Searching for Beautiful (14 page)

“It’s okay. I didn’t really do anything.”

Emery shakes her head. “Yeah you did. I know how hard talking without being prompted is for you, and I appreciate it.”

I roll my eyes. She might not have known me long, but she seems to know me well.

With that, she heads for the door. With her hand on the knob, she turns and says, “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.” I shrug, still trying to figure out what I did to help. But also feeling good that I did it.

“Can you not tell anyone I saw Max? It’s just…it’s embarrassing.”

I get it. I know what it’s like to be embarrassed, for everyone to know your business. And it’s not like I don’t have my own secrets, too. I shudder with the memory of seeing Jason at the store. Of following and talking to him, proving how weak I am. I don’t even hesitate to say, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Now

I stand at the door to my pottery room, willing it to be different this time. I’ve had an awesome day. I spent an hour and a half at Brenda’s, laughing, smiling, and being Brynn. I was there for Emery when she needed me. It wasn’t a lot, but it was hard for me and I did it, and somehow, it seemed to help. Again…old Brynn. She isn’t so bad, is she? I want to be her again, not this person I’ve become. I want to try to get back some of the things I’ve lost.

You can do it, you can do it, you can do it.

The door creaks as I open it. I don’t remember it always doing that, or maybe I just never paid attention before. Maybe I’m stalling by standing here wondering about this.

But do I have a right to go in here? The right to sit down to do the thing I did while she was dying?

I step backward.

I can do this. I can do this.

I can’t do it. Why can’t I go inside? Mom would want me to go inside, I think…

And I do. I step inside and go straight to the CD player and turn it on. It’s one of Mom’s favorite songs—Jermaine Jackson and Whitney Houston. It was her and Dad’s song and I’d been listening to it that day because I always listened to music out here.

It’s all too much.

“Ahhhhhhhh!”
I let loose a scary-movie scream and slam the palms of my hands into the door. It flies backward and hits the wall. The scream that’s probably been trapped inside me since before Jason. Since the day Mom said she had a headache and I got annoyed with her and went to my pottery room. Everything blurs together now and it’s hard to know what is and was fact or fiction in my life.

“
Ahhhhhh!”

I’m out the door now.

A loud crash sounds behind me and I stumble backward again, clutching my chest.

“Holy shit, you scared me. Are you okay?” Christian stands behind me, breathing hard, his guitar in his hand.

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.” Maybe a little crazy, but fine.

He looks around like he expects someone to jump out at any second. “Do you always scream like that when you’re okay? I was sitting on my porch and it sounded like someone was murdering you over here.”

“Umm, you thought someone was trying to kill me yet you brought your guitar with you?”

“Jumped the fence with it and everything,” he says, semi-smugly.

“What were you going to do? Hit him with it?”

Christian actually blanches. I swear the boy pales. “Are you kidding me? This is my prized possession.”

I shake my head at him. And here I was thinking myself crazy. “Again, then why did you bring it?”

“Well, that’s obvious. What if the scream was a distraction to get me over the fence so someone else could steal my guitar?” He stands there looking absolutely serious.

“Oh my God!” I playfully push him. “You’re nuts.”

We both laugh for a few minutes before he quiets and then looks at me,
really
looks at me like he wants to figure me out. Like I’m a puzzle and he wants to fit all my pieces together to see what I make. I’m curious what it would be, too.

“Seriously, you cool?” he asks, all humor gone from his voice.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m caught off guard or what, but I say, “I can’t do it. I’ve always been able to lose myself in my pottery and now I can’t even go in the room.”

Christian stares at me, and then the right side of his lips tilts up. God, he is so cute. I wish he wasn’t.

“Maybe it’s the music. That shit would kill my creativity, too.”

Without an invitation, he goes inside and turns off the power on my CD player. Then, he heads right over to one of the extra chairs, sits down, and starts to play a song that sounds a lot like the Plain White T’s.

“Hey there, Bryntastic, sit your ass down in that cha-ir.”

