Personal Effects (28 page)

Before dialing, I look at the texts, too. A couple of short directives to call and one picture from Friday of Shauna making her I’m-serious face next to a “call me” sign. I feel like laughing, but, like, hysterical laughter. I must be cracking up.

Mr. Anders first, because it’s almost ten a.m. there, and I’m not ready to talk to Shauna. My fingers shake as I scroll back through the calls to find his number. He answers on the second ring, before I’ve even had a chance to brace myself for the conversation.

“Mr. Anders? Hi, uh, this is Matt? Matt Foster?”

“Matt! Thank you for calling me back. Listen, I need you to start early. Tomorrow, if you can. Derek and Pauly were in a car accident, not too serious, but they’ll both be off for at least a few weeks. Even with shifting some of the others around, I’m short at least two on the crew working the Southside condo renovation. So, I was hoping you’d be willing to try your hand at some more advanced work.”

My head tries to process the information. First, I’m not in trouble or losing my job. But he wants me to start tomorrow, and that’s impossible, and so maybe that means I’ve lost it anyway. But renovation work? He’s still talking.

“. . . it’ll be challenging at times, and the hours can be somewhat longer, but it’s better money, and, well . . . I thought maybe you were ready to give it a shot. If you want, that is.”

“Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great. I really appreciate the chance to, uh, do more than paint, to learn, even . . . You really think I can, you know, do more?”

No response. Maybe we got disconnected? “Yes. You do good work, Matt. And I think you’re ready to try something more advanced, see if you might like this kind of work.”

“Oh, man, Mr. Anders, that’d be great. Really great. You won’t be sorry. I’ll work really hard and be really, really careful. Promise.”

“I’m sure you will — work hard and be careful, that is. So, can you start tomorrow?”

“Uh . . .” I calculate the drive in my head. If I left right now, I could be home by tomorrow morning. But I can’t leave just yet. I haven’t done what I came here to do.

“Matt?”

“Yeah, yeah . . . I’m here. It’s just . . .”

“Are you OK? You’re not . . . hurt, are you? Or . . .”

“No, I’m fine, but . . . I’m not at home, and I don’t think I can get back in time to start tomorrow.”

“Where are you? Are you in trouble?”

Yeah. But not like he thinks. “I’m fine. I’m just . . .” And once Dad is done with me. “Uh, I’m out of town. And it’ll take me until tomorrow afternoon, at least, maybe tomorrow night, to get home. Can I start Tuesday instead?”

“Yes. Yes, Tuesday is fine.” His breath rushes across the receiver in a gust. “Tuesday will be great. Just come by the house on Henry and I’ll take you over to Southside and introduce you to Raymond. He heads up the crew there. OK?”

“Great. Thanks, Mr. Anders. I really appreciate this. You won’t be sorry.”

“I know I won’t, Matt. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

My heart is pounding. I realize I’m squeezing my phone in my hand, and the beeping on and off of the speaker phone reminds me I have another call to make.

I steel myself for Shauna. It barely rings before Shauna answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey.” Short.

“Sorry. About not calling. Things have been . . . Sorry.”

I wait for her to yell, or cry, or whatever. I deserve it. But she’s not saying anything. I can’t actually hear her at all. I look at my phone to make sure the call wasn’t dropped. Then I hear something. She’s still there, even if she’s not talking.

“Shaun . . . I’m sorry.” Whiny and stupid, even in my own ears.

“Whatever. Listen, when are you coming back?”

“Tonight.”

“Really?” That got her attention.

“Yeah, well, I won’t get home until tomorrow sometime, but I’ll leave tonight.”

“Good.” She breathes out hard, like she had been holding her breath. “Good.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, but it’s clearly something.

“What?”

“I just . . . When you didn’t call, and wouldn’t answer, I just worried . . . that you weren’t coming back. And that you’d just leave, and I’d . . .”

“What?”

“Never see you again.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

I am such a fucking asshole. “I’ll be home tomorrow, promise.” Even as I say it I cringe.

“I wouldn’t. Come back. If I were you. But if you were gonna leave . . .” She gulps. “And . . . I acted so stupid and . . . said all that crap . . .” Full out tears.

“It’s OK,” I whisper, pressing my fingers into my eyes.

