The After Girls (21 page)

“What are you doing?” Ella snapped. She ran up to her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sydney didn’t answer. She just kept picking up more flowers. This had to stop.

Ella grabbed her arm, jerking her around. “Stop it,” she said. “Stop it.”

“Why do you care?” Sydney was yelling now, too. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. “Why does it matter? You said you didn’t put them here.”

“But someone did.”

“Who, Ella? Who?”

But Ella didn’t answer. She grabbed at the flowers in her hands, clawing at them, trying to get them back. Petals fell to the floor.

It was too much. The wild look in Ella’s eyes, the candles, the darkness, the smell of those flowers. It was suffocating her. It was swallowing her whole.

And in a flash, she let go. The stems and petals fell to the ground between them.

“Fine,” she yelled. “If this is what you want, have it. It’s yours.”

And she ran out the door before they could stop her. She pushed into the woods and moved as fast as she could, not caring about the brush and the branches at her ankles. Not caring about the scratches she felt with each new step. Not bothering to watch out for thorns or burrs or the tricky areas.

She didn’t care if she hurt herself. She just ran.

• • •

Broken Brothers were packing up, and the crowd was beginning to disperse when Sydney got back.

She stopped to catch her breath, and she heard her name.

“Sydney,” Carter said, emerging from the dwindling crowd. “What happened to you? Are you alright?” He looked down at her legs, his eyes narrowing.

She followed his gaze. They were covered with scratches from her quick escape, and a thin line of blood ran down her right shin. She looked at Carter, and his eyes were so open and caring and …
good
… that in a second she knew she could trust him. She knew that, in some way, he’d understand. He always did.

“No,” she said. “I’m not alright.” And the story, the night, came rushing out of her — the way they’d found Ella in the cabin, the flowers, their fight. How she knew that she’d lost Astrid, but she was afraid of losing Ella, too.

When she was done, Carter gave her a hug, a strong one, the kind that she needed, the kind that she never got from Max, who’d kiss her and touch her but never just hold her with nothing else involved. His skinny arms surrounded her, and she could feel his muscles tense, like he was putting everything into this one simple hug.

Her cheek pressed against his chest, and after a minute, she felt his hand in her hair, stroking it softly with his fingers, his fingertips just barely grazing her neck, and then he squeezed and pulled her tighter, and she wanted to dissolve into him, to be absolved by him, to lose herself in this one embrace, this one moment, this solidness, this buoy in the jagged sea that was her summer.

And when he pulled back, he wore a smile, like,
I’m still here. I’m still holding you
. But instead, he said, “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

• • •

Everyone was in bed by the time they got to her house. The two of them tread quietly — her mom would freak out if they woke Darcy — and Sydney headed to the bathroom and fumbled around until she found the first aid kit, tucked in a cabinet behind George’s economy-sized fish oil caplets and Darcy’s old Pull-Ups.

Sydney grabbed two beers from the fridge — she didn’t care if they noticed tomorrow — not tonight, not now — and she flipped on the porch light and headed outside.

She sat down on the swing, and Carter took the beers and uncapped them on the buckle of his belt. She smiled up at him as he handed her one. That was her Carter, her favorite enigma; one minute he was going on about relationship advice, and the next he was doing party tricks like he was training to be a frat boy.

He took a big sip, and his mouth instantly scrunched up. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

“IPA,” she said. “It’s good.” That was the one thing that she had to hand to George. His all-natural snobbery had exposed her to a lot of good beer. Even if it was only by sneaking one or two at a time.

“Sure doesn’t taste like Natty,” he said.

“You mean it doesn’t taste like watered-down piss?” she asked, taking a sip and savoring the bitter hoppiness, the weight and presence of it. “No, it doesn’t.”

Carter shrugged. “I guess booze is booze.”

Then he kneeled down so he was right in front of her, almost like he was going to propose or something, but he just set his beer down and opened the first aid kit.

“Now,” he said. “About those legs.”

