What's Broken Between Us (20 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
he day can’t be over fast enough, another one of those days where eyes seem to turn away from me, and in sixth period Henry rubs my shoulder, as if Jonathan’s speech affected me alone. He’s not surprised that I want to rush home the second sixth period is over.

Once I’m home, I rush to find Jonathan. The house is empty. It’s barely two p.m., so maybe he went somewhere with Gary afterward. Maybe to lunch, and he’s still out.

I call him anyway, and he answers, but as soon as I hear his voice on the phone, I know what he’s been up to.

Celebrating.

It takes me three tries to understand through the background
noise, and his heavy and distracted voice, that at some Irish pub near the freeway.

“I’m coming to get you,” I say.

“To join me!” He’s cheering when I hang up.

I drive downtown, following the directions on my phone. I park in a Loading Only zone but figure it will be fine, since I’m just going to grab Jonathan and leave. There’s a big green four-leaf clover marking the bar—I’m parked on the opposite side of the street. I try to call Jonathan to tell him to come outside, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. I try again and again, as I walk down the sidewalk, until I’m directly across from the bar. Worst-case scenario, I’ll have to go inside. Maybe this will be possible, since they let Jonathan in and might be the type of establishment that doesn’t bother checking IDs. .

I’m still across the street with my phone pressed to my ear when I see him stumble out of the bar with Wren and another girl tucked under his arms. His head is jutting forward like it’s too heavy to hold up straight. I start to call his name but stop myself in case he barrels toward me, crossing the street without looking.

He unlatches himself from the girls, and I worry he’s going to fall. He staggers slightly, catching himself by gripping the top of a bright-yellow Porsche parked on the street. I’m waiting for a small line of cars to pass before I can cross, but I keep my eyes on Jonathan. He’s rapping on the car with his open palm and frowning. I think he must be insulting the car. Wren is cracking up, leaning into her friend—for a second, they remind me of
Sutton and Grace. Then Jonathan’s hands are no longer visible on the top of the car. He’s leaning back slightly, and his smile is relaxed. The girls are laughing harder now. It takes me a second to understand what’s going on—he’s peeing on the Porsche.

The street is clear, and I could make it to his side in a few seconds if I ran. But I’m mortified. I edge off the curb a little, readying myself to snatch him as soon as he’s finished. I glance around so I don’t have to watch him, but can still see him in my peripheral vision.

Just a few feet away, I see two police officers coming around the corner. They’re walking their bicycles, probably not expecting anything eventful to happen in the middle of the day. I think that maybe they’ll laugh when they see him. Jonathan seems to think this, too, because even though he’s quick to zip up his pants and step away from the car, he smiles at them, shrugs, says something to them, laughing—maybe even tells them a joke. They don’t laugh, though, as they park their bikes and move toward Jonathan.

Jonathan panics. He turns around, ready to run, but trips over his left foot in the process and bumps into Wren, taking down both her and her friend. By the time he gets back up, the officers are on him. They push him against the Porsche, bending him over the hood, as they put handcuffs on him. Wren and her friend are talking fast, and loudly, though they’re arguing over each other so I can’t really make out what they’re saying. One officer stands between the girls and Jonathan, acting as a barricade, finally saying something that makes them go silent.

Jonathan’s lips are moving fast—he’s trying to talk his way out of this. When the officer holding him straightens him up and the other one starts talking into his radio, Jonathan begins to panic again. He’s still talking quickly, but now he’s shaking his head at them. His eyes squint shut, defeated, as the officer holding him reaches into Jonathan’s back pocket and digs out his wallet.

A police car with its lights off leisurely rounds the corner and pulls up on the curb in front of Jonathan. As his eyes follow the car, they find me.

“Amanda!” He shouts my name over and over again. His face is alight, full of hope. Like he really thinks I can help him.

“That’s my baby sister—she’s here to get me. She’ll take me home—” I can’t hear or decipher everything my brother is telling them. But all four cops, the two on the bikes and the two that have just arrived with the car, stare back at me. Waiting. Maybe I really can stroll across the street and take my drunk brother off their hands. Promise to put him to bed and keep him hydrated. Laugh with them about the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Maybe they’d be perfectly happy to send him home safely, save themselves the trouble of paperwork and a trip back to the station.

“Come here, Amanda, tell them!” Jonathan’s slurring, but his voice still carries.

