I slam our front door shut behind me, ignore Milky almost jumping out of her skin at the sound of it. She’s sitting on the couch, her neck craned to watch me walk the few steps from the door to the fridge. “Bad day?” she edges.
“The worst.” I open the fridge, ready to drown my emotions in something glutinous and disgusting. Stacks of plastic tubs containing food fill half the fridge, and my stomach drops. “What did you do today?” I ask. I attempt to level my breathing while I wait for her to respond, wait to see if she’ll offer the truth.
A long moment stretches between us before she answers, “I went home. Saw Grandma and Grandpa.” There’s a peppy lilt to her tone, fake, and I narrow my eyes, aim them at her.
She shrugs. “You know what Grandma’s like. She wants to make sure I’m eating well.” Milky stands up, ready for a fight.
I have no fight left in me. I ask, defeated and apprehensive, “Did they ask about me?”
Milky tilts her head, scrunches her nose: her standard look of confusion. “Why would they?”
I slam the fridge shut just like the front door. “Wait. Do they know that I’m—”
“Andie, I…”
“You what?”
“They don’t know,” she says with a sigh.
I take a second to process her words, what exactly it is she’s saying. “So… what do they think you’re doing, Milky?”
Another sigh.
“What the hell?” I almost shout. “You haven’t told them you’re living with me?”
“It’s not—”
“I get it,” I tell her, reaching into my bag for the keys. I need to get out of here. Out of her space. Out of my head.
“You get what?” she snaps, moving toward me and blocking my path.
“That you feel the same way they do!”
“And what’s that, Andie?”
“Shut up.”
“How do you think we feel?”
“Shut. Up.” I shove her. Hard. She falls back a step, a strangled squeal pushing out of her throat. I regret it immediately but don’t have time to apologize before she’s in my face, her hair flying around her.
My lungs contract, my heart hammering. My fingers search blindly for my puffer. She steps closer again. “I’m not letting you get out of here, Andie. Deal with it. You’ve been a catty little bitch ever since I tried to crack a joke. So whatever you want to say, fucking say it.”
My jaw tense, fists balling at my sides, I ignore the pain in my chest and bite out, “You’re ashamed of me, Milky. Just like they are. And you fucking know it.”
“You’re an ungrateful bitch.”
“Fuck you.”
“And you know what, since we’re laying it all out there, what are you doing with Noah?”
At his name, my anger bubbles, bursts. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Maybe not now, not yet, but he will! Because I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. Goddammit, Andie, how fucking stupid are you?”
I try to fight back the tears, the anger, but the pain in my chest increases, both physical and emotional. And I wish I were anywhere but here. I wish I’d never come home. Home brings reality and cold, harsh truths.
“You’re doing it again! You’re throwing everything away for some guy!”
“Noah’s not some guy!”
“Yeah, and Matt wasn’t either, right? Now, look at you!”
I lower my gaze, each of her words stabbing at my heart, my lungs, my entire body. “That was a low blow, Milky. That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair!” she yells, pointing he finger at me. “You don’t get to live in this perfect little bubble where consequences don’t exist. Haven’t you learned? Haven’t you been through enough?”
I don’t know where this is coming from, her anger, her honesty.“You think I don’t know that?! It’s my life it messed up. Not yours!”
She laughs once, so bitter and angry, I feel her hatred in every cell of my heated blood. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? The perfect girl with the perfect scores and the perfect attitude... Sure, Andie, your fucked-up choices didn’t effect anyone but you!” She takes the car keys from me, turns on her heels and heads for the door.
I follow after her, my feet hitting the concrete of the driveway. I shout, my emotions getting the best of me, “Go ahead! Do what you do best. Turn your back on me!”
She stops suddenly and spins to me. “That’s not fair, Andie,” she whisper-growls.
Three years.
Three years of anger, spite, and regret and it all comes down to this. To now.
“What the hell’s going on?” Bradley says, stepping out of his house, Noah following after him. They must’ve heard us out here, arguing like teenagers. I wonder how much they’ve heard. I wonder if I give a shit.
Ignoring them, I cross my arms and mock, my words aimed at my sister, “Didn’t you hear? Life isn’t fucking fair!”
“You’re a selfish bitch!”
“And you’re a whore.”
“Whoa,” Bradley says, moving to his girl. “What the fuck, Andie?”
“I’m a whore?” Milky retorts, her raw emotions making her lips quiver. “You think I enjoy taking my clothes off for money? I’m doing this for you, you brat!”
My gaze drops, regret like a sucker punch right to my gut.
Milky laughs, sinister and threatening. “Like you of all people have the right to call me a whore. You’re—”
“What the fuck’s going on?” Noah snaps, while my eyes lock on Milky’s.
Whatever she sees in my glare has her stepping away from me. I scream through my cry, “You need to shut the fuck up!” Then I lunge for her. But Noah’s arms are around my waist, holding me back. He lifts me off the ground when I go for her again.
“That’s great, Andie,” my sister says. “Way to fall into another guy’s arms.”