They didn’t need words now, not anymore. There was already the humidity, the moisture all around them, rich and thick, filling the space. And the sound of crickets and the hoot of an owl, coming from the woods. And the smell, the smell of honeysuckle. The sweet smell of honeysuckle reminding her that it was summer, after all; that there were good things in the world. That everything didn’t smell like old cabin and burning candles and saccharine carnations.

Carter wet a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and ran it over her legs. It stung softly, fine little scratches of pain, but it wasn’t so bad. He worked slowly, cleaning up the blood, now dried, along her legs. He was good at this, and it was incredibly soothing. And despite the heat, she got chills at his touch. Little pinpricks. Goose pimples. Like her legs knew it more than she did, that there was something new here. Unexpected.

He dabbed on some Neosporin and bandaged her cuts, and then they drank, and they talked, and they laughed even. About the worst song she ever wrote. The girl Carter had had a crush on last year, Lisa Long, who was just as irritating and annoying as her name promised she would be.

“Her hair’s platinum,” Sydney said.

“You’re one to talk. You dye your hair like once a month.”

“Oh, you know you love it,” Sydney said with a smile. “Come on, it’s my signature. Plus, it’s not frosted like I’m trying to get on
Girls Gone Wild
.”

Carter smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I actually don’t know why I even went for her. She’s not really my type.”

“Oh, you mean bleach-blond, tall, skinny, and perfect looking isn’t your type?” Sydney asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You just said you hated her hair,” Carter said. “Now you think she’s perfect looking?”

“I don’t,” Sydney said, taking another sip of beer. “But I know that everyone else does.”

Carter chuckled at that, but his laugh dipped down a notch. “Trust me,” he said. “She’s not my type.”

Sydney felt her face get hot, felt a blush starting to form, but she wasn’t exactly sure why. Their two beers turned to four, which, in turn, became six. There was no way that George wouldn’t notice now. When the last beers were drained, they stood up, and Carter stumbled, and so did she. She grabbed onto his shoulder for support.

“I’m not sure if I should drive home,” he said.

Sydney hiccupped. “You want to walk?”

Carter tripped over the door frame as he stepped inside. “I’m not sure I should walk either.”

Sydney looked at the clock. It was two
A.M.
She couldn’t very well throw the boy out on the street.

“You’re not just pretending so you can get in my pants, are you?” she asked, between hiccups.

Carter held up his hand. “No,” he said. “Scout’s honor. I can sleep on your floor.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “But you’re going to have to sneak out tomorrow.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Come on.”

They tiptoed up the stairs, carrying the six-pack of empty bottles with them. When they got to her room, she shoved the evidence in the back of her closet and sunk into her bed, kicking off her shoes and tossing a pillow and a blanket over to Carter.

“You need anything else?” she whispered.

Carter shook his head. “Just sleep.” He stretched out on the floor. The blanket was way too small for his body, and he looked like some kind of a giant in a nursery school.

Sydney stared at the ceiling and pulled the sheets up over her. A few moments later, she kicked them off, letting the fan blow against her body. Sleep, she thought. Pure, easy sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice? No dead friends. No cabin. No flowers. No freshman groupie. No worries about the future. Just pure and unadulterated rest. When was the last time she’d had it? When she was a child? When she was drunk? After she and Max hooked up, before she snuck out of his room and headed home in time for the whole-grain family morning routine?

Sydney turned on her side.

“Carter,” she said.

“Yeaahh,” he mumbled, his words a slur.

“Are you awake?”

A pause.

“Carter? Are you awake?”

“Uhhh huhhhh.”

Her mind was fuzzy from the beer, but she needed to ask, before she lost her nerve. “Do you think,” and her voice started to crack, and she saw Astrid’s face, at the party, at the cabin, in this very room — ready, almost ready to say something, begging for help even though she’d never really asked for it, begging to be asked — but she kept going. “Do you think that if maybe I had been a better friend Astrid wouldn’t have done what she did?”

“Ah, Syddie,” Carter said, and he sat up, and their faces were so close. “No, I don’t. I really don’t.”

She took a deep breath. “I do.”

