Bright Before Sunrise(21)

6:20 P.M.


TIME TO BEG


On the drive back to Carly’s house I plead with her to listen to me, but she’s stubborn. She’s always been stubborn. It’s a cute personality quirk when she’s arguing about which movie we should watch, or which MLB pitcher is best, or with her father about extending her curfew, or with my mother about making me move to Hamilton for the second half of senior year. Tonight it’s not cute—it’s damn infuriating.

There’s no convincing Carly the flyer is nothing more than a piece of paper—one Brighton had shoved in my hand a few weeks back as part of her never-ending campaign to save my soul through volunteer work, and that I, in turn, had tossed on my backseat.

No, Carly had found it, googled Brighton, and decided she was the kind of girl I’d go for and the reason behind my so-called change.

“She’s even got dark hair—I know that’s your type and why you were so weird about me dyeing mine.”

“I wasn’t weird about it; I was surprised.” I reach out to touch her hair, but she leans away. “And Brighton’s definitely not my type. There’s not a girl in Cross Pointe who is less my type.”

“How many girls did you have to go through before you figured that out?”

“I’m not a cheater,” I say through gritted teeth. After two years together, how could she even think that?

“Funny, that’s just what Daniel Diggins said.”

“That’s really helpful, Carly. Bringing up your ex is exactly what we need right now. Too bad you didn’t warn me I’d be driving around all your baggage tonight. I would’ve asked Mom to borrow the SUV.” She hates when I get sarcastic, but I can’t stop myself. I’m almost shaking with furious helplessness. “You dated Digg three years ago. You’re really going to blame me for his screw ups?”

“Jonah …” Her eyes are on her hands as they pick at the crumbs collected in the seams of the seat. “I don’t want to end it like this. Let’s stop fighting. It’s just … over.”

I know how to argue back when she’s pissed off; I don’t know how to handle her sadness. I’ve never been able to handle her sadness. Not the time she accidentally ran over a squirrel and cried for hours. Not when she got a rejection letter from her top choice for college. Not when I had to look her in the eyes and tell her I was leaving Hamilton High. And none of the times lately when she’s seemed depressed and distant—like she’s still a zip code away even when I’m sitting right next to her.

And not now, when she’s blaming me for something I’ve never even considered and all I want to do is yell that I’m innocent and that she’s acting insane.

“How can I convince you I’m not lying?”

“You can’t.”

I turn the car off, and we stare out the windshield at her driveway. We’re so quiet the crickets start chirping again and lightning bugs flash right outside my window.

She’s curled in on herself, like those caterpillars we used to catch and poke when we were ten. She’s been in my life forever. First as the girl who wanted to be part of the neighborhood boys’ group. Then, because of her stubborn refusal to be excluded, as the girl who was part of the boys’ group. Finally, in what seemed like an overnight transformation, she turned into the girl who could no longer be part of the boys’ group because I couldn’t stop seeing how very girl she was. That was the summer before freshman year, but it wasn’t until May of tenth grade that she broke things off with Jeff’s sleaze of an older brother and agreed to date me.

Now what? Will she just not be part of my life anymore? The thought pushes all the air from my lungs, replacing my anger with chilling fear.

“But I love you. Why would you do this to us?”

Carly gives me a look: lowered eyebrows, mouth pressed in an angry slash, nostrils flared. “I didn’t do it.” She reaches for the door handle.

“Wait,” I ask, and she does—even though I don’t say anything else. I’ve apologized. I’ve begged. I haven’t cheated. I don’t know what else I can offer her.

Losing her will be losing her family too. It’s the second family I’ve lost this year—and it sucks just as much. I’ve known Marcos since before he was born. He was the first baby I’d held, my eleven-year-old’s bravado melting into “Am I doing this right?” as soon as Carly placed him in the bend of my elbow.

I want to beg her again to reconsider. Instead I say, “Will you apologize to Marcos for me? I told him we’d play catch tomorrow.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything. Her angry face has disappeared. She’s breathing in quick, short breaths and blinking a lot—trying not to cry.

There’s a flicker of brightness when she opens the car door. A slam. A silhouette in my headlights. An absence.

How long has she been planning this? Have I missed some big warning signs? I know our relationship isn’t perfect, but damn! How can she believe ten numbers on a piece of paper and not believe me?

I scramble for my iPod, scrolling past the playlists of “Carly music” and choosing a band that growls more than sings. Turning it up until the floor vibrates with bass and the words distort into monster sounds, I put the car in reverse and leave her driveway so quickly my tires squeal. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, I need to get out of here as fast as possible—maybe then it won’t hurt so much.