“I can’t stay away from you,” he whispers when he finally takes a break to breathe. He’s staring directly into my eyes with his forehead pressed against mine, and his hands are still holding tight to my face, as if to keep me there and ensure that I look at him right back.
To ensure that I see him. And, boy, do I.
His eyes look pained yet determined. I can see in them that he’s not letting go, and I know for sure now that I don’t want him to, either.
“Don’t stay away from me, then,” I whisper back, placing my hands gently over his and lowering them to my neck and then my sides. The movement relaxes him a little, and I can tell that his angst is waning.
“Do you forgive me, London?” Luke asks, his eyes still cutting into me.
“Yes, I do,” I say truthfully.
Yes, he lied to me. But he loves me, and I love him, and people make mistakes. I can’t see him in my future to know for sure, but I believe he’ll learn from this. He seems to be that type of person.
Luke is kissing me again now, softer this time. I try to think of nothing and just enjoy the moment, but I can’t help but wonder when my mom will return.
The house shifts, and I jump away from Luke like we’ve been caught.
“What?” he asks, looking around.
“Nothing,” I say, peeking behind me just to make sure. “I just thought my mom was back.”
“Maybe I should go?”
“No!” I say, so forcefully that he laughs. “No,” I say again softer, this time moving two steps toward him and taking his right hand in mine. “Stay for a little while.”
I’m embarrassed and excited at the same time, and there must have been a suggestive edge to my words, because now Luke blushes a little.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asks, squeezing my hand tighter.
“Yes, but…”
“But what?” he asks, bending a little to look curiously into my face.
At a loss for a gentler response, I just come out with it.
“But we’re not doing…”
“Doing what? You mean that? Sex?”
He’s still staring right at me as he says it, and now I’m the one turning red and feeling childish for even mentioning it.
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“I didn’t think we were going to,” he says, eyes holding steady. How is he so cool right now? Has he had this conversation a million times before? I’m about to respond when he interrupts me by adding, “At least not tonight.”
My stomach flutters.
“Good, glad we’re clear on that,” I say, turning to head up to my room, still holding his hand.
Behind me, Luke says, “I did tell my parents that I’m spending the night at Adam’s tonight.”
Halfway up the stairs, I halt, and turn to face him.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he says, looking a little devious.
“Where are you planning to sleep?”
“In the van.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know if you’d be out for the night. You and Jamie could have made up or something; you could have gone to her house. I thought I might need to stalk you a little harder,” he says with a laugh.
A slow smile creeps across my face. The gesture is sweet: Luke risked getting in trouble with his parents and spending all night in his van just to try to win me back.
“Well, I’m sure my mom won’t be home for a while. At least you can stay in the warm house until she comes back.”
“Sounds good,” Luke says as I turn and finish the climb, pulling my delinquent boyfriend behind me to the top of the stairs, down the hallway, and into my bedroom, and shutting the door behind us.
31
“Where did you park?” I whisper with a sudden sense of urgency as I listen to the garage door open and close downstairs.
“Down the street; I was stalking you, remember?”
“Get in the closet,” I whisper back, making a snap decision that I hope I won’t regret later.
“Are you serious? I can just go,” he offers, but he’s moving toward the closet as he speaks.
“No, I want you to stay. But hurry up; my mom will be upstairs in a minute,” I say, simultaneously kicking a massive pile of notes under the bed and scanning the bedroom for any visible traces of boy.
I hear the sink running in the kitchen; she must be getting a glass of water. Glancing at the clock, I wonder whether my mom will think it’s weird if I’m asleep just after nine. Maybe. But I have no other way to get rid of her quickly, so I bolt across the room and throw myself under the covers. I try to breathe easier and look peaceful, even though my heart is racing.
Mom’s footsteps are growing louder, and with only seconds left, I whisper a barely audible “shhh” to Luke.
I can’t believe there’s a boy in my closet right now! What am I thinking?
No time to ponder my stupidity. The door opens slowly and I freeze. I’m facing the wall, but I keep my eyes closed anyway, just in case she rushes over to check whether I’m faking.
Highly unlikely.
“Night, London, I love you.” My mom’s whispered words float through the night air so softly that they’re barely there. Is this her nightly ritual? I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the deceit that’s happening under her nose.
Then again, she’s been deceiving me for years.
After the door quietly taps the frame and I hear my mom slowly release the handle; after her footsteps disappear into her own room; after the water rushes to wash toothpaste and face soap down the drain; after the TV in her room sounds; after that, I wait five more excruciatingly long minutes.
And then I tiptoe to the closet.
“Hi,” I whisper to Luke. It’s pitch-black. I can’t see anything.
From the back corner of the closet comes his smooth voice.
“Hi.”
I hear him climb to his feet and watch his perfect self materialize from the darkness.
Instead of stopping, Luke walks until his warm body is pressing against mine in the closet doorway.
“Hi,” he says again, even smoother this time, if that’s possible, before planting a long and borderline inappropriate kiss on my lips.
