The Truth About Forever (43 page)

She didn't turn around. I wasn't even sure she knew I was there. But as I stood watching her, I realized how truly hard it was, really, to see someone you love change right before your eyes. Not only is it scary, it throws your balance off as well. This was how my mother felt, I realized, over the weeks I worked at Wish, as she began to not recognize me in small ways, day after day. It was no wonder she'd reacted by pulling me closer, forcibly narrowing my world back to fit inside her own. Even now, as I finally saw this as the truth it was, a part of me was wishing my mother would stand up straight, take command, be back in control. But all I'd wanted when she was tugging me closer was to be able to prove to her that the changes in me were good ones, ones she'd understand if she only gave them a chance. I had that chance now. And while it was scary, I was going to take it.

I crossed the room, coming up behind her. I had so many things I wanted to tell her. I just didn't know where to begin.

Finally she turned around, one hand moving to her face, and for a second we just stood there, staring at each other. A million sentences kept starting in my head, then trailing off. This was the hard part, I thought. Whatever was said next started everything, so it had to be strong enough to carry the rest that would follow.

She took a breath. "I'm—"

But I didn't let her finish. Instead, I took one step forward and slid my arms around her neck. She stiffened, at first, surprised, but I didn't pull back, moving in even more and burying my face in her shoulder. At first I didn't feel her own arms sliding around me, her body moving in to enclose mine. I could feel her breath in my hair, her heart against my chest. After all this time, it could have been awkward, all elbows and hipbones. But it wasn't. It was perfect.

And as I held her, I kept thinking back to that night at the clearing, and what I'd told Wes.
For once, I'd just let her know exactly how I feel, without thinking first
. Finally, I had.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, down the hallway, I could hear Caroline's voice. She was in the kitchen, explaining our crisis to Delia, detailing every little thing that had gone wrong. As she did so, my mother and I held tight, leaning into each other. It was like that part of the roller coaster where the
click-clack-click
stops as you reach the top of the hill, and you know for sure that the uphill part is finally behind you, and any minute you'll begin that wild rush to the end.

I was ready. And I think she was, too. But if she wasn't, I could get her through. The first step is always the hardest.

"Okay," I heard Delia say. "Here's what we're going to do…"

"Ho-ly shit," Kristy said, shaking her head. "Now that's some rain."

"Kristy," Delia said in her warning voice.

Caroline sighed. "No, she's right," she said. "It really is."

"Mmrn-hmm," Monica added.

It was, indeed, still raining. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the lights had continued to flicker, although that could have been attributable to the wind, which was, yes, still blowing. Hard. A few minutes earlier, on the TV, our local weather girl, Lorna McPhail, had stood there in front of her Doppler map, eyes wide, as she explained that while a shower or two had been in the forecast, no one had expected this sort of incident.

"
Incident
?" Caroline had said as Lorna turned back to her map. "This isn't an incident. This is the end of the world."

"Nah," Bert told her as he passed behind her with a trayful of wineglasses, "the end of the world would be
much
worse than this."

Caroline looked at him. "You think?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "Absolutely."

Now, it was seven sharp, and our first arrivals were still sitting in their cars, optimistically waiting for a break in the torrential downpour. In a minute, they'd get out, come up the walk, and step inside, where everything was ready. The canapes were warming in the oven, the bar was stocked with ice and beverages, the cake that said in red icing WILDFLOWER RIDGE-A NEW PHASE BEGINS! was displayed on the table, encircled by flowers and stacks of brightly colored napkins. Plus, the whole house smelled like meatballs. And everyone loves meatballs.

After Caroline detailed our situation, I'd listened to Delia do what she did best: move into action. Within fifteen minutes, several of the tables and chairs we'd rented had been brought inside and assembled throughout the house ("bistro-style," she'd called it), then topped with thick vanilla-scented candles she'd had stashed in the van from a bridal shower weeks ago. The lights were dimmed in case they went out entirely—while making everything feel somehow cozy—and she'd put Bert and Monica to work doubling up on baking appetizers, reasoning that if people were well fed, they'd hardly notice that they barely had room to turn around. Caroline was sent to find a soap dish, and Kristy was stationed by the door with a tray of full wineglasses to offer up the minute people stepped inside (slightly buzzed people, Delia reasoned, would notice less as well).

