When Clay looks at me like that, I am butter, and he’s the sun. Asking a sensible question is almost beyond me. “Where are we going?”
“To walk around. Wasn’t that the point of driving over here?”
“Pretty much.”
He takes my hand, threading our fingers together, and I’m conscious of each point of contact, almost giddy with it. The Anderson Mall is probably nothing compared to what Morgan saw abroad but it’s fine by me, even if the anchor stores are Sears and JCPenney instead of Saks or Nordstrom. We window shop, joke around, and tease each other about trying on ridiculous outfits. Clay surprises me by walking into a shop that sells suits.
“Pick one out for me.”
“Seriously?”
“I need something to wear to the dances this year, right? I mean, that’s assuming you want me to take you.”
To Homecoming, the Winter Formal, and prom.
“Of course,” I say.
I’ve never selected clothes for a guy, so I’m excited as I follow him into the shop. The sales guy takes a look at us and goes back to his phone, freeing us to roam around. After five minutes of browsing, I settle on dove gray in fine fabric and offer him a white shirt and lilac tie to try on. I’m already planning my dress to match that dreamy purple.
Clay looks dubious but since he asked me to do this, he likely doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. And when he comes out, he looks better than I imagined. Even the tousled curls and scruff add to the impression of sexy elegance. I give him two thumbs up while inviting him to spin around with a twirl of my fingers.
“Are you ogling me right now?”
“A little.”
“Sweet. You sure I don’t look like a jerk in this?”
“Are you kidding? You’re completely pulling it off.”
At my words, Clay takes another long look in the mirror, then nods. “Okay. I’ll get everything and keep it nice for … October?”
“I’ll check the school calendar online when I get a chance.”
He takes everything off and changes back into his usual apparel. I can tell that the bulk of the clothing budget goes to Nathan because Nathan’s stuff always looks brand new, whereas Clay has been working the same two pairs of jeans for years, and his tees are threadbare, cotton worn until it feels like whisper-thin velvet. I like the feel of how it curves over his chest and shoulders a little too much, which is why I’m pretending to brush some lint away.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asks.
At first I nod, but then I realize I have no idea what I can eat at the mall food court. He leads me to a Japanese stall that specializes in sushi, then he looks over the menu. “Can you make this without the shrimp?”
I look over his shoulder and see that leaves rice, cucumber, and avocado, all good as far as I know. The girl nods, and then he adds, “Make sure everything’s gluten-free, okay?”
“No problem.”
“Then … two orders of that … and I’ll have a couple boxes of this.”
Smoked salmon, cream cheese, cucumber … mmm, that sounds delicious. But Morgan is lactose intolerant and she might be allergic to fish. Definitely shellfish. I need to get a list of food allergies from Morgan’s doctor ASAP. Maybe tomorrow at the appointment …
As we eat, I fight the feeling that I shouldn’t be doing this. I mean, this is a step Morgan never would’ve taken but that makes me even more determined to continue. If I don’t carve out a little space in her life, I’ll go insane trying to investigate Creepy Jack. Plus, maybe Clay can help. Morgan even said I could trust him, which means she thought he was a solid guy, even if she wasn’t into him.
I don’t want to contemplate the downside, but the doubts creep in. What if this isn’t permanent? What happens when I finish what she started? Instead of closure, could it be something else? There’s no guarantee, as every minute I live as Morgan is a moment I’m not meant to have. The phrase “borrowed time” has never resonated so much.
The logical part of me says this is ridiculous; human bodies can’t just vanish into sparks of light, so I won’t cease to be after completing her mission. Yet I can’t let go of the idea that she could come back and then I’ll really be … gone. I mean, this is her life. Her body. What if she’s just taking a break somewhere, letting me drive for a while?
“Want something else?” he asks.
I polish off my water and then reply, “I’m good.”
Afterward, we walk around for a couple more hours, just … being, as I said before, and seeing how it feels. The answer is amazing. I had no clue how smart Clay is. Not about academics, but he knows about cars, music, and surprisingly, World War II history. I’m listening to him dispel a commonly held American misconception.
“You know how they always make such a big deal about D-day?”
I nod. “What about it?”
“Well, it’s bullshit. The actual turning point of the war was the Battle of Stalingrad. Americans talk about how we waded in and saved the day, liberated the French and kept England from being bombed to rubble, but if you look at it from this perspective…” He goes into lecture mode, correcting all of the biased history I’ve been taught.
It’s kind of adorable.
“If the Soviet Union hadn’t held out as long as they did, we’d be living in a much different world. And you know what made that possible?”
“Please tell me.” I hope I don’t sound amused because it’s his enthusiasm that makes me want to smile, not disinterest in the subject.
“The T-34 tank.” Clay expands on this war machine’s merits, listing specs about the size of the ammo and sloped armor. Eventually he notices I’m not saying much. “Boring?”
“No … but what got you interested in World War II anyway?”
“Well, my dad was a fighter pilot buff. He collected memorabilia. Mom sold it after he died.” That’s the first time I’ve heard Clay sound bitter. “Then, in junior high, our history class did a unit on the Holocaust, and I was kind of … transfixed by it. What we learned was just so horrible, death camps and ovens, mass graves and genocide. I started digging into it and the more I learned, the more I realized that the teacher didn’t have her facts straight.”
“How did that go over?”
He gives me a crooked half smile. “Me putting the truth on the test instead of what she was teaching? I got a D in history that grading period.”
Before I know it, I’m checking my phone to find that it’s eight already and we still have to drive back. Mrs. Rhodes has called twice and messaged me once. So far nothing from Mr. Frost. But as I’m looking, a message pings from DL. He said he would be busy … but I guess he’s thinking of Morgan right now. Tempted to delete it entirely, I change that contact to CJ.
I’ve got the shakes, bad. Since Clay’s got his arm around me, he feels it. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I should get back, though.”
I don’t want to. This feels like a magical interlude in between the awful that I don’t want to deal with. But I can’t just vanish with Clay. There are scary questions that demand answers. Plus, Nathan’s still around, and he owns a permanent piece of my heart, even if I’m hurt and angry. I don’t know how I’ll feel about this move with Clay when I see his brother again. All at once, doubts and fears rush in like bat wings, fluttering about my face until I can’t see or breathe.
“You look pale. Want me to drive?”
“Please.”
I pass him my keys, though anyone can drive with the push button as long as the fob is in the car. We walk a little faster. He’s spot-on about sensing the mood has changed, but he doesn’t pester me with questions. Instead he just tucks me into the VW and heads for Renton. I don’t speak until we’re nearly to the freeway exit.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Clay’s soft voice contains an unmistakable promise, husky with tenderness.
I want to kiss him again.
And I’m so tempted to spill everything.
But when he parks in front of his peeling orange house, I can see Nathan on the porch. The light is on overhead, creating a golden glow around him. He kicks out for a lazy, creaky swing and I can’t whisper that crazy truth, not with Nathan fifteen feet away.
Just a little longer. Just until I’m sure.
After a toe-curling kiss, I drive off with an unsettled feeling. The silence I held and the words I bit back taste of bitter melon, the essence of white lies for someone else’s good.