Perhaps we’re both charged by the exhilaration of being bad, or maybe it’s the pitch-blackness that drives us, but soon enough we’re on the floor of my walk-in and a few articles of clothing aren’t exactly where they should be.
I stick to my earlier promise of not doing… that. But for at least an hour, maybe more, Luke makes it very, very difficult.
“I have to go to sleep,” I say when my breathing has finally slowed to the point that I can speak. I’m lying on Luke’s bare chest, which is strangely comfortable, considering it’s hard as a rock.
“I know,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss the top of my head before beginning to untangle his longer limbs from mine.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask, surprisingly at ease being literally and emotionally exposed to him.
“Here you go,” he says, tossing it my way.
Once we’re both dressed, Luke in what he wore this evening and me in pajamas, we walk toward my bed.
“Sleep here with me, okay?” I say.
“I think I’ll take the floor in the closet,” he says, adding, “just in case.”
“No, she won’t come in,” I promise, without really knowing whether we’ll be caught.
“How about this: I’ll lie here until you fall asleep, then I’ll go in the closet so she doesn’t find me in the morning.”
Too tired to argue, and anxious to be out before my memory resets at 4:33, I climb back in bed. This time, I scoot close to the wall and leave half the bed for Luke. He joins me under the covers and immediately we’re snapped together like Legos.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to write a note. I need to write this down or I’ll forget.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, please do,” Luke says. “I don’t want you to freak out again and make me explain things to your mom.”
“Very funny,” I say, elbowing him. He laughs quietly and I do, too, remembering the note from the day after our first date. Luke read that note and many of the others earlier tonight.
“Hmm, just a sec,” Luke says, reaching his outside arm toward the nightstand and retrieving my cell phone. He frees his other arm from under me, quickly types a message, and hits send. Immediately, my phone buzzes to alert me that I have a new text.
“What does it say?” I ask after Luke sets the phone back next to the bed.
“The boy in the closet is your boyfriend. He loves you and will tell you all about last night.”
“Cute,” I say, feeling my eyelids droop and sleep approach. “Don’t forget to tell me about the last hour in the closet.”
“I’ll re-create it for you tomorrow,” Luke says, pulling me closer and breathing in my hair. “I really do, you know.”
“Do what?” I ask in a sleepy haze.
“I really do love you, London.”
“I love you, too, Luke.”
32
The text said there was a boy in my closet, but all I found is this note.
Dear London,
You snore.
I heard your mom leave, so I escaped. I’ll come back in a while with coffee and officially announce my presence. If she comes back, you might want to tell her I’m coming so she knows we’re okay.
Read up… all of your notes are under your bed.
You were too tired to write a note last night but here are the highlights (I’ll fill in the holes later):
—I begged your forgiveness (you’ll read about why)
—Thankfully, you forgave me
—We spent hours reading your notes— you said that was a great way for me to get to know the real you
—As previously mentioned, you snore… and talk in your sleep
—I promised to reenact certain… other things
Last night was amazing. I wish you could remember it, but I’ll do my best to remind you. Oh, and PS—you are the best kisser ever.
Love,
Luke
“Aren’t we happy this morning?” my mom says when she returns from the grocery store and sees my permagrin. I stuff a bite of a bagel into my mouth, but it doesn’t help, so I just shrug in response.
“Dare I ask?” she says, which is really asking, isn’t it? Mom pours herself some coffee and leans against the counter, gazing at me, mug in hand.
“Luke and I made up,” I say matter-of-factly, once I’ve swallowed the biggest bite imaginable.
“Ahh, I see,” she says with a knowing look.
“He’s coming over this morning,” I add, gesturing to my outfit as if it needed explanation. Every Saturday I can remember is spent in pajamas, until noon at least. “We’re going to hang out today.”
I think I see a touch of hurt flash across my mother’s eyes, but in an instant, it’s gone.
“That’s great, London,” she says, pushing off the countertop and topping off her cup. “Maybe I’ll go into the office and catch up on some work, then.”
“Sounds good,” I say, thrilled that Luke and I might be alone in the house for a while. The notes I read painted a picture of a boy so appealing that I find myself wanting to be unsupervised. Except, of course, that he lied to me, but his note said we made up. I’ll count on him to walk me through the evening minute by minute.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and I practically run to the entryway to answer it. Flinging it open, I nearly gasp at the boy standing there in the bright sun.
Sure, there were photos, but they didn’t do him justice.
Luke is holding two to-go cups of coffee, but instead of coming in, he stands on the porch.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Quickly, I run and tell Mom that we’re going to the mall—hey, it could be true—then grab my jacket, cell, and wallet. I return to find Luke gazing out toward the street. He hears my footsteps and turns to face me, eyes bright and beautiful.
“Ready?”
“Yep,” I say, bounding out of the house and taking the coffee from his outstretched hand. He kisses me lightly on the cheek and whispers, “Did you get my note?”
