Little Do We Know(94)

Maybe someday I’d tell her. For now, it seemed fitting that Aaron and I were the only ones at the school who knew what happened in that sound booth.





Mom was asleep. I crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. “I’m home.”

She was five days past the end of her scheduled breakdown, but I still spotted a few tissues on her comforter. And the TV was blaring, tuned to some cheesy romance channel. I lifted the remote and turned it off.

“Mom,” I said, and she opened one eye. “Here, have some water.”

She sat up. “Thanks.” She took a few sips and then set it on her nightstand. She settled back into her pillow. “How was the game?”

“Good. We won.”

She reached up and took the sleeve of my altered jersey-dress between her thumb and forefinger and studied my face. “Charlotte did a great job on your hair. You look beautiful.” Before I could say anything, she moved her hand to my knee. “Your leg still looks horrible.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Over the last week, the bruise had turned black, then purple, and finally yellowish green. I was hoping it would have faded away completely by now, so Mom and I could enjoy the fact that we had a restraining order in place and all traces of D-bag were gone from our lives. But the bruise lingered, a constant reminder that he still existed.

“Hey,” I said. “Luke’s here. Is that okay?”

Mom nodded. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

It was part of our new pact. No more secrets. No more sneaking around.

“He got word from Denver today. He’s going as planned.”

“Oh, really? That’s great!” And then she saw the look on my face. “That’s great, right?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Actually it is.”

She rested her hand on my lower back. “You okay?”

I was. And I wasn’t. It was like being hot and cold at the same time, and it didn’t make any sense. “What can I do? It’s the way it’s supposed to end.”

“Love sucks, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.” I sighed. “And no.”

“Exactly.” She sounded impressed, like I’d said something wise beyond my years. She patted my hand. As I smiled down at her, I could tell she was fighting to keep her eyes open.

I pulled the covers under her chin and kissed her forehead. “Get some sleep. We’ll go to a movie tomorrow. And not a romance. I’m taking you to see something with zombies or pirates or total world destruction.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said. Her eyes fell shut. “I love you.”

“I love you, Mom.” I closed her bedroom door behind me and walked down the hallway to mine.

Inside, Luke was sitting on the edge of my bed. He’d taken off his Foothill Falcons jacket and draped it over my chair.

I turned the lock, crossed the room, and stepped in between his legs. “Hey, you.” I rested my forearms on his shoulders and twisted his curls around my fingers. I leaned in closer to kiss him, but something was off. He wasn’t kissing me back, not like he normally would have. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“This is weird. I can’t do it with your mom in the next room.”

“She’s always in the next room.”

“Yeah, but…now she knows I’m here.”

“So?” I leaned down and kissed him again, and this time he let go. His mouth was warm, and his lips were soft, and for the millionth time, I thought about how much I loved kissing him. Now that everything was settling into a new normal, I decided that was the new plan: to spend the next one hundred and twenty-two days kissing as much as humanly possible.

I hooked my thumbs under his T-shirt and started to lift it over his head, but he grabbed the hem and pulled it down again.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “She’s already asleep again, I promise.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his forehead on my stomach. “It’s not that. I…I have to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” I let my fingertip skate over the back of his neck. “What’s up?”

He scooted all the way onto my mattress and sat with his back pressed against the wall. I crawled up on the bed and joined him. And then the room got too quiet.

Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been to see Hannah’s dad. Twice this week.”

“You did?” I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. We’d spent the entire week together, often talking at length about other people he could go to for help, and he hadn’t mentioned Pastor J once. “I thought you were going to talk to a therapist?”

Last Tuesday, during Calletti Spaghetti, he’d finally told his parents about his insomnia, and how he’d spent those hours he should have been sleeping watching YouTube videos and researching near-death experiences. His doctor referred him to someone he thought could help.

“I am. My mom made an appointment for me next week. And I know you don’t completely understand this, but I need to talk to Pastor J, too. He helps me wrap my head around this whole thing. Talking to him makes me feel better about what happened.”

I wanted to say I did understand, but I didn’t. Not completely.