Bright Before Sunrise (26 page)

She finally laughs. “Stop teasing me! I’m serious. Amelia tells me I should just suck it up and pick a guy—otherwise I’ll go off to college ‘dangerously innocent’—her words, not mine. But if I know I’m not going to feel about a guy the way he feels about me, then I’m setting him up to be hurt. How can I do that to someone I like? Even if it’s not
like
-like.”

I was going to make a crack about “
like
-like,” but her answer doesn’t seem funny anymore. “Good question. I don’t disagree.”

“Plus, I think they’re all still secretly impressed with the noises and smells they can make.”

“They are.” I laugh louder than the comment really deserves and almost prove her right about my gender’s immaturity by twisting her swing sideways. Instead, I put an extra step of space between us and look around for something distracting that
isn’t
her. She lets herself slow to a stop. She’s not looking at me either.

If “awkward” had a flavor, it would taste like this moment. Like my mouth opening and closing as I try to think of something to say. Or sprinkler water and the one sip of beer I had tonight. Or the ghost of Carly’s lip gloss and the laughter that just fizzled.

I rap my knuckles against the cold metal frame of the swings. A hollow sound reverberates down the pole, and I open my mouth again. I don’t know what ruined the moment, but I want it back.

Maybe the moment was damned to fail. I mean, Brighton. In Hamilton. With me. It’s an equation that has no solution.

I look away from her, across to the other side of the park,
and suddenly I
need
to see it again. I’m already off the playground sand and on the sidewalk before I call, “There’s somewhere I have to go. It won’t take long. You can either come or stay here.”

I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

32
 
 
Brighton
 
 
12:25 A.M.

He’s leaving without me.

It’s my fault too. He’d started opening up about his life, baseball, girls. So what do I do? Ruin it all. Could I sound more ridiculous? Oh, why don’t you date, Brighton?
Well, you see, guys smell
. Way to be eight. Does he think I include him in that category? Real smooth. He looked so embarrassed
for
me—though I’m more than embarrassed enough on my own.

I really mentioned burping and farting. Like that phone call from Mom wasn’t bad enough. I knew she’d have a meltdown tonight. I knew it.

He paces next to a trash can with his eyes fixed on something I can’t identify.

Just this once, Evy can handle Mom. They’ll be fine.

“Wait up! Please.”

As soon as I reach him, he’s off again, like he’s afraid our destination will disappear before we reach it.

“Where are we going?”

“Wait and see, Bright,” he says. Then adds, “Sorry.” He’s staring at something across the street.

“What? Why?” I look around for whatever’s inspiring his apology and come up with nothing.

“Called you Bright again. Accident, I swear.”

“I didn’t even notice.”

For the first time since he started on this manic mission to wherever, Jonah looks at me. His brown eyes settle on mine and stay there; my cheeks react with a blush.

“My dad used to call me that: his Rainbow Brite.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Every day.” It’s just a smidge more than twelve hours until his memorial. My stomach twists. My throat is constricting. I want to look away, but his eye contact is the only thing keeping me steady. “Tell me about
your
dad. Do you still see him a lot?”

“No, never. I wish I could hate him. Then at least it would be mutual.”

“Jonah, come on. You know your father doesn’t hate you.”

He kicks at a rock on the sidewalk and answers in a tight voice. “Yeah. He does. He blames me.”

“He couldn’t. He’s your dad.”

“He blames
me
.” He’s stopped walking and is pacing the same three squares of sidewalk. The emotions spill out of his voice and into his stride: furious, fast steps that change direction without pattern.

“Paul was my physical therapist. Mom met him because of me. Because I screwed up my right ankle sliding into home plate and couldn’t drive myself to appointments. Dad’s convinced I
knew
. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

My chest feels tender from talking about Dad, and my heart aches for Jonah. Not wanted? By his own father?

“He said I chose sides by not telling him—even though I had no clue. And that Mom and Paul were still a family, and a kid belonged with a family. He, on the other hand, was now a bachelor, and a teenager didn’t fit in his new lifestyle. I guess he doesn’t want me in the way while he bar hops. I doubt he’s out looking to find me a new mommy.”

I hug myself because I know if I touch him, he’ll stop.

“And then he sold the house without even telling me. Called me after he was in a hotel. I’m surprised he called at all. I guess I should be grateful. He coulda called from Florida and said, ‘By the way, I’ve moved.’”

“Why?” I gasp the word and cringe at the unfairness of it all. No wonder Jonah’s bitter.

“He and my mom agreed it’d be easier for me if I didn’t have to see the house packed up. They equated it to a body in a casket—it’s better I remember my home as a ‘happy place,’ not empty rooms full of boxes. Like I can forget their fights and only remember the good times.”

He stops pacing and looks at me. His face is all naked emotion. His eyes scream of need. My instincts demand I look away. Run away. I don’t want to be needed. Not like this. Not in a way that requires me to share more than space and conversation—a way that requires me to share
me
.

“Do you get this?” He swallows and drops eye contact, shoulders slumping. “Forget it. Your parents’ divorce was probably all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and no hurt feelings.”

I’m too stunned by Jonah’s story to sugarcoat my own. “My parents didn’t divorce. My dad died. Heart attack.”

He freezes on the sidewalk and lifts a palm to cover his face. “Crap.”

