Chapter Twelve
Utah: Are you home?
Utah: Mer, I really want to talk to you.
I stare at his texts with disdain. He hasn’t called me Mer since we were kids. I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket. I pick up my fork and take another bite of enchiladas.
Sagan and I got back right before everyone started to return from school and work. I stayed in my room until dinner was ready. When I came out, no one spoke to me other than my father and Sagan. My father asked how I was feeling. I said fine. Sagan asked me what I wanted to drink. I said fine. I didn’t even catch it until I saw him smile and hand me a glass of soda.
Now we’ve been sitting in complete silence and we’re halfway through dinner. The tension is so thick, I’m not sure I’d be able to speak through it even if I tried. Honor is the first to attempt it. She receives a text shortly after the two texts from Utah that went ignored by me.
“Utah wants to talk to you, Dad,” she says, looking down at her phone. “Can he come by tonight?”
My father is patient with his answer. He finishes the bite he just took. He swallows. He takes a sip of his drink and places the glass back down on the table. Then he says, “Not tonight.”
Honor glares at him. “Dad.”
“I said not tonight. I’ll reach out to him when I’m ready to discuss it with him.”
Honor laughs halfheartedly. “You? Discuss something important? He’ll be waiting his whole life for that.”
“Honor.” Victoria says Honor’s name like it’s a warning.
Honor doesn’t like that. She looks like she’s about to explode when my father senses it, too. He cuts her off before she has a chance to respond.
“Enough, Honor.”
Honor stands up with so much force, her chair falls over behind her. She leaves her plate on the table and marches off to her room. Victoria sighs and pushes back from the table with less anger than she usually does when she gets fed up. “I’m not feeling well,” she says. She lays her napkin next to her plate and walks to her room. My father follows her.
I have no idea what has transpired between the two of them since I spilled everything in the letter. But Victoria doesn’t seem very happy.
I look over at Moby just as he covers his mouth with his hand and leans in to me. “Can I go watch TV? I don’t like my food.”
I smile. “Sure, buddy.” He slides off his chair and runs into the living room. It’s just me, Luck and Sagan at the table now.
“I’m not sure this family has finished an entire meal since I got here,” Luck says.
I don’t laugh. It’s kind of sad that we can’t even get along long enough to finish a plate of food. Luck starts poking at the food on his plate. He eventually lays down his fork with a heavy sigh and looks up at me.
“Have you spoken to Utah at all?” Luck asks. “What if he wants to apologize?”
“He’s had several years to apologize. The only reason he’s willing to do it now is because it’s out in the open. Doesn’t feel very genuine at this point.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Luck takes a few more bites of food. I just scoot the food around on my plate. I don’t have an appetite anymore, now that everyone seems to be upset with me over something Utah did. I know it was a long time ago and I know they hate finding out something terrible about Utah. But where is my sympathy? Am I that unlikable that they have absolutely no compassion for how much I was affected by that incident?
Sagan has started cleaning off the table and Luck finally walks to his bedroom.
“You finished?” Sagan asks. I nod, and he walks my plate to the sink and then returns to the table.
I slide my finger down the condensation on my glass. “Do you think I’m overreacting?”
He stares at me a moment and then finally gives me a small shake of his head. “Your anger is valid, Merit.”
I want his words to make me feel better, but they don’t. I don’t want to be angry at Utah. I don’t want everyone else to be angry at me. I just wish we could be content. “I hate this family sometimes,” I whisper. “So much.”
Sagan pulls his sketch pad in front of him. “Not an unprecedented feeling for a teenager.” He slides the tip of his pencil down his page and I watch him sketch. It’s relaxing. The sound the pencil makes against the paper. The way his whole arm moves with his hand. The intense concentration on his face.
“Will you draw me?”
Sagan lifts his eyes to mine and nods. “Sure.”
A few minutes later we’re in his bedroom. I notice he leaves the door propped open and I’m curious if he does that out of respect for Honor or fear of my father. He walks to his dresser and opens a box of charcoal pencils. “How do you want me to draw you? Realistically?”
I look down at what I’m wearing. Jeans and a T-shirt. It’s all I ever wear. “Can I change?”
