When We Collided(23)

So we stay there above the town, being here and being now, until the last possible moment. Until the last scrap of sunbeam lights our path back across the roof and through the door and into whatever happens next.



Later that night, I’m wishing Jonah had kissed me on the roof, even though we were talking about sad things—things that could wrestle your soul and pin it to the ground. It’s late, technically, but not by my standards—maybe 1:00 a.m. or so—and I’m working on sewing projects in my room because, well, what else am I supposed to do at this hour? I’m ripping a hem on an old dress, prepping it to become much shorter and cuter, and this can be fairly boring work. So I entertain myself by imagining many different scenarios in which Jonah is a sexually aggressive person, and it’s just getting good when my phone beeps. Oh, I hope it’s Jonah, and it is. He’s asking if I’m awake, which of course I am. Beep again. Look outside? I’m glittery with anticipation as I push my window up, and sure enough, Jonah Daniels is standing below, on the driveway.

“Hey.” Night wind shifts his hair, and he shoves his hands in his pockets—as if he walked all the way over here and chose this moment to get sheepish.

“Hey.” I try to sound casual, which is difficult when you’re yelling down to someone. “What’s up?”

“I can’t sleep. Even though I’m exhausted. So, uh, do you want to go on a walk? Down to the beach?”

“With you?” I ask, teasing him. He shoots me the look that says: Give me a freaking break, Viv, I’m trying here. So I grin. “Always. Be right down.”

I’m wearing a navy-blue nightdress with thin straps and little edges of off-white lace. It covers as much of me as any daytime summer dress, so I figure it’s just as well. I pull on an oversize cream cardigan, and I close my eyes, trying to decipher how it feels. It feels like I rolled out of bed and pulled on a sweater to walk to the mailbox. Close, but not exactly right. Faux pearls. I layer strands and strands of chunky, costume pearls around my neck, and yes, precisely—I am a girl who rolled out of bed to have an impromptu beach date with a boy.

I prance down the steps and see my mother’s form in the glow of the TV. She’s watching a French film with subtitles, one hand cradling a glass of white wine. Her head turns, and she finds my gaze over the back of the couch. A knowing smile twitches at her mouth. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m sneaking out,” I say, ruffling my curls. “Can’t you tell?”

“Oh, yes. Very subtle.” She examines me. “Same boy? Jonah?”

“Yes, same boy,” I huff, wounded.

“I want to meet him, Viv. I mean it.”

I turn fully, horrified. “What, like now?”

“Is he here now?”

“No.” It’s a flimsy lie—too reactionary. I’m usually better than that. “Maybe. Yes. We’re just going for a walk. He couldn’t sleep.”

“Then, yes, I’d like to meet him now.” When I don’t move, she pulls herself up, lengthening through her spine. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but Dr. Douglas said—”

“Fine,” I snap, unwilling to hear another word about it. I turn toward the front door, but I think better of it, swiveling back to my mom. “Can you . . . not ask about his parents?”

Her head leans slightly to the side, long hair pooling in her lap. I see her gathering the fragments: I spend all this time with his siblings, no mention of parents. He’s here late at night, unable to sleep.

“It’s really hard,” I say quietly. “And recent. Okay?”

She nods, the determined-parent expression falling a little. Jonah isn’t the opponent now—a possible threat to her daughter. He’s another child, as I am to her.

Jonah stands in the driveway with his hands still in the pockets of his khakis, which are rolled up to his ankle. I like this—that even when he dressed himself and left his house, he knew for sure he’d be taking me to the beach. I grin as I walk gently across the asphalt, leery of rogue pebbles. There’s just no ever-loving way that I’m wearing shoes on a night like this; it’s bottom-line insulting to the gorgeousness of a summer night.

“Hey,” Jonah says, before I can reach him.

“Hey. Perfect timing; I was just thinking about you.” I clutch his hand, pressing my lips together. “But, just one thing. My mom wants to meet you.”

“Oh. Um. Now?”

“Yeah—I know, she’s being so weird. Do you mind coming in really quick? I swear she’s not going to interrogate you. She just wants to see that you’re a normal, functioning person, and then we can do whatever we want.”

“Sure.” I can see it in his eyes, though, that this is not the evening he had in mind. Ugh, Mom! This would have been so romantic without interference.

Inside, the French actors are discussing something passionately on the TV. My mom rises from the couch, wine still in one hand. I forget, because I’m with her all the time, that my mother is sort of a presence. She has waist-length, ’70s-queen hair and this sweeping way of walking, in flowy blouses.

I can almost hear Jonah swallow. “Mom, this is Jonah.”

“Hello, Jonah,” my mom says, taking him in. And I can guess what she’s thinking: Huh. A guy in khakis. No half-shorn hair or visible piercings or tattoos—not that she minds those things. Jonah’s just the first . . . unadorned guy who’s made it to “meet my mom” status. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or impressed.