Two Roads (10 page)

Logan still looks kind of dubious as if he’s expecting me to yell “just kidding!” and rip up another one of his pictures of Ben as he sits down beside me.

But not this time.

As soon as we’re settled in, the waiter comes and takes our orders--Logan orders a hot chocolate again and I have to restrain myself from laughing at him--and glances between us suspiciously. When he leaves, I turn back to Logan, who is watching me with interest and smiling for a reason that can only be so he can blackmail me later on.

“Staring me up again?” I say.

“Something like that,” he says, then runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. Ugh. Sometimes he just annoys me to death.

“So Logan,” I say.

“So Cali...”

It occurs to me then that technically, I’m on a date with Logan Waters right now. Which is hilarious. Because, I tell myself, he is the last man in the world I would ever go out with.

I don’t think it’s a lie.

“This is… weird,” I manage to say after a while.

He forces a laugh. “Yeah. It is.”

“It’s way easier to insult you than to actually talk to you. You dick,” I add, which makes him smile.

“So asshole,” he says, and now it’s my turn to smile, “my parents told me my date… you… like poetry? Because I do too.”

I watch him closely, narrowing my eyes. I have a gut feeling this is some sort of prank I’m about to fall into, maybe a retaliation from the other night, so I wait a long time before answering.

But Logan?

Liking
poetry
?

Even when he was Ben’s best friend and I thought he was kind of cool, he didn’t know much about me, and I didn’t know much about him. I kept my love of poetry between Ben and I, and if he’s telling the truth, I guess he kept it to himself too.

So I just wait. Just watch him. I’ve never talked much to anyone but Ben, Ruby, and my parents about my passion for poetry before, so it seems like bad form to tell my arch rival about it, especially considering three of those four people are now either dead or hate me for it. “Yeah,” I say, my eyes not leaving his, feeling inexplicably daring today. I keep waiting for him to jump up and laugh at me and say “gotcha!” and then run off and tell as many people as he can find about what a freak I am. “Yeah… I guess so.”

“Really? Who’s your favorite?” His expression is totally unreadable. Dammit. This guy is good.

“Robert Frost,” I say. It isn’t a lie. “I love his The Road Not Taken.’”

“Oh yeah? I’m more of the badass E.E. Cummings type. ‘I Carry Your Heart With Me’ is a favorite of mine.”

“And why is that?” I ask suspiciously. It’s more of a challenge to make sure he isn’t lying about liking poetry than it is actual interest.

“Well, I love it because of its theme. Most people say that it’s a poem about deep, profound love, and while that might be true, I think it’s more than that. I think it’s about love on a universal level, and it argues that love trumps all else, that true love cannot be broken--the narrator carries the love wherever he goes--and when it says, ‘here is the deepest secret nobody knows… and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart,’ to me, it’s saying that true love is the secret to the universe. It says that true love is strong enough to break all bonds, to keep the stars apart, to build life and follow each and every person wherever they go. I for one have no idea if that is true, but whether or not it is, it’s a nice thought.” He stops then. Looks at me. Waits for my response. I wait for mine too, because I have no idea how one goes about replying to her enemy when he just said something super heartfelt.

So being the naturally smooth person I am, I cock my head to the side, not believing what I’m hearing, and mutter out, “You…you really like poetry?” I’ve never met anyone in real life who loved poetry like I do, so this is definitely unusual. Especially because Logan--the uber nerd and boring Logan, the one who I blame for Ben’s suicide--is the one I’m talking about.

“I love it. Write it too,” he says simply.

“Then how come I’ve never seen any poems in your room?” I’m still convinced he’s lying. Maybe this really is a retaliation prank of his.

“First off,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “The real question here is:
why were you in my room
? But I’ll ignore it and say that I tend to keep my poems to myself, in my own head. I like it that way. I like when they’re mine.”

I start to nod, believing him now, and I feel myself smile. I’m seriously talking about poetry with my arch nemesis. And it feels… good.
Really
good. And I kind of hate him even more for it.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. I… I know what you mean. I’ve written a few poems myself, and I’ve never had the heart to share them with anyone.” I don’t add that it’s because I’m too scared of what someone might think.

“I get that. Do you write them on paper?”

“Sort of. I usually put them in my notebook, but I don’t really keep them. I throw them away or hide them in random bushes or something. I don’t like holding onto things.” I also don’t add that most of my poems are scraps of paper about myself--all written in third person. I have this insane theory that if I write things about myself in third person, especially when they’re in the form of poems or vignettes, then everything bad that happens will magically be transferred to this made-up someone who is not me, leaving me normal, happy, and not so alone.