“Yes,” I say, and it comes out more intimate than I meant, but it feels just fine.
“Good,” he says, in a way that makes me squirm. We walk to the van, buckle up, and pull out of the driveway, headed to who knows where.
And, honestly, I don’t care.
Coffee in hand, highway before me, gorgeous boyfriend to my left, this day is bound to be good.
33
Eight hours later, under the setting sun, I’m standing at the cemetery entrance wondering how it came to this. The chill shooting down my spine makes me rethink my decision to head in alone. I gesture to Luke in the van, and he quickly kills the engine and appears at my side.
I grab his hand and it gives me the will to move.
The scene before me reminds me too much of the funeral in my notes and emblazoned in my brain, a vision now so confusing it hurts.
It was sweet of Luke to take me there, to Lingering Pines Retirement Community. He had read all about it last night and explained on the way that meeting my grandmother in person would be best. He had printed a map, and he bought travel snacks when he left my house. He’d also gone home to shower and change his clothes so that his parents wouldn’t worry.
During the drive, Luke talked through every giggle-inducing, glow-generating, lust-inspiring detail of the night before. At times, I wanted to tell him to pull off the road so that I could jump across the center divider and have my way with him.
He told me about me: all the notes he’d read and thoughts he had about what my life must be like.
Luke talked about us meeting as kids, about being drawn to me from childhood. About the shoe game.
We chatted and sipped lattes and ate M&M’s and peanut butter crackers, and I was calm and happy and loved.
But then we arrived.
What I saw of Lingering Pines was the reception desk, where a fat young nurse checked a computer and called her supervisor before pulling me aside to whisper in my face with onion breath that Jo Lane had in fact lived there for five years until she moved on.
“Where did she go?” I asked innocently, not getting it.
“I’m so sorry to be the one telling you this, but Jo passed last winter,” the young nurse said. “She died,” she added, probably because of my dazed look.
That’s about the point when I felt myself being strapped onto a roller-coaster ride that I didn’t stand in line for. After having the wherewithal to glean as much additional information as possible, Luke guided my stupefied self back to the van and drove me far away from Lingering Pines, never pressing too hard but letting me know he was there.
“I’m so sorry, London,” he said.
“I didn’t know her,” I said back, my mind reeling. The miles flew by then. We were headed home, and I was not only empty-handed but downright mystified as well.
The questions in my mind were the same then and now.
How can she be dead? She’s in my future. Am I wrong about the woman at the child’s funeral? Is it someone who just looks like my grandma? I need to check that photo again. Maybe I should show it to my mom. Maybe my grandma has a sister. A twin sister.
Each thought stands in turn in front of my mind’s eye for a mental audition, but no one gets the part. No thought is just right.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say quietly, cutting through the silence as Luke and I move straight down the center aisle of the graveyard.
“No problem,” Luke says softly. He keeps his eyes on the sea of stone going by. Our feet crunch on dirt and rocks as we walk, and I’m desperately trying to remain rational, to not picture zombies digging themselves up from underground or gh
osts whispering in my ear.
Unsure of exactly what I’m looking for, my eyes instinctively seek the familiar: the groundskeeper’s shack disguised as a mausoleum.
Tracking my gaze, Luke squeezes the hand he holds tight.
“That’s where the smoking guy will be, right?” he asks. His simple question gives me a strange sense of calm. Belonging, even. From reading my life, Luke not only understands me, but he remembers, too. In a way, he has become the closest thing to a memory I might ever have.
“Yes,” I say with a nod, keeping my eyes focused there.
I’m so absorbed that I see the movement from inside that anyone else might have missed in the dying light. “Let’s go over,” I say, pulling Luke off the main path and onto a smaller branch cutting through graves toward the shed. I lift my hand to knock, but the door opens before I get the chance.
“Good evening,” says a cherub-faced man with a beard like Santa Claus’s. “How can I help you kids?”
“Hi,” I begin timidly, trying to find my words. “We’re looking for a grave. My grandmother’s grave, actually. I didn’t know her, and we were wondering whether there’s some sort of directory.”
“A directory, huh? The only directory you’ll find here is locked in my noggin,” the man says with a kind smile and a tap, forefinger to temple. “My mind is like a steel trap: it never lets anything out. What was your grandmother’s name?”
I glance at Luke before turning back to Santa.
“Jo Lane,” I say.
“She died last winter,” Luke offers.
Santa scratches his head, muttering, “Lane… Lane, hmm…” I watch; the caretaker seems familiar to me. Maybe it’s just that he looks like Santa Claus.
Luke and I catch gazes again, and just as I’m wondering whether Santa’s brain isn’t as advertised, his weathered face brightens.
“I’ve got it. Aisle thirteen, plot two hundred forty-seven. Or is it two hundred forty-eight? Follow me, please.” He steps onto the path and leads us in the opposite direction from which we came. We follow, farther away from the safety of the main walkway, right into the thick of death.