Where You'll Find Me (12 page)

The door opens and closes. Footsteps stop behind me. “Hanley?” Nate’s voice is soft. Tentative.

I don’t move.

He drapes my fleece over my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

I don’t answer. If I open my mouth to do anything other than breathe, I’m going to fall apart, and I can’t do that.

Half of me expects Nate to keep prying and the other half expects him to leave, but he doesn’t do either one. Instead, he leans back against the banister a few inches away from me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shove his hands in his pockets. For a while, neither one of us says anything. Neither one of us moves. I just keep trying to hold myself together.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry
.

The voices of the smokers eventually disappear, leaving Nate and me alone. He breaks the silence. “Do you want me to take you home?”

And even though the answer to the question is a simple yes or no, when I open my mouth, something entirely different comes out. “My best friend killed herself.” It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud, and it hurts as much as I thought it would. The words scratch my throat like shattered glass.

“Hanley,” Nate says softly, so soft I almost don’t hear it over my
don’t cry
mantra.

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes tight against tears that burn. Pushing away from the banister, I take two shaky steps back. “No,” I say, eyes still closed. “Don’t. Don’t you say my name like that, with sympathy. I should have known. She was my best friend. I should have
known
. But I didn’t pay attention, and one night everything was fine, and the next morning she was gone. And I never…” And then my mantra stops working, because I can’t speak around the knot in my throat and tears spill through closed eyelids and I’m sobbing. The kind of sobs I haven’t cried since Kayla died.

In an instant, Nate’s arms are around me. I smash my face into his jacket, and I’m crying so hard I’m not breathing, and I think I literally might die of grief. It’s loud and messy, and my legs don’t want to hold me up any longer. Nate slides down to the deck with me. He holds me tight and doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t pat my shoulder or rub my back, he just holds me, like he knows that if he lets go for even a fraction of a second, I’m going to fall apart too much to be put back together again.

It feels like I’m going to spend the rest of my life like this, crying so hard my chest and my stomach and my head and my heart physically hurt. Crying until my organs are ripped to shreds.

I don’t think I’ll stop, but after a long time, I do. My breathing slows down. The choking, hiccupping sobs meld into sniffles. The tears on my face are less like a garden hose and more like the drip of a leaky faucet. I can’t cry anymore. Not now. I’ve got nothing left.

As if he can feel the change, too, Nate relaxes his grasp on me. He doesn’t let go, just stops holding me like my life depends on it. He moves his hands to my shoulders and slowly pushes me away from his chest.

My eyes feel puffy. Actually, my whole face feels twice its normal size, but I’m not too swollen to miss the mess I’ve made on Nate’s jacket.

I stare at that dark, wet spot to avoid looking Nate in the eye. He wipes at tears that linger on my face, and his cold fingers are a stark contrast to my hot skin. There must be eye makeup running all the way down to my ankles, but I can’t bring myself to care. My head and my heart are too heavy.

Nate brushes my bangs away from my forehead, and I lean into his comforting touch. He puts one finger under my chin and lifts so I’m not facing his jacket anymore.

“Was Kayla her name?” he asks.

When I look into his clear blue eyes, there’s sadness. My pain reflected in him. There’s sympathy and concern. But most of all, there’s understanding. “Yes,” I whisper as a few more tears slide down my cheeks. Nate lets them go.

“You haven’t cried since she’s been gone, have you?”

Slowly, I shake my head. It was something I worked toward. Something I prided myself on.
Yes, my best friend killed herself, but look! I’m fine!
Only now it seems so stupid.

“Crying hurts,” he says. The pain in his expression is as much mine as it is his. “But not crying hurts even worse. Trust me.”

It’s a truth I should have learned a long time ago, but I needed someone like Nate to teach me. Someone who understands.

He wipes at my cheeks one more time and smiles slightly. “You’re a mess.”

I try to echo his smile, but it won’t come. Not yet. “I know.”

“Want to get out of here?”

“More than anything.”

…

Misty has given up D.D. responsibilities, so Nate quickly befriends a sober girl with a car and convinces her to drive us home. Nate and this girl talk the whole way, but I sit in silence with my forehead pressed against the cool window, letting the world blur by. At home, Nate thanks her and leads me up to the house with his hand on the small of my back.

“Cold out there,” he says as I turn on the light, and he closes the door behind us.

“Yeah.”

He stands in front of me and pushes my bangs off my face, tucking the longer strands behind my ear. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“I call bullshit,” he says, smiling gently.

With a sigh, I sit against the wall and say, “Sorry for the meltdown.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says as he sits next to me. “It’s not your fault, you know. Yes, it’s shitty. You can ‘what if’ yourself to death, but the bottom line is that what happened to Kayla is not your fault.”

