How to Say I Love You Out Loud (14 page)

Alex, in conjunction with the charity organization sponsoring the playground development, had decided on a whimsical, colorful design scheme based on popular Dr. Seuss books and characters. The
plans include red-and-white-striped poles, à la the Cat in the Hat, and the main path leading to the playground is going to be painted in pastel-colored stripes like the road in
Oh, the
Places You’ll Go!
A local artist has been commissioned to craft a large, sweeping banner over the entrance, one that will bear the quote, “Today you are you, that is truer than
true. There is no one alive who is youer than you!”

I adore the theme and think it’s perfect for what Alex is trying to accomplish by getting this playground built.

He leads me into the small stucco bathroom building, the interior of which has been slated to receive a dousing of orange, blue, and white, to represent the color scheme from
Horton Hears a
Who!
, the book about the compassionate elephant who looks out for those smaller than he. The main walls have already been given a base coat, but I’ll be responsible for working on the
wooden stall frames and doors, along with the wooden frames surrounding the mirrors. It’s not a terrible job. There are no confusing diagrams involved, at least.

Alex goes over the basics with me, and I nod. “No problem. I helped paint the sets for a few plays at my old school. This’ll be easy-peasy.”

Alex quirks an eyebrow and his dimple appears. “Easy-peasy?”

“Yes, easy-peasy.”

He laughs, and I am happy to see him brighten again, even at my silly terminology. “Easy-peasy. If you say so. Alright, well, Dan and Mitch are over working on the boys’ bathroom
side, but if you want some help, I can pull Dana or Jamie away from Leighton.” He doesn’t bother to stifle an eye roll. “I don’t really think you need three people to hand
out bagels, but . . .”

“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly, because I don’t want to spend the day trapped inside a small bathroom with either one of them. Plus, I have my secret supply stash that I
don’t want to explain to them. “I’ll yell if I fall into a paint vat, or a toilet, or something.”

Alex chuckles one more time before his voice turns serious. “Okay. And thanks again, Michaelson. I really appreciate it.”

“Happy to help,” I answer.

“What are you working on?” I ask, as he turns to leave. “Just supervising? Shouldn’t you have a hard hat or something?”

My favorite grin lights up his face, causing the dimple to reappear. “I don’t, but you’re right, I should. That would be amazing.” He shakes his head. “No,
actually, I’m working on one of the wheelchair ramps.” He shrugs. “I helped install a couple at home, so actually I
am
sort of the crew chief. Not sure anyone else knows
what they’re doing.” Alex suddenly looks concerned. “In fact, yeah, I better get back out there. See ya later, M.J.”

“See ya later.”

He turns to leave, I take a second to watch him go, and then I get to work.

I’m pretty adept with paintbrushes and rollers, from my work on the play sets I told Alex about and because I’ve painted my bedroom several times over the year. I can work with
precision around the blue tape strips, and I know how to edge like a pro. It’s a bit more complicated when it comes to painting the stall doors because I have to stand on a step stool to
reach their tops, but there are only three of them to worry about.

I take a break around lunchtime, when Alex has a bunch of pizzas delivered. I want to make sure to check in with him, rather than having him check in on me later, when I plan to work on the
surprise part of my project. I don’t get to talk privately to Alex, though, because Leighton is too busy drawing him into some very public recognition.

When everyone has gathered around a few rickety picnic tables, balancing slices of pepperoni and mushroom on flimsy paper plates, Leighton claps her hands loudly and bellows for everyone’s
attention.

“Before we all get back to work . . . ,” she starts.

I consider how her definition of work differs from mine. Sitting behind a table peddling tickets and talking to friends is a far cry from how most of us spent the morning.

“. . . I just wanted to take a minute for everyone to acknowledge how hard Alex has been working to make this project spectacular.”

She stands behind the table, beaming, pointing in his direction and winking before leading everyone in a big round of applause. “This is a huge deal and he’s totally going to turn it
into a success. I mean, can we just take a minute to acknowledge how awesome this guy is?”