“Don’t—” I know what I should say: “It’s fine. I’m okay. You didn’t know.” Some variation of “Don’t worry, you’re off the hook” followed by a subject change.

I tug on his sleeve until he lowers his hand and opens his eyes. He continues to look … tortured.

I bite my lip and swallow. “I
do
know what you mean. I wasn’t allowed to go to the wake—no one would let me see him … after. For years—years, I convinced myself it wasn’t true. He was in another room. Or still at work. He’d gotten some extra-needy client who took all his time. And soon, really soon, he’d be home. Sitting next to me at family dinner—his lefty elbow bumping against my righty—or leaving sticky notes with we’ve-got-a-golf-date reminders or saw-your-math-test-I’m-proud-of-you messages on my bathroom mirror or in my lunch bag.”

I feel naked, but there’s no way to cover up the parts I’ve just exposed, so I clench my fists instead. “I get your need for closure.”

“It’s not the same, Brighton. It’s not the same at all. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

I’ve never seen pity on his face before. I don’t like it.

“I’m sure it’s hard, but it’ll get better. It takes time.”

Even the tone of his voice has changed.

I step away from the hug he’s offering, hold my hands up toward him. “Stop. Just stop. Please.”

Jonah’s arms drop to his sides and he’s a split second away from getting pissed. “I was just—”

“Not
you
too. I’ve spent five years in school with people
who know and treat me like a tragic character because of it. ‘That’s Brighton Waterford, her dad died—handle with care.’” I take a step toward him, starting to bridge the chasm that’s grown since I refused his hug. “Except you. Maybe that’s part of why I wouldn’t leave you alone—even when it was painfully obvious you wanted me to.”

“Because I was an ass?”

“Because you treated me as badly as you treated everyone else. You haven’t coddled me. I’d rather you be an ass than act like I’m breakable.” I hold my breath as I watch him think this through. He’s quiet for longer than I’d like. Studying me more intensely than I’d like.

“Are ass and coddler my only options?” he asks.

I laugh. “Shut up.”

“When did he die?” It’s a question in his regular voice, and I realize the flip side of Jonah not being here when it happened. He might not baby me, but he also doesn’t
know
already.

The smile slips from my face, and I swallow a few times before answering. “Five years ago. Exactly five years. There’s a memorial service tomorrow. I should be fine by now, right? I should be able to talk about him. Mom and Evy talk about him all the time.”

“So, go ahead. Talk.”

I
can’t
. I turn away from him to catch my breath.

“So where are we headed?” I ask.

“We’re here. This is my old house.” Jonah pauses to study it for a moment before he leads the way up the driveway.

He sits on the steps of a back deck, and I join him. He’s staring at something invisible, something that has
significance to him and not me. All I can see is this backyard bleeding into his neighbors’, blending with the one beyond that. Is he thinking about his old life or his new one? About me?

We’re sitting so close. My damp dress is cold in contrast to the heat that radiates off him. I’d like that hug now—if I could think of a way to ask for it without being lame. His face is unreadable. The faraway look of an in-class daydream. He looks unreachable, and sitting two inches away, I’m lonely.

“How do you—” I jump when he speaks. He clears his throat and starts again, “How do you handle something like that? I can’t even handle a divorce at eighteen.”

“My mom went to pieces”—I shiver thinking about her days and days in bed, leaving only to go to the bathroom or refill whatever was in her travel mug and throw TV dinners in the microwave for us. “Evy lashed out at everyone: cursing at Mr. Donnelly when he asked how she was; getting a speeding ticket in Dad’s car when she didn’t even have a permit. And that was
after
she ran over his golf bag, then dumped the whole thing into the lake at the club. I didn’t have a choice. I had to deal with it.

“It was when Evy packed herself a can of beer for lunch instead of a soda that Mom finally snapped out of it and began parenting again.” Spilling confessions to a recently tarred driveway and the sandbox in the next yard is easier than to his face, but I have to see his reaction. I’ve never said any of this out loud before—not even to Amelia, though she was there to see some of it. I look at him and hold my breath while he shakes his head.

“Crap,” Jonah says again. His hand touches my shoulder.
Just briefly, lightly, but it keeps me from flying into a million pieces and chases the goosebumps off my arms—replacing them with a flash of heat. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You were, what, twelve? What’d
you
do?”

I shrug. “Nothing exciting. I turned behaving into a science.” I lean back, rest my head on the step behind me, and list an action on each star that’s visible through the cloudy sky: “I cleaned up and tried to get Mom to eat. I made straight A’s—I worked well with others. I was good enough at it that I convinced everyone I was okay.”

“Brighton …” Jonah shifts to mirror my position. When I turn, his face is only inches from mine.

“I acted nice and lied and said I was fine. I chose kindness as—how’d you put it? Because you were so right—‘my social weapon of choice.’ And I did what I thought he’d want me to do. Signed up for all the clubs he did. Not the sports, though. I’m horrible at golf and basketball. And, for a while, I slept with a copy of his book under my pillow—tried to convince myself that those words on those pages were
him
speaking to
me
.

“
That
was the book I was looking at in your living room, Jonah. It’s one he wrote. I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I just didn’t expect to see it there and was feeling a little lost. I wanted him to give me some answers. But—” I choke on the words “but he can’t” and spit out an automatic—“but I’m fine.”