Thirteen Reasons Why(47)

The party was well underway by the time I got there. Most people, unlike me, didn’t have to wait for their parents to fall asleep.

The usual crowd hung out by the front door of the party, drunk out of their minds, greeting everyone with a raised cup of beer. I would think Hannah would be a hard name to slur, but those guys did it pretty well. Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed.

But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.

I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. “Clay! Whatchoo doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!”

The music was loud and no one was dancing. It could have been any party…except for one thing.

Clay Jensen.

I’m sure you heard a lot of sarcastic remarks when you first arrived, but by the time I got there, to everyone else you were just a part of the party. But unlike everyone else, you were the whole reason I came.

With everything going on in my life—going on in my head—I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you?

We didn’t get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.

That’s what I thought. And I was fine with that. Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were?

That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

And as I stood in the kitchen, in line to fill my cup for the first time, you walked up behind me.

“Hannah Baker,” you said, and I turned toward you. “Hannah…hey.”

When she first arrived, when she walked through the front door, she caught me off guard. And like a freak, I turned around, ran through the kitchen, and straight out the back.

It was too soon, I told myself. I went to the party telling myself that if Hannah Baker showed up, I was going to talk to her. It was time. I didn’t care who was there, I was going to keep my eyes focused on her and we were going to talk.

But then she walked in and I freaked out.

I couldn’t believe it. Out of the blue, there you were.

No, not out of the blue. First I paced around the backyard, cursing myself for being such a scared little boy. Then I let myself out through the gate, fully intent on walking home.

But on the sidewalk, I beat myself up some more. Then I walked back to the front door. The drunk people greeted me again, and I went straight for you.

It was anything but out of the blue.

“I don’t know why,” you said, “but I think we need to talk.”

It took all the guts in the world to keep that conversation going. Guts and two plastic cups of beer.

And I agreed, with probably the dumbest smile plastered on my face.

No. The most beautiful.

And then I noticed the doorframe behind you, leading into the kitchen. It had a bunch of pen and pencil marks scratched on it, keeping track of how fast the children in the house were growing. And I remembered watching my mom erase those marks on our old kitchen door, getting ready to sell the house to move here.

I saw that. I saw something in your eyes when you looked over my shoulder.

Anyway, you looked at my empty cup, poured half of your drink into mine, and asked if now would be a good time to talk.

Please don’t read into that, people. Yes, it sounds all smooth and get-the-girl-drunk, but it wasn’t. It didn’t seem that way to me.

It wasn’t. No one’s going to buy that, but it’s true.

Because if that was the case, he would have encouraged me to fill my cup all the way.

So we walked into the living room, where one side of the couch was occupied.

By Jessica Davis and Justin Foley.

But there was plenty of room on the other end, so we sat down. And what was the first thing we did? We set down our cups and started talking. Just…like…that.

She had to know it was them. Jessica and Justin. But she didn’t say their names. The first boy she kissed kissing the girl who slapped her at Monet’s. It was like she couldn’t escape her past.

Everything I could have hoped for was happening. The questions were personal, as if catching up for the time we let pass. Yet the questions never felt intrusive.

Her voice, if physically possible, comes through the headphones feeling warm. I place cupped hands over my ears to keep her words from escaping.

And they weren’t intrusive. Because I wanted you to know me.

It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe Hannah and I were finally talking. Really talking. And I did not want it to stop.

I loved talking with you, Hannah.

It seemed like you could know me. Like you could understand anything I told you. And the more we spoke, I knew why. The same things excited us. The same things concerned us.

You could have told me anything, Hannah. That night, nothing was off limits. I would’ve stayed till you opened up and let everything out, but you didn’t.

I wanted to tell you everything. And that hurt because some things were too scary. Some things even I didn’t understand. How could I tell someone—someone I was really talking to for the first time—everything I was thinking?

I couldn’t. It was too soon.

But it wasn’t.

Or maybe it was too late.

But you’re telling me now. Why did you wait till now?