Everyone joins her in applauding and she throws in some whooping on top of the cheers.

I study her as I halfheartedly join the cheering. Her enthusiasm and praise of her boyfriend sure seem genuine. Nothing she says is untrue, and I don’t think Alex would’ve hated the
recognition if we were just among friends.

But with adults from the community and fund contributors standing about, it’s wrong to focus the admiration on a single person when so many are involved in the project’s completion.
It’s just all so very Leighton, but it isn’t Alex at all. I shift my attention to his face, and I can tell he’s less than thrilled about the attention being focused on him instead
of the project overall.

Leighton leaves right after lunch. I hear her ask Alex, “I mean, snack time is over, right? Do you mind if we take off? I have some things to take care of, and I should really drop the
cash box back at school.”

It does not cross her mind that maybe she could help elsewhere, that no one else is gearing up to leave.

Alex just nods. He steps forward to plant a quick kiss on her lips. But he doesn’t reach out to touch her, and his eyes are even farther away than his body.

The first day of school, I had a pretty emotional reaction to seeing them together. Jealous. There, I said it. I felt jealous.

But in this moment, I don’t. I feel sad for my friend, whose girlfriend seems so entirely oblivious to how his mind and heart work. It must be a pretty lonely feeling for him.

I get back to work as everyone else does. I’m happy to find that the paint has dried enough for me to begin phase two of my project.

When Alex told me about the theme for the bathroom, I looked around online and discovered these stencils and decals to create murals in kids’ rooms and doctors’ offices. I was so
excited when I found the Horton characters in the online catalogue that I ordered several.

Now I work to arrange them carefully on the stall doors so it appears that the characters are peeking out from the edges of the doors. I plaster a second stencil at wheelchair height on the main
wall behind the sink. I take my time painting the letters until Horton’s mantra is complete: “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

It’s hard work, requiring precision and focus, and it consumes me. Eventually, I notice the sun beginning to set behind the hills through the one small window in the bathroom, but I refuse
to stop until I’m finished. I don’t want Alex to see anything less than a finished project. I am thirsty, I have to pee, and my back is stiff from bending over to paint the lower
sections of the mural. But eventually, I paint the last tuft of hair on Horton’s head and stand up to examine my work.

There is Horton, smiling out from the corner of one door, with a little Who from Whoville balanced precariously on his head. The Wickersham monkey brothers swing from the top of the second
stall. There is the Mama Kangaroo, with her baby in her pouch, staring haughtily at a whole village of little Whos on the last door in the room.

A huge smile spreads over my face. The murals look even better than I imagined. They look awesome.

I’m still standing with my back against the wall, admiring my work, when I hear the door open. Alex walks in. “Christ, M.J., you’re still here? I figured you’d left by
now and I just missed—”

He stops dead in his tracks. His eyes widen, and his mouth actually falls open. He looks at me in amazement, looks back at the doors, and then back at me. “Are you kidding me? What is
this?”

I lower my gaze and shrug dismissively. “It’s the Horton bathroom, obviously,” I say, gesturing toward the orange paint on the walls.

“Yes, but . . . what’s the rest of it?”

I swallow hard and manage to meet his eye. “That’s my contribution.”

Alex comes over and stands beside me, so close that our sleeves are touching. He adopts my position, arms folded across his chest, as he stares at the paintings some more.

“Jordyn, this looks awesome. Did you actually
paint
these?”

“Oh, I had stencils. They’re really easy to use. Trust me, I’m not that artistic.”

“Where’d you get this stuff?”

“Online. You can find anything online.”

“I’ll reimburse you,” he assures me quickly.

“Nope. Like I said, it’s my contribution, and they weren’t expensive.”

I take a deep breath and look over at him, which isn’t easy at all, considering how close he is. As soon as my eyes meet his, I feel like talking is no longer a skill that comes easily.
“I, uh, hope you don’t mind that I didn’t ask first. I wanted to surprise you. Figured I could always paint over it, if you hated it.”

Alex’s eyes widen in protest. “Hate it? I love it!”