Noah lets go of me instantly, his eyes widening. Cheeks red, he watches me a moment, confusion turning to despair, and I hate my sister. Hate her. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
I want to go to him. To tell him that it’s not his fault, that it’s mine. That I’m not worthy of his apology or even his touch. “Noah,” I whisper, and he takes a step back.
Away from me.
Away from my crazy.
Maybe I do have the plague.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” Bradley murmurs. When neither my sister nor I bother with a response, he moves his focus to Milky. “And where the hell are you going? I’m supposed to be taking you out for dinner.”
“Right,” Milky says, her voice calmer. “I forgot.”
Bradley huffs out a breath. “Fuck this. Both of you, get your shit. I’m taking us all out.”
The diner is the same as it was the night Noah brought me here. Even the waitress is the same. She knows Noah by name and greets him as such, and when we get seated in the booth, there’s an awkward shuffle of who sits where, and more importantly, why. Milky sits with Bradley on one side, Noah and me on the other. Bradley reminds us it’s his treat, that we can order anything we want. Any other time, Milky would stop him. She’d say something about him not owning her. But now? Now, the mood is tense. Worse than tense. And I don’t want to be here. I doubt anyone but Bradley does.
We order our food:
Burger for Bradley.
Salad for Milky.
Pancakes and steak sandwich for Noah.
Water for me.
I don’t think my stomach could handle food. It’s too busy spinning. Dipping. Over and over.
On the bench between us, Noah’s hand brushes against mine. His apology is instant. So is his cower. He scoots so far away from me, he may as well be part of the window.
Bradley says, “So I got a job today.”
“Yeah?” Noah asks.
Bradley nods. “You’re looking at a new member of security at Chuberet.” He nudges Milky’s side. “She put in a good word for me.”
“Don’t you need to be twenty-one to do that?” I ask.
“Like you know the law,” Milky mumbles.
“Fuck off, Milky.”
Our meals arrive, putting a pause on our hatred. Noah takes two bites of his pancakes before pushing the plate aside. Not toward me, but to the center of the table. Bradley says, “Every single time we come here, you order pancakes, take two bites, and then push them aside.”
“So?” Noah says.
“So… you don’t think it’s a waste?”
Noah sips his coffee, brings the plate back to him. He shoves another forkful of pancakes in his mouth. “Better?” he mumbles around the mouthful.
“Aren’t pancakes more a dessert food? Shouldn’t you have the sandwich first?”
“Don’t tell him what to do,” I cut in.
“Wait,” says Bradley. “I thought you hated pancakes.”
“I do.”
“Didn’t…” Bradley trails off, shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“If you don’t eat them for the taste then—” Milky starts, but Bradley cuts her off.
“Let it go.”
My head tilts, and I scrunch my nose. Turns out my sister and I share the same standard look of confusion.
“Let what go?” Milky pushes.
Noah sighs.
Milky adds, her focus switching, “How do they get pancakes so fluffy? I mean, is there a secret ingredient?”
“I don’t know,” I mock. “Why don’t you ask our beloved grandmother?”
“Shut up, Andie!” Milky snaps, and I roll my eyes.
“You shut up.”
“No, you shut up!”
“Jesus Christ,” Noah grunts, palms slamming the table top. “Both of you… just shut the fuck up!” And with more grace than I knew he was worthy of, I watch, eyes wide, as he climbs over the back of the bench seat and heads for the exit.
“You want my keys?” Bradley calls after him. He says it so calmly, as if Noah’s behavior is completely normal. It’s not. At least not the version of Noah I know.
“I’ll see you at home,” Noah says over his shoulder.
My eyes snap to Bradley’s. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”
He shrugs. “Aren’t you?”
I didn’t go after him. For many reasons. I didn’t know what to say, how to act. But mostly, I didn’t go after him because I’m a giant fucking coward. Instead, I drank my water while Milky and Bradley ate, and I stayed silent, my mind switching from the drama with Milky to the confusion with Noah.
When we got home, Milky went to their house. I went through ours, into the yard and straight for Noah’s door. If he’d walked straight home, he should’ve been there. He wasn’t.
Now, I sit at the patio table just outside our back door, and I wait, nervous.
It’s 9 pm when I hear footsteps in the small alley at the side of the house. Noah stops when he sees me, and I come to a stand. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Where have you been?”
He chews the corner of his lip, then he sighs, long and loud. “I owe you an apology,” he says, focused on the keys in his hand. He doesn’t want to be here. With me.
“You don’t owe me an apology,” I tell him, taking a careful step forward. “But maybe an explanation?”
“Yeah.” He nods, rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. He looks tired. Beyond it, and I hope for something, anything, that’ll reveal another layer of the boy who’s infiltrated my every thought, raised every question.
Noah walks past me and sits on his bottom step, motioning for me to join him. Silence surrounds us for a minute, two. I’m the first to crack and say, “What kind of person doesn’t like pancakes?” It was supposed to be a joke, but I don’t think he gets it, or maybe he doesn’t hear me because he doesn’t react. Doesn’t stop from staring off into space.
Another two minutes of silence.
I hadn’t anticipated waiting this long for him so I didn’t bring a sweater out with me. I rub my hands along my arms, try to make sense of the moment.