“But it
is
my fault. I could have stopped her. If I would have paid closer attention or asked her…” Tears fill my eyes, and I stop talking, fighting for some of the control I’ve lost.

“Hey. Don’t shut down like that. You don’t have to keep it together all the time.”

But I didn’t keep it together. Nate held me together. Without him, I would have fallen apart completely. “Yes, I do.”

He frowns. “Why?”

Even though it’s one word, the question is complicated. I toy with the zipper on Nate’s backpack for a while before answering. “I had to hold myself together around my parents. They never talked about it. Kayla’s name is a four-letter word in our house. Like not talking about her would erase what happened. About a week after she died, my parents shipped me off to therapy, as if that was all I needed to be all better. I hated therapy. I made shit up and convinced the guy I was fine until my parents decided I didn’t need to go anymore. They wanted to put it behind us. They wanted a perfect family. They wanted everything to be okay.”

He links his pinky finger in mine and squeezes. “But you weren’t okay.”

“Sometimes I thought if I didn’t cry, that meant I was fine. But, no. I wasn’t really okay.”

“You didn’t know it was okay to not be okay.”

“Exactly.” Nate understands me when I barely understand myself. But then again, he’s been there. “So, is that why you’re here, in my garage? You’re dealing with your brother’s death about as well as I dealt with Kayla’s death?”

He gives a sad smile. “Not exactly.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “You’re not going to tell me anything else?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I told you my secret, now you tell me yours.”

He turns and places a kiss on my temple. “I wish I could. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “More complicated than your best friend committing suicide? Come on. I trusted you. You can trust me.”

“Not that easy.”

“So, you’re not going to tell me? Ever?”

He frowns. “It’s not that—”

“No.” I get to my feet, ready to bolt. “That’s bullshit. I haven’t opened up to
anyone
about Kayla. No one. I finally open up to you, and you shut me out completely? That’s a bunch of crap.”

“Hanley.” He moves to stand as well, but the glare I shoot him puts a stop to that.

“Good night, Nate.” I turn on my heel, and I’m gone.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, I wake to a headache worse than the average hangover. Probably a combination of the emotional breakdown at the party and the argument with Nate. Kayla’s memory followed me into my dreams last night. More like a nightmare. I was there with Kayla on the day she died. The pills were in her hands, but I couldn’t do anything to stop her. I screamed and cried and pleaded with her to stop, but it didn’t work. She swallowed the pills with a smile on her face, and then I woke up crying.

Maybe a shower will help ease my headache and push the nightmare aside. While washing my hair, my mind drifts to Nate. It still doesn’t seem right that he won’t tell me what he’s hiding. My secret could have been shared all along, I just didn’t want to share it. With Nate, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Maybe his secret is something he
can’t
share. Maybe the suspicions that I’ve pushed aside were right. Maybe he’s more dangerous than I’ve allowed myself to consider. I don’t want to think about life without Nate. The problem is that he’s making it hard to picture life
with
him, too.

Once I’m dressed, I decide to go for a walk. Clear my head. My parents are fans of exercise, and I can’t get into much trouble on a walk, so I doubt they’ll have a problem with it. When I get downstairs, Mom is ironing.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Morning. Is it okay if I go for a walk?”

“To where?” Mom asks, smoothing the iron over a particularly wrinkled pair of pants.

Pulling on my fleece, I say, “Just want to get out of the house for a little while.”

“I suppose that’s okay,” Mom says. “Just around the neighborhood, right?”

“Right.”

She glances at the clock. “Be back in half an hour.”

“Thanks.”

Mom removes the pants from the ironing board and puts them on a hanger before grabbing one of Dad’s dress shirts. My family is so domestic it’s disgusting. I’m almost out of the room when my mom says, “Hey, Hanley?”

I know that tone. It’s the “Mom is suspicious” tone. The “I’m going to have to lie” tone. I stop. Turn. “Yeah?”

“My alarm clock didn’t go off last night for bed checks. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” I say, all wide-eyed innocence. “Really? I thought I heard you come in. Must have dreamed it.”

Mom looks up from a wrinkle in the shirt long enough to study me. “Are you sure about that?”

Luckily, the days when I couldn’t look my mom in the eye and tell a blatant lie are long gone. “Positive.”

The iron hisses out a cloud of steam. Mom sighs. “I must have forgotten to set them. Enjoy your walk.”

That was easy. As I step into the garage, I don’t expect Nate to be there, which is why I nearly jump out of my skin when he is.

“Hey,” he says, standing from his hiding spot.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, one hand on my chest.

“Why?”

I fold my arms over my chest. “You’re usually gone during the day.” Plus, I kind of thought he would have bailed after our argument. For a while anyway.

He shrugs. “I wanted to talk to you. Where are you headed?”

“Going for a walk.”

