If I Stay (8 page)

Yet here I was, excited about a smile.

I picked up the book and headed over the comic section, flipping through a few volumes of The Sandman and contemplating some of my next work. I rummaged through a few Japanese-Style comics, enjoying the way so many of the characters had these large eyes and tiny noses, and all the boys seemed to look vaguely feminine. When Sacha finally found me, he'd motioned towards the cafe, and I nodded.

“Let me just buy this real quick,” I told him, heading over to the register. I yanked out my wallet, waiting in line behind a few other people. An older woman and a mother who was carrying a baby that looked to be maybe six months old or so. He (as I assumed by the blue I'M TAKEN onesie that he wore) was at that age where their features started to become more distinct, and you could begin to imagine what parent they'd likely resemble most. For me, it was my dad. Hands down. We were practically twins. For Brandon, he looked more like his mother with the dark hair and pale eyes. Sacha was a mix of both, sharing his mother's lovely hair and his father's green eyes. Eyes that were always a little too pretty for his face, though sometimes I'd still catch myself staring.

“Did you find everything alright?”

The girl, whose name-tag read Stella (
like the play
, I wondered) asked in a voice that was slightly sharp. I nodded, handing her the book which she regarded quizzically.

“We've been selling this one like crazy,” she said. “Everyone's raving about it.”

“Yeah?” I asked, like I had no idea who the author was. But inside, just a teensy part of me wanted to shout:
I technically almost had sex with this guy. And it was the best five seconds of sex I've ever had. I also kissed him.

I didn't, though. Because that would be just too juvenile.

“Oh yes,” she continued. “I believe they're making a movie or something, too. I might be wrong.”

“I don't know,” I said. Then I paid, and declined the bag, and she slipped the receipt into the book like a marker and handed it to me. I walked away with a smile, strolling over to the cafe where Sacha waited with two (extra caramel) lattes.

“Find everything alright?” he asked. I laughed.

“The cashier asked me the same thing,” I told him. I took a sip of my latte that was scalding hot, and winced a little. “But yeah, I found the book.”

I slid it across the table to him, and he flipped through the pages. When he looked at the synopsis, his voice echoed my previous thoughts.

“Doesn't really give much away, does it?”

“Are we seeing a trend?” I asked, uncertain if I was crazy or not. “These mysteries that are still so mysterious.”

“And just think, he's our professor. So close to unveiling and yet so far.”

I grinned, Sacha laughed, and I appreciated with such a sincerity that we could share a moment so simple and yet so wonderful. Just a couple of kids drinking coffee in a book store that was slowly decaying. Many of the books were sweeping off the shelves, the For Sale signs plastered all over the place. I wondered, with a sad sigh, when it would eventually close down.

I didn't want to think about it.

“So we need to think about those words,” Sacha muttered, breaking through my mess of thoughts. “Why did you choose ill, anyway?”

Because I was staring straight at a man that I nearly slept with. Oh, and he was also now an authority figure of the professor variety.

“Upset stomach, for some reason,” I lied. “I was embarrassed about dodging the apple, that's all.”

Sacha narrowed his eyes a little, like he was searching for a hint of untruth. Only, because Sacha was one of the most trusting people I've ever met, the question in his eyes always quickly disappeared.

“You were always really good at that,” he said. “Dropping everything. Remember last summer when we went camping and Brandon threw the tree branch at your face?”

“That didn't count!” I insisted. “It was covered in spiderwebs.”

“It was freaking hilarious!” Sacha started laughing, sweet and infectious. “God, I loved that week so much. I miss the summer sometimes.”

“It really was great, wasn't it?” I agreed.

And it really was. It was during a week where Toby had broken things off with me – again. So we devised an escape to get out of town for awhile, making plans to go on a camping excursion to this spot where Brandon's parents used to take him when he was little. Sacha, Brandon, myself and one other girl that I'd sort of become close with, Kelly Rigby, and had brought along just to balance out the girl to guy ratio. Kelly was cool, and we'd shared a few classes together in high school, actually. Sadly, our short-lived friendship didn't work out. Truth be told, most of my friendships with females never really worked out. Mostly because I'm just remarkably picky. Or remarkably introverted.

