Matt's Story (2 page)

The thing was, I made Orlando home—I had Jake, who with all his faults became a weird sort of best friend who took me under his leather-clad wing. I had our band, the Pepperpots, which was steadily getting gigs and making me feel part of something. I had Barker and Gabby. I had Meg, Jake’s girlfriend, as crazy as she was. And, yeah, I had Ella, who brought meaning to everything. Who sought me out and gave
me
meaning. Who understood everything I went
through and never gave me pity, just a second chance.

And, God, she was hot.

But I also had my brother, and blood is stronger than anything. My path was chosen for me.

I told her that we were leaving because of a “job” my dad got—and she promised we’d be okay. That long distance would work. She was crushed—I was crushed—so she had to believe in something. But I didn’t. I was afraid it wouldn’t work, I was afraid of how close we were getting, and I didn’t want to bring her into my new life, one I hadn’t even told her about.

And so I said good-bye that night before we left, and she cried, and I held it in, and we made false promises that nothing would keep us apart. I closed my eyes when we hugged good-bye, because I didn’t want to know anything other than her.

“Is Ella going to come by before we leave?” my mom asked while packing the car.

“Nope,” I said, as passive as possible.

“You said good-bye yesterday?” she asked. She liked Ella a lot. She wanted me to have a normal life, eagerly invited people over, like that first night, when we spent the night saying yes to everything. It was past midnight, and my mom was cool with the four of us—me, Ella, Jake, and Meg—crashing at the house. She had pizza ready for us.

That night, we all slept in the living room, the girls on the two couches, and Jake and I on the floor. I was right next
to Ella’s couch the entire night, and when she dropped her hand to mine before falling asleep, I held on and didn’t let go.

I close my laptop and rest my head on my hands. I can’t do this. I can’t torture myself with the past. I can’t be riddled with what-ifs and regret.

I pull out my phone and see the text still there. I should have deleted it earlier, after reading it during lunch. I should have thrown my phone into the trash. But I couldn’t. Because it was Jake, and I know, just seeing his words, that I hurt him almost as much as I hurt Ella. Because much like his father, and other people in his past, I let him down, too. I open the message.

Stop being such a dick. Call Ella. Do one decent thing and end it. You owe her.

My plan sucked.

“We’re home!” Mom calls out. In one week I’ve managed to become semiexcited for Chris to be home. I don’t know what it’s going to be like, having him around again. He’s changed so much since . . . before everything. But once we were best friends, and I can almost see us slowly slipping back into that. Maybe he can help me. I still haven’t responded to Jake’s text.

I come out of my room and see her and Chris walking in. Mom’s making his homecoming more exciting than it should be, with his favorite dinner premade and even a cake. She seems to forget he’s on probation, and this isn’t just her son visiting from college.

“Hey, Matt,” Chris says when he sees me, and I kind of wave, kind of nod, feeling the first bubbles of anticipation. “How’s my lil’ bro doing?”

“Okay.” I shrug. Chris looks exactly the same as he did last week, only lighter. And happier. “How’s it feel to be home?”

“Amazing. Especially when it includes Mom’s cooking,” he says, putting his arm around her. She leans on him, her head only reaching his shoulders, and grins this crazy huge smile, and it hurts to see her so
proud
after all he’s done to us. But he’s my brother, so I walk over to give him a hug. When I’m about to grab him, he tackles me and puts me in a headlock, yelling, “I’M HOME, MATTY PANTS!”

“I thought we agreed to never use that name again,” I choke out. He lets go and tousles my hair, so I punch him in the shoulder.

“Matt-a-roni and cheese?”

“I hate you.” I grin. It was always his obsession, making the worst nicknames for me possible.

“My boys,” Mom says, and we both give her a look, and okay, I can see the resemblance again. And it feels
not awful
to have him around. Like, things are kind of right, or at least as right as they can be.

“Where’s Dad?” Chris asks, and I stifle a laugh. Like he’d be home for this.

“He’s still at work—he’ll be home soon,” Mom says, not quite looking at us, and I know Chris is disappointed,
but really, he should know not to expect more. I mean, of course Dad would miss the day his son gets out of rehab. He’s hardly been around since we got back, and was against us coming here in the first place. His job is the most important thing to him, a fact we’ve learned over and over again by the numerous moves, all my gigs he’s missed, the lack of knowledge about anything going on in any of our lives.