Sagan nods and I walk across the hallway to my closet. I thumb through my clothes until I get to the far right side of my closet and pull out the ridiculous bridesmaid dress I had to wear to my cousin’s wedding last year. It’s a taffeta gown in a bright yellow. The top of it is a strapless bustier and then it flares out at the waist and stops right before the knee. It’s hideous, so of course I put it on. I slip on a pair of combat boots and pull my hair up into a high bun. When I walk back into Sagan’s room, he laughs.
“Nice.”
I curtsy. “Glad you like it.” I walk over to an empty spot on the floor and sit cross-legged. “Draw me like this, but not on the floor. I want to be floating on a cloud.”
Sagan takes a seat on his bed and flips to a blank page in his sketchbook. He looks at me and then the page. He does this three or four times, never pressing his pencil to the paper. I don’t know what to do with my hands so I just rest them in my lap. He repositions himself on the bed twice, but nothing seems to help. Every time he begins to draw, he gets frustrated and crumples the paper.
At least ten minutes pass without either of us saying a word. I like watching his creative process, even though it doesn’t seem to be going his way at the moment. He eventually leans back against his headboard and tosses his sketch pad to the side.
“I can’t draw you.”
I push out my bottom lip. “Why?”
His eyes remain locked with mine when he says, “I’m not that good of an artist. I don’t think I could do you justice.”
I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I try not to take that in the way that I’m hoping he meant it. He might have just said that because he’s self-deprecating. I sigh and then push myself off the floor. “Maybe another time.” I walk over to his bed and fall backward onto it. My dress makes a lot of noise when I hit his mattress.
“You look like Big Bird.”
I laugh and lift up on my elbow. “You should have seen the bridesmaid lineup at this wedding. We were all wearing a different primary color.”
Sagan laughs. “No way.”
“She’s a preschool teacher. I don’t know if she meant for that to be her theme or not, but it was a very bright wedding.”
Sagan’s gaze scrolls over my dress and then his eyes eventually meet mine. There’s a lot of thought in his expression when he says, “You feel like going for a walk?”
I nod and stand up. “Let me go change out of this ridiculous dress first.”
He smiles and says, “I dare you not to.”
We don’t even make it to the end of the driveway before my dress is already annoying both of us. Every time I take a step, it sounds like we’re about to be whisked away by a tidal wave.
“Any way you can make it stop?” he says, laughing.
“Nope. It’s the loudest dress ever invented.”
“In more ways than one,” he says with a laugh. “How about we just go sit on the swing?” He slides his hands into his back pockets and then walks across the yard to the outdoor swing my father set up for Victoria. She wanted a place under a shade tree where she could read, so he bought her an oversized swing that could double as an outdoor bed. But I’ve only seen her use it twice. She works a lot and Moby doesn’t really give her time to read. I’ve probably used it more than she has.
Sagan knocks a few of the throw pillows to the ground to make room for us. He pats the spot next to him. The skirt of my bridesmaid dress makes it difficult to sit down and by the time I find a way to sit down without it smothering either of us, we’re both laughing.
“You could just take it off,” he suggests.
I shove him in the arm, but he takes advantage and grabs my hand, pulling me against him. Not in a sensual way, but in a comforting way. His arm wraps around me and I scoot into him and stare out over the front yard. Our white picket fence runs down both sides of the front yard until it reaches the road.
“Was that yours?” Sagan asks, pointing up at a tree house.
“No, my father built it for Moby. Honor and I used to have a tree house, but it’s in a tree at our old house in the back. Pretty sure it rotted.”
“I like that it’s purple,” Sagan says. “Is that Moby’s favorite color?”
“No, it’s mine. Moby picked it because he wanted me to love it so I would go up there and play in it with him.”
“Do you?”
I nod. “Sometimes. Not as much as I probably should, though.”
Sagan sighs, and it makes me feel bad, remembering he told me he has a little sister he’s never met. He pulls one of his legs up onto the swing. His left arm is resting in his lap, so I touch one of his tattoos and begin to trace it. He really is talented. Each tattoo is so small but the detail is incredible.
“You’re really talented.”
Sagan squeezes my shoulder and presses his lips into my hair. It’s the sweetest thank you anyone has ever said to me. And he didn’t even use words.
