Just You Page 10

  I took his hand and tried to pull him off the bed, but he didn’t budge. “Let me see, or I will tickle you.”

  “Damn, you’re pushy,” he said with a laugh.

  “And you’re stubborn. Now let me see that yearbook.”

  He sighed and pushed himself up on his elbows, reaching under his back for the book. “Okay, you win. I guess you’re going to see old pictures around the house anyway.”

  I held out my hand for it, but he evaded me once again and instead started leafing through the pages himself, finding the picture for me. “You asked for it. This is me, in all my eighth-grade glory,” he said, finally handing it over.

  I eagerly took the book and found his picture, and when I did I had to look at the corresponding name to make sure I had the right one. “No way,” I said, taking in his fourteen-year-old self, which differed significantly from his present-day seventeen-year-old self. In this picture he was chubby, with glasses and—when I peered really close—a mouthful of braces. This was a boy I never would have looked at twice in eighth grade. I glanced up from the picture to see Michael watching me, cheeks pink, trying to measure my reaction. “No way,” I said again, my eyes lowering once again to the old him. The “before” shot.

  “I told you I was a geek,” he said.

  I closed the book and handed it to him. “How…?”

  He stood up to put the book back and I studied him in awe. The “after” shot. Gone was the chubbiness, replaced by a broad chest and wide shoulders and thick muscles. He wasn’t scrawny by any means, but I’d never liked skinny boys. The glasses had turned into contacts and the braces had done their job, resulting in the bright, even smile I loved so much. The transformation was rather shocking.

  “In ninth grade I started playing baseball and swimming and working out in the gym downstairs,” he said, knowing what I was trying to ask. “I stopped sitting around playing video games so much, grew a few inches taller, got contacts, and the braces came off. That’s pretty much it.”

  “I bet people were shocked when you came back for high school.”

  His face reddened again, probably from thinking about all the girls who suddenly started paying attention. “Well, kind of.”

  I finally understood it then: he still wasn’t all that comfortable with his hotness, maybe didn’t even believe he was good-looking at all. His looks had been a natural progression, effortless, unlike those arrogant guys who were in love with their reflections and tried too hard. Generally speaking, most guys who looked like him were jerks. But he wasn’t. The modesty I had admired all this time was really genuine.

  “Want to sit down?” he asked, nodding toward the bed.

  I sat. “You’re so neat. You should see my room. It’s a disaster.”

  “Perfectionism is one of the only traits I inherited from my father,” he said, sitting next to me.

  “Where is your father anyway?”

  “At work.”

  “He’s working at—” I glanced at my watch. “—eight-fifteen on a Saturday?”

  “He works late every night. Even on Sundays.”

  I felt bad for him. When did he ever spend any time with his dad? Or did he even want to spend time with him? “He must love his job.”

  “You could say that.” His jaw twitched like it did when he was uneasy, so I let it go.

  “You know,” I said, studying the mere faultlessness of his room. “I’m kind of a slob. I hope you can live with that.”

  “I can, if you can live with my issues.”

  “I can…but you’re not going to, like, clean my house when you come over, are you?”

  He laughed, inching closer to me. “I’m not a total freak.”

  We leaned into each other and kissed, there on the edge of Michael’s bed. After a minute he got up to shut the door, and then we picked up right where we left off, eventually sliding up to the middle of the bed and reclining back onto the pillows. His bed smelled like him—cinnamon and shaving cream and Tide laundry soap, all blended together.

  “I…” he said, pulling back to look at me. My heart thumped as I waited for him to continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I went limp with relief. For a moment I thought he was about to tell me he loved me, and I wasn’t sure how I would have reacted. Maybe the same way I’d reacted when Brian said it all those months ago. Or even worse, maybe this time I would have answered.

  “I’m glad too,” I said. “I liked meeting your family. Half of them, anyway. I’d like to meet the rest someday.”