Or, really thinking about it, I was always so self-conscious about bringing other girls into my life because of Toby. Because they'd always end up fluttering around him like mosquitos and it never ended well with me. For me. It always ended with an explosion that would put Michael Bay to shame.

But it
was
a great summer. Nights under the stars, camping by firelight, roasting marshmallows and hot dogs (which Brandon called wieners, then spent hours laughing about it) and not needing to think about our futures. Our futures that were slowly creeping up like looming monsters. At least, that's what it felt like at times to me.

“I figured you were still kind of feeling sick over Toby,” Sacha admitted. “I know the breakup sort of sideswiped you. You guys were together for so long.”

“Three years isn't so long,” I told him.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he said. “For kids our age. It's not nothing, Gems.”

I looked at Sacha, he looked at me. And I could only smile.

“I'm actually doing really great. Truth be told, I haven't even really felt sad about the whole Toby thing for a little while now. And I think...I think I'm genuinely starting to get over it.”

We picked up our lattes, and Sacha held the door open for me. We both shivered at the rush of cold air.

“Are you really anxious about the future?” I asked him. He stopped for a moment, his eyes on the ground.

“Like hell,” he said. “But I guess that's better than being blissfully unaware, right? Anxiety forces you to think about things. And if you think about things instead of just ignoring them, then you'll always be better prepared. Besides, beyond anxiety, I have optimism. That must count for something.”

And then he smiled. He smiled so widely that I thought it might stick. I reached out and touched his coat-covered elbow affectionately, and he guided me like a gentleman back to my piece of junk car, careful not to let me slip on any ice.

“Thanks for tagging along with me,” I told him. “I love our times together.”

“So do I, Gems.” He looked at me, his eyes soft and wide. “More than you know.”

EIGHT

When I got home, Brandon was seated on the couch in his work uniform, watching Dexter and eating pizza. His cutout of Nic Cage standing next to the armrest with his eyes covered in a pair of Brandon's sunglasses. 

“Oh good,” Brandon sighed. “I was getting lonely. The Cage doesn't exactly make for good company, and I think we're about to see some blood.”

I threw my keys on the table, dropped my purse on the floor, and sat down next to him. He motioned to the box beside his elbow.

“Want some floor pizza?” he asked.

“Floor pizza?” My hand halted directly above a slice of pepperoni. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I dropped the pizza on the floor. Therefore, it's technically floor pizza.”

Oh, gross. I immediately withdrew my hand with a stomach-grumbling induced scowl.

“And you're still going to eat it?”

“Uh, yeah. It's still good, Gems. You don't die from eating floor pizza.”

I sank back into the couch, wanting to sleep and yet wanting to stay up and read at the same time. Brandon looked exhausted, his polo wrinkled in spots and his khakis straining at the knees as he stretched his legs out to use the coffee table as an ottoman. I leaned my head on his shoulder, and we spent a few minutes watching Dexter talk about the Doomsday Killer, who was played by the actor that I only ever knew from the early-millennium film Orange County. Whenever his face popped up on the screen, all I could picture was the surfer boy who wanted to get into Stanford.

“So how was Sacha?” Brandon asked, eyes on the screen. “Or more importantly, how was your little date thing? Whatever you want to call it.”

“It was nice,” I answered. “I found Ben's book.”

“Oh?” He perked up, totally interested. “Let me see that glorious piece of literature.”

“No way. Your hands are covered in grease.”

He wiped his hands on his pants, not caring in the slightest about the finger streaks that would likely never wash off. I slid the book out of the bag and handed it to him, and he immediately flipped to the very last page.

“Do you ever judge a book by the very last line of the very last page? This one says...”

I yanked the book out from his hands before he could say another word. Brandon crossed his arms, and I held the book close against my chest like it was something precious.

“Fine,” I said, tossing it back onto his lap. This time he simply turned to the inside jacket, his eyes pasted on the same photo that I was ogling earlier.

“The shirt,” he remarked brightly, surprised and yet not so surprised. “He's wearing the same shirt he wore the night at the bar.”

“Weird, huh?”

“Kind of,” Brandon agreed. “Coincidental. Though I don't really believe in coincidence.”

“Come on, Brandon.” I said. “Not everything is an act of fate.”

