Bright Before Sunrise(57)

When she shakes the hair out of her eyes, I can see she’s not flirting, she’s serious. “I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and realize one of the boys I’ve known since kindergarten is suddenly breathtaking and makes my pulse race or something cliché like that.”

“So there’s no guy at Cross Pointe who’s good looking enough for you?” I give her a gentle push and watch her arc away from me. Her hair trails like a live thing.

“No! That’s not what I mean at all! There are plenty of guys who are hot, but I’ve known them so long. They’re the same boys who used to show off their burping and farting skills. Thinking about dating any of them feels … weird and slightly incestuous.”

“Incestuous would be weird.”

She finally laughs. “Stop teasing me! I’m serious. Amelia tells me I should just suck it up and pick a guy—otherwise I’ll go off to college ‘dangerously innocent’—her words, not mine. But if I know I’m not going to feel about a guy the way he feels about me, then I’m setting him up to be hurt. How can I do that to someone I like? Even if it’s not like-like.”

I was going to make a crack about “like-like,” but her answer doesn’t seem funny anymore. “Good question. I don’t disagree.”

“Plus, I think they’re all still secretly impressed with the noises and smells they can make.”

“They are.” I laugh louder than the comment really deserves and almost prove her right about my gender’s immaturity by twisting her swing sideways. Instead, I put an extra step of space between us and look around for something distracting that isn’t her. She lets herself slow to a stop. She’s not looking at me either.

If “awkward” had a flavor, it would taste like this moment. Like my mouth opening and closing as I try to think of something to say. Or sprinkler water and the one sip of beer I had tonight. Or the ghost of Carly’s lip gloss and the laughter that just fizzled.

I rap my knuckles against the cold metal frame of the swings. A hollow sound reverberates down the pole, and I open my mouth again. I don’t know what ruined the moment, but I want it back.

Maybe the moment was damned to fail. I mean, Brighton. In Hamilton. With me. It’s an equation that has no solution.

I look away from her, across to the other side of the park, and suddenly I need to see it again. I’m already off the playground sand and on the sidewalk before I call, “There’s somewhere I have to go. It won’t take long. You can either come or stay here.”

I’m not sure which I’d prefer.





32

Brighton

12:25 A.M.


12 HOURS, 35 MINUTES LEFT


He’s leaving without me.

It’s my fault too. He’d started opening up about his life, baseball, girls. So what do I do? Ruin it all. Could I sound more ridiculous? Oh, why don’t you date, Brighton? Well, you see, guys smell. Way to be eight. Does he think I include him in that category? Real smooth. He looked so embarrassed for me—though I’m more than embarrassed enough on my own.

I really mentioned burping and farting. Like that phone call from Mom wasn’t bad enough. I knew she’d have a meltdown tonight. I knew it.

He paces next to a trash can with his eyes fixed on something I can’t identify.

Just this once, Evy can handle Mom. They’ll be fine.

“Wait up! Please.”

As soon as I reach him, he’s off again, like he’s afraid our destination will disappear before we reach it.

“Where are we going?”

“Wait and see, Bright,” he says. Then adds, “Sorry.” He’s staring at something across the street.

“What? Why?” I look around for whatever’s inspiring his apology and come up with nothing.

“Called you Bright again. Accident, I swear.”

“I didn’t even notice.”

For the first time since he started on this manic mission to wherever, Jonah looks at me. His brown eyes settle on mine and stay there; my cheeks react with a blush.

“My dad used to call me that: his Rainbow Brite.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Every day.” It’s just a smidge more than twelve hours until his memorial. My stomach twists. My throat is constricting. I want to look away, but his eye contact is the only thing keeping me steady. “Tell me about your dad. Do you still see him a lot?”

“No, never. I wish I could hate him. Then at least it would be mutual.”

“Jonah, come on. You know your father doesn’t hate you.”

He kicks at a rock on the sidewalk and answers in a tight voice. “Yeah. He does. He blames me.”

“He couldn’t. He’s your dad.”

“He blames me.” He’s stopped walking and is pacing the same three squares of sidewalk. The emotions spill out of his voice and into his stride: furious, fast steps that change direction without pattern.

“Paul was my physical therapist. Mom met him because of me. Because I screwed up my right ankle sliding into home plate and couldn’t drive myself to appointments. Dad’s convinced I knew. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

My chest feels tender from talking about Dad, and my heart aches for Jonah. Not wanted? By his own father?