Logan nods. “Interesting. I usually type mine. And now that I’ve told you my thoughts on my favorite poem,” he says, “I get to ask you why you love ‘The Road Not Taken’ and then we’ll move on to the matter of swapping poems later.”

I start to protest, to tell him how I really do not want to do this, but then I look into his eyes. I find myself dumbfounded by the genuine interest he holds, like he seriously wants to hear what I have to say. No one’s been interested in me in the last four years. Hell, my parents have only ever been interested in whether I’ve decided to skip this “poetry nonsense” and get an “adult job” like being an engineer, but never actually
me
. Never what I want. Never what I have to say.

So this feeling, this little soar of the heart because someone wants to hear my opinion on something is totally foreign to me. I open my mouth, feeling the smile spread. I have to remind myself that I hate Logan, that Ben is dead because he never saw the signs, but even as I say it, I find myself blaming myself more than anything. I was Ben’s
sister
and I never helped, never knew to help. I failed him.

I failed him.

“I--I guess I love ‘The Road Not Taken’ because it’s saying that no matter what, you always get a choice in life,” I say, pushing away all other thoughts. I’m just here to eat, so the hell if it includes having some strange conversation with my rival. I’ll get back at him for it later. “It doesn’t matter who you are, who you love, what you look like or how you act; you always get a choice. You get to decide your own fate, and you have the power to make things right for yourself. Because,” I continue, feeling myself blush a little under the strength of his gaze, “because life sucks sometimes. It really, really sucks. And it’s nice… to know that on the other side of all this, there are always two roads ahead of me, of us as people. There is always a choice to make things better. But the poem also says that once you make a choice, you have to live with it. It says you can’t have it both ways, because you
have
to choose if you want to make it anywhere in the yellow wood of life, and sometimes, Frost argues, the road not taken, the tough choice, the one that society pushes you not to take, is the right one. You just have to follow your heart.” The words tumble out of me in a flurry, and I can’t really believe I’m finally able to share my thoughts on my favorite poem, the thoughts I’ve been holding in all these years because I never had anyone to tell, and now, just from one stupid fail of a date, I do. And this someone
cares
.

I look up at Logan, holding my breath. The second I meet his gaze, my throat tightens some more and I await his judgment, expecting him to laugh at me and tell me my opinions are dumb or stupid or that I am the waste my parents think of me as.

But he doesn’t.

Genuine awe and surprise fills Logan’s eyes as soon as I finish speaking, and his whole face lights up like a Christmas tree on steroids. My heart soars a little--just a little. (Okay, a lot, but I still hate him.)

This better not be a prank Logan is pulling, because if it is I will literally kill him in his sleep.

“Cali Monroe,” Logan says, his eyes soft and full of admiration. “You would make one hell of a nerd. You should consider joining our ranks.” When he starts slow clapping, I reach into my water cup and hurl an ice cube at his arm, which doesn’t in the least suspend his effort. He only quirks his glasses at me and beams further, an act that shouldn’t make me want to smile as badly as it does.

Fuck. Nerds are supposed to be boring, not cool and quick-witted, and somehow the fact that Logan is breaking the stereotype right in front of my eyes irritates the hell out of me.

“I take it that’s a no to becoming a nerd?” he says, blatantly flirting. I should be bothered by this. I should be pissed off. But I’m not.
Traitor
self
.

God, I must be really hungry if I’m actually letting this happen… because I am enjoying it.

“It’s more of a ‘no way in hell’ kind of thing, not just a no,” I say.

“I’ll turn you,” he says all too confidently. “I’ll get you to the dark side. We serve incredibly wonderful cookies, after all.”

“You totally stole that off of those t-shirts.”

“And it totally amused you regardless.”

I glare at him, unblinking. “You have a serious attitude problem.”

“Then that makes two of us,” he deadpans.

I work hard to keep myself from laughing.

Logan pauses as the waiter comes back with our food. I start eating immediately, trying to find a way to hide the damn smile that keeps surfacing, and also because I am starving.

“So tell me about yourself, Cali… from the last four years,” he says when I’m halfway through my sandwich. “You know, besides your love of poetry.”

I stop eating and shoot him an annoyed look. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Do what?” he says innocently, but we both know he’s well aware of what I’m referring to.

“This. Be like weird date-y people.”

