Nothing More (5 page)

She's weird. Not in a she-lives-in-her-mom's-basement-and-collects-Beanie-Babies weird. She's weird as in I can't figure out her personality, and I definitely can't figure out what those awkward pauses or random touches are supposed to mean. I usually read people so well.

But instead of cracking the code of romance, I grab my water from the fridge, go into my room, and finish my essay, then go to bed.

T
HE MORNING CAME QUICKLY. I
went to bed around one and woke up at six. How many hours do doctors recommend again? Seven? So, I'm only like 30 percent off target. Which, yeah, is a lot. But I've gotten used to staying up late and waking up early. I'm slowly becoming a New Yorker. I drink coffee daily, I'm starting to get the hang of the subway system, and I learned how to share the sidewalks with the stroller moms in Brooklyn.

Tessa has learned all this, too, right along with me, although we differ in one maybe-significant way: I give less of my money to the homeless I see on my way to school and back. Tessa, for her part, gives away half of her tip earnings on the walk home. Not that I don't care or help, I just prefer to give coffee or muffins when I can, not money to feed possible addictions. I understand the hope Tessa feels when she hands a homeless man a five-dollar bill. She truly believes he will buy food with it or something else he needs. I don't, but I can't really argue with her about it. Maybe she has the better idea here, but I know a lot of her attitude comes from her personal connection with the homeless. Tessa found out her dad, who wasn't around in her life, was living on the streets. They got to know each other a little bit before he succumbed to his addictions and died a little less than a year ago. It was really hard for her, and I think helping these strangers heals a small part of that open wound.

For every dollar she gives, she's rewarded with a smile, a “thank you” or “God bless you.” Tessa's the kind of person who tries to pull the best out of everyone. She gives more of herself than she should and she expects people to be kind, even when it's not the most accessible part of their nature. I think she sees her small mission as some kind of redemption for her failed relationship with her father, and even with Hardin, who is one of the most difficult people I know. Maybe she couldn't help those two, but she can help these people. I know it's naïve, but she's my best friend and this is one of the only positive things that actually energizes her lately. She doesn't sleep. Her gray eyes are swollen 99 percent of the time. She's struggling with getting over a catastrophic breakup, the death of her father, moving to a new place, and not getting accepted into NYU.

That's a lot for one person to carry on their back. When I met Tessa a year ago, she was so different. Her shell was the same, a beautiful blonde with pretty eyes, a soft voice, and a high GPA. The first time I talked to her, I felt like I had met the female version of myself. We immediately bonded over being the first two to arrive in the lecture hall our first day of college. Tessa and I got closer as her relationship with Hardin developed. I watched as she fell in love with him, and he fell harder, and they both fell apart.

I watched them rip each other apart and then stitch each wound back together. I watched them become one another's everything, then their nothing, then everything again. I had trouble picking sides during the war. It wasn't without causalities. It was just too complicated and messy, so now I'm taking my cue from Bella Swan and staying neutral, like Switzerland.

Yikes, I'm referencing
Twilight
. I need caffeine. Pronto.

When I walk into the kitchen, Tessa is sitting at the small table with her phone in her hand.

“Morning.” I nod to her and switch on the Nespresso machine. I've become somewhat of a coffee snob since working at Grind. It helps to have a roommate who's equally obsessed. Not as picky, but even more addicted than I am.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tessa says distractedly, at first barely glancing up from her phone, but then her eyes go straight to the gash above my eyebrow and concern takes over her expression. After rubbing some Neosporin on it this morning, I was happy to be able to omit the Disney Band-Aid.

“I'm fine, but damn, that was embarrassing.” I grab a pod of Brazilian espresso and push it into the machine. The counter space in here is minimal, and the thing takes up half the room between the off-white fridge and the microwave, but it's a necessity.

Tessa smiles, biting her lip. “A little,” she agrees, and covers her mouth to stifle her amusement.

I wish she would laugh . . . I want her to remember how it feels.

I glance over at her miniature coffee cup. It's empty.