Something twitches in my chest. “I think I like, ‘Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City’ better,” I tease him.

“What?” His fingers are still moving on the strings. “How can you say that? My words are original
and
fit the situation, so quit stalling and sit down.” When I cross my arms at him, he adds a “Please.”

This is completely stupid. I know there is no way that listening to Christian play his silly song is going to make me find my muse again. It’s not going to make me feel okay about doing what she gave me when I let her die. “I can’t.” My voice cracks.

“You can. Just come inside. You don’t even have to make anything.”

Shaking my head, I say, “This isn’t going to work.”

“Damn, you’re negative.”

“No. I’m honest.” I wonder if it’s his mom’s psychology books—the ones she said he reads—that make him seem so much smarter than me, or if it’s just because he’s already been through so much and he found his way out of it.

“Doesn’t hurt to try. Plus, you can’t tell me you don’t want to hear me play,
chica.
” I give him the evil eye and he winks at me. “Can’t hurt, right? Just come in and listen. If it helps, cool. If not, you’re no worse off than you are now.”

“Why?” I creak out. “Why do you care? I haven’t been very nice to you.” I hate myself for it. I’ve been horrible.

“Maybe I remember who you used to be. Maybe it sucks to see people lose themselves. Or to lose yourself.”

My heart starts to thunder. He’s talking about his sister. He saw her lose herself. And maybe he did a little, too.

Then, another grin. “Or maybe I just like to show off. You know, my mad guitar-playing skills.” Christian nods toward the chair. “Come in
.
Sit down and listen to me play.”

His eyes leave me, his head facing down as he concentrates on what he’s doing. Christian’s dark hair falls forward, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Nothing does. He’s so deep in concentration, I wonder if he remembers I’m here.

I take one step in. Then another and another until finally I’m sitting in the chair at my pottery wheel for the first time since Mom died.

…

I lie in bed, remembering what it felt like to sit in my pottery room tonight. I didn’t touch the wheel once, but still, I was there. That has to count for something. I’m trying to fight and claw my way back to normal little by little.

I think Mom would be proud about that.

I let Christian pop into my head. His hair in his face and his fingers dancing on the strings the way mine used to do in clay. How even though it felt awesome to just sit and
be
with someone, I know to the marrow of my bones that it wasn’t just him that got me in that room. Yes, he was a part of it because something about him is calming and normal, in my world that feels both ever-changing and also completely stagnant. But I’m not sure Christian’s hand lit the match.

It was his, and maybe Emery’s, Brenda’s, and…

In a way, I think it was mine. Mine because I took the step to let him in. Or maybe I’m being crazy, trying to look for something that isn’t there. Some part of me I never realized still needed someone the way I obviously thought I needed Jason.

Rolling over, I let my eyes find the red numbers of my clock. I stare at them until they start to blur. It’s a little after 4:00 a.m.

Riding my new burst of courage, I sneak out of bed, downstairs, and out back. My heart drops when the porch on Christian’s side of the fence is empty. It only takes a few seconds of my standing there and wondering what I’m doing before I hear a door opening quietly. Brenda steps on the porch, pulling out her secret cigarette.

A heavy breath finds its way from my lungs. I don’t know why I need to talk to her so badly, but I do.

She walks toward the fence, and I do the same.

“Couldn’t sleep. I felt like a little fresh air.” Which isn’t the truth at all. I came out here looking for her because I want her to tell me what to do. To help me figure out all the mishmashed thoughts in my head. The most important being, am I ready to try to move forward? To try to come out of the shell I’ve built around myself? To light not only my love of pottery, but also the flame of my whole life?

It’s a scary, scary thought, and honestly, I’m not even sure what that would entail, or if it’s possible, or where all these thoughts are suddenly coming from, but for once I don’t feel like screaming, and I want to hold on to that.

“And I’m ruining it with my smoke.”

“You should quit,” tumbles out of my mouth. The light from my porch makes it so I can see her expression, and there’s no annoyance at my statement.

She doesn’t reply, though. “So, my son says he was over with you this evening? I hope he made up for sleeping through breakfast.”