He shrugged, handing me back my book and grabbing another slice of pepperoni floor pizza. As our eyes lifted to the screen, I saw that Dexter was finally about to kill the Doomsday Killer, which I suppose was a good thing since he'd sort of slaughtered a lot of people (including his own sister) in very insane and nightmarish ways. I didn't tell Brandon that I'd already seen the episode, so I waited in anticipation as Dexter lifted his weapon, stabbed Doomsday Killer through the chest, and Deb came walking through the Church doors only to discover her
brother's secret serial-killing identity. The End.

Brandon screamed.

“WHAT!” he cried. “NO.”

He dropped to the floor and started rolling around like a mad man. I could stop laughing.

“They can't end the season like THIS, though.” Brandon jumped up, grabbing the remote and shutting off the television. “This is fucking cruel. What a tease.”

I thought about the book, and also sort of about the floor pizza and whether or not it was worth the risk.

“Life has been throwing lots of teases at us lately, huh?”

“Too many,” Brandon stretched, shaking his head. “Still, I wouldn't mind being bound up on Michael C. Hall's table. Aside from the whole knife-through-the-chest thing.”

“Goodnight, Brandon.”

“Goodnight, Gems.” He said, grinning. “Oh, and we need to get our checks sorted out sooner than later. Rent is due in a few days.”

“Lovely,” I muttered. “Sure thing.”

With my new purchase in tow, I went into my bedroom and hunkered down in bed. I checked my phone to see if there were any missed messages from Ben, if maybe he'd felt like getting in touch for one reason or another. But there was nothing.

Sigh
.

I stared up at my ceiling, at all the little stars that I'd stuck up there to look at during bedtime when the lights were off. Sometimes, when Toby slept over, we'd quietly lay and just look up at them, pretending that we were watching the real thing.

We never actually watched the real stars together.

Letting go is a strange endeavor. Sometimes I wonder if it's entirely possible. I mean, little bits of people always end up sticking around, in memories that pop up like ads on the internet. Totally unexpected, and often times unwelcome.

I only wished that the things we wanted to remember weren't also the hardest to hold onto. Like long drives when you were little, or the way you used to fill nearly the entire mug with those mini marshmallows when making hot chocolate. They always slip away too quickly, and our mind blurs the rest.

But the things that hurt us? They can stick around forever, constantly pricking at our skin like those terrible prickly plants, or like the plastic bits of tags that always seem to stay hidden even when you
swore
that you'd succeeded in ripping them completely off.

And thinking about the present, thinking about the
now
, I felt pretty much the same as Sacha did. Anxious. Anxious about my future, anxious about the current bills, anxious about whether or not I'd ever see a life beyond my tiny, cramped, shitty apartment. An apartment where the water temperature was never consistent and the milk in the fridge often went sour before we could actually drink it. Everything was always breaking. The doors never fully closed without repeatedly jiggling the handle. The windows were always jammed, the walls thinner than tracing paper. Even the stupid kitchen sink had a leak in the spout. And sometimes I was so frustrated with it all that the only proper response was to laugh. It was almost comical. Like a bad joke, except real. Real life with a capital R.

Sacha came bursting into my thoughts, his lovely eyes and wiry smirk. His question: why did I choose ill as my word? That small, three-letter word that packed such a punch I could barely swallow it.

I was sick because of the past, because of how I'd let myself be taken advantage of by someone who I did love, in one way or another. I was ill because I could barely contemplate the weight of the student loans I'd taken out to study
Fine Art –
to draw, of all things, without suffering an anxiety attack so intense that it practically left me comatose. Unable to barely move myself.

I was ill because everywhere I looked, even around at the four walls of my bedroom that were covered in my drawings, covered in posters, covered in pictures of my life for years past up until now – everything was changing.

I was ill because the one person I met that seemed so alive, so intriguing, so genuinely fascinating was now completely off limits.

At that moment, really, I just wanted to find my pencils and draw. Stupid cartoons, pictures of Ben and I together, all big-eyed and smiling like goofballs. I wanted to create. I wanted to understand.

I just wanted to understand myself.

I just wanted to understand him.

I wanted to understand everything.

Blinking at the stars that weren't glowing at all, not a bit, because of the lights, I grasped the only thing I had near me that could grant me any understanding of the man behind the microphone. The man named Ben.

