Collateral Damage (6 page)

This book destroyed her.

In twenty-four hours, Ethan Frome and I
destroyed
Jaden McEntyre.

She shifts in her seat, tucks her hair behind her ears. "Well?"

I'm staring again.

I avert my gaze, returning to science. Safety. At the same time, I try to weave the story together, piecing what little I know of love, suicide attempts, wanting to be with someone even when it's wrong.... "So you're saying Mattie and Ethan actually get what they want?"

She scoffs, offended. "No! They wanted to be
together
. That was the whole point."

My shoulders lift, shrugging. "They're together, right?"

"Of course not!" But her irritation fades as connections are made. "Um, well.... Yeah, I guess Mattie and Ethan are together in the end, but not like they want to be. Can you imagine watching the girl you love suffer for the rest of her life because of something stupid you did?"

"Don't know," I reply. "It's never happened. So I lack a certain degree of empathy."

She unwraps her sandwich and takes a bite, and, when another cold breeze blows between us, glances around the courtyard. The weathered tables and dead grass. The empty trees. The gray sky casting shadows over us. And for a second it's so quiet and still I think that we're the only two people left in the entire universe. For a moment we are the last two humans on this earth. And, for that moment, I think that might not be such a bad thing.

I flip to the next page in my book. "The story sounds good, anyway," I tell her, bringing her back to me. This table.

She seems pleased to hear this. The wind tosses her hair around. She brushes the stray strands away with her fingers, running them down her cheek. They're flushed with cold. The tip of her nose is pink, too. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin it for you."

"I asked." I return to my textbook. The definitions. There's a Chemistry quiz this afternoon, and I need to prepare. But the air, it doesn't feel quite as cold as it did a few minutes ago. And now there's sweat prickling on my back. And I can't focus. Words blur together and sentences become incomprehensible, entire pages disappearing. I can't concentrate with her here, sitting across from me, hair blowing in the wind, talking to me like I matter.

"So, do you not eat?" she asks, picking at her sandwich.

I shrug. "Depends on what kind of mood I'm in." I eat a pretty big breakfast after my morning workout, so I'm not exactly hungry this time of day.

"Fair enough. Why do you sit out here by yourself?"

"Because it's quiet," I answer.

"And that doesn't get boring?"

"Nope."

She lets go of a sigh. "Am I bothering you?"

If I counted, I've probably spent more than a hundred days at this table, alone. I survived the end of summer—some of the hottest days in late August—fall, and now winter. This is my space. My table. I sit out here by myself because I'm not at this school to make friends. I don't need what's behind those walls. I don't need this girl sitting across from me.

But she isn't bothering me, even as she watches me expectantly, those eyes of hers piercing mine.

"Nah," I reply, shrugging casually.

She reaches inside her brown paper bag and removes a package of Sun Chips. The plastic wrinkles and squeaks between her fingers as it splits. She takes a chip, pops it into her mouth, and holds the bag out to me. I watch her for a moment, confused. Unsure. But then she jiggles it, and what she's saying without saying is: "Here. Take it. They're yours."

And even though I'm not hungry, I take them. I take them because she offered, and because they don't look half bad, and because it's the first time anyone has made an effort to be nice to me since I showed up at this place.

My fingers brush hers as the bag switches hands. Whether or not it was an accident is up for debate. But I know that she notices—that it does something—because when our eyes meet her cheeks flush. She clears her throat and lowers her gaze and I can't help but wonder what she's thinking.

I pull out a chip and bite into it. It's crunchy, and salty, and just what I need to make it through the rest of this day. It's enough to elicit a smile, and, when she glances back at me, she's smiling, too.

And that sparkle?

Suddenly it's back.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

"The roast beef was really good," Callie muses. "We should definitely do options at the reception. Maybe roast beef and chicken?"

He had taken to the girl from the first day, when he had driven over to the Flats to meet her, and...

"Chris? Are you listening?"

"Mmm hmm," I reply. "Chicken and roast beef."

...and she had smiled...

"Either one of those? Or both?"

"Either one. Or both," I repeat.

...and she had smiled...

"Well what did you think about the location? I know it was dark, but I thought the gazebo by the lake was beautiful. And you heard them say they can easily fit 300 people in the reception hall."

I drop the copy of
Ethan Frome
to my lap, drag my hand across my mouth. I have to read this. I have to get this done. But there are too many distractions. As much as I enjoy sleeping in a real bed and having towels that match, I really just want to be back at my own place, lying on my couch. Reading. "I like whatever you like, Cal."