“Umm, yeah. I saw a mouse and screamed and he came over to check on me. Then he just played his guitar while I worked on my pottery.”

Brenda laughs softly. “I’m glad to see you guys are spending time together.”

“We’re not! Spending time together, I mean.” We’re not. I’m not spending time with any guys that way. Never again. “We’re just friends. I mean, we’re not even friends.” Her frown makes me reword. “I mean, we’re kind of
friends
, but…” I really, really need to shut up.

“Relax. I didn’t mean anything by my comment. Whether you’re friends or not, that’s okay, but if I can be honest with you for a second,
mija
…and I don’t say this to hurt you, but I think you could use a friend. Christian, too.”

“Why?” I blurt out. “What’s wrong with Christian?”

She sighs and then takes a pull on her cigarette. “Nothing, really. Let’s just say he can be stubborn.”

And then my thoughts of Christian are eclipsed by what she said about me, about my needing a friend, too, and it’s true. So true, but still I find myself asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

She shakes her head. It’s such a Mom thing to do. It says she’s hurting for me, that she knows more than I realize.

“Nothing is wrong with you.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You know, and I might be fully off base with anything I say, so if I am— Actually, no, I’m not. I’m a mama and we know everything.” For a second, clouds cover her eyes. “I know it can be scary to move forward sometimes,
mija.
Leaving my husband? That was the scariest thing I’d ever done, but I knew I didn’t belong with him. And I knew a lot of people weren’t going to understand. Hell, I didn’t even understand everything I was feeling, but I did it. Whatever it is you’re working through, you can do it too, okay?”

For the first time, I think I really want to try.

Brenda pushes her cigarette into her soda can, and then back in her robe pocket it goes. “One last thing,
mija.
It was worth all the pain and anger. I’m not saying I don’t have regrets, but I’m also saying it was worth it.” She gives me a confident nod. “Now, I need to go hide my can and sneak back inside before Sally or Christian catches me.” She walks back to the porch, climbs the stairs, and disappears.

I can’t stop thinking about what Brenda said. Her words float around in my head like little thought bubbles all through my shower, getting dressed, eating breakfast. What she did was huge. And if she could do it, maybe I can, too. I’m tired of not fighting for anything.

Of not living…

I’m not sure how much I can do, but I miss friends. I miss having someone to talk to, and if Christian is willing to look at me without those same condemning glasses everyone else wears, I’m going to hold on to that.

Brenda was right. I need a friend.

As I drive to school, I can’t believe I’m going this crazy over something as simple as talking to Christian. But then, this is different. It isn’t just talking to someone. It’s me trying to move forward—whatever that really means.

…

I don’t pay attention to anyone while I weave and dodge people in the hallways. Our school really needs an upgrade. We’re still small, but the number of students continues to grow and the walls and classroom sizes don’t.

While at my locker, I look around for my old friends, for Christian so I can try to talk to him. Of course, since I’m ready to actually do something, there’s no one in sight.

By the time lunch rolls around, Brenda’s words have been traveling the maze in my mind all day, pushing their way to the front. I’m doing this. I’m taking my life back.

I make a quick stop by my locker and grab my lunch, then head in the direction I know Christian and my old group will be. Nerves tickle my insides, but it’s not just nerves. It’s excitement, too. Eagerness because I set myself on a path, and I’m going to see my way through it.

Just then, they round the corner. Christian is in the middle of them, the two couples on either side and Ian on the very end, by Diana. My feet move quicker as I walk toward them. If I talk to Christian and start being friendlier—if they think I’m turning back into the old Brynn—will Diana and Ellie want to be friends again?

Ellie’s eyes catch mine, and I swear I see something in them. Something that mirrors how I imagine I look at her, with sadness and nostalgia, but then she glances over at her boyfriend, like I’m not here.

I don’t let it bother me because I’m trying to be friends with
Christian
right now. Trying to show him I appreciate him and that I’m sorry I can’t get my crap together.

My eyes land on him.

His land back on me.