“Need a refill? Do you work today?” I ask.

She sighs, picks up her phone, then puts it back down. “I do.” Her eyes are stained with angry red lines again. Bloodshot from the tears soaked into her pillowcase. I didn't hear crying last night, but that doesn't mean she wasn't. She's slightly better at hiding her feelings lately. Or so she thinks.

“Yes to both. Work. And want more coffee. Please,” she clarifies with a half smile. Then she clears her throat and her eyes fall to the table as she asks, “Do you know which days Hardin will be here yet?”

“Not yet. We're still a few weeks away, so he hasn't told me. You know how he is.” I shrug my shoulders. If anyone knows Hardin, it's her.

“You're sure this is okay, right? Because you know if you aren't, I can have him stay at a hotel or something,” I offer.

I would never want her to be uncomfortable in her own apartment. Hardin would fight me over this, but I don't care.

She forces a smile. “No, no. It's fine. This is your place.”

“And yours,” I remind her.

I put the first cup of espresso into the freezer for Tessa. She's doing this thing lately where she only drinks cold coffee. My suspicion is that even something as simple as a warm cup of coffee reminds her of that boy.

“I'm going to pick up extra shifts at Lookout. I'm almost done with training anyway. They're letting me do brunch and dinner today.”

My chest aches for my friend, and for once, my loneliness doesn't seem so bad compared to the alternative of her shattered heart.

“If you change your mind—”

“I won't. I'm fine. It's been—what?” She shrugs. “Four months
or something?”

She's lying through her teeth, but nothing good is going to come from me calling her out on it. Sometimes you have to let people feel what they need to feel. Hide what they think they need to hide and process it however they do.

The espresso burns my throat. It's thick and strong, and suddenly I have more energy than I did two seconds ago. Yes, I'm aware that it's a mental thing, and no, I don't care. I throw the little cup into the sink and grab my sweatshirt from the back of the chair. My running shoes are by the door, lined up in a straight row with the other shoes . . . Tessa's doing.

I slip them on and head out.

T
HE AIR IS CRISP
and I can actually smell fall in the air. Fall has always been my favorite season. I love waiting for the seasons to change, watching the leaves go from green to brown, smelling the cedar in the air. Football season leads to hockey season, and hockey season leads to my life being interesting for a little while. I've always loved waiting for the sports seasons to start, raking the yard with my mom, and jumping into big messy piles of loose leaves, then stuffing them into plastic bags with pumpkin faces printed on them.

We always had so many leaves to deal with because of the two massive birch trees in the front yard. Fall in Michigan never lasted long enough, though. By the third football game, the gloves and coats came out full force. And while I was sad to see fall go, I've always liked the bite of the cold air on my skin. Unlike most people, I thrive in winter. For me, the cold means sports, holidays, and a crap load of sweets piled on the kitchen counter. Dakota always hated the cold. The way her nose would turn red and her curly hair would dry out drove her insane. She always looked cute, wrapped up in layers of sweaters, and I swear to you, the girl wore mittens in September.

The best park to run the track in Brooklyn happens to be a bit far from my apartment. McCarren Park joins the two hippest parts of Brooklyn: Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Full beards and lumberjack flannels come out in droves in this part of the city. The locals bring their black-framed glasses and establish tiny little restaurants with dim lighting and small plates of heaven. I don't quite understand why men in their twenties want to dress like men in their seventies, but the food that surrounds the cool kids here is well worth having to stare into a crowd of men with handlebar mustaches. The walk to my favorite park is a little over twenty minutes, so I usually run there, then run for an hour, and cool down during the walk home.

I pass a woman loading a tiny baby into a running stroller. My knee hurts, but if she can run with a baby in a stroller, I'll be just fine. Two minutes into running, the ache in my knee shifts into a throbbing, sharp pain. Thirty seconds later, the pain is shooting from muscle to muscle. I feel every step from my fall in the shower. Forget this.