He stares at me for another minute, the look in his eyes a confusing combination of gratitude, warmth, and . . . sadness? He allows the back of his hand to tap against the back of mine. “I
love that you wanted to do this,” he whispers.

“Well, you’re making everything around here special,” I reply. I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat. I can hardly breathe, with him looking at me like that.
“You know. The ‘latrines’ should be special, too.”

Alex shakes his head, at a loss. “I’ve said thank you a lot today, I’ve said it to a lot of people. I have no idea how to say thank you for this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” He turns so he is facing me now. I turn toward him. We are practically touching and I can feel the soft, heavy fabric of his sweatshirt against mine. I smell wood
shavings and cologne. I feel warmth.

His right palm lands on the space above his heart. He taps it, twice. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Seriously, Jordyn.”

He looks at me, I look at him.

I taste desire.

I only ever allow myself to see my friend Alex anymore, but in this moment, he’s gone. I stare at the boy who stole my heart last summer and he’s looking right back at me. My heart
seizes up, because I’ve really, really missed him.

I thought he was gone forever, but maybe . . .

I hear his sharp intake of breath. I remember it instantly, remember how I heard it in the darkness right before he kissed me. He quickly licks his lips.

But this time he does not close the distance between us. Instead, he steps back, creating distance all over again. He clenches his fists at his sides as I watch a frustrated sadness consume his
expression. Alex looks past me, gazing through the small window. The sun is setting and the light in the small room is fading fast. I’m left feeling particularly chilled.

Alex takes off his hat, runs his hand back and forth over his matted hair, and coughs. “It’s getting dark,” he mumbles. “They don’t have the lights up and running
yet, so I should really go pack up the truck.”

I nod, bending over to begin picking up the materials I’ve left strewn about, finding it impossible to look at him. It will hurt, because I know the person I just saw a glimpse of has
disappeared anew.

Exhausted, I slowly gather decal backings, rinse brushes, and stash the rollers and empty cans into large orange buckets. I drag them outside, stumbling through the darkness toward Alex, who is
packing tools and supplies into the back of his uncle’s pickup truck.

Outside, I can breathe again. I plaster a smile on my face and slip back into my role: Jordyn Michaelson, Supportive Friend. Nothing More.

“You must be beat,” I say brightly. “Gonna go home and crash?”

But he doesn’t look at me and his voice is still constricted. “For a while. Then I have to go out with Leighton.”

Have to?

It’s an interesting choice of words, so I wait for him to continue.

He exhales a sigh of frustration through his nose and slams the panel on the back of the truck bed. He turns and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest, and glowers into the
darkness.

“Summer was fun, when we had some space and it was just this new thing, but being back at school . . .” He shakes his head and lets a thin wisp of air escape between his lips.
“Sometimes it’s like I’m just here for decoration,” he muses gloomily. He glances at me, just for a second, before looking into the distance again. “She somehow
managed to make today about her, didn’t she? Or at least . . . she managed to make today the way
she
thought it should go. It’s always like everything is hers.”

I would love to agree with him because what he’s said is so very true. But it wouldn’t be very Supportive Friend of me to do so.

I shake my head mildly. “Well. I’m sure she didn’t have bad intentions, at any rate.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He puffs up his cheeks and exhales mightily. “But I don’t know. . . .”

He fumbles for his keys in his pocket and starts to turn away, like he’s getting ready to leave. But before he even takes a single step, he turns back, face resolute, eyes determined.
“No. I do know, actually.” He pauses for only a second before spitting it out. “I’m not in love with her. I
do
know that.”

I am stunned into silence, because it’s an admission I’ve never expected to hear. I look back at him, at a loss, trying to remind myself that nothing he’s just said really has
anything to do with me, anyway.

Then Alex obliterates my ability to separate myself from it.

“I’m not in love with her . . . ,” he repeats, pulling a tissue from his jeans pocket and running it over my left cheek. When he pulls it away, I see a streak of orange paint.
He crumbles the tissue in his fist with unnecessary force. “. . . and sometimes being reminded of that really freakin’ sucks.”