Meanwhile, my mother and I were sitting on the edge of her desk, the Kleenex box between us, looking out at the rain.

"I wanted this party to be perfect," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

"No such thing," I told her.

She smiled ruefully, tossing a tissue into the garbage can. "It's a total disaster," she said with a sigh.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

"Well, in a way it's good," I said finally, remembering what Delia had said to me, at that first party, all those weeks ago. "We know where we stand. Now things can only get better. Right?"

She didn't look convinced. But that was okay. So she didn't fully get it yet. But I had a feeling she would. And if not, there was more than enough time, now that this had finally begun, for me to explain it to her.

When we came out into the kitchen a few minutes later, Delia was laying out crab cakes. She took one look at my mother and insisted that she go upstairs and take a hot shower and a few deep breaths. To my surprise, my mother went with no argument, disappearing for a full twenty minutes. When she came back down, hair damp and wearing fresh clothes, she looked more relaxed than I'd seen her in weeks. There is a certain relief in things getting as bad as they could be. Maybe this second time around my mother was beginning to see that.

"What did you say to her?" my sister asked me, as we watched her come down the stairs.

"Nothing, really," I said. I felt her looking at me, but this was partially true. Or true enough.

Kristy was at the front door, tray in hand, as my mother passed her. "Wine?" she offered.

My mother paused, about to demur politely, but instead she took a deep breath. "What is that wonderful smell?"

"Meatballs," I said. "You want one?"

Again, I expected a no. But instead, she reached for a wineglass, took a sip, and nodded at me. "Yes," she said. "I would love one."

Now, as she stood with all of us in the front window, there was one last thing I was wondering about. I'd held off as long as I could, hoping someone would offer an explanation, but finally there was nothing to do but ask outright. "So," I said, still looking out at the cars, "where's Wes?"

I saw Monica and Kristy exchange a look. Then Kristy said, "He had to run some pieces down to the coast this morning. But he said he'd stop by on his way back, to see if we needed him."

"Oh," I said. "Right."

An awkward silence followed this, during which I, and everyone else, just stared out at the rain. Gradually, though, I became aware of someone sighing heavily. Then clearing her throat. Repeatedly.

"Are you okay?" Bert asked Kristy.

She nodded, letting loose with another vehement
a-hem
. I glanced over at her, only to find her staring at me. "What?" I said.

"What?" she repeated. Clearly, she was annoyed. "What do you mean,
what
?"

"I mean," I said, somewhat confused, "what's the problem?"

She rolled her eyes. Beside her, Monica said, "Donneven."

"Kristy." Delia shook her head. "This isn't the time or the place, okay?"

"The time or the place for what?" Caroline asked.

"There is never," Kristy said adamantly, "a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment."

"Throbbing?" my mother said, leaning forward and looking at me. "Who's throbbing?"

"Macy and Wes," Kristy told her.

"We are
not
," I said indignantly.

"Kristy," Delia said helplessly. "Please God I'm begging you, not now."

"Wait a second, wait a second." Caroline held her hands up. "Kristy. Explain."

"Yes, Kristy," my mother said, but she was looking at me. Not really mad as much as confused. Join the club, I thought. "Explain."

Bert said, "This ought to be good."

Kristy ignored him, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Wes wants to be with Macy. And Macy, whether she'll admit it or not, wants to be with Wes. And yet they're not together, which is not only unjust, but really, when you think about it, tragical."

"That's not a word," Bert pointed out.

"It is now," she said. "How else can you explain a situation where Wes, a truly extraordinary boy, would be sent packing in favor of some brainiac loser who severed ties with Macy because she didn't take her job at the library seriously enough and, even
worse
, because she dared to say she loved him?"

