Aftermath(39)

He pulls back. “We should talk. About what’s happening to you.”

She makes a face. “It’s nothing.”

“You were trapped in a fire, Skye. On purpose.”

“Maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I…” A gesture, that flail again, out of her comfort zone. “Maybe I imagined it.”

“Can you tell me what’s happening? I’d like to know, especially since I seem to be a person of interest in the case.”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s no case.”

“Then let’s go somewhere and talk. We’ll get…” A milkshake. Remember those? “How about a coffee? Make up for the one you missed Saturday. There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”

She hesitates, and he’s sure she’s going to say no, and he’s wildly searching for some other excuse, something they can talk about.

Maybe, you know, the elephant in the room? The shooting?

No, not that. She doesn’t need that.

“You should talk to someone,” he says. “Work it through. I’d like to hear it.”

She finally nods and says, “Okay.”

Skye

We don’t go to Starbucks. It’s packed with kids from school. So we’re walking, and Jesse has his cell phone out, having mapped another coffee shop. We’ve walked at least a mile, and he keeps apologizing. Well, mumbling that sounds apologetic, though I don’t catch actual words. He’s holding his phone aloft like a compass… or an excuse for not communicating.

“Just up here,” he says. “On the left.”

“Hopefully, it’s open,” I say, and I tell him about my own coffee-shop quest Saturday, making far too convoluted a story of it. That’s my way of coping with the awkward silence.

“There,” he says, with the relief of a sailor spotting land in a storm. “It’s open. Good.”

We go inside. Only a few tables are occupied, and I spot the perfect pair of comfy chairs in a corner. He sees it at the same moment and says, “Can you grab those while I get in line? Just tell me what you want.”

“I’ll buy my own.”

“My treat. Really. I told Mom I might be seeing you after school and she gave me —” He pulls a twenty from his pocket. Two more fall to the floor, and he scrambles to pick them up.

“Wow,” I say. “We can buy out the pastry counter with that.”

He gives a self-conscious laugh. “Yeah, really, huh? ’Cause I need sixty bucks to take you for a coffee.” He shakes his head. “They do that a lot. Shoving money at…” He trails off with another shake of his head. “Whatever.”

Shoving money at problems. As if that will cure what ails us. My dad’s the worst for it, depositing weekly money into my account, which I refuse to touch.

Sorry for screwing off when you needed me. Have some cash to make it better.

Even Mom makes sure my wallet is always full.

Do you need anything, Skye? Anything at all?

I want to tell Jesse that I understand. Maybe even explain about my parents. But that’s more of the awkward. Oversharing to fill the silence.

So I just say, “Can I get a caramel latte and a brownie?”

A wry smile. “Are you sure you don’t want ten?” He waves the cash.

“I’ll take the biggest latte they’ve got.”

His smile softens then, a real one for me as he nods and says, “Biggest latte. Biggest brownie. On me. Well, on my mom. Go grab those chairs before someone else does.”

Jesse hands me my latte and puts a plate with two brownies on the table, over on my side. I push it to the middle for us to share. He pushes it back again, and he’s watching me, waiting for me to smile, to make some sardonic comment. But I can’t. I’m struggling here, on this dangerous terrain.

Jesse is showing me glimpses of the guy I knew, reminders of what we had, and I’m too eager to see that. Too ready to jump at it. I’m terrified that if I do, I’ll show up in math class tomorrow and he’ll sit with his back to me, like this never happened.

I can’t handle that. I just can’t.

So I murmur a “Thanks,” and I know it’s not what he wants, but it’s all I’ve got.

I sip my drink, and he does the same, and I’m watching his hand around the cup, the curve of his fingers. I don’t recognize that hand. The soft fingers are gone. The chewed nails are gone. The Band-Aids are gone – I swear he always had one from some accident or other. It’s just a guy’s hand. Could be anybody’s.

“My mom says your gran had a stroke,” Jesse says. “How is she?”

“Okay.”

“We don’t hear…” He puts his cup down. “Stuff, you know. About you guys. Not much, anyway. I know your parents split. How’s your dad?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Alarm flashes across his face, and I know I’ve been too forthright. Too old-Skye.

“We don’t really communicate,” I say. “It’s just me, Mom and Gran. Which is fine.”

“And your mom…?” he asks carefully. “Did she… get better?”

I pick at my brownie. “It’s severe clinical depression. They can’t seem to find the right meds or maybe she’s not taking them or… I don’t know.”