I try to shout back, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about the gin rickey. The diffusion of responsibility. Henry’s face when he confessed he shouldn’t have been driving us. My father standing
outside Newton’s. My mother, holding on tight to her no-curfew policy. All the trouble Graham goes through before he drinks. The lies Sutton tells herself.

And then I think of Grace.

Jonathan’s face is strained now, and the cops seem to have given up on me. They’re pulling him toward the cruiser. He resists, leaning away from them, practically making them drag him. He never stops screaming my name.

I turn around, start walking back to my car. And even though my brother is calling for me, louder by the second, I manage to get in my car and turn on the engine. My hands are steady, but my insides feel like they’re jumping, and all I want to do is put my head down and cry. As soon as the police car drives away with Jonathan securely in back, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. Tears stream fast down my cheeks, and I cover my mouth to keep the sobs in. But it doesn’t work. I can’t stop thinking that maybe I’ve failed him again. It’s hard to be alone with myself, with all of these thoughts.

And then I remember, I don’t have to be. I take out my phone, holding it close as I dial. I wipe away my tears as I listen to the phone ring three times before I get an answer.

“Dad.” I’m trying to make my voice sound normal, but it’s a wasted effort.

“Amanda?” He sounds immediately rattled. “What’s the matter?”

I tell him everything. And when I’m finished, he doesn’t hesitate, he just says, “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” He hangs up
before I have the chance to protest or ask him what we’re going to do about Jonathan.

From: [email protected]

To: Dawn Horner [mailto:[email protected]]

Sent: Thursday, November, 20, 3:00 p.m.

Subject: Again

I do not blame you for not answering my phone calls, nor do I blame you for the reply text you sent—
I don’t need this
—when I texted you an apology with a “but.” I take back the
but things have been really hard
.

That’s no excuse. Because as Gary says, there are people in your lives meant to push you and those who are meant to match you (it’s true my brother’s probation officer is very wise; if only Jonathan would notice, he’d learn a lot). And I think you and I have always been matches; so when we were separated by distance and in different physical places as well as in different stages of our lives, we were so used to being in sync that we stopped trying to understand each other. I feel I know too well by now that understanding each other is not effortless, and I’m sorry our friendship had to be damaged in the process.

We can talk more about this (face-to-face!) when you’re home for Christmas next month. It’s a bummer you won’t be home for Thanksgiving, but I understand how expensive it is for plane tickets when you can only be here
for a few days. Until then I’m around via email, text, and phone.

Oh, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Henry. I treated it like a shameful secret, because I’m so used to shameful secrets. But I’ll tell you more about that when you get here. Or maybe you can just see for yourself.

Also, Jonathan might be in jail when you get here. Earlier this week he was taken into protective custody for being drunk and disorderly. Oh, and for peeing on a Porsche. It’s a long story, but it seems all his get out of jail free cards have been used up. He’ll be headed back to the big house right before Christmas. Gary still isn’t convinced they’ll put him away for the rest of his probationary period, and wouldn’t you know it, our lawyers are at it again, though Gary and high-priced attorneys can do only so much. Jonathan’s got to do the rest.

I miss you and am counting down the days until I can see you.

                        
Your very sorry best friend,

                        
Amanda

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
sit next to Jonathan in a frozen yogurt shop Thanksgiving weekend, watching my butter pecan turn into a puddle. It was hard to convince him to come here with me.

We haven’t said a word to each other since we left the house.

“They’re late,” he finally says. “Maybe we should take the hint.”

I don’t dignify this with an answer. It was Gary who thought it would be a good idea to do a sit-down with Sutton and Henry. Since Sutton is still trying incessantly to get in touch with Jonathan, and Henry and I are “what we are,” Gary told us it would be an excellent opportunity for us to all have a “real conversation.”

“A chance for Jonathan to talk about Grace and what happened, with people who care about him and know the situation.

“And before Jonathan’s scheduled to go back to jail,” he added, turning to me, so I’d remember that time is of the essence. As if I’d forget.

The word
closure
was also used. Jonathan doesn’t believe in closure. He believes that by condemning himself, he’s actually freeing himself, and freeing us, too. I don’t know how to argue with him about that.

But Sutton deserves more.

“We’re being stood up, baby sister,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. We’re sitting next to each other in the booth, because I think the best seating arrangement is not one where Jonathan sits next to Sutton, and definitely not one where Jonathan sits next to Henry.

I glance at my phone again to see if I’ve missed a call from Henry.

