Vanishing Girls(42)

I’ll never be unhappy again.

With one hand he eases aside the collar of my T-shirt, kissing me along my shoulder blade and then up to my neck, moving his lips across my jawline and then to my ear. My whole body is a shiver; at the same time, I’m burning hot. I want everything, all at once, and in that second I know: tonight’s the night. Right here, in my stupid mildew-smelling car: I want it all from him.

I grab his T-shirt and pull him closer, and he makes a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh.

“Nick,” he whispers.

All at once, my whole body goes ice-cold. I release him, scrabbling backward, bumping my head against the window. “What did you say?”

“What?” He reaches for me again, and I swat his hand away. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“You called me by my sister’s name.” Suddenly I feel nauseous. That other thing I’ve been trying to deny—that horrible, deep-down feeling that all along I was never good enough, could never be good enough—now surges up, like a monster made to swallow up all my happiness.

He stares at me, then shakes his head, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, as if he’s working up momentum to deny it. “No way,” he says. But for a second, I see guilt flash across his face, and I know that I’m right, that he did. “No way. I would never—that’s f*cked-up—I mean, why would I—?”

“You did. I heard you.” I shove out of the car and slam the door shut so hard the whole car rattles, no longer caring whether I wake anyone up.

He doesn’t love me. He never loved me. All along, he’s loved her.

I was just the consolation prize.

“Wait. Seriously, stop. Wait.”


He’s out of the car now, trying to intercept me before I can get to the door. He grabs my wrist, and I wrench away, stumbling on the grass, turning over on my ankle so a sharp pain goes all the way up to my knee.

“Let me go.” I’ve started crying without knowing it. Parker stands there, watching me with an expression of horror and pity and even more guilt. “Leave me alone, okay? If you love me so much, if you care about me at all, just do me a favor. Leave me the hell alone.”

To Parker’s credit, he does. He doesn’t follow me to the porch. He doesn’t try to stop me again. And once I’m inside, with my face pressed to the cold glass, taking deep, heaving breaths to try and keep the sobs back, I see that he doesn’t even wait that long before disappearing again.





BEFORE





FEBRUARY 16


Nick


“Tell me again”—Aaron takes my ear between his teeth, pulling lightly—“what time your mom is coming home?”

He’s made me say it three times already. “Aaron,” I say, laughing. “Don’t.”

“Please,” he says. “It’s so sexy when you say it.”

“She’s not,” I say, giving in. “She’s not coming home at all.”

Aaron smiles and moves his mouth from my neck to my jawline. “I think those might be the hottest words in the English language.”

Something hard and metal is digging into my lower back: the spine, probably, of the pullout couch. I try to ignore it, try and get into the mood, whatever that means. (I’ve never understood that phrase; it makes it sound as if moods are something you choose, like putting on a pair of pants. Dara and I once decided that “sex-mood” would be a leather romper, skintight. But most of the time I just feel like a big pair of sweatpants.)

But when Aaron shifts his weight, leans into me with a knee between my legs, I let out a sharp cry.

“What?” He sits back, instantly apologetic. “Sorry—did I hurt you?”

“No.” Now I’m embarrassed and scoot backward, instinctively covering my breasts with an arm. “Sorry. Something was digging into my back. It was nothing.”

Aaron smiles. His hair, true black and silky, has grown out. He brushes it away from his eyes. “Don’t cover up,” he says, reaching out and easing my arm away from my chest. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re biased,” I say. Aaron’s the beautiful one. I love how tall he is, and how small he makes me feel; I love the way basketball has defined his shoulders and arms. I love the color of his skin, a cream-gold, like light shining through autumn leaves; I love the shape of his eyes and the way his hair grows silky-straight.

I love so many individual things, points of a compass, dots on a diagram. Yet somehow when it comes to filling in the big picture, to loving him, I don’t. Or I can’t. I’m not sure which, and I don’t know that it matters.

Aaron reaches out and grabs my waist, leaning backward and drawing me onto his lap simultaneously, so I’m the one on top. Then he’s kissing me again, exploring my tongue carefully with his, running his hands lightly up and down my back, touching me the way he does everything: with cautious optimism, as if I’m an animal who might startle away from his touch. I try to relax, try to stop my brain from firing out stupid images and thoughts, but suddenly all I can focus on is the TV, which is still on, and still replaying old episodes of some competitive grocery shopping show.

I pull away and just for a second, Aaron lets his frustration show.