This Girl

She turns her head away from me. “If I don’t do this now, I’ll never be able to do it.”



She stands up and tries to walk away, but I pull her back to me and wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my head against her stomach.



“Please.”



She runs her hands over my hair and down my neck, then bends forward and kisses the top of my head. “I feel awful, Will,” she whispers. “Awful. But I’m not about to live a life that I’m not ready for, just because I feel sorry for you.”



I press my forehead against her shirt and close my eyes, soaking in her words.



She feels sorry for me?



I release my arms from around her and push against her stomach. She drops her hands and takes a step back. I stand up and walk to the bedroom door, holding it open, indicating she needs to leave. “The last thing I want is your pity,” I say, looking her in the eyes.



“Will, don’t,” she pleads. “Please don’t be mad at me.” She’s looking up at me with tears in her eyes. When she cries, her eyes turn a glossy, deep shade of blue. I used to tell her they were the exact same color as the ocean. Looking into her eyes right now almost makes me despise the ocean.



I turn away from her and grip both sides of the door, pressing my head against the wood. I close my eyes and try to hold it in. It feels like the pressure, the stress, the emotions that have been building up for the last two weeks—it feels like I’m about to explode.



She gently places her hand on my shoulder in an attempt to console me. I shrug it off and turn around to face her again. “Two weeks, Vaughn!” I yell. I realize how loud I’m being, so I lower my voice and step closer to her. “They’ve been dead for two weeks! How could you possibly be thinking about yourself right now?”



She walks past me through the doorway, toward the living room. I follow her as she grabs her purse from the couch and walks to the front door. She opens the door and turns to face me before she leaves. “You’ll thank me for this one day, Will. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but someday you’ll know I’m doing what’s best for us.”



She turns to leave and I yell after her, “What’s best for you, Vaughn! You’re doing what’s best for you!”



As soon as the door closes behind her I break down. I rush back to my bedroom and slam the door, then turn around and punch it over and over, harder and harder. When I can’t feel my hand anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my forehead against the door. I’ve had so much to process these past two weeks—I don’t know how to process this, too.



What the hell has happened to my life?



I eventually make my way back to the bed and sit with my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My mom and dad are smiling at me from the confines of the glass frame on my nightstand, watching me unfold. Watching as the culmination of all that has happened these last two weeks slowly tears me apart.



Why weren’t they better prepared for something like this? Why would they risk leaving me with all of this responsibility? Their ill-preparedness has cost me my scholarship, the love of my life, and now, quite possibly, my entire future. I snatch the picture up and place my thumbs over their photograph. With all my force, I squeeze until the glass cracks between my fingertips. Once it’s successfully shattered—just like my life—I rare back and throw it as hard as I can against the wall in front of me. The frame breaks in two when it meets the wall and shards of glass sprinkle the carpet.



I’m reaching over to turn off my lamp when my bedroom door opens again.



“Just leave, Vaughn. Please.”



I look up and see Caulder standing in the doorway, crying. He looks terrified. It’s the same look I’ve seen so many times since the moment our parents died. It’s the same look he had when I hugged him good-bye at the hospital and made him leave with my grandparents. It’s the same look that rips my heart in two every time I see it.



It’s a look that immediately brings me back down to earth.



I wipe my eyes and motion for him to come closer. When he does, I wrap my arms around him and pull him onto my lap, then hug him while he quietly cries into my shirt. I rock him back and forth and stroke his hair. I kiss him on the forehead and pull him closer.



“Want to sleep with me again tonight, Buddy?”



2.



the honeymoon



“WOW,” LAKE SAYS in disbelief. “what a selfish bitch.”



“Yeah. Thank God for that,” I say. I clasp my hands together behind my head and look up at the ceiling, mirroring Lake’s position on the bed. “It’s funny how history almost repeated itself.”



“What do you mean?”



“Think about it. Vaughn broke up with me because she didn’t want to be with me just because she felt sorry for me. You broke up with me because you thought I was with you because I felt sorry for you.”



“I didn’t break up with you,” she says defensively.



I laugh and sit up on the bed. “The hell you didn’t! Your exact words were, ‘I don’t care if it takes days, or weeks, or months.’ That’s a breakup.”



“It was not. I was giving you time to think.”



“Time I didn’t need.” I lie back down on my pillow and face her again. “It sure felt like a breakup.”



“Well,” she says, looking at me. “Sometimes two people need to fall apart to realize how much they need to fall back together.”



I take her hand and rest it between us, then stroke the back of it with my thumb. “Let’s not fall apart again,” I whisper.



She looks me in the eyes. “Never.”