I look at him but he’s staring out over the front yard. His forehead is wrinkled with worry. Eventually, he glances down at me and in a quiet voice, he asks, “Merit? Do you think you might be depressed?”
I sigh, frustrated by his question. “I’m fine. I just had a bad night and made a stupid mistake.”
“Will you promise to talk to me first if you ever feel like making a stupid mistake again?”
I nod, but it’s as much of a promise as I can give him.
Sagan turns toward me on the swing, but he doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Do you think maybe . . .” He seems nervous about this question. “Was it something I did?”
I sit up straight. “You think I tried to kill myself because of you?”
“No. No, I’m not saying that. At least I hope that’s not what I’m saying.” He runs a hand down his face. “I don’t know, Merit. I called you an asshole and then the next thing I know I’m forcing you to puke up pills you swallowed. I can’t help but feel like I had a hand in whatever was happening. Like maybe I was the catalyst.”
I shake my head. “Sagan, it wasn’t you. I swear. It was my stupidity and my family and everything just sort of snowballed.” I close my eyes and slump my shoulders. “To be honest, I don’t really feel like talking about it.”
He lifts a hand to my cheek and brushes his thumb across my chin. “Okay,” he whispers. “We won’t talk about it right now.” He pulls me against him again and I appreciate the silence he gives me. At least fifteen minutes pass as we both stare quietly ahead. There’s a full moon tonight and it’s casting a glow over the yard. Even the white picket fence is glimmering.
“So many people dream of living in a house with a white picket fence. Little do they know, there’s no such thing as a perfect family, no matter how white the picket fence is.”
He laughs. “Let’s make a pact. Whenever we get our own houses someday, our picket fences won’t be white.”
“Hell no, they won’t be white. I’d paint mine purple.”
“Just like the tree house,” he says. There’s a moment’s pause and then, “Do you have any leftover purple paint?”
I glance up at the tree house and then look back at Sagan. “I think so. In the garage.”
Neither of us moves for a moment, but then it’s like someone shoots us out of the swing at the same time. We’re both laughing and running toward the garage in search of purple paint.
Luckily, we find two cans. Enough to do the front yard fence, at least. We spend the next two hours painting. We talk about everything but the most important stuff. Sagan tells me about the apprenticeship he’s been doing over at Highwaymen Ink. I tell him stories from our childhood—back when our family was less screwed up. We talk about ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends and favorite movies. By the time the entire right side of the fence is painted, it’s after midnight and my yellow taffeta dress is covered in purple paint splatters. “I don’t think I can ever wear this again,” I say, looking down at it.
“Damn shame,” Sagan says.
I look at the left side of the fence—the one that hasn’t been painted purple yet. “Are we gonna do that side, too?”
Sagan nods but motions for me to come sit down. “Yeah, but let’s take a break first.”
I sit down next to him and it’s becoming so natural for him to just pull me to him when we’re close. It makes me wonder if he’s ever going to try to kiss me again. I know our last two kisses haven’t been great so I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to try it again.
Maybe he hasn’t kissed me because of Honor. That’s a subject I haven’t been able to bring up to him yet, but I’m so tired at this point, I don’t really have a filter.
I blow a raspberry with my lips and then sit up and face him, sitting cross-legged on the swing. “I need to ask you a question.” My dress poofs up around me as I try to get comfortable, so I have to flatten it down with my arms. I have so many things on my mind, really, so I pluck one out that’s front and center. I force myself to ask him the one thing I haven’t stopped wondering. “Do you . . . are you attracted to Honor?”
He doesn’t even react to that question. He immediately shakes his head and says, “I think she’s beautiful, obviously. You both are. But I’m not attracted to her.”
I can feel my shoulders wanting to slump forward. I can feel my forehead wanting to meet my hand. Instead, I try to keep my composure like he always does. “If you aren’t attracted to her, then that means . . .” I can’t even say it out loud. “We’re identical twins, so . . .”
He laughs silently again. I wish I could figure out rhyme or reason to what causes him to do that. If I figured out the trick to his quiet laugh, I’d do it all day every day.
“You’re wondering if it’s possible for someone to be attracted to you and not to your identical twin.” He says it with such little effort.
I shrug. Then I nod.
“Yes. It’s possible.”
I try not to smile because that answer didn’t mean he was attracted to me. But a girl can hope. “Why did you and Honor never take things beyond a friendship?”