“They’ll be here.” Though the truth is, I don’t know. Henry seemed almost as against coming here, doing this, as Jonathan. They both agreed to come here only out of their love for Sutton and me.

“That’s a lot of faith you have in Henry.” Jonathan says it like he’s scolding me, as he lifts my spoon and watches the liquid glob away slowly. He declined a bowl of his own. I take that as a good sign—he’s too nervous to eat.

Jonathan and I glance at the same time at the front of the frozen yogurt shop, the smudgy windows giving us a view of the
parking lot. It’s raining outside, so besides an old man sitting at one of the round tables in the corner doing a crossword, we’re the only ones here.

Jonathan clears his throat as the small bells on the door chime and Sutton and Henry walk in. We wave at them as they come toward us; Jonathan even smiles. Sutton slides into the booth while Henry props up her crutches and closes their umbrella. He can’t look at Jonathan, which means he doesn’t really look at me either. He’s gone quickly, up to the counter to place an order.

“This is London weather,” Sutton tells us, scowling as she slips her coat off her shoulders. She’s pretty dry, since Henry held the umbrella for her, but she still has small droplets gathering at the front of her hairline. She tries to shake them off. Jonathan hands her a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the table. He’s smiling when he gives it to her, and she finally lets herself smile back before she starts dabbing.

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long.” Probably the most polite thing I’ve ever heard from Sutton.

“Oh, you know me,” Jonathan says, as both of their eyes glance to the puddle of slush my frozen yogurt has turned into. “Always fashionably early.”

And they laugh, the way they used to, at something small and silly. I feel embarrassed and queasy all at the same time at the reminder of them together over a year ago and awareness of how unnatural it feels for them to be like that again.

It’s a relief when Henry comes back, toting a bowl of peppermint for Sutton and a bowl of vanilla for himself. He’s soaking
wet, but he doesn’t bother taking off his dripping jacket. I think it’s a statement. He’s not going to be here very long, so there’s no reason to get comfortable.

“Sorry we’re late,” Henry says, and no one answers him. “And sorry about . . .” He doesn’t have to finish. We all know he means the fight, bruises still showing faintly on Jonathan’s face.

“Just doing what you had to do, I guess,” Jonathan says, not being discreet about rolling his eyes.

Henry takes his first bite of frozen yogurt, I assume as an attempt to contain himself.

“Boys are such heathens,” Sutton says. I think she must be talking to me, the only other non-boy here, but her eyes stay locked on Jonathan.

Jonathan looks away, taking my frozen yogurt and stirring it with purpose.

“So, how’s this supposed to go?” Jonathan asks.

I glance at Sutton, but she looks unmoved.

“It’s just . . . it’s not
supposed
to go a certain way,” I say. I glance at Henry for support, but he’s not looking at me; his scowl rivals Sutton’s in intensity. “Just talk.”

“To Sutton,” Henry adds, and the reaction that follows—another eye roll from Jonathan, a deep sigh from Sutton—makes me realize that this could very well be the worst idea ever.

“If this is supposed to be your chance to grill Sutton and me about being in the same room together with a bottle of vodka, well, worry no more—it won’t happen again,” Jonathan says.

“Don’t you have anything else you’d like to say . . . ?” Henry
says.

“Plenty. But nothing that’s appropriate to say in front of my baby sister.”

Sutton lets the spoon linger in her mouth a second longer after she takes a bite; I suspect this is to hide how badly she wants to smile.

“Seriously . . .” Henry sighs.

“Jonathan—” I start.

“Sutton knows how it is with us.” It’s intimate the way Jonathan says it, his voice low, his stare fixed on her. He looks to Henry, and goes cold. “Don’t sit here and pretend this is really about me and Sutton.”

“You’re right,” Henry says. “It’s about you.”

“It’s about
you
, man,” Jonathan says, ticking his finger back and forth at Henry and me. “Because you’re mad at me, and it’s affecting how you feel about her.”

“That’s not exactly—”

Jonathan cuts him off. He turns in the booth so he’s facing me. “There’ll be someone better, someone who won’t hold me against you—”

“Right, then.” Henry lets go of his spoon and lets his hand fall to the table with a thud. “I only agreed to this because you don’t return any of my sister’s phone calls, and I thought that maybe, with Amanda here, you’d show her the respect you should have shown over a year ago by having a real conversation with her—”

“That’s enough, Henry. Shit,” Sutton says.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jonathan says
to Henry.