There’s vulnerability in the way she looks at me in silence. Her eyes scroll over my face and her mouth is curled up into a slight grin. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to. I know in these moments, when it’s just her and me and nothing else, that she truly, soul-deep loves me.



“What was it like the first time you saw me?” she asks. “What was it about me that made you want to ask me out? And tell me everything, even the bad thoughts.”



I laugh. “There weren’t any bad thoughts. Naughty thoughts, maybe. But not bad.”



She grins. “Well then tell me those, too.”



the introduction



I HOLD THE phone to my ear with my shoulder and finish buttoning my shirt. “I promise, Grandma,” I say into the phone. “I’m leaving straight from work on Friday. We’ll be there by five but right now we’re running late, I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”



She says her good-byes and I hang up the phone. Caulder walks through the living room with his backpack slung across his shoulder and a green, plastic army helmet on his head. He’s always trying to sneak random accessories to school. Last week when I dropped him off, he was out of the car before I even noticed he was wearing a holster.



I reach out and snatch the helmet off his head and toss it onto the couch. “Caulder, go get in the car. I’ve got to grab my stuff.”



Caulder heads outside and I scramble to gather all the papers scattered across the bar. I was up past midnight grading. I’ve only been teaching eight weeks now, but I’m beginning to understand why there’s a teacher shortage. I shove the stack of papers inside my binder, then shove it into my satchel and head outside.



“Great,” I mutter as soon as I see the U-Haul backing up across the street. This is the third family to move into that house in less than a year. I’m not in the mood to help people move again, especially after only four hours of sleep. I hope they’ll be finished unloading by the time I get home today, or I’ll feel obligated to help. I turn around and lock the door behind me, then quickly head for the car. When I open the car door, Caulder isn’t inside. I groan and throw my stuff in the seat. He always picks the worst times to play hide-and-seek; we’re already ten minutes late.



I glance in the backseat, hoping he’s hiding in the floorboard again, but I catch sight of him in the street. He’s laughing and playing with another little boy that looks about his age. This is a plus. Maybe having a neighbor to play with will get him out of my hair more often.



I start to call his name when the U-Haul catches my eye again. The girl driving can’t be any older than me, yet she’s confidently backing up the U-Haul without any help. I lean against my car door and decide to watch her attempt to navigate that thing around those gnomes. This should be interesting.



I’m quickly proven wrong and she’s parked in the driveway in no time flat. Rather than hop out to inspect her parking job, she kills the engine and rolls down her window, then props her leg up on the dash.



I don’t know why these simple actions strike me as odd. Intriguing, even. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, then reaches up and tugs at her hair, letting down her ponytail. Her hair spills down around her shoulders and she massages her scalp, shaking her hair out.



Holy hell.



Her gaze falls on the boys playing in the street between us, and I can’t help but let my curiosity get the best of me. Is she his sister? His mom? She doesn’t look old enough to have a child that age, but I’m also at a visual disadvantage being all the way across the street. And why is she just sitting in the U-Haul?



I realize I’ve been staring for several minutes when someone pulls up beside her in a Jeep.



“Please don’t let it be a guy,” I whisper aloud to myself, hoping it’s not a boyfriend. Or worse, a husband.



Why would I even care? The last thing I need right now is a distraction. Especially someone who lives right across the street.



I breathe a surprising sigh of relief when the person who steps out of the Jeep isn’t a man. She’s an older woman, maybe her mother. The woman shuts her door and walks up to greet the landlord, who’s standing in the entryway. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m walking toward their house. I suddenly have the urge to help people move today, after all. I cross the street, unable to take my eyes off the girl in the U-Haul. She’s watching Caulder and the other little boy play, and hasn’t once glanced in my direction. I don’t know what it is about her that’s pulling me in. That look on her face . . . she looks sad. And for some reason, I don’t like it.



I’m standing unnoticed on the passenger side of the U-Haul, staring at her through the window, practically in a trance. I’m not staring because of the fact that she’s attractive, which she is. It’s that look in her eyes. The depth. I want to know what she’s thinking.



No, I need to know what she’s thinking.



She diverts her attention out her window and says something to the boys, then opens the door to get out. I suddenly realize I’m about to look like an idiot just standing in her driveway, staring. I glance across the street at my house and contemplate how I can get back over there without her seeing me. Before I have a chance to make a move, Caulder and the other little boy run around the U-haul and smash into me, laughing.



“She’s a zombie!” Caulder yells after I grab hold of them by their shirts. The girl rounds the U-Haul and I can’t help but laugh. She’s got her head cocked to the side and she’s walking stiff-legged after them.