"Why," I said, feeling as embarrassed while this was broadcast as I had been the first time she'd stated it aloud, "do we have to keep talking about this?"

"Because it's tragical!" Kristy said.

"Jason decided on the break because you told him you loved him?" my mother asked me.

"No," I said. "Yes. Not exactly. It's a long story."

"I'll tell you what it is," Kristy said. "It's
wrong
. You should be with Wes, Macy. The whole time you guys were hanging out, talking about how you were both with other people, it was so obvious to everyone. It was even obvious to Wes. You were the only one who couldn't see it, just like you can't see it now."

"Mmm-hmm," Monica said, picking some lint off her apron.

"Wes never felt that way," I told her. I was fully aware that my mother—and Caroline, not to mention everyone else—was listening, but somehow I didn't care. Too much had happened this night already. "He was always going back to Becky, just like I was going back to Jason."

"That's not true," she said.

"It is true. He's been back with her. For weeks," I told her.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"But I saw them together. At the World of Waffles. They were—"

"Breaking up," she finished for me. "That was the night he saw you at Milton's, right, and he said he had an appointment?"

I nodded, still confused.

"He was on his way to break up with her." She paused for a second, as if she could see this sinking in, all finally coming together. "He wants to be with
you
, Macy. Now if it was me, I would have told you that night, but he's not like that. He wanted to be free, totally in the clear, before he let you know how he feels. He's just been waiting for you, Macy."

"No," I said.

"Fes. Now, I've been telling him to just come over here and tell you, and ask you if you feel the same way," she said. "But he's not like that. He has to do it in his own way. In his own time."

Like the final question, I thought. He wasn't waiting to torture me, or because he didn't know it. He just wanted to get it right. Whatever that means.

Everyone was looking at me. Once, I thought, my life was private. Now the entire world was into my business, if not my heart. But, I thought, looking across their expectant faces, this wasn't really the whole world. Just mine.

"He came over today," I said slowly, all of this sinking in. "This morning."

"So what happened?" Kristy asked.

I glanced at my mother, waiting for her to realize I'd broken her rules. Instead, she was just looking at me, her head slightly cocked to the side, as if she was seeing something in me she hadn't before.

"Nothing," I said. "I mean, he just asked me if this, the way things are now, was what I wanted."

"And what did you say?"

"I said it was," I told her.

"Macy!" Kristy smacked her hand to her forehead. "God! What were you
thinking
?"

"I didn't know," I told her. Then, more softly, to myself, I said, "It's so unfair."

Kristy shook her head. "It's tragical."

"It's time," Delia said, nodding at the window. The rain had let up some, finally, and people were now starting to emerge from their cars, shutting doors and unfolding umbrellas. Regardless of everything else, the show had to go on. "Let's get to work."

Everyone started to move away from the window, toward their various tasks: Kristy picked up her tray of wineglasses, Bert and Delia headed toward the kitchen, and my mother moved to the mirror in the foyer, taking one last look at her face. Only Monica stayed where she was, staring out the win-dow as I tried, hard, to comprehend everything that had just happened.

"I can't believe this," I said softly. "It's too late."

"It's never too late," she said.

For a second, I was sure I'd imagined it. After a summer of monotone, one-word answers or no answers at all, here, from Monica, was a complete sentence.

"But it is," I told her, turning to look at her. "I don't think I'd even know what to do if I did have another chance. I mean, what could I…"

She shook her head. "It's just one of those things," she said. Her voice was surprisingly level and clear. "You know, that just happen. You don't think or plan. You just do it."

There was something familiar about this, but it took me a second to realize where I'd heard it before. Then I remembered: it was what I'd said to her that night at the party, when I'd been trying to explain why I was holding Wes's hand.

"Monica!" Kristy yelled from the living room. "There's a tray of cheesepuffs in here with your name on it. Where are you?"