  Michael, always observant, heard my thoughts as clearly as if I’d said them aloud. He propped himself up on his elbow, head resting in his palm, eyes focused on some arbitrary point across the room. When he spoke, it was in same cautious tone he used whenever he talked about something he didn’t really want to discuss, like his dad or his ex or his awkward junior high years.

  “My brother is in jail,” he said, his gaze returning to my face for half a second before flickering toward the wall again. “He’s supposed to get out sometime next year.”

  I lay perfectly still, not breathing, afraid he’d stop talking at the slightest movement. “Why?” I asked.

  “Possession of an illegal substance, driving under the influence, assault, theft, you name it. He’s been in and out of jail and rehab for the past three years, since he was eighteen, but he was addicted long before that. Just beer and pot at first, then he moved on to the heavier stuff.”

  I put my hand on his forearm. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  He dropped back onto the pillows and rubbed a hand over his face. “Big-shot lawyers can’t have families that are anything less than perfect, you know. We’re not supposed to talk about it, not to anyone. My father thinks Josh is an embarrassment to the family, but it’s mostly just to him. I mean, he’s a criminal lawyer, and his own son’s a criminal.”

  He exhaled and glanced at me again, as if he expected me to run away screaming any minute now. I found it kind of ironic that the first real flaw I had managed to uncover in him was that he tried to be perfect and needed everything around him to be perfect too. Clearly, that was his role in the family—the good son, the one who never made waves. I could only imagine how much pressure he felt, trying to live up to such impossible expectations.

  “Do you get along with him?” I asked, wrapping my fingers around his. “Your brother?”

  “He’s like my best friend,” he said without hesitation. “I just hate what he does.”

  I have to tell him now, I thought. Make it even. After all, he was my boyfriend, and you were supposed to trust your boyfriend with things like this. Personal things. He’d trusted me with his issues. My heart started pounding in my ears, and before I could change my mind or even gather the courage, I was laying out my own family secrets, right next to his.

  “When I was twelve,” I said, “my father had an affair and left us to be with her. Then he married her. My mother hasn’t been the same since. And, I guess, neither have I.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Wow. That’s horrible.”

  “Not as horrible as what your family is dealing with, but yeah, it was pretty bad. I don’t hate my father anymore, but I doubt I’ll ever fully trust him again. He really disappointed me, you know?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  Our conversation stopped there, but we stayed on the bed for a while, both of us drained from our confessions and yet kind of relieved too. The worst of us had been revealed and yet here we still lay, hands linked between us.

  Chapter 12

  Before I left to spend Christmas break at my father’s house, my mother presented me with a birthday card with a cartoon picture of a car on it, reminding me in a tangible way what my sweet sixteen gift was this year. And possibly my Christmas gift too, depending on the mechanic’s quote. But I was used to that. When your birthday is a week before Christmas, you get a lot of two-for-one presents.

  This year, though, it didn’t bother me at a
ll. Recently, my aunt Gina bought herself a brand new van for her bakery deliveries. She had planned on scrapping her old car, a bucket of bolts she called Stella, but my parents decided to buy it from her. For me. They arranged to split the cost on its much-needed tune-up, and as soon as Stella was road-worthy (and as soon as I passed driver’s ed), I would have my very own car, even if it was a lemon. Still, it was the best birthday present ever.

  Well, maybe the second best.

  Michael had plans to take me out to dinner on Saturday night, the celebration I looked forward to the most. But on Saturday morning, big, heavy flakes of snow started falling. By evening it had stopped, leaving behind a fluffy white blanket at least six inches high on every surface in the neighborhood. And because the unpredicted storm had taken the city by surprise, Dad and Lynn’s street still wasn’t plowed by seven o’clock and my father didn’t want me going out. Michael was allowed to come over if he didn’t mind testing out his winter tires, but we had to stay off the roads.

