as I’m pretending to be today, I’m still sad. I’m full of regret for writing that letter last night and sad that it caused so much drama and even sadder that it’s all the truth. I don’t want to be mad at Utah. I don’t want to be annoyed with Honor. I don’t want my father to be cheating on Victoria—even if it is with my mother. And I don’t want Honor to be obsessing over unhealthy relationships anymore. I want us all to be normal. It can’t be that hard.
“Why can’t we be a normal family?” My voice is muffled against Sagan’s chest.
“I don’t think such a thing exists, Merit,” he says, pulling back to look down at me. “Let’s go. I can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re exhausted.”
I nod and he wraps an arm around me. We turn to head toward the door, but we both stop suddenly because the lady from the bookstore is standing in our way, uncomfortably close, holding up a soda. “Don’t forget your Diet Pepsi,” she says.
Sagan takes a step back and hesitantly reaches out for the can of soda. “Um. Thanks?”
The woman nods and then steps aside to let us pass. Right before we walk out, she says, “Don’t even think about stealing one of my gnomes! Teenagers are always stealing the gnomes!”
I glance back at her and give her a reassuring wave. When we get outside, Sagan laughs. “That was odd.”
I don’t disagree.
But I like odd, so I’ll probably come back.