Flipping to the very first page, I started to read. Feeling almost as if I were being let in on the grandest of secrets.

The book was about a boy named Joel, but everyone just called him J. J was a troubled kid from a broken family, whose father left when he was just an infant, and whose mother committed suicide when he was only seventeen. Because of this, he spent most of his life angry at the world, and angry at life for beating him down. So he used a lot of women, and punched a lot of walls, and did a lot of drugs with names that I'd never even heard of.

Then, one day, it all goes too far and he ends up in the hospital, and there's nobody there but this one girl, Ramona, who he'd recognized from high school, but mostly because she was the only one who had the balls to smoke around campus. She was always smoking.

Anyway, she had been the only one willing to bring him to the hospital, to call the ambulance. Everyone else at the party had fled like a bunch of cowards. Or maybe just a bunch of kids.

Eventually he gets better, and decides that he wants to take a road trip – move past everything – and go to California. Ramona goes with him, where during their cross-country journey they meet all sorts of different, strange, beautiful people, and they talk about their end goal being just to set foot in the ocean. J had never seen the ocean.

So they get there, and J has a moment where he realizes that the water is a lot like time, and that even the grains of sand are constantly moving and shifting and strangely enough, totally transparent. Which is a very complex thought to have for a protagonist who at the time was only on the cusp of adulthood.

But it changes his life, anyway.

What surprised me the most, though, was that Ben never made the book into some sort of surprise love story. Joel and Ramona never get together, they never even kiss. The only closeness between them is right after they've finished standing in the water, and they go back to their motel, and he spends the night in her arms just crying. They never have sex. They never go that far. And when the two of them finally return home, they go their separate paths. Which devastated me in a very big way, because I think everyone likes a love story. They want the two people who seem like they're supposed to be together to end up together. Forever and always like in the movies. But Joel and Ramona don't. And when the book ends, Joel is sitting on the train with a notebook in his lap, thinking about the future and just how happy he is to be alive and breathing, because that meant that he still had a chance to do whatever he wanted. For him, this was a very incredible thing.

All I needed was a little piece of something, a little part of someone, to tell me that everything was going to be okay. Cause' you see, I spent most of these years going sideways. Isn't it a funny thing, truly, that all it can take is just a few loving words to make you believe that you can be something more.

She made me feel like I could be something more. And that was all I needed.

I think that was my favorite line. In fact, there was no questioning it. And there was no questioning as to why Ben's book had gone on to be so successful, really. It was incredible in so many ways. The characters, the depth, the harsh honesty and anguish and everything that kept me frantically turning the pages. The lack of sleep was beyond worth it, and my mind was buzzing with the words and meaning and the potential film adaption that the store clerk had mentioned. Would it happen – and if it did, what if they completely screwed it up?

All of this was a lot to process, particularly at nearly 9am in the morning while my eyes were getting increasingly heavier by the minute. Sitting in class, all of us waiting, with Ben yet to walk through the doors. And the whole sitting up thing was relatively difficult since gravity wasn't quite agreeing with me, and my chin kept slipping from hand and nearly knocking my head against the desk. Next to me, Brandon was busy with his phone, laughing at YouTube videos of people falling down stairs. On the other side, Sacha busied himself sifting through photos on his camera. One, two, three...

“Sacha, really.” Brandon remarked, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. “This is English. Put your camera away.”

“Whatever, Brandon.” Sacha grinned, not bothering to move his eyes. This was a normal thing between the two of them. It was entirely strange to me, but they loved to pick on each other. “It's not like Professor Lawson is even here yet.”

“His name is Ben, Sacha. Nobody needs to call him Professor
Lawson
. And I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we get it. The world gets it. You're a photographer. How creative.”

Sacha laughed, finally putting his camera down.

“I'm not
that
bad.”

“You're about as bad as any of the other art-oriented hipsters that like to flaunt their craft around.”

“I am NOT a hipster.”

Sacha's tone was bitter. Brandon shrugged it off.

“Let's be real here, Sacha. You're about one knit cap and a pair of large-rimmed glasses away from Dallas Green.”

“Well, you're just a few spiked bracelets away from Tom Delonge.”