I'm off today, and even if my leg's acting up, I don't want to sit in the house on my first Saturday off since I started working. Tessa has to work tonight. In addition to her telling me, I saw it written on her little planner board on the fridge. Deciding to call my mom, I pull my phone out and sit down on a bench. She's due soon and I can feel her nerves from here. She'll be the best mom my little sister could be blessed with, whether she believes it or not.

My mom doesn't answer. Well, my only friend is busy and my mom didn't answer, meaning I don't know what to do next. I'm officially a loser. My sneakers hit the pavement and I start counting the steps as I walk. The pain in my knee isn't too bad as long as I'm walking instead of pushing my body to run.

“On your left!” a woman running with a stroller calls as she passes me. She's pregnant and the stroller has two chubby babies inside. This lady has her hands full. This is a trend in Brooklyn—lots of babies and the strollers to match. I've even seen people pushing their strollers, baby and all, into bars in the early evening.

I have nothing to do. I'm a twenty-year-old college student living in what is purportedly the greatest city in the world, and I have absolutely nothing to do on my day off.

I feel sorry for myself. Not really, but I would rather wallow and complain about my boring life than attempt to make new friends. I don't know where to begin making friends. NYU isn't as friendly as WCU, and if Tessa hadn't spoken to me first, I probably wouldn't have made any friends there either. Tessa is the first person I've started a friendship with since Carter died.

Hardin isn't included in this because
that
was a much more complicated situation to start. He acted like he hated me, but I had a feeling it wasn't as clear-cut as it seemed even then. Really, it was more that he felt the relationship between his dad and me was the epitome of everything that was wrong in his life. He was jealous, and I understand that now. It wasn't fair that I got the new and improved version of his previously alcoholic, emotionally abusive father. He loathed me for our shared love of sports. He hated the way his dad moved my mom and me into a big house, and he despised the car his dad bought me to drive. I knew he would be a difficult part of my new life, but I had no idea that I would be able to identify with his anger and see through his pain. I didn't grow up in a perfect home like he had assumed.

I had a father who died before I had a chance to know him, and everyone around me tried to make up for that. My mom filled my childhood with stories about the man, trying to make up for his early death. His name was Allen Michael, and by her report he was a well-liked man with long brown hair and big dreams. He wanted to be a rock star, my mom told me. Stories like that made me miss him without even knowing him. He was a humble man, she says, who passed away from natural causes at the unfairly young age of twenty-five, when I was only two. I would have been lucky to know him, but I didn't get the chance. Hardin's pain came from a different beast, but I've always believed that suffering is one thing people shouldn't compare.

The biggest difference between my upbringing and Hardin's is due to our mothers. My mom was fortunate enough to have a good job with the city, and we were able to fall back on my dad's life insurance from his factory job. Hardin's mom worked long hours and barely brought in enough money to support the two of them. They had it much, much worse.

It's hard for me to imagine my stepfather, Ken, the way Hardin knew him. To me, he'll always be the kind, lighthearted, and sober man he is today—the chancellor of WCU, no less. He's done so much for my mom and he loves her as much as anyone could. He loves her more than liquor, and Hardin hated that, but now he understands that it was never a competition. If Ken could have, he would have chosen his son over the bottle long ago. But sometimes people just aren't as strong as we want them to be. All of Hardin's pain festered and grew into a fire that he couldn't contain. When everything hit the fan, and Hardin—and the rest of us—found out that Ken isn't his birth father, the fire took one final massive breath and burned him one last time. He made the choice after that to take control of his life, his actions, and himself.

Whatever his therapist is doing is working, and I'm glad. And it's done wonders for my mom, who loves that angry boy as if she gave birth to him.

I pass a couple holding hands as they walk their dog and feel even sorrier for myself. Should I be dating? I wouldn't even know where to start. I want the convenience of having someone around all the time, but I'm not sure I could actually date anyone other than Dakota. The whole dating game just seems so grueling, and it's only been six months since she broke up with me. Is
she
dating? Does she want to? I can't imagine anyone ever knowing me better than her, or making me as happy as she did. She has known me so long and it would take years for anyone to know me as well as she does . . . As she did.