“She’s seeing my friend,” he says. “I’d never do that to him. Besides, when I met her, sure, I thought she was beautiful. But after spending a couple of days with her, it just . . . I don’t know. There was never a romantic connection. She didn’t like my art. She didn’t like my taste in music. She was constantly on the phone gossiping about people and that annoyed me. But there were other things that drew me to her in a different way. She’s loyal and fun and I like hanging out with her.”
I absorb everything he just said without responding. I want to believe it, but it’s hard when I had the wrong impression of them for so long. “What about that day on the square? If you aren’t attracted to her, why did you kiss me when you thought I was her?”
Sagan’s expression grows serious. He releases a heavy breath and leans back against the swing, looking out over the yard. He pulls my leg across his lap and leaves his hand lingering on my knee. “It’s complicated,” he says. He runs his hand down his face and struggles with his words for a moment. “I saw Honor . . . you . . . browsing the antiques store that day. I watched her for a while. I was curious, because she was so different that day. Dressed down in a pair of jeans with a flannel shirt tied around her waist. She wasn’t wearing makeup, which completely threw me off because Honor always wears makeup. And I knew Honor had a sister but I didn’t know she had an identical twin sister, so the thought that Honor might have been you never even crossed my mind. I don’t know . . . it’s hard to explain because you’re identical. But I was drawn to her that day in a way I had never been drawn to her before. I felt things I had never felt before when I was around her.
“I liked how she looked at everything with the curiosity of a child. I liked that she never once pulled her phone out. Honor is always on her phone and sometimes I just want her to put it away and enjoy the world around her. And I really liked it when she took the blame for that little boy when he broke that antique. And then when I walked up to her outside and looked at her up close, it was like I was seeing her for the first time. And even though I had never kissed her before and I felt guilty as hell for kissing her, knowing my friend liked her, I couldn’t not kiss her that day. Something came over me in that moment and I couldn’t stop myself.”
His eyes meet mine. “But . . . then she called and I finally put two and two together . . . and it made sense why I felt like I’d die if I didn’t kiss her, when I’d never once felt like that before. I wasn’t attracted to Honor. I was attracted to you.”
My heart couldn’t beat any faster if I drank a 5-hour ENERGY and chased it with a Red Bull. Everything he just said is everything I’ve been wishing were the truth. I’ve fantasized that he saw something different in me that he didn’t see in Honor, and now that I’m hearing his version of it, I half expect to wake up from a cruel dream. I wish I could go back to that day and engrain every moment into my memory. Especially the moment he bent down to kiss me and said, “You bury me.” I didn’t know what it meant then and I still don’t, but I hear those three words every time I close my eyes.
“Why did you say you bury me right before you kissed me? Is that something you say to Honor?”
Sagan looks down at his hand—the one that’s caressing my knee—and he smiles. “No. It’s the meaning of the Arabic word tuqburni.”
“Tuqburni? What’s the English word for it?”
He leans his head against the back of the swing and tilts it a little so that he’s looking at me. “Not every word can be translated into every language. There isn’t an English equivalent for the word.”
“You bury me sounds a little morbid.”
Sagan smiles. I can see a hint of embarrassment in his expression. “Tuqburni is used to describe the all-encompassing feeling of not being able to live without someone. Which is why the literal translation is, ‘You bury me.’ ”
I take in what he just said and the fact that he said those words to me right before he kissed me that day. I love that he said that, but I hate that he didn’t know he was saying it to me. At the time, he thought he was saying those words to Honor. And even though he admits he was attracted to her that day because it was actually me, it doesn’t explain why he didn’t just explain that to me right after it happened. It’s been more than two weeks now.
I clear my throat and swallow my nerves until I can find the courage to ask him about it. “If you and Honor aren’t a thing, and if you’re attracted to me like you just said, why didn’t you act on it? It happened weeks ago.”
Hesitation marks his expression as he searches for an answer. He releases a quiet sigh and then strokes his thumb across my knee. “Do you want the honest truth?” He brings his eyes to mine and I nod. He folds his lips together for a moment and then says, “The more I got to know you . . . the less I liked you.”
It takes a moment for his response to fully register. “You don’t like me?”