  “Well, this throws a wrench in my plans,” Michael said when I let him in the front door. I reached up to kiss him, but he tilted his face so I got his cheek instead. Even though he’d been to my father’s house many times and felt welcome and at home here, he still tried to be extra respectful whenever Dad was around. He was so proper sometimes, it killed me. Of course my father loved him, treating him like the long-lost son he never had. It was kind of embarrassing.

  “It’s okay,” I told Michael. I knelt on the floor to help Jamie stretch the tight elastic on his snow pants over the top of his boots. The instant he and Emma had finished dinner, they’d bolted for the closet to dig out the winter clothes. We could hear Leo in the kitchen, whining to go out. I handed Emma her mittens and frowned. “I hate winter.”

  Dad emerged from the kitchen and asked Michael about the condition of the roads.

  “They’re mostly clear now.”

  “I still don’t want you out on them,” Dad told me, sinking into the recliner with his newspaper and bottle of beer.

  I started to protest but quickly realized how pointless that would be. My father was permissive about a lot of things, but when it came to someone he cared about driving in bad weather, he refused to budge. He’d been in a winter car accident as a teenager and it had left him a little traumatized.

  “Daddy, can Leo come out with us?” Emma asked.

  “If you agree to dry him off when you come in,” Dad said from behind the newspaper.

  Emma agreed and called for Leo, who came skittering down the hallway at top speed, nearly knocking her over. The three of them bounded out the door.

  “How are your snowman-building skills?” I asked Michael.

  “It’s a hidden talent of mine.”

  I would have cracked a joke about his various other hidden talents had my father not been sitting right there. “Prove it to me, then,” I said instead.

  The sky was clear and full of stars as we stepped outside into the front yard. I breathed in the smell of fresh snow and chimney smoke and was reminded of my childhood, when my whole world revolved around playing and having fun. I remembered winter evenings in the yard with my father, the crunch of snow under my feet as I helped him shovel the driveway, and making snow angels and sledding with my friends. I remembered the incentive of hot chocolate and the uncomfortable feeling of numb, wet hands and physical exhaustion enticing me inside after dark. Life seemed so straightforward then.

  My reverie was interrupted by a cold, sharp thud on my lower back. I spun around with a shriek to see my sister and stepbrother packing armloads of snow for the base of their snowman, pausing every few seconds to scoop a handful up to their mouths for a taste. Leo bounced around haphazardly, stopping every few seconds to dig holes. Then I looked at Michael, who was standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets and gazing up at the sky with a sudden, intense interest.

  “You think you’re so sneaky, don’t you,” I said, wagging my finger at him.

  He blinked at me. “What?”

  “Just so you know,” I said, crouching down to gather up my own handful of snow, “I’ve never lost a snowball fight in my life. I throw like a boy.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Oh yeah.” I backed up, forming my snowball as I moved. “Other little girls on my street were playing hopscotch and skipping rope and I was at the park playing catch with my dad.”

  He studied my hands as they constructed the ultimate weapon. “A tomboy, huh? I never would have guessed.”

  “Do I not look like a tomboy to you?”

  His eyes drifted from my hands up to my chest, taking in the curves still visible even under my padded jacket, and then traveled up a few inches further to admire my long hair. “No.”

  We all turned our heads to the grinding racket of the snow plow as it passed down the street. Leo barked toward the noisy machine as if it were an intruder. As it went by the house, it swept a pile of snow into the opening of the driveway, which Dad had cleared late that afternoon. As I wondered if I should get the shovel and clear it again, I felt another snowball make contact, this time with my left calf.

  “That’s it.” I glared at Michael, squeezing my icy missile into shape. “This means war.”

  I threw the snowball at him and he ducked, causing it to miss him by a few inches. It arched over his head, landing at the edge of the neighbor’s fence.

  “You do have a good arm,” he said, impressed. As he was looking over his shoulder, his gaze trailing the path of my snowball, I quickly fashioned another one and threw it overhand-style, pelting him square in the stomach. He turned back to find me smiling mischievously.

