Send Me a Sign(68)

He looked at me—eyes dark and hopeless. I couldn’t stomach the intensity without crying. All I’d done lately was cry. This time, however, I didn’t know whom the tears were for.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t care.” His sigh echoed with resignation and reverberated in my chest. “But what does Meagan have to do with this? I don’t know what you want from me. Now I’m not allowed to have any female friends but you?”

I lowered my chin to the hollow between my chest and legs and peeked over my knees at him. “There’s a big difference between female friends and girlfriends.”

“Exactly.” He stood and paced the room, picking up a throw pillow and mashing it between his hands. “And Meagan will never be anything but a friend to me.”

“What?” I recoiled from his outburst. No. Gyver couldn’t be single. He couldn’t. Because if he was … I’d just said yes to Ryan, after “jerking him along” for a month. And he was a good guy. A great guy.

“Mi, don’t you get it?” He was gripping the pillow so tight his fingers disappeared to the second white knuckle.

I shook my head. I didn’t get it. Nothing made sense.

“I know you have your perfect boyfriend and don’t need me anymore, but wake up! Can’t you see?”

“I didn’t mean—” The words clumped and clogged my throat. “And Ryan—” I shook my head again.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Gyver! Wait. Please?” I stood and ran to him, grabbing his arm with both hands. I tugged on his shirt until he turned around. “Please.”

There was so much I needed to say, but only one thing I’d rehearsed. The idea I’d been battling and gagging on all week. The words it only felt safe to tell him and the words I needed to get out. “At the hospital that night, it was the first time …” I sucked in a raspy breath. “The first time …”

“Mia, you’ve made yourself clear. I really don’t want to hear any more.” He pulled me into the briefest of hugs, then pushed me away. “Rest up. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’ll see you soon.”

Soon wasn’t tomorrow. It wasn’t I’ll call you later. Soon was vague. I watched him walk away, wishing I knew the words to call him back—not just to my house, but back to August.

He hadn’t listened; he hadn’t let me finish my thought: At the hospital, it was the first time I realized I might not beat this. I might die.





Chapter 37

Monday night we got the call that my white blood count had rebounded. My parents reluctantly agreed to let me return to school on Tuesday. After refusing Dad’s offer to drive me, Mom’s “are you sure you don’t want to stay home just one more day?” and armed with extra anti-bac gel and strict instructions to call and check in, they sent me off with anxious first-day-of-kindergarten smiles.

Underneath my oh-Mom-I’ll-be-fine facade, I was a mess. Hil wouldn’t call back and Ryan wouldn’t meet my eyes when I asked about the Calendar Girls. I’d promised Hil the truth but hadn’t had a chance to deliver. It wasn’t my fault this time, but the cumulative weight of my past lies marked me as guilty and slowed down my getting-ready routine so I was thirty minutes late.

“Hey, stranger. I didn’t know you were back.”

I shut my locker to see Chris standing there with a sheepish grin. “Hi.”

“Do you have a sec?” He juggled his bathroom pass from one hand to the other, then shoved his free hand in the pocket of his jeans.

“Sure. What’s up? Is Ryan okay?” He was shifting one foot to the other and staring at my legs below my skirt, but not in his typical I’m-checking-you-out way. This was in a I’m-nervous-and-you’re-in-my-line-of-vision way.

“That’s kinda what I want to know. Are you guys okay? I know he doesn’t have a lot of extra money with the car and saving for college.” He looked from my legs to my face as if I was supposed to have a clue what he meant. When I quirked an eyebrow and shrugged, he continued, “I want you to know, if you and Ryan need money or anything, I’ll help.”

“Money?”

“For, you know, diapers and shit. Babies are expensive as hell. At least that’s what Dr. Phil’s always saying.” Now he was holding the bathroom pass with both hands, staring at the Sharpied paint stirrer like it held a hidden message.

“Babies?” The word was a hissed whisper. “Chris, I’m not pregnant!”

“It’s okay,” he reassured me. “We’re gonna be here for you guys. I hope it looks more like you than Ryan or it’s going to be an ugly bastard … er, baby.”

“We’re not. Why would you even think that?”

“You don’t drink or come to parties anymore. You’re eating like a crunchy hippie—all those weird natural foods. You’re always absent. Isn’t that morning sickness and pregnancy shit? And—” As he got worked up, he grew louder. A few of the late arrivers and hallway wanderers looked over.

“Enough! I’m not pregnant.” My voice was low and nearly a snarl. I wanted to be angry with him, but then I remembered why he’d sought me out. Not to spread gossip or mock me, but to offer help. “But thanks. It’s nice to know that if we did need help—make no mistake, we don’t—that we’d have friends we could count on.”