Almost (28 page)

“Oh, my poor boy.” Gran's bought it like a humming bird aiming for red. “Jess, you watch the teapot and pour when ready. We'll be right back.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jess

I wait a good five minutes, pour the tea, drink the tea, and demolish a surprising amount of the crumbly cookies. Sitting here with warm tea swirling in my stomach has pushed me past the point of exhaustion and into a dangerous zone of near oblivion. I've almost fallen asleep twice already. I'm not going to let them return to find me head down and zonked at the table.

This means I'm going to have to move.

The clock on the microwave reads 9:30. I rearrange the remaining cookies to fill the gaping hole on the plate and head out of the kitchen.

Only another hour-and-a-half until my curfew's up. I can make it.

I head into the hallway and pause, taking in the wall photos. It's like a shrine—to Gray. I stop and stare at each and every one. There's years of cute little toddler Grays all dressed up in brand new outfits. Then kid-sized Grays holding various lunchboxes as he's heading off to his first days of school.

So cute.

Farther down the hallway toward the staircase, I come to the ice hockey photos, arranged by age, little to big. He must have started playing ice hockey around age five or six. The most recent are of Gray, as assistant coach for the junior level hockey teams at the Complex.

The last photo holds me rooted to the spot.

It's Gray, probably as a freshman as a team member of our high school's ice hockey team. Not a formal shot, but rather the
fool-around-and-make-faces
photo snapped by a parent. Gray's standing to the far left. He's much younger than the other players, but he has a varsity jersey. I figure he must have been good to have made varsity; but it's obvious he's the odd man…or should I say, odd
boy
out. The guy was puny before his growth spurt.

Stranger yet, his arm's around Coach William's shoulders and they're laughing.

I wonder what happened between Coach Williams and Gray. How I can find out? There are no ice hockey photos after that. Only shots of Gray playing inline hockey at the sports complex, and one really sweet one of him, Corey and Michelle in front of this house.

As I turn away, black spots rush across my vision. I hold onto the wall for support. I feel like I'm about to black out. This happens often when I become this overtired. My body morphs into a two-billion pound slug and I start to collapse from the inside out. If I can't catch a nap soon, I could lose all control. I don't want to do that in front of Gray. Anyone. Hearing voices at the top of the stairs, I grip the wooden banister and start up. I'm moving slowly in case the urge to faint returns, plus, I'm not a fan of falling down stairs.

Gran's voice reaches me before I hit the landing.

“Gray Porter, you've lost your mind!”

“Okay. Maybe I have. I know I shouldn't be taking her money, that's for sure. But it's not an easy thing to bring up, and I mean to. I will.”

My throat tightens when I realize this conversation is about me.

He drops his voice to a whisper, “We're starting to be real friends and I care about her. I'll figure out a way—soon.”

“Oh, the poor girl. What have you gotten yourself into with all of this? Oh, the poor, poor girl. She seems so sweet. Poor little love.”

My chest crushes inward like I've been hit with a bag of sand. Pity sand.

My eyes burn with unshed tears. Embarrassment fills my lungs to the bursting point. Pushing back my exhaustion, I clear my throat and force my tone into one of teasing sarcasm. “You two done with the amputations?”

I'm well used to conversations dying like this in front of me.
Because
of me.

Gray's grandmother opens the bathroom door wide. Her soft, rounded face is flushed. Gray looks completely ill. I shoot them both a straight-faced look, daring them to discuss the contract and my fake relationship with Gray to my face.

After people have been told I'm ‘different’, they never act the same around me. And I'm sure a girl who has to hire a boyfriend for the summer must come across as ‘different’ to Gran. I shouldn't care…but I do.

“I…uh…finished my tea. Hope you don't mind I came looking for you,” I say, surprised at how steady and bright my voice sounds. I must be on autopilot.

Gran comes out of the bathroom with Gray in tow. “No. No. I'm sorry. We got to talking and we just abandoned you, didn't we?” The woman's face is shifting to brighter red and I can read that she's wondering if I've overheard them.

I meet Gray's shuttered gold-green gaze. He moves to my side and takes up my hand as though he means to apologize. If I weren't feeling so light-headed I would have shaken it off because on principle—if his grandmother knows about the contract—there's no need to pretend he's my boyfriend anymore.

But I'm sinking, and the feel of his palm against mine is the only thing keeping me afloat. Desperate, I squeeze his hand hard. I hope he understands I'm at the edge of an abyss. “Gray, can I have a tour of your room?” My voice quavers. I point to the closed door at the end of the hallway—the one with the giant hockey stick attached to it. “I want to see your trophies and all that,” I manage, hoping they won't bring it up again.

“Sure. Gran? Is it okay?”

I think Gran looks almost relieved that the
crazy girl
isn't going back down to the kitchen with her. “Door open. And no funny business,” she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She's staring at my hand in Gray's. I can sense she's worried. Maybe about Gray, or our contract. Maybe she's wondering just what,
exactly,
I paid for. As if.

“Gran!” Gray sighs. “Jess has an eleven o'clock curfew. We'll listen to music and talk for an hour. Promise. Door open is no problem. I'm a gentleman.”

We head into his room and I catch sight of a wall of medals and trophies out of the corner of my eye, but my real attention is riveted on the bed. His comfortable looking, neatly made bed. “Your room is so clean,” I mumble.

“Easy to keep it up when I'm never in it.”

“Mine's the opposite. I refuse to leave it unless forced. It's always a mess.”