“Why not say something about Grace?” Even Henry’s eyes widen when her name flies out of my mouth. I’ve got glares all around:
Too soon,
from Henry.
How dare you,
from Sutton.
I warned you,
from Jonathan.

“There are some things only Sutton and I understand,” Jonathan says.

But I don’t know what Sutton understands and what she doesn’t; if she knows that his behavior in public, crass and unforgivable as it is, is partly, maybe mostly, for her—so she’ll stop fixating on all the ways she thinks she’s to blame. I don’t know if he’s ever actually explained it to her, even in the roundabout way he attempted to clue me in. And sometimes it doesn’t matter what anyone tells you to think or feel, your own mind and heart will decide for you and make an inarguable case against any sort of logic or reason.

I take a quick swipe at my eyes. Here, now, is not the time or place for me to cry, but I don’t try to hide my tears.

“Hey.” Jonathan’s hand is on my shoulder. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s okay, let’s just go.”

“That’s a great solution. Just brilliant,” Henry says. But he’s the one who leaves, walking away from his frozen yogurt and Sutton and me. The door swings back and forth with a squeak, letting in a short rush of outside traffic noise.

Sutton seems unaffected, staring down into her frozen yogurt dish, stirring it, lifting a small spoonful to her mouth.

As I stand to go after him, Jonathan grabs my hand. “Don’t,”
he says. “You shouldn’t go after him when he’s upset.”

Maybe Jonathan is looking out for my best interests, but I can see something else in his pleading eyes. He’s afraid. He doesn’t want to be alone with Sutton.

I tug my hand away and ignore Jonathan when he yells, “Hey.” I know Henry won’t abandon Sutton here, but I still walk quickly.

Henry’s standing with his back to the large windows. He has his keys out, and his grip around them is tight.

“Let’s go for a drive?” I say.

I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see me when he turns around. It’s still raining, but not very hard. There’s more of a mist in the air. I have the stupidest urge to grin at the way it’s left small droplets clinging to Henry’s hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is deadpan. “I would never just take off on her like that.” He glances over his shoulder, then turns toward the windows. “I wouldn’t do that to you either.”

I position myself in front of him, close enough to touch him, but I don’t. His eyes are locked on the scene behind me. I step to the side, standing next to him so I can see what he sees. Sutton and Jonathan. Jonathan’s talking fast, still managing to smirk, and Sutton’s nodding, looking down every once in a while, and not really smiling back. Out of nowhere, she laughs so hard her eyes close, and she’s covering her mouth, leaning forward as her other hand smacks once against the table. Jonathan’s laughing now too, but his lips are still moving, talking.

“What do you think could possibly be so funny?” Henry asks.

“I don’t think we’d get it.”

Henry doesn’t answer right away. “Probably not,” he finally says.

I take his hand.

Staring at Jonathan through the dingy windows, I know there’ll always be a divide. I know there’ll be a lot I’ll never understand. Generally after someone says I’m sorry, there’s an exchange in forgiveness. Or there’s closure, plain and simple. But we don’t always get that. We learn the hard way. We do the wrong thing. We pay for it. We regret. We cry. We try to make it up to people. We punish ourselves. We lose, again and again.

“Amanda,” Henry says. He lets go of my hand to wipe the single tear that weaseled its way down my cheek. “Remember when I said there was an exact moment when I knew I liked you?” I nod.

“The more I think about it,” he continues, “I can’t choose one.”

This is the best thing he could’ve said to me, telling me that the way he feels about me isn’t an isolated incident. I picture a whole cluster of moments, stacked up tall and strong. I wrap my arms around him. so tight it’s like I’m trying to feel every molecule of him against me. He holds me just as firmly, bowing his head so his cheek presses against my temple.

We both jump at a loud pounding sound, and turn to see a white streak of frozen yogurt sliding down the window.

Sutton’s laughing, shaking her head, and Jonathan’s motioning for us to step away from each other, a good-humored frown playing on his lips. I lean into Henry, shaking against him with laughter. He’s laughing a little, too.

It’s an almost miracle, I think, that things can change so horrifically—that we can be the cause of that change—and we still manage to live with ourselves, to live with one another. An even bigger miracle is the ways we find to cope with our own brutal mistakes and accept them, especially when there’s no solution. Maybe, when there’s no repairing what we’ve wrecked and we have to navigate around the sharp, broken parts of our own destruction, that’s when we need one another the most.