Without Merit(57)

I laugh, but it’s a pathetic, forced laugh. And then I’m frowning because laughter is only a fleeting cure for melancholy, which seems to be my constant state of mind here lately.

Sagan puts down his pencil and leans back in his chair. He stares at me thoughtfully. “What do you think happens when we die?”

I glance back at the marquee. “I have no idea. But if that marquee is true and humans really are that insignificant to the earth’s history, it makes me question why a God would go through all the trouble to revolve an entire universe around us.”

Sagan picks up his pencil and puts the end of it in his mouth. He chews on it for a moment before saying, “Humans are romantic creatures. It’s reassuring to believe this all-knowing being who has the power to create anything and everything still loves the human race more than any of it.”

“You call that romantic? I call it narcissistic and ethnocentric.”

He smiles. “Depends on the perspective you look at it from, I guess.”

He resumes sketching like he’s done with the conversation. But I’m stuck on that word. Perspective. It makes me wonder if I look at things from only one point of view. I tend to think a lot of people are wrong a lot of the time.

“Do you think I only see things from one perspective?”

He doesn’t look up at me when he says, “I think you know less about people than you think you do.”

I can feel myself instantly wanting to disagree with him. But I don’t, because my head hurts and I might be a little hungover from last night. I also don’t want to argue with him because he’s the only one still speaking to me at this point. I don’t want to ruin that. Not to mention that he seems wise beyond his years and I’m not about to compete with him intellectually. Even though I have no idea how old he actually is.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he says.

“Have you always lived in Texas?”

“I’ve spent the past few years with my grandmother, here in Texas. She died a year and a half ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say anything in response. “Where are your parents now?”

Sagan leans back in his chair and looks at me. He taps his pencil against his notebook and then drops it on the table. “Come on,” he says, scooting his chair back. “I need out of this house.”

He looks at me expectantly, so I stand up and follow him to the front door. I don’t know where we’re going, but I have a feeling it’s not this house he wants to get away from. It’s the questions.



An hour later, we’re standing in the antiques store, staring at the trophy I couldn’t afford to buy a few weeks ago.

“No, Sagan.”

“Yes.” He pulls the trophy from the shelf and I try to take it out of his hands.

“You aren’t paying eighty-five dollars for this just because you feel sorry for me!” I stalk after him like a tantrum-ridden toddler.

“I’m not buying it because I feel sorry for you.” He sets the trophy on the register and pulls out his wallet. I try to grab the trophy but he moves so that he’s standing in my way.

I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want it if you buy it. I only want it when I can afford to buy it myself.”

He grins like I’m amusing him. “Well then, you can pay me back someday.”

“It’s not the same.”

He hands the guy behind the register a hundred-dollar bill. “You need a sack?” the guy says.

Sagan says, “No, thanks,” and picks up the trophy and heads to the exit. Once we’re outside he turns around and hides the trophy behind his back like I didn’t just watch him buy it for me. “I have a surprise for you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He laughs and hands me the trophy. I take it and then mutter, “Thank you.” I really am excited to have it, but I hate that he paid this much money for it. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not used to getting gifts.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He throws his arm over my shoulders and says, “You hungry?”

I shrug. “I don’t really feel like eating. But I’ll sit with you if you’re hungry.”

He pulls me into a sandwich shop a few doors down from the antiques store. We walk to the register and he says, “I’ll take the lunch special. And two sugar cookies, please.” He looks at me. “What do you want to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Two waters,” he says to the woman behind the register. He asks for them to go and then we take them across the street and sit at one of the tables next to the water fountain where we first kissed. It makes me wonder if he brought me here on purpose. I doubt he did.

The same question has crossed my mind many times, though. If he doesn’t see Honor as more than a friend, why did he kiss me at this fountain when he thought I was Honor? Because he definitely thought I was Honor. Not even the best actor in the world could have faked the confusion and shock when she called him on his cell phone.

I don’t ask him about it, though. Our conversation hasn’t veered in that direction and I’m not sure I can handle his answer right now. I’m too exhausted from the last twenty-four hours to add more heaviness to our conversation.