“Can I join you?”

I consider. As much as a conversation with Nate needs to happen, being out with him at night is one thing. Being out with him in the middle of the day is something completely different. “How about we just stay here and talk?” I ask, motioning toward the tarp and blankets.

He sits down, and I sit next to him, purposely leaving some room between the two of us. “So,” he says, “how are you?”

“Good.”

“Doing okay after last night?”

Part of me wants to tell him about my nightmare, but the rest of me doesn’t want to open up to him any further if he’s not going to open up to me at all. “Yeah.” I don’t look him in the eye. Lying to Nate seems more difficult than lying to my parents. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good,” he says, but it’s about as convincing as my lie. “So, I’ve been thinking.” He pauses, and I toy with a thread on one of the blankets. “I get it. It was hard for you to open up about Kayla, and it pissed you off when I didn’t do the same. I’m sorry.”

He’s right, but being pissed isn’t the only issue. I tug on the thread, and it gets a little longer. “How bad is your secret?”

“Kind of depends on your definition of ‘bad.’”

“Is it bad enough that I shouldn’t be here right now? Am I putting myself in danger?”

“No,” he says immediately. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

When I turn to him, his expression is serious, and his eyes are clear. “That’s exactly what you would say if you were going to hurt me.”

He smiles slightly. “Touché. I guess you’ll just have to trust me.” Before I can decide on which side of the line between trust and suspicion I fall, he says, “I will tell you. Not yet, though.”

It’s not what I wanted to hear, but it’s a step in the right direction. A baby step, but I think I’m going to have to take it. “I appreciate the apology.” It’s not quite forgiveness or acceptance, but it’s true.

“Good. Because I mean it.” He reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear. “You’re kind of important to me.”

“You’re kind of important to me, too.”

He slides closer, and I don’t move away. Upset with him or not, his touch is still electric when our shoulders bump.

“Now that the serious stuff is out of the way, what’s the plan for today?”

“Nothing. Being grounded. Unless…” An idea begins to form in my mind. Maybe the best way to get Nate to open up is to bring him even further into my world. To make sure he’s comfortable. Comfortable enough to tell me whatever he’s holding back.

“Unless what?”

“Do you want to come in for dinner?”

Nate’s eyes widen. “In? You mean in your house? With your parents there?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, they’ll be the ones doing the cooking. Like I said before, you really don’t want to see me cook.”

“But…isn’t that… Won’t that be…”

“Here’s your chance for a home-cooked meal. To meet my family. To spend more time with me.”

“What will we tell your parents?”

“That you’re living in our garage and you’re probably a murderer or a rapist,” I deadpan. Only it must be too close to the truth, because he tenses. His reaction is serious. Too serious. Taking a shaky breath, I force myself to remember what he just said. He’s not going to hurt me. He’s going to tell me the truth someday. And neither one of those possibilities can be the truth he’ll tell me. They
can’t
be. I swallow hard and say, “We’ll tell them I met you at the library.”

He runs his hand over hair that’s a little longer than it was when I met him. “Do you ever go to the library?”

“Well, no…”

He laughs. “Then I think we need a better excuse. We’ll tell them I used to go to your school. That I transferred, but you want to have me over for dinner because you don’t get to see me anymore. You miss me because I’m so awesome.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that might work. But not the last part.”

Nate scoffs. “But that was my favorite part!”

“So, you’ll do it? You’ll come in for dinner?”

He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “I’ll do it. Meeting the parents. Should I be nervous?”

I smile. “Absolutely.”

…

Even with my teasing warning to Nate, I end up being nervous myself. I’ve never had a boy over for dinner. Especially not a boy who lives in my garage. There are so many chances for something to go wrong that I have to keep reminding myself it won’t. That everything will be fine.

I select an outfit of jeans and a tight black T-shirt. I do my makeup and straighten my hair until it shines.

“So, who’s this guy who’s coming for dinner?” Heather asks as she passes by the bathroom.

I put on lip gloss as I say, “His name is Nate.”

“And who is Nate? Is he the guy from the mall a few weeks ago?”

“Maybe,” I say, tossing the lip gloss back in the drawer.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Is he the same guy from the party you went to the other night that I had to cover for?”

“Maybe.” Blood rushes to my cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes as well. So, are things getting serious with this guy?”

“Not serious. We’re just…hanging out. That’s all.”

Heather nods. “Right.” Only it doesn’t
sound
right.

“Oh, you should talk, Ms. ‘I have a crush on Clinton.’”

“Hey, that’s confidential information.”

“I know. And it will stay confidential. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use it against you.” The doorbell rings, and I smile. “That’s Nate.”

“You better get it before Mom or Dad gives him too much of a hard time.”