Her face. Her smile. Everything she did for me, even after she was pissed at me. And she would totally be right here with me, right now, if I had let her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. I can’t wait to see her, to tell her. And I can picture how she’ll look, like when she was reading the letters, but better.

She’s still crying, just a little, and trying hard for me not to know. I have to help her out.

“Couldn’t let my best friend brave senior year all alone, now, could I?”

She cries harder, and there’s nothing I can say but her name and shushing sounds until she calms down.

“I thought,” she says, still swallowing tears, “maybe I had screwed that up, too. At Stacy’s.”

“What?”

“Best friend,” she says, like that explains it.

I’m so confused. “I shouldn’t have taken off.”

“It’s OK. I was stupid,” she says. “And I know we’re not . . . You’re not . . . It’s OK, as long as we’re OK, still . . . friends.”

Friends. Like it tastes bad.

“’Cause I couldn’t stand it,” she says, “if . . . I mean, if you didn’t want to even be
friends
anymore.” More tears.

“Why wouldn’t . . . Shaun?”

“I’m really sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

She laughs. “Matt, don’t make me say it.”

“For. What?”

She huffs into the phone. “Look, I said I’m sorry. Can we move on?”

She didn’t do anything. Except wear that freaking insane shirt. And suck the life out of that candy. And smell so freaking good. And try to kiss me.

“But . . . I don’t . . . Shaun, I’m the one who bolted. I’m the one who should be apologizing, who —”

“But —”

“For . . . for . . . everything. I should be apologizing for . . . everything . . .”

“But . . .”

I can hear her breathing. I can practically hear her confusion, loud as mine. This is all my fault. I take a deep breath. Time to say what I should have said a long time ago, instead of sulking and giving her a hard time.

“Of course we’re friends,” I say. “Best friends.” I gulp down how much it burns to even think the next part, so that I can say it. “No matter who you date. I know I screwed up, by bolting instead of . . . and I know we can’t go back. But . . .”

The lack of sound is loud. I replay what I said. Something’s wrong. Did I screw this up again?

“Even if you decide to date Michael again, or whoever, I’ll —”

“Stop.”

“I can totally —”

“Seriously, just shut up.”

Huh?

Silence. Nothing. I look at the phone, but the call hasn’t been disconnected.

“Shaun?”

“Yeah,” her voice comes through from far away. I put the phone back to my ear. “Yeah . . . When you took off, I thought —”

“I’m a jerk. I should have waited, but I was worried —”

“. . . and you said you couldn’t bring a friend. A friend —”

“What?”

“You said —”

“Yeah, I know. And I know it pissed you off, that I said —”

“Matt! Shut. Up. And let me . . . let me . . . Shit!”

“OK.”

“Shit!” she yells into the air, away from the phone.

“Shaun?”

“When —” she starts, and then stops. I wait. “When you weren’t interested, and —”

“Whoa! No ‘not interested.’ Interested, but —”

“Matt! I was doing everything to . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Shit. I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”

“Shaun?”

“The shirt. And the makeup. And my stupid hair.” She laughs but it’s not funny. “Kara did my hair and makeup. Jenna made me wear that stupid shirt. They said I hadn’t been sending the right signals, and that if I just . . . That if you were interested, you’d want me to come with you. And if you weren’t . . .”

“Signals . . . and . . . Shaun! I had to go on my own. Had to. But that didn’t mean I don’t, that I didn’t . . .”

“But you said ‘friend’ — it didn’t feel right to take a ‘friend’ along, like I’m —”

“It’s not that I didn’t want you . . .” Shit. “Or want you to come . . .” Fuck. “I just, I needed to go alone. To prove to myself that I could do this, do anything, by myself.”

“Yeah, but I did everything but crawl into your lap! And you didn’t, didn’t even —
friend,
Matt. You called me —”

“Yeah, but not ’cause I didn’t want. I wanted. Hell, I had to get away so I wouldn’t . . .”

“Wouldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t . . . Shaun! You were making me crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Totally.” The whole night replays in my head in flashes, but like with a spotlight highlighting things. Her hair hanging in her face. Her eyes all kind of sparkly. That insane shirt. The fucking candy. The way she kept looking at me. “Totally, insanely crazy.”

