The Truth About Forever(41)

"Like a series," I said.

"I guess," he said. "Mostly I'm just trying to get it right, whatever that means."

I looked across the clearing, catching a sudden glimpse of Kristy as she moved through the crowd, blonde head bobbing.

"It's hard to do," I said.

Wes looked at me. "What is?"

I swallowed, not sure why I'd said this out loud. "Get it right."

He must think I'm so stupid, I thought, vowing to keep my mouth shut from now on. But he just picked up one of the rods he'd carried over, turning it in his hands. "Yeah," he said, after a second. "It is."

Kristy was now almost to the keg. I could see her saying something to Monica, her head thrown back as she laughed.

"I'm sorry about your mom," I said to Wes. I didn't even think before saying this, the connotation, what it would or wouldn't convey. It just came out, all on its own.

"I'm sorry about your dad," he replied. We were both looking straight ahead. "I remember him from coaching the Lakeview Zips, when I was a kid. He was great."

I felt something catch in my throat, a sudden surge of sadness that caught me unaware, almost taking my breath away. That was the thing. You never got used to it, the idea of someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, accepted, someone points it out to you and it just hits you all over again, that shocking.

"So," he said suddenly, "why'd you stop?"

"Stop what?" I said.

"Running."

I stared down into my empty cup. "I don't know," I said, even as that winter day flashed in my mind again. "I just wasn't into it anymore."

Across the clearing, I could see Kristy talking to a tall blond guy who was gesturing, telling some kind of elaborate story. She kept having to lean back, dodging his flailing fingers.

"How fast were you?" Wes asked me.

I said, "Not that fast."

"You mean you couldn't… fly?" he said, smiling at me.

Stupid Rachel, I thought. "No," I said, a flush creeping up my neck, "I couldn't fly."

"What was your best time for the mile?"

"Why?" I said.

"Just wondering," he said, turning the rod in his hands. "I mean, I run. So I'm curious."

"I don't remember," I said.

"Oh, come on, tell me," he said, bumping my shoulder with his. I cannot believe this, I thought. "I can take it."

Kristy was glancing over at us now, even as finger guy was still talking. She raised her eyebrow at me, then turned back to face him.

"Okay, fine," I said. "My best was five minutes, five seconds."

He just looked at me. "Oh," he said finally.

"What? What's yours?"

He coughed, turning his head. "Never mind."

"Oh, see," I said, "that's not fair."

"It's more than five-five," he told me, leaning back on his hands. "Let's leave it at that."

"That was years ago," I said. "Now I probably couldn't even do a half a mile in that time."

"I bet you could." He held the rod up, squinting at it. "I bet," he said, "you'd be faster than you think. Though maybe not fast enough to fly."

I felt myself smile, then bit it back. "You could outrun me easily, I bet."

"Well," he said, "maybe someday, we'll find out."

Oh, my God, I thought, and I knew I should say something, anything. But now Kristy, Bert, and Monica were walking toward us, and I missed my chance.

"Twenty minutes to curfew," Bert announced as he got closer, looking at his watch. "We need to go."

"Oh, my God," Kristy said, "you might actually have to go over twenty-five to get us home in time."

Bert made a face at her, then walked to the driver's side door, opening it. Monica climbed up into the ambulance, plopping herself on the couch, and I followed her, with Kristy right behind me.

"What were you two talking about?" she whispered as Wes pulled the doors shut.

"Nothing," I said. "Running."

"You should have seen your face," she said, her breath hot in my ear. "Sa-woooon."





* * *





Chapter Eight





"Okay," Caroline said, pushing a button on the camera and then coming over to sit next to my mother. "Here we go."

It was Saturday morning. My sister had arrived the night before, having spent the day in Colby meeting with the carpenter about the renovations and repairs to the beach house. This was familiar ground to her, as she'd already done her own house, plus the place she and Wally had in the mountains. Decorating, she claimed, was her calling, ever since one of her college art professors told her she had a "good eye," a compliment that she took to mean she was entitled to redo not only her own house but also anyone else's.

So although my mother was just barely on board—which was itself miraculous, in my opinion—Caroline was moving full steam ahead, showing up with not only most of her extensive library on home decorating but also pictures she'd taken with Wally's digital camera, so she could walk us though the suggested changes with visual aides.