Knowing she’s right, I run downstairs, yelling, “Got it.” Nate’s figure is familiar through the frosted glass of the front door. It’s weird to see him on our porch and not in the garage. When I open the door, I can’t help but smile.

“Hi.” He glances around in a quick “parent check” before leaning forward for a kiss. “Nice house.” He winks as I let him in.

“Ready for this?”

He takes a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

After tossing his coat on the couch in the den, I take Nate into the kitchen, where Dad is slicing bread and Mom is tossing a salad.

“Hello,” Mom says warmly.

“Nate, this is my mom and dad. Mom and Dad, this is my friend, Nate.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Nate says, extending his hand first to Mom and then to Dad. He looks them both in the eye and smiles. “Thank you for having me.”

“You’re more than welcome. I hope pasta is okay,” Mom says.

“That’s perfect. One of my favorite foods.” The way he says the words makes him sound genuine instead of like a suck-up. It’s impressive.

“So, Nate, where do you go to school?” Dad asks.

“I used to go to Edison, but I just moved.”

Dad nods. “Did you play sports at Edison?”

“No. I played soccer for a while when I was younger, but I broke my ankle and had to have pins put in. That ended my career.”

“Too bad,” Dad responds.

I wonder how much of the story is true. There’s so much I don’t know about Nate, secrets not included.

“Your home is beautiful,” Nate says to my mother. “Have you lived here long?”

“Thank you.” Compliments about mom’s home, hair, or fashion sense always make her beam. “About fourteen years. We bought the house when it was only a few years old.”

“I needed a house with a three-car garage, and this was one of the only ones in the area.”

Nate smiles. “Yeah? Are you into cars?”

Oh, he’s playing the right card to win over my dad.

“Definitely. I have a ‘77 Firebird in the garage.”

“Really? Wow. I’d love to see it sometime.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s actually surprised.

“Actually, honey,” Dad says to Mom. “Do we have a few minutes? Can I show Nate the Firebird?”

“Dad,” I protest, not wanting him to drag Nate out for guy time quite yet. I’m afraid of the questions Dad will ask that Nate might not be able to answer. But Nate doesn’t seem concerned at all.

“It’s cool, Hanley. I’d love to see the car. Sounds awesome.”

“Go ahead,” Mom says. “I’m waiting for the sauce to heat up and the pasta to finish cooking. Hanley can help me.”

Nate gives me an assuring smile before following Dad into the garage. The door closes, and the house is silent.

“He’s cute,” Mom says conspiratorially.

“I guess.” Though she’s right, the fact that my mom just said my friend or boyfriend or whatever is cute really grosses me out.

“And he seems nice.”

“He is.” My response is distracted because ohmygod, I hope Nate thought far enough ahead to hide the tarps and blankets and his backpack.

“Here.” Mom snaps my attention from the garage to the kitchen when as she hands me the salad bowl. “Put this on the table.”

I help Mom finish putting dinner together. Dad and Nate are taking a long time, which is either a good sign or a bad sign. I resist the urge to run out and check on them. By the time everything is ready, Heather is downstairs and the guys are returning from the garage. They’re both laughing, so I guess everything must have gone smoothly. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“It’s impressive you’ve done all the work to keep it original, though,” Nate says.

“Had to. With a car like that, there’s no other choice. It’s original or else it’s pathetic.”

“True story,” Nate says. Noticing Heather, he offers her a handshake. “Hey, I’m Nate.”

“Heather,” she says.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” she says. As we take our seats, Nate next to me, Heather mouths, “He is hot,” and fans herself with one hand. I want to hit her.

“I hope everyone is hungry. I made too much food,” Mom says.

“I’d say so,” Dad agrees as he takes his seat. We pass around bread and salad and pasta and all the condiments to go with. We talk, mostly Nate asking questions about Heather and our family. He keeps the conversation going, and even though he doesn’t say much about himself, no one seems to notice. He’s smooth.

“This is amazing,” Nate says, taking a second helping of pasta. “Thank you again for having me over.”

“You’re welcome,” Mom says. “So. Nate.”

My stomach twists. Here it is. The part where my parents drill him. The part where he’s going to have to lie or tell partial truths or not say anything. The moment where I question whether this was a good idea.

“Tell us about you. About your family.”

Nate doesn’t hesitate. “Well, I’m seventeen,” he says. “I’m a senior this year.”

“What are your plans for next year?” Dad asks.

“Not sure yet. Maybe community college for a while, then one of the bigger universities after that.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Dad says.

“Do you have any siblings?” Mom asks.

“I did,” he says carefully. “I had a twin brother. But he got sick. He passed away.”

It’s quiet for a string of long, agonizing seconds. Mom, Dad, and Heather stop moving and seem to stop breathing. I wish for someone to say something, anything, to break the uncomfortable silence, but no one does. Not even me.