“Of course. I’m gonna call Delilah and let her know I’m home,” Chris says excitedly, heading toward his new room, and I’m left alone in the hall with Mom. I awkwardly shuffle and head back to my room, thinking about Chris and Delilah. He still has her, despite everything. And I had to give up my girlfriend for him. And . . . that just sucks.

I flop on my bed and a few minutes later there’s a knock on my door.

“Hi, honey,” my mom says, poking her head into my room.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, resting my head on my hands and staring up at the ceiling, watching the fan blades go around and around.

“How was school?” she asks, leaning one hand against the doorframe, and the other on her hip.

“Fine,” I say, not really wanting to talk, especially as I hear Chris mumbling across the hall.

“Have any homework?”

“Some. An essay.”

“Talkative today, aren’t we?”

“You know me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ha,” I say, sitting up and leaning against the wall.

“Matt, honey,” she says, slowly coming into my room and shutting the door behind her. “I know it’s been hard on you. . . .”

“Seriously, it’s cool,” I say again, finding a guitar pick on my comforter and tossing it around my fingers to give me something to look at that isn’t her worried face.

“Hey, your spring break is coming up soon. Why don’t you go visit your friends in Orlando? I haven’t heard you talk about them in a while,” she suggests, and those words hurt me more than she knows.

“Nah, I should stay here and catch up on things . . . ,” I say, but of course that’s not really the reason. I just can’t take all that out on her. The thing is, my life there is over. I’m here now.

“Honey . . .”

“I’m fine. I’ll be out for dinner in a bit, okay?” I say, walking over to my desk and sitting down.

“Okay,” she says, shuffling again. “If you want to talk . . .”

“Mom.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, and I wait until I hear the door shut before opening my laptop. I go to my email. I still have her address memorized.

To: Ella

From: Matt

Subject: I’m sorry

Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to

No. I can’t. I can’t open communication back up like this. But I need to do something. I need to say that it’s over without saying it’s over. I can’t actually type those words because it would kill me. But she needs to move on, and I need to make that happen.

An idea hits me, and I run to my closet. Under the discarded shirts, I grab the box of notes I randomly picked up off the ground and search through it, looking for the paper. I’ll know it when I see it. This is a habit I’ve had for years—finding notes on the ground that people left behind and collecting them to, I don’t know, live through their words or something. It made me feel involved before—before I met Ella and really
was
involved and didn’t want to live through notes and memories. Now it’s just out of habit. Now I don’t even care what I pick up.

But there it is. Still folded intricately, just as it was when I found it behind the school a few days ago.

B—I’m sorry about everything. I still care, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s over. —L

They’re not my words, but they are words. She’ll understand. She has to.

I run out of my room and into my parents’ office. I grab an envelope, address it, and stuff the paper inside. No return address. I open the drawer for a stamp, and affix it.

Before I can rethink this, I run outside and down the street. I pass the houses on both sides, and people coming home from school and work, ready to start their nights, right as I’m about to end a significant part of my life. I cross over to the street behind us, and wait at the light. When the bell rings for me to cross, I run into the post office parking lot. I throw the envelope into the blue mailbox and close the door with a satisfying thunk.

There. It’s in. No turning back now.

A few days later, Ella unfriends me on Facebook.

I put the past behind me. I’m here now. I have to start living again.

So in class I try to pay attention. I write down a few notes that look more like gibberish. There’s a cosine! There’s a ratio! They go together . . . somehow.

When the bell rings, I see Cindy get up and walk outside. She’s wearing a dress that reminds me of one Ella had—blue and wavy—and I find myself following her out.

“Cindy,” I say without thinking.

She turns around and smiles. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hey,” I say.
What am I doing?
“I was wondering . . . if the
invitation was still open to study?”

“Of course!” she says excitedly, and I can’t help but smile a little bit. She actually wants to hang out with me. I didn’t realize it, but it’s nice to be seen.

“Cool. Yeah, I was thinking I could use some help. . . .”

“You took notes today, at least,” she says, shuffling her books from one arm to the other.

“Tried.” I shrug.

“Well, that’s step one. Want to meet up after school at the bookshop across the street?” she asks, and she has a bit of a southern accent that’s more pronounced when she says things like “street.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good,” I say, and I pause, then blurt out, “I have a girlfriend.”

Her eyebrows go up in surprise, and I mentally beat myself up for saying that. I mean, I don’t want her to think this is anything more than just studying, but why would I even say that? Her eyebrows smooth out and a smile comes back to her lips.