Gray frowns. I regret that slip of information. I release his hand and flop onto his mattress. “Do you mind?” I ask. “You said if I ever needed to nap I should tell you…and I need a nap…”

My eyes are already closed. I won't be able to move if he does mind. I've already kicked off my shoes. “I don't feel quite right, sorry.”

“Did you hear what we said?” he asks. I hear him walking around the room, moving things. His pillow smells great—like him.

“I don't mind that you told her about the contract.”

“Is that what you think I told her?”

“It's pretty obvious you told her the truth. What else would make her so angry and freaked? I bet she's not happy that you're a
paid companion
for the summer, huh?”

“I'm not going to lie. She's not exactly thrilled you and I are hanging out. But for other reasons.” His voice moves closer. “A blanket,” he says and I'm draped in soft, blue fleece. I feel safe. Like I'm wrapped on all sides in a secret version of Gray Porter's lime scented heaven.

“Truth is easier. But it's also a bummer…don't you think?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” His voice sounds tight like an over-stretched rubber band.

I open my eyes.

The room and he are slightly out of focus. I know I shouldn't answer him without planning what I should say, but right now I'm too tired to mask anything. “Look. Until just a few minutes ago, I got to be the
first girl Gray Porter ever brought home.
It was awesome to get to be that girl, even for a moment. I didn't like to disappoint your grandmother, that's all. So…if I'm feeling bad that she knows the truth, you probably also feel like crap right now.”

When I catch his expression he looks stunned, like I've dead-on read his mind. And that he might be worried that I'm feeling like crap.

Quickly, I try to recant the implication that this has hurt me in any way. “Don't worry about it. I'm good. Now I can imagine now how it will be when one day you really do bring a
first-girl
home. Gran will get over this. We all will, I suppose. It's such a strange situation. And bound to get awkward eventually, huh?” I add in a small, careless sounding laugh, only I suddenly want to cry so much my throat burns.

That happens too when I'm over-tired.

“Jess…no. You've misunderstood completely.” He drops to his knees beside the bed. “Don't say that. I have so much I want to tell you. You are—I mean I want you to know—I told Gran that you're—” He looks away and runs both hands through his hair. “How can I say this? I don't know where to start.”

I close my eyes. His face—the adorable chin divot—the intensity of his eyes is altogether too overwhelming from this viewpoint. “Please, stop. I'm too tired to listen. I'm good. I shouldn't have made you feel bad about things. It's all right. Whatever you told Gran about me being crazy couldn't even scratch the surface of what's real about me. Not much gets to me. Crazy people have really thick skin.”

“I hate that you think that about yourself.”

“I hate that you never believe me.” I curl onto my side and face him. “But…don't feel sorry for me. Not like the others do. Like my parents, like your gran just did. I couldn't stand it if you suddenly treated me like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you've always treated me…differently. Better. Like I'm just fine. Fine the way I am.”

“You are! Better than fine. And just the way you are. Jess, you're awesome. There's a lot you don't know. I need to tell you so much.”

“No. I just want sleep. If I didn't feel so positively like dying right now, I'd suspect you might be crazy like me. My head kills so badly. I think it's your fault. I know it's your fault. All that spinning me around the rink, feeding me only Coke and cookies? It did me in. Stop trying to make me think, and let me sleep. Just a bit.”

He lets out a long, heavy sounding sigh. “Sleep. It will give me a chance to figure out a way to say things better.”

He shifts forward onto his knees and moves my hair back from my brow and temples, letting his fingers trail into my hair, over and over. I open my eyes again at that, but I don't say anything because I'm afraid he might stop. It feels so nice.

He says, “But when you wake up you have to let me talk. About the truth.”

I shake my head ‘no’ and reach up and grip his forearm. Desperate. “Gray…” I'm afraid to ask him this question but I have no other choice. My level of exhaustion is terrifying to me. I meet his gaze.

“What is it?” he frowns, concerned.

“You have to wake me up if you think I'm having a dream.
Any
dream at all. It's dark outside and I…you know. Please. It's important. Don't leave me here alone.”

He nods and his face goes pale. “Of course. Don't worry.”

“Promise?”

He takes in a deep breath and gently takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. “I'm not going anywhere. Because when you wake up, we
are
going to talk.” His voice already sounds too far away. My eyelids feel as though someone or something is turning a crank to force them shut.

“Just don't leave me. Please.”

...

Wait. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me here.

A white sheet floats suspended over me like a cloud…like a snowstorm, a shroud.

It descends over my body and I'm cold. Afraid. Alone.

Wait. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me here!

I fight and claw against the white but I can't move my arms or my legs. Terror sets in.

I do not want this. I do not want to be here. I shouldn't fall asleep. I think Gray's hand is still holding mine …but the white has already taken over and I'm crying but I mustn't… I shouldn't… I need to stay in control.

Gray, please. Don't leave me. Please!

You're a very lucky girl. Lucky. Lucky girl.

Let's go. Dude. Nothing happened. Let's go.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't untie the knot.

I'm sorry. Jess. I'm so sorry… Jess…

...

“I'm sorry. Jess. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

Someone's screaming and crying. Is that
me
?

I open my eyes. Gray is holding my hand and his eyes… his face… his voice are inside me and outside of me all at the same time.

Oh God. His voice. His face. Why is he here? He looks as frightened as I feel. I don't understand anything beyond the images pulsing through me. A silver belt buckle. Seashells in a crystal bowl. The line of my own blood seeping down my arm. I can't figure out what's real. I let my gaze travel past Gray's face to the room. I'm searching for my clock, my jellyfish lamp. My posters. The shaking sets in like I've been hit with a train.