  “Told you,” I said.

  He glanced down to where the snow had hit. “Too close for comfort. Not fair.”

  I snickered. “Sorry. I’ll aim higher next time.”

  He bent down to retrieve another chunk of snow and I zigzagged across the yard, laughing, daring him to get me. Leo started barking and nudging his wet nose into my jeans, and I had to keep pausing to shoo him away so I wouldn’t trip over him. Emma and Jamie, intrigued by the commotion, left their snowman project to join in on the fun. This promptly turned into a fierce boys vs. girls (vs. dog) smackdown. Emma and I, strategic yet level-headed females, easily won the battle after a mere twenty minutes (and when the melting heaps of snow ran out). But the boys refused to admit defeat.

  After our snowball war had ended, the two kids and the dog—all cold, wet, and bored—went inside while Michael and I leveled off the snow bank in the driveway.

  “Too bad the snow ruined tonight,” I said once we’d finished and were stowing the shovels where we’d found them, leaning up against the porch railing.

  “I don’t mind.” He ruffled some snow out of my hair. We were both soaked to the skin. “Slamming you with snowballs was really fun.”

  I gave him a little shove. “Even though I beat you?”

  A smile twitched on his lips, and a beat later he lunged at me, lightly tackling me to the ground. I screamed as we collided with the icy grass, limbs flailing. Somehow he made us land in a way that wasn’t painful, and after the initial shock wore off I started laughing—a deep, uninhibited sound that bubbled up from the lowest part of my stomach.

  “You’re really ticklish,” Michael said, pleased with how my laughter intensified each time he placed his hands near my sides. I tried to control myself but kept bursting into fresh giggles. He rolled away, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m not even touching you.”

  “It’s just the thought of it,” I said, shivering now as my laughter died down. The ground was freezing, and our clothes were wet.

  Michael reached out to brush his fingers across my cheek, and a burst of heat flared through me, quieting the shivers. Just as we started inching toward each other, the porch light flicked on, blinding us. The sound of the door creaking open echoed in the air. “Taylor?” my father bellowed. “Kids? Where are you?”

  Michael sprung to his feet and
offered his hand to help me up. “Right here, Dad,” I called once I was upright. “We’re coming in.”

  The door slammed shut again, and I turned back to Michael. He was watching me, one arm extended in my direction. “I have something for you,” he said, nodding toward his outstretched hand. I followed his gaze and was surprised to see a plain little box sitting in his palm. He must have dug it out of his pocket while I was answering my father. I stood rooted to the spot, staring open-mouthed at that box. “For your birthday,” he added, lifting his hand in a take it already motion.

  I snapped out of my trance and took the box, slowly opening it under the harsh glow of the porch light. Michael stood by, hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders as if he were either very cold or very nervous.

  I gasped when I saw it. Inside the box, nestled in a square of cotton, lay a small, sterling silver charm in the shape of two swans curled up together, beaks touching.

  “I thought of you when I saw that,” Michael said. “You said you loved swans, so…”

  At a loss for words, all I could think to do was swallow. I kept swallowing, over and over until my mouth felt parched, but it didn’t stop the burning behind my eyes.

  “I love it,” I said, finally. “Thank you. But it’s too much. I mean…” I gulped one more time, unable to finish my thought. I knew what I wanted to say…that we’d only been dating a few weeks, and we weren’t really serious, and giving perfect, meaningful presents like this was something you did when you were in love, and I was scared to even consider the possibility that we had gotten in so deep. That I had gotten in so deep. But none of that seemed appropriate right now.

  “It’s a birthday present,” Michael said, seeing my fear. “That’s all.”

  I looked up at him and was relieved to see that he was smiling. If he felt hurt or insulted by my reaction, it didn’t show. “Thanks,” I said again. I reached up to hug him, his gift secure in my fist as I wrapped both arms around him.