She sits up, tucks her legs beneath her, and fixes the strap on her pink satin pajamas. "I don't want you to like whatever I like," she says. "This is our wedding. I want you to be part of it—the choices, the planning. This is your day as much as it is mine."

I can't believe we're even discussing this. What groom has ever had a legitimate say in the wedding planning? "Everyone knows that weddings are for the bride," I argue. "Just tell me where to be and when to be there."

She frowns, and I know I've offended her. "See? That's the attitude I'm talking about. If I'm going to become Mrs. Christopher Parker Whalen, I want Christopher Parker Whalen to be present during every aspect of this event, and that includes the planning."

I exhale a tired sigh, rub my eyes.

I should've stayed home this weekend.

"I'm present, Callie. I swear."

"What did you think about the venue? Can you see us getting married there?"

This is what we call a loaded question.

When I imagine my wedding—and not that I've spent a lot of time imagining—I think simple and quiet. With close family and friends. Maybe even on a beach somewhere. What I don't see is this massive event at Winnfield Plantation. I don't see seven-course meals and embroidered napkins. Unfortunately, my idea of a perfect wedding and Callie's idea of a perfect wedding do not align. Not that I can tell her this.

"Yes," I lie. "It was beautiful."

But the words are exactly what she wants to hear, and a huge grin lights her face. "They gave me every date available next year," she says. "Summer is out, but it clears up again mid-fall. They do have one early date, though, from a cancellation. It's the first weekend in May." She eyes me expectantly, waiting for my approval.

"Not this May," I clarify.

"No.
Next
May. I told you, they book really fast. It's a miracle this day is even open. If we want to get married there, then it's perfect. Otherwise, we're talking almost two years."

Am I the only one who thinks there's nothing wrong with a two-year engagement? "We don't want to rush," I remind her.

"I don't want to wait two years, Chris," she says, brown eyes serious.

"I know. But I didn't think we were ready to talk dates."

"We are if we're trying to get the location of our dreams," she explains. "You have no idea how much planning we have to do. It's perfect. It's early spring. It will be warm, but not too hot. We can have the wedding outside. If there's an issue, we can move it indoors. I
love
the location, Chris. I
adore
it. And you said you liked it, too. So it's really kind of a no-brainer."

I don't know what to say. All of this talk about locations and roast beef and dates. I just want to read this story. I want Ethan Frome and Mattie Silver. I want to do my job and get it done. I can't deal with this right now.

When I don't respond, she slides off the bed and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I listen to her entire bedtime routine—the washing of her face and brushing of her teeth—and, when she returns, sans makeup and smelling faintly of mint, frowning, I crumble.

If I screw this up, she'll never forgive me. I can't keep screwing things up.

"I'll talk to Mom tomorrow. If there are no conflicts, we'll do the first weekend in May."

Her expression softens, melting into a smile. She crawls across the bed on her knees and kisses me easily on the lips. "I knew you'd come around." Her voice lowers further, smooth and sultry. "Whatever can I do to thank you?" she teases.

"You can let me finish this book."

She pulls away, forehead crinkling. "Seriously?"

It's Saturday night, and I've just chosen a book over my girlfriend of four years. My
fiancée. "Um...kind of. Yeah."

She laughs. "Okay. You're easy to please. Rain check?"

"Absolutely."

She plants another kiss on my lips, then slips under the covers and turns off the lamp on her bedside table. "Don't stay up too late," she says. Overhead, the ceiling fan spins quietly—around and around. Every few seconds the cord plinks against the glass globe.

I pick up
Ethan Frome
one more time.

...and she had smiled and waved to him from the train, crying out, "You must be Ethan!" as she jumped down with her bundles.... But it was not only that the coming to his house of a bit of hopeful young life was like the lighting of a fire on a cold hearth. The girl was more than the bright serviceable creature he had thought her.

I continue reading by the light of the lamp on my side of the room, turning pages quietly, lost in the cold, dark world of Starkfield and Ethan Frome. I know it ends badly. Jaden warned me, the author warned me, but it does little to prepare me for those last moments Ethan and Mattie share: the desperation—the desire to feel her, to kiss her one more time. And, when they fail....

I close the book and place it on the nightstand, run fingers through my hair, shiver against the breeze from the fan.

It's late.

It's past late, even. It's almost...early.

I pull Callie's feather comforter all the way to my chin and reach for the lamp cord, plunging the room into darkness. I wait for my eyes to adjust. I wait for the blankets to warm my bare skin. I wait for my head to make some kind of sense of everything I just read. My mind reels with reflections of Zeena and Ethan and Mattie and Ethan and love and loss and longing.

They should've run away.

He should've tried harder.