I can hear her breathing. She’s breathing hard. Makes me twitch. I go for broke.

“And I liked the shirt.” My face is hot, and I can picture it in my head. “Too much.” I swallow. “Feel free to wear it anytime.” Fuck. “Or pretty much anything else you feel like wearing.”

She laughs hard, for real this time, and everything gets hot.

“I’m sorry, Shaun. I’m . . . an idiot.”

“Yes, you are,” she says, her voice deeper. Damn, I want to kiss her. I’d kiss her right now if she were here. And if she had that shirt on . . . Shit. There are so many things to say, and none of them sounds right, not now, over the phone. And my brain’s a little blood deprived. I pinch the skin between my thumb and finger. Take a breath. “So, uh . . . my dad came to your house? What, uh . . . ?”

“It was actually OK,” she says, returning to normal. “I mean, a little weird, and at first I was kind of freaked, but he was . . . it was . . . OK.”

“Was he pissed?”

“He’s upset,” she says carefully, “worried.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You know I’m not a fan, but he seemed really worried more than anything else.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I didn’t say much. My dad told him you were definitely coming back, because you had my car, and that I had talked to you every day and you were fine.”

“He did?” I’m surprised her dad would lie for me.

“Yeah. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that you were blowing off my calls.”

“Oh.” The guilt trickles through me. Even pissed, and worried, she protected me. “Thanks.”

I can practically hear the questions swirling around her brain. I don’t even know where to start.

“Matt? What happened? You were so excited and then . . .”

“I . . . Shaun . . . I can’t. I just . . .” I clamp down. Wait. Breathe. “There so much to tell you. And I will.” I’ll tell her everything. Well, almost everything. “Just . . . When I get home. OK?”

“OK.” Her voice, somehow warmer than before, makes me shiver. “Take your time. I can wait. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m very good at waiting.”

There’s nothing to say to that, but this kind of hysterical laughter comes out of me from who knows where. It doesn’t even sound like me. She’s been waiting, for me, and I’ve been torturing myself thinking she’d be disgusted if she knew. So fucking stupid.

“Shaun?” I didn’t mean to actually say that.

“Yeah?”

Damn. “I, uh . . .” What? I’m sorry I’m so fucked up? I think if I don’t kiss you, I’m gonna explode? Please tell me everything’s gonna to be OK? “Never mind. I, uh, forget.”

“OK,” she says, then clears her throat. “OK,” she says again, more forcefully. “Just . . . drive carefully. Stop and rest if you get tired. And . . . come straight here?”

I can hear her smile. “OK. Should be midday. I’ll call from the road.”

I hang up without waiting for her to say anything else, scared of what she might say. Or maybe scared of what I might say.

Picturing Shauna, right now, smiling on her end, or dancing around her room, knowing I’ll see her tomorrow, knowing she wants me, too, makes me wish I were already home. Makes me wish all of this was behind me and I could just be with her, her clean, not-too-flowery hair smell, and her grape-candy mouth. The way her nose wrinkles when she laughs. How she feels when she hugs me. Sometimes she looks at me, and I can almost feel it somewhere inside. She’s totally gonna let me kiss her. I can almost believe that this time tomorrow, I’ll know how her mouth tastes and feels. Maybe she’ll let me touch her, if not tomorrow, soon. God, I want to touch her. Maybe she’ll put on the shirt, and then take it off. Fuck.

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to toss all my stuff into my duffel bag and backpack. All packed except for two plastic bags on the bed: one holding Curtis’s letters and the other the single letter from T.J.

I pick up the bag holding T.J.’s letter. I want to feel the envelope, the writing, the indentations his pen made. Instead I touch the label holding the bag shut, smooth down the torn edge.

I always thought I’d get to read this one. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, but I figured that after Celia read it, maybe she’d be so grateful she’d let me read it, too. But I don’t think Curtis will, and I’m not sure I could read it now, knowing T.J. was writing to Curtis. Whatever the letter says, it will only confirm what I already know. I don’t need to see T.J.’s words to know it. And even if I believe it, I’m not ready to read any mushy stuff or, worse, sexy parts, in T.J.’s cramped writing, knowing he was thinking about Curtis when he wrote them.

He’s already changed enough.