“Christa loved pancakes,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
“Christa is…” I swallow my nerves. “…An ex?”
He turns to me, his eyes meeting mine, dark and desolate, just like the sky above us. “Milky hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
He drops his gaze. “I thought Bradley would’ve mentioned it to Milky, and Milky…” he trails off.
“I don’t think they do a lot of talking,” I say, literally on the edge of my seat, or step, whatever. My mind plays games, creating stories that he’s obviously hesitant to tell me. Christa is an ex… an ex he’s still hung up on. Or worse, Christa is his current girlfriend. Which means the shit that he’s been saying, the soft, feminine curves and perfection—it’s all bullshit, and a pretty crappy thing to be saying to a girl who’s—
“Christa’s my sister.”
Oh. “Oh.”
“It’s her birthday today. She would’ve been twenty-one.”
Would’ve.
“She died two Christmases ago. Or maybe it was Christmas Eve. We don’t know the exact time of death.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle to say, “Noah… I’m…”
“You asked for an explanation, right?”
I wish it were okay to touch him.
I don’t care if it’s okay to touch him.
I take his hand in mine, hold it between us, and pray that he finds some form of comfort in my touch.
“Christa and I… we were really close. We spent every spare minute together. She was my best friend.” He whispers the last part, the pain in his words evident. “When I was six, her best friend Dana invited her to a baseball game, and she asked if she could bring me with her. I fell in love with the game then and there. Christa—she was in the stands at every one of my games, no matter how big or small. And when I got to high school, scouts started showing up to watch. She used to introduce herself to them as my manager.” He sniffs once, the sound of heartbreak. “She was a freshman at UCLA. She was home for winter break. That day—Christmas Eve—I set up a game with a couple of guys from the team because I missed it over the break. That stupid game… At the time, I missed the game more than I missed her. So when I should’ve been with her, I was…” he trails off, his mind as lost as he looks. “It was only supposed to be an hour, two at most, so I didn’t bring my phone with me. For some reason, more and more people started showing up to the field. Some guys brought beers, and before I knew it, I was in the middle of a full-blown party. There was this girl that I’d kind of been seeing. We ended up fooling around in her car. By the time Bradley found me, it was 2 am. We stumbled home, drunk and high on life.” He stops, fights back his emotions. “My alarm went off at 4. Christa—she was notorious for finding and opening Christmas presents early. That year, I’d just been accepted to a two-week training camp in San Diego over the spring, and so my present to her was the acceptance letter. She knew about the camp, helped me apply. The gift wasn’t the acceptance, though. But me being there, it meant two extra weeks with each other, you know?” Noah’s throat bobs with his swallow, and he clears his throat. “I hid the letter in the garage behind some camping gear. She fucking hated camping.” His single laugh is nothing but turmoil. “I went to the garage, and—” He blows out a heavy breath, his cheeks puffing with the force of it, and even though he’s not looking at me, I can see the despair, the devastation, the tears welling in his eyes. I squeeze his hand, urge him to continue. “The light flickered on and off for a few seconds. My eyes—they tried to adjust to the brightness, tried to adjust to what I was seeing.” His voice cracks. “The stool was the first thing I saw. We kept it under the workbench, so the first thing that went through my mind was that- that it was odd it was on the floor, tipped on its side.” Each word is strangled, each syllable doing nothing to ease the pain in his heart, in mine. I grip his hand tighter, wipe my tears on his shoulder because I know where this is going. I know
where it ends. “Her legs… they were just…”
“God, Noah,” I choke out. “You don’t have to—”
He faces me completely, his eyes locked on mine. His words meant only for me. “I screamed, Andie. I screamed so loud, my throat… and then my parents… my dad—he tried to cut her down, and my mom was… she was hysterical, and Dad just kept yelling at me to call 9-1-1, but I knew… I knew it was too late. I felt it in my blood. I remember my dad holding her once she was down, and Mom on the phone, and I just stood there. I stood there while my parents held her. My mom kept kissing her as if it would bring her back. And then she asked… she asked, ‘Why, Noah? Why?’, and I didn’t know. I still don’t know, Andie. I just know that I can’t talk to her anymore. I can’t see her. And the worst part? Christa called me eleven times that night. She needed me, and I wasn’t there. And I can’t change that, I can’t do anything because she’s fucking dead. Because she killed herself. And I’m not going to sit here and act as if what’s going on with you and your sister can’t possibly be as bad as what Christa was going through. All I’m asking is that you try. That you guys be there. Because trust me, Andie, it’s better than the alternative.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Andie
Milky enters our house after another long night at work and attempts to slip out of her shoes. Most nights, I’m in too deep a sleep to hear her come in. Tonight, I forced myself to stay up so we could talk.
For us.
For Noah.
I switch on the lamp on the side table, startling her. She freezes in the entryway, one hand grabbing her shoe, the other using the wall to hold her up. Wincing, she says, “I’m sorry. Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet.”
I sit up higher, let my blanket fall to my waist. “No, I was up.”
“Bad night?”
I shrug.