He frowns. “I thought we were just having lunch. I always like to ask my least favorite people questions about themselves while I eat.” He says it so simply, like he’s been on thousands of dates with his rivals in the past, like talking to him--really talking to him--for the first time since the night of Ben’s death is the most normal thing in the world.

“I usually like to eat in silence and then bludgeon them to death on the way out, but I guess we can do it your way,” I say before I take another bite, giving him my best fake-sweet look.

He smiles. “Plotting to kill me, I see, Cali Monroe.”

“Something like that, Logan Waters,” I mumble into my sandwich. “Something like that.”

Logan doesn’t even look away. He just sits there, calm as ever, waiting for me, the same annoyingly charming interest in his eyes. “So about you?” he asks.

“Right,” I say. I’m not really in the mood to argue, although I do make a mental note to scream at my parents for their poor choice in dates as soon as I get out of here. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Family. Love life. Interests outside of poetry. Career dreams. Anything.”

I sigh. This sounds like an entirely pointless conversation to me, but I guess I need something to pass the time. “Okay,” I say. “Well, to start, my love life is about as nonexistent as the number of college boys who love poetry.” I shoot him a vengeful look. “I mean, I hook up with guys often,” I lie, because admitting to Logan how incredibly lonely I am is the last thing on my agenda, “but I don’t really do anything with any of them after that. Outside of poetry I love writing vignettes about myself in third person, sort of to take my mind off of things. I also enjoy harassing this personality-less Logan Waters kid I’m supposed to hate, reading books, and interning at a small publisher, which I do on a weekly basis. I hope to become a professional poet, but my parents want me to work at their engineering company in Silicon Valley, which I hate with all of my heart. And as for family, well, you know the story...” I trail off, not wanting to talk about it.

Logan nods sadly but doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t know what to say, and I guess neither do I. Nothing makes sense anymore when it comes to Ben. Everything feels so sad and distant, so painfully out of reach. I wish I could find a way to make everything okay again, to bring us back to the good old times that I never used to realize were the good old times. I wish I could feel safe. I wish I could I feel happy.

I think Logan notices my sadness, or maybe he’s just feeling the same way, because he touches his hand to mine to keep me grounded, his warm fingers on my skin. He looks at me like he’s asking if I’m okay, and I nod slowly, closing my eyes and gathering myself, and then all I feel is the pounding of my heart.

But as soon as he lets go of me, I already miss his touch.

“You said you’re
supposed
to hate me?” Logan points out after a while, forcing a smile.

I roll my eyes, relieved to sink back into conversation. It’s exactly like Logan to concentrate on that little detail out of everything else I said. “Don’t even get me started today. I’m not in a good mood.”

“Oh, Cali, I’ve gotten you started a long time ago.” He beams at me.

I know he’s flirting but I legitimately have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so I dismiss it as quirky nerdy speak and ignore it altogether. “Your turn,” I say, taking another bite out of my sandwich and wiping away the wetness in my eyes. “What do
you
do besides like poetry and study from weird advanced math textbooks?” I don’t really want to care about his response, but I can’t help but feel curious. I mean, besides Logan being a total geek, I kind of want to know what his life has been like--after everything.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were interested in me,” Logan says proudly.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were desperate enough to flirt with your self-proclaimed ‘least favorite person,’” I say.

“Fair enough,” he says and leans back in his chair. “And as for me, I’m also an only child, but I think you already know that. My parents are nice and let me do basically whatever I want, which is cool, but I’ve always wanted… someone else in the family, I guess. A sibling. A dog. I don’t know. It’s just that sometimes I feel lonely, you know? Like, really lonely.” He sighs, and I wince, because I
do
know. I feel like that all the damn time. There’s something comforting in the fact that someone as confident as Logan feels it too, and I kind of hate him all over again for it. “I used to think that I found like a long lost brother in… him… four years ago, but maybe not. And now that he’s gone, I feel more empty than ever. My love life is going fine I guess, although I was kind of thinking things would improve after my mysterious date today. I love poetry, but I’m also a total fan of ‘weird advanced math,’ as you so eloquently put, and I take way too much pleasure in insulting crepes. But really, they suck. I mean, they’re just spoiled pancake wannabes and are given that fancy French name just to sound good. I don’t even get the appeal.”

“That’s a wonderful observation. Please, continue,” I say dryly. I pretend not to notice that in the rest of the answer, he opened up to me--actually opened up to me.

He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I haven’t really thought about my future, to the dismay of my parents. I’m a math major so I guess I’d like to be a math teacher one day, but the idea of pursuing a career path in poetry is equally appealing. So I don’t know.”