He lets his head fall back against the swing with a regretful sigh. “I like you today.”
I let out a halfhearted laugh. “Oh, well that’s reassuring. You like me today, but you didn’t like me yesterday?”
He looks at me pointedly. “I especially didn’t like you yesterday.”
I can’t tell if I should be mad. I stare at him a little in shock. I feel like I should be mad, but at the same time, I get it. I didn’t like me yesterday, either. And I really haven’t been myself around him since he started showing up at the house. I’m closed off and rude and I’ve barely spoken to him up until the past twenty-four hours.
“I have no idea what to say to that, Sagan.” I look down at my skirt and start picking at a splatter of dried purple paint. “I mean, I know I’ve been rude to you, but it was self-preservation. I thought you were my sister’s boyfriend and I didn’t like how I felt about you. You were the first thing of hers I wanted for myself.”
Sagan doesn’t respond right away. I continue to pick dried paint off my skirt because I’m feeling way too many things to make eye contact with him right now.
“Merit.” He says my name like it’s a plea for me to look at him. I eventually do and I immediately regret it because everything I see in his expression right now is everything I didn’t want to see. Regret. Fear. A preview to rejection.
“Let me guess,” I whisper. “You still don’t like me enough to kiss me?”
He lifts a hand and touches my cheek. He shakes his head softly and says, “I like you enough to kiss you. Believe me. But I just wish you could like yourself as much as I like you.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. Does he think I don’t like myself because of what I did last night? “I already told you last night was a drunken mistake. I like myself just fine.”
“Do you?”
I roll my eyes. Of course I do. I think. “So I have moments of unhappiness. What teenager doesn’t? Everyone sometimes wishes they were someone else. Someone better. With a better family.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never wished that.”
I peg him with my stare, silently calling him on his bullshit. “You said yourself you’ve never even met your little sister. If you tell me you don’t wish you had a different family, I won’t believe you. Just like you don’t believe me that last night meant nothing.”
Sagan holds my stare, long enough for me to notice the slow roll of his throat. He releases me, then stands up. He slips his hands in his pockets as he looks down at the ground and kicks at the dirt. I have no idea what I just said that made him angry, but his temperament has changed completely.
“You keep downplaying what happened last night, and to be honest, it’s kind of insulting,” he says. “You don’t get to decide what your life means to anyone else.” He pulls his hands from his pockets and folds them over his chest. “You could have died, Merit. That’s huge. And until you recognize that, I don’t want to pursue anything with you. I think you have a lot that needs to be addressed and I don’t want to cloud that with whatever is going on here.” He motions between us with his hand. “This can wait.”
My face grows warm with the embarrassment climbing over me. “You think I’m too unstable for you to date me?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I didn’t say that. I just think you need to work on yourself first. Take your father’s suggestion and go to therapy. Make sure there’s nothing more serious going on.” He closes the gap between himself and the swing where I’m sitting. He kneels in front of me, gripping the swing to still it. “If I interfere and allow myself to start something up with you, your feelings for me might lead you to believe you’re happier than you really are.”
I can feel my fingers trembling, so I clench them into fists. I’m flabbergasted. He can word it however he wants, but he has the nerve to sit here and tell me he thinks I’m too depressed to date right now?
“Get over yourself,” I mutter. I push off the swing and he stands up to move out of my way. I walk toward the house, but when he calls my name, I start running. My stupid, loud skirt adds a serious level of ridiculousness to my anger. By the time I make it to the house, I slam the door so hard I’m afraid I might have woken Moby.
Who does Sagan think he is? He won’t pursue me because I might get “too happy” with him and that elation could mask my supposed depression? “Get over yourself,” I say again as I shut my bedroom door. Just because I’ve been unhappy lately doesn’t mean I’m depressed. I unbutton my stupid dress and let it fall to the floor. I barely have a T-shirt over my head when Sagan walks into my bedroom without knocking.
I spin and face him and he closes the door, walking toward me. Apparently he isn’t finished with this conversation like I am. “You accuse everyone else in your family of not having the courage to be honest, but the second I’m honest with you, you get mad at me and walk away?”