His eyes glistened in the light of the window, and they could have kissed right then, right there and then, and it would have been easy, and every question that they’d had about each other would have been answered, at least a little bit, right in that moment. But that’s not what she wanted. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

“Come here,” she said.

“Up there?”

Sydney nodded, even though it was too dark for him to see.

“Come lie with me,” she said. “Nothing else, okay? Just that.”

“Sure,” he said, and he stood up. He set the pillow next to hers and crawled in. He was so big and gangly that his feet hung right off the edge. And without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he turned on his side and draped his arm across her. And she turned, cuddling against him, feeling the weight, the strength of him behind her. And he squeezed her tighter, and she shut her eyes, letting sleep steal her away.

Ella winced as a dull burst of pain shot through her leg. She was on her way to Trail Mix, and it was hot. Her palms were sweating, and she pushed the hair out of her face. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her purse. Ben.

“Hey, I can’t talk long,” she said, without waiting for him to speak. “I’m on my way to work.”

“I just called to see how you were. I know things were rough for you last night.”

Ella paused. She wished she could just take it for what it was, Ben checking up on her — he was so damn sweet — but thinking about everything made her sad. After Sydney had stormed out, she let him lead her slowly back to his car, her arm draped around his shoulder the whole time. He made her sit with him for an hour, making sure she was okay to go to sleep. They talked about everything and nothing, he apologized for yelling, and he said that he understood, that she could always talk to him, and then he took her home, and he kissed her long and sweet like they used to, and she felt his arms tighten around her, and she knew that he should be all that she wanted, that he should be the one she could turn to. But as she pulled her lips from his, she couldn’t help but think of the way he’d looked at Sydney in the cabin, like he almost didn’t believe her, and she knew in her heart that he just didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

“I’m okay,” she said.

“You sure?”

“No.”

Ben was silent on the other line, working out something to say to that.

“You want to hang out tonight?”

Ella paused — she was free, technically speaking — but the idea of hanging out with Ben made her feel tired and worn out. She knew she should appreciate what he was trying to do for her, that she should go to him, let him help her. Problem was, it wouldn’t help. She knew it wouldn’t. What she needed right now was not going to come from Ben.

“I think I just want to take it easy,” she said. “I’m not really up for anything.”

The disappointment was thick in his voice. “I love you, El. I’m just trying to help.”

The tears stung her eyes, but she held them back. “I know. Tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s do something tomorrow.”

Ben’s voice perked up a little. “Pat’s having a party. You wanna go?”

Pat McAllister was their kicker and one of Ben’s best friends — he was actually nice but it was always all good-old-boys and cheerleaders at those parties. She was totally not in the mood to go. But she knew she owed it to Ben.

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

“Alright babe,” Ben said, his voice a little lighter. “Get to work.”

“Okay,” she said. “Talk to you later.”

And she could hear him say “I love you” again as she hung up the phone.

• • •

Ella opened the door to Trail Mix to see Jake at the front, wiping down a table. He looked up as the door clanged behind her.

“Hey,” he said, a smile wide across his face. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And the sight of Jake, smiling at her, made her feel so happy, so relieved, that she forgot to be mad about their argument from the other night. It was just good to see him. So good.

“Hey,” she said. She headed behind the counter to set her stuff down and grab an apron. Becky was at the machine, cheerily making a latte. She waved.

“I was thinking you could take register,” he said, looking right at her. “Or would you rather brew? Either’s fine. Becky’s on the machine.”

“I can do the register,” she said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Jake said with a smile. “Whatever you want.”

The next four hours flew by — there was a line of customers almost to the door the entire time. She stayed on the register, Becky made the drinks, and Jake bounced back and forth between the back room and the front. There was so much she wanted to tell him. And they hadn’t had a single minute together.

They finally hit a lull when her shift ended, but by then, Jake was in the back room with his mom, door closed.

Ella hovered at the counter, taking extra long to divide up the tips, hoping Jake would come out of the back before she left — after what had happened when she’d walked in on Claire and Grace, she was scared to just walk right in.