“Well, good. So do I,” she says with a wink, then turns and leaves.

School ends and I’m still not sure if I want to go, but I find myself outside the bookstore anyway. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as if I’m on a date, and walk in. I don’t see Cindy, so I put my books down on a table in the café, where a bunch of people are sitting and talking over coffee.
There’s an indie band’s album playing that sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I start twisting my watch around my wrist, forming a circle with each rotation, calming my nerves.

“Hey,” a voice says. I turn around and see a cartoonish dog staring at me, and it takes me a second to realize it’s Cindy’s bag. “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought Kat,” she says, gesturing to a girl behind her. She’s tall, wearing tight jeans and a long cardigan. She has short, cropped hair, and a curious smile. “Kat, my girlfriend,” Cindy repeats, and I must make a look of recognition because the two of them laugh.

“Hi. Sorry,” I say, standing up. “I’m Matt.” The girls sit down opposite me, and I can’t help but laugh. “I thought you were kidding.” This could be okay after all. It might be nice to talk.

“I thought you would, which is why I brought her. You were so ‘I have a girlfriend’ that I didn’t want you to feel awkward,” Cindy explains, sitting closer to Kat. She touches Kat’s hand gently with her pinkie.

“Speaking of, where’s this alleged girlfriend?” Kat asks, and I go blank. “Is she coming?”

“Oh,” I say, twisting my watch again. “Um.”

“Stop, he’s uncomfortable,” Cindy says, nudging Kat playfully. “It’s okay, we were just curious. I’ve never seen you with anyone around school, so . . . I mean, not that I noticed, it’s just . . .”

“It’s cool,” I say. I can’t admit that I lied earlier . . . I’d look stupid pathetic. So . . . I guess I’ll go along with it. Because that’s not painful or anything. “Um, she lives in Orlando.”

“Oh! Long distance! How’s that working?” Cindy asks.

“Um, fine, yeah,” I say, trying to stay afloat.

“Which means not fine,” Kat says, and I hate that she’s putting me on the spot like this.

“It’s fine, really,” I say, decisively.

“It’s okay, don’t listen to her.” Cindy smiles, and I try to in return. “So you just moved here, right?”

“A couple months ago, yeah,” I say.

“From Orlando?” Kat asks, bringing
that
back up again.

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you move?” Cindy asks. “I mean, that kind of sucks. Senior year and all. You are a senior, right? I mean, you’re in my class, so I assumed. . . .”

“Yeah, no, I am. A senior, that is,” I say, answering that part. “Why do I feel like I’m playing twenty questions?” I laugh nervously and avoid the other part of her question.

“We like playing twenty questions. So why’d you move?” Kat asks.

“Um, family stuff,” I answer, looking around at anything but her. I don’t want to bring it up, not now. “Maybe we should look at some math?” I mumble.

“You’re very vague,” Kat says, ignoring me, “about moving and about this girlfriend.” And I scowl, turning in to myself. The overhead music suddenly feels louder, like it’s
engulfing me with melodies. “Give us something to work with.”

“I don’t know,” I say, scratching my head, because I don’t want to talk about me and my past. That’s why I’m here. That was the point of hanging out. I just want to move forward. “I’m just me. What about you? What’s your story?”

“Nuh-uh,” Kat says. “You first.”

“Kat,” Cindy says, leaning into her, but I’m not listening. I’m being drowned out by sound, and then I realize how I know the band playing. Ella put their album on my iPod right after we met.

I remember when Ella started going through my music and telling me what was crap and what wasn’t. She did it in the cutest way, approving my love of the Clash but banishing the Drake I might have downloaded because I liked the beats. That day I sat on the chair behind her, and pulled her onto my lap.

“So what
should
I be listening to?” I asked her.

“Me,” she said before kissing me.

I fade back into the conversation happening in front of me and irrationally get angry. At the memory. At myself. At them, asking me to open up. “Actually, things aren’t good with the girl in Orlando, and we moved here because my brother was in jail, okay?”

“Oh,” Cindy says, leaning forward toward me, but it’s too close, too soon, and her sympathy isn’t enough. “Oh, Matt, we didn’t realize . . .”

“You know what, I should go,” I say, standing up and trying to sound reasonably sane and calm.

“No, wait, Matt. We’re sorry . . . ,” Cindy starts, but stops, seeing my face.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just . . . I forgot about some stuff, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, grabbing my books and heading out. I jump into my car and drive home, refusing to put the radio on.