“I’m not mad because you were honest, Sagan! I’m mad because you arrogantly assume I’ll be so happy with you that I’ll use my feelings for you as a mask for my apparent depression!” I roll my eyes, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re giving yourself way too much credit. If you tried to kiss me at this point, I’d probably slap you.” It’s a ridiculous lie, but I’m already embarrassed by how angry I am at this whole conversation.
Not everyone likes themselves! That doesn’t mean I’m suicidal or depressed or unable to differentiate feelings for a guy with feelings for my life.
Sagan looks at me apologetically, like my frustration actually means anything to him. He slides his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor for a moment. When he looks up at me, he does it slowly. Starting at my feet, trailing up my bare legs. I can see the roll of his throat when his gaze meets the hem of my T-shirt, then crawls up my body until he’s looking me in the eye. He doesn’t even have to speak for me to know what he’s thinking. He’s looking at me like maybe I’m right—maybe a kiss wouldn’t interfere. Maybe it would bring us both relief.
I quietly inhale because that one look makes it feel like I just sank to the bottom of his heart and there isn’t a single air pocket to keep me alive. He could probably open his mouth and call me an asshole again and I’d still want to kiss the lips the insult came from. I can’t even remember what we’re arguing about because my head is swimming.
Apparently, neither can he because he stalks toward me and grabs hold of me, one arm around my waist, one splayed out against the side of my neck. I tilt my face up to his, hoping he’s about to realize how wrong he was so he can just kiss me. I want it hard and frantic and fast, but he’s painfully slow as he draws closer.
He lets out a quiet sigh and his mouth is so close to mine, I steal his sigh with a gasp. And then his lips finally connect with mine. It’s both unexpected and overdue. I moan with relief against his kiss and immediately reciprocate.
As soon as our tongues collide, it becomes so frantic, I lose my way around him. My hands get lost in his hair, my reservations get lost in his touch, my anger gets lost in his groan. His tongue strokes mine with delicacy, but his hands are making up for the patience of his mouth. His right arm slides down my back and down to my thigh where my T-shirt ends. He slides his hand up my bare thigh, over my panties and then up my back, this time skin to skin. He pulls me against him but walks me backward at the same time until my back meets the wall behind me.
“My God,” he whispers against my lips. “Your mouth is amazing.”
I think his is pretty amazing, too, but I don’t respond because I’d rather give him back my tongue. He takes it, kissing me deeper, pressing himself against me and into the wall.
This kiss is everything I thought it would be and more. I’m amazed at how healing his mouth is. As soon as he pressed it against mine, it’s like all the stress that’s been swimming around in my head disappeared. All the angst, the frustration, the anger—it subsides with every stroke of his tongue.
This is exactly what I needed.
His hand is now sliding around to my waist, but before he goes any higher, he pauses to catch his breath. I gasp when I have air again, clasping my arms around him, trying to stop the room from spinning. I let my head fall back against the wall. Sagan drags his lips across my cheek and then kisses me on the mouth, soft and gentle, before pulling back to look down at me. He runs a hand down my hair, stopping at the nape of my neck. “That was fucking dazing,” he whispers.
I merely smile because he summed it up perfectly with a phrase I’m not sure I’ve ever used. Fucking dazing.
He kisses the corner of my mouth and then brushes his nose across my cheek. He pulls back, gently taking my face in both hands. With a small smile that completely melts me, he says, “It’s incredible how much better a kiss can make you feel, right?”
I nod. “So incredible.”
His thumb brushes my cheek, and then his satisfied grin falls into a pointed stare. “That’s exactly why I won’t do it again, Merit. You need to fall in love with yourself first.” He watches me for a moment, his eyes searching mine.
I have no reaction.
I’m too shocked to move. Or too hurt?
Did he seriously only kiss me to prove his point?
What?
I’m flat against the wall, unable to move. When I say nothing in return, he releases me and calmly walks out of my room.
I’m too shocked to cry. Too angry to run after him. Too embarrassed to acknowledge that part of what he’s saying might actually have some truth in it. That kiss took away everything I’ve been feeling and replaced it with a momentary sense of euphoria. I’d give anything to have that feeling back. Which is exactly what Sagan was trying to tell me. My feelings for him will cloud all the other stuff that’s going on in my head.
Just because I finally understand what he’s trying to say doesn’t mean I’m over my anger. If anything, I’m even more pissed at him.