Love You Hate You Miss You (16 page)

“She didn’t say anything, just slammed her locker shut and walked off, right?”

“No,” he said. “She said, ‘She never said anything about you.’ And then she looked at me. It was just for a second,
but she had the strangest look on her face. Then she slammed her locker shut and walked away.”

That’s when I knew I was an even worse friend to Julia than I thought I was. That I’d let her down before I made sure she saw Kevin cheat, before I took her hand and led her to her car. When he mentioned the look on her face.

Julia had asked about Patrick. The Monday after that party, we were walking down the hall after fourth period and she said, “Hey, did you meet some guy at the party?”

I’d glanced over at her, and she was looking at me. I couldn’t read the look on her face.

“No,” I said, freaked out by how hard my heart had started pounding from just the mention of that party. That night. “At least, no one worth mentioning.”

That look stayed on her face. I didn’t get it, but I knew I wanted that guy and that night and the way I’d felt—so unsafe, so raw—gone, so I said something I knew would grab J’s attention. “Hey, I think I see Kevin at the end of the hall.”

It worked, but that strange look on Julia’s face took a while to fade.

She was hurt. That’s what that look was. I’d promised to always tell her everything, the kind of promise little kids make and forget, but she didn’t. She needed it.

Julia needed to know there was one person who’d always listen to her. Who she could tell anything, and who’d tell her everything in return. I knew her so well. How could I not know what that look on her face meant?

Because I was afraid. Not of her, but of me. Of what I felt that night, of how for a moment I felt like myself in a way I hadn’t ever before.

I swallowed, my eyes stinging.

“She did talk to me about it,” I whispered. “She asked me about the party. About a guy. You. And I—I said there wasn’t anyone worth mentioning.”

“Oh,” he said, and took another sip, eyes closing once more.

When he was done, he looked down at the party and then held the glass out toward me. “I figured that. I mean, I knew what happened didn’t mean what I—I knew it wasn’t a big deal. It’s just that the other day, I thought that you—that we…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

I stared at the glass. I stared at him. I wanted the glass but I wanted to touch him too. I wanted to touch him so bad it hurt. I didn’t want feelings like that. I’d never wanted them, but I hadn’t known—I hadn’t known how they really felt.

I’d never let myself know what it was like to want someone and know they want you too. It’s a terrible feeling, makes you open yourself up, expose all the soft places you wish you didn’t have.

It makes you hope.

“I lied,” I said. “I lied to Julia. I didn’t know what else to do because you—you make me feel…” I had to stop. Not because I didn’t have words. I did. But I was afraid to say them.

He looked at me, and I knew then I could love him. That if I let myself, I would.

“You make me feel too,” he said, and held out one hand. I looked at it. I looked at the glass in his other hand.

I reached out and closed my hand around the glass. It fit in my hand like it belonged there, and I knew if I drank from it I wouldn’t have to say another word.

January 20th

Dear Julia,

I know it’s been a while. I just…I had some things to work out. Things I had to do on my own. Things I had to do without you.

I put the glass down, J. I put it down and took Patrick’s hand. Are you surprised? I was. I didn’t think I could do things like that, take chances by myself, for myself. But I did. I did and I’m glad.

I don’t know where we’re going. Neither of us is very good at thinking about what might happen, about the “future.” We just focus on now and it’s enough, more than enough, because when he touches me I think of all those stupid love songs you used to sing and am glad I know the words. (Don’t tell anyone I told you that.)

Your mother moved away about a month ago. She sold your house. No one knows where she went. She called my parents right before she left. She asked to speak to me.

She wanted to know what you said after the crash. She wanted to know your last words. She said I owed her that. She said I owed you that. She was crying.

You never said anything. You were already gone by the time I opened my eyes.

I told her you asked for her. That day in the cemetery, she said she’d give anything to hear your voice one last time, and I wanted her to have that. I wanted her to know you loved her. She was silent for a moment, and then she hung up. I don’t know if she believed me or not.

Caro and I went to the mall today. We hang out a lot now. Mel asked her out the night of the party. He said he knew what Beth had told him was a lie, that he remembered the night Caro told him she liked him, and that he knew she meant it. He said he never meant to tell Beth about it, and was sorry he ever had. He said he wanted to be with her, not Beth.

She said no.

Beth found out everything, and didn’t care that Caro said no. She trashed her and Mel all over school. A week after the party, when we were sitting together
in the student resource center avoiding lunch, I asked her what she was going to do about Mel, who’d been calling her.

“Nothing,” she said. “I liked him, and he knew it. He always knew it, he even said so—and he still chose to go out with Beth. He picked her, and even though he changed his mind, I want a guy who will pick me first. Mel can call all he wants, but I deserve better.”

“You do,” I told her, and I meant it. She’s not you, J, but she’s—she’s becoming a friend.

At the mall we looked for a gift for Jane. The wedding is in about a month, on Valentine’s Day. It’s so cheesy it’s sort of sweet. Caro says Jane’s fiancé’s cousin, who is in the wedding party, is flying in a few days early. He’s in his freshman year at Cornell, but they met at a shower a few weeks ago and have been talking ever since. She says he’s really nice.

I was asking her about him when we passed a girl with long, honey-colored hair. She was laughing loudly, freely. I stopped and stared. You know who I thought I saw. She smiled at me—it wasn’t your smile—and then turned away.

I hated you for dying. For leaving. I hated you so much. I hated you almost as much as I hated myself. But I
can look in the mirror now and face what I see. I’m even happy now, sometimes, and I can think of you and smile.

I won’t lie and say everything’s changed, though. I’m not a better person, a stronger one. I’m still me and I know what I did. Yeah, I wasn’t driving the car, and I see the choices you made now. I even see that I can’t make them mine, but I’ll always remember making sure you saw Kevin.

I’ll always remember taking your hand and telling you that everything would be okay.

Wherever I go, I’ll always see you. You’ll always be with me. And there’s no happy ending coming here, no way a story that started on a night that’s burned into my heart will end the way I wish it could. You’re really gone, no last words, and no matter how many letters I write to you, you’re never going to reply. You’re never going to say good-bye.

So I will.

Good-bye, Julia. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being you.

Love,

Amy

Thanks to Tara Weikum for believing in me and this book—and for her incredible heart and talent.

Thanks also to Katharine Beutner, Clara Jaeckel, Shana Jones, Jess Lewis-Turner, Amy Pascale, Donna Randa-Gomez, Nephele Tempest, and Janel Winter for their insightful comments and kindness.

Extra special thanks to Robin Rue for all her support.