It’s one thing for him to say it; it’s a whole other thing to believe it myself, and then to convince my body to go with it. After I take a break and give my tired muscles a chance to simmer down, I take another shot, focusing as hard as I can on not just powering the weight up and over my head, but backward, almost behind me.
I’m shocked to find that it works. The weight’s pulling me backward a little, but the split stance helps me stay upright, and then it’s easy to walk my legs together and keep the bar in the air. Jeff’s right, as usual.
But the satisfaction I usually get from achieving a PR is nowhere to be found. It feels good to pull it off, but that elation, that sense of accomplishment, is dulled somehow. Maybe it’s because this isn’t the goal I really want to achieve. Or maybe it’s that there isn’t anyone I can tell about it.
Then I hear the sound of clapping coming from behind me, by the door to the weight room. Jeff’s standing where I can see him, so it has to be someone else. I turn around to see Maddie. She’s been watching the whole time, apparently.
“Great job, Pack,” she says.
Jeff looks at me, then at her, then me again. He knows what’s up. Everyone here does. “Right on, Pack. Take a rest and we can work on your dead lift in a while, if you want. I’ve got some stuff in the office I have to take care of.”
Sure he does. Not subtle at all, Jeff. Now Maddie and I are alone, for the first time since that night at the graduation party, when it all went to shit. What am I supposed to do now? “Thanks,” I say.
Maddie walks all the way into the room and sits on one of the benches in front of me. “You’ve been working on that lift a long time,” she says. “It must feel good.”
“I guess.” If anyone would understand why it doesn’t feel as good as I expected, it would be Maddie, but it doesn’t feel like it’s okay to tell her. “I saw you on the orange band,” I say, instead. “How long have you been off the red?”
“Not that long. I’ve been working hard on it. And waitressing is definitely helping with the upper-arm strength. You wouldn’t believe how many plates of food you can fit on one tray.”
Right, her job. “You enjoying it?”
She shrugs. “It’s nice to be on the water.” The restaurant where she works is a tourist joint in Salem, a couple of towns over, specializing in lobster and clam chowder. It gets really busy at night in the summer, so she’s probably making good money. More than I get here, anyway. I’m about to say that, but then I think it makes me sound like an asshole. Making small talk with Maddie is hard. Nothing sounds right, so I don’t say anything. The silence gets a little awkward, but I don’t know how to break it.
“Practicing at home is really making a difference too,” she says finally.
I’m confused. “Practicing carrying trays?”
She laughs. I forgot how much I love the sound. “No, practicing pull-ups. I set up the bar you gave me in the doorway to my bedroom.”
My heart beats a little faster. So I’m more excited about this than the PR? Funny. “Your mom must hate that.”
“She is not a fan,” Maddie agrees. “It doesn’t work with the design aesthetic, as she puts it. But I told her it’s just a couple of months, and then I’ll take it with me to school.”
We’re already right up against the hard topic. “That’s why I bought it. I didn’t know what kind of gyms they had out there.”
“There’s one not too far from campus, but I’m still deciding whether I want to keep doing CrossFit when I get out there. It might be time for me to try something different.”
Does she have to rub it in? I’m glad we’re talking, but we’ve gone from small talk to a coded path back to what we last fought about, and that’s not what I want. “You don’t have to take it with you,” I say. “I just thought since you were practicing—But I know you want change. That’s what the cupcake was for. The bananas were for balance.”
She smiles, then frowns, then smiles again. “I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t appreciate it. The whole thing—the bar, the cupcake, the bananas, all of it. It was very thoughtful.”
“I was trying to apologize,” I say. “I wasn’t sure how to explain.” It’s still hard, really, but now I feel like I didn’t do as good a job as I wanted. “I didn’t mean to be so awful. At graduation. You tried to clue me in for ages, but I didn’t want to hear it. And when I did, I freaked out. I really am sorry for that.”
“I know you are,” she says, and reaches back to adjust her ponytail, like she always does when she’s nervous. I hate that I’m making her feel that way. “And I was really mad at you for that, and it took me a while to calm down so I could understand why you acted that way. I mean, I know you well enough to figure it out, but I needed to wallow in how furious I was at first.”
That I understand.
“But I should have thanked you sooner,” she continues. “I could tell how much thought you put into it. I wanted to wait until I was ready for us to really talk.”
Is that what we’re doing now? “I get it. You don’t have to thank me. You’re not the one who screwed everything up.” It’s getting awkward standing in front of her, especially when I’m trying to say something real. “Do you mind if I sit? With you? Or somewhere else?”
She stands, and I worry I’ve messed up again. The connection between us is so fragile, like the shell of a raw egg, and I hope I haven’t cracked it. “Actually, I have to go. I’m working tonight and I start at three. But I’m off tomorrow night. Maybe we could hang out and talk?”
“I would love that,” I say. “I can come get you, if you want.”
She pauses, and I can tell she’s trying to decide whether that would make it feel too much like a date. But it’s stupid to take two cars, and Maddie’s rational. “Okay,” she says.
“I get off work at four, so after that? We can get coffee, or early dinner—” I already sound too eager. “Or we could just chill somewhere. Low key.” Not a date, I try to signal.
“Low key sounds good,” she says.
But my heart does that little bounce again. Not a date, I remind myself. Not a date.
25
I have to find a place to take Maddie that makes it clear it’s not a date, even if in my secret heart I kind of wish it were. I don’t want to mess up the delicate eggshell of our potential friendship by making the same mistakes I made before. The right place will say what I so awkwardly tried to tell her in the weight room: she’s going to leave, and I accept that. I want her to find everything she’s looking for, even if what she’s looking for doesn’t include Brooksby, or me.
I think back on everywhere we’ve gone together, but our regular spots come with too many memories. Our favorite Thai place, the movies, Good Harbor, even the parks we went late at night, to be alone. Nothing is right.
Then I remember this one time Maddie took me to Winter Island, in Salem, near where she works. It’s not that far from Brooksby, just a few minutes away from Salem Willows, where we’d play Skee-Ball. There are lighthouses there, and a little bit of beach, and paths where you can walk around the island. Maddie wanted to spend the day there, but all I did was complain about how the sand was brown and gritty and parking was as expensive as Good Harbor. Maddie wanted to look at the boats, to dream about where they might be headed; I just wanted to leave. At the time, I didn’t understand why someone would want to go someplace close to home only to think about people going far away.
On the way to Maddie’s house that afternoon I stop at Vincenzo’s, in case we’re there long enough to get hungry. I’m about to order my usual salad when I remember Manny’s sub, how much he enjoyed it while I moved salad greens around with my spork. Maddie and I bonded over sharing food restrictions; maybe it’s time to show her what I’m learning about flexibility. I get us both small subs, rather than the foot-long monstrosity Manny downed so quickly. Baby steps.
I text Maddie from outside her house so I don’t have to knock on the door and deal with her parents or h
er sister; I have no idea what she told them about our breakup, but I’m sure I didn’t come off looking like a particularly good guy. She comes out right away, wearing loose-fitting jeans and a striped T-shirt, hair down, not much makeup. I wonder whether she’s put as much effort into making clear this isn’t a date as I have, though she can’t know how cute she looks even when she isn’t trying.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” she says. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” She looks worried, like she thinks I’ve planned some big statement. “Low-key surprise. Just someplace different.”
This seems to be enough. We spend the drive talking about innocuous stuff, mostly work—she’s enjoying the job and the tips she’s making, and she met some girls who just graduated from Salem High who are also going to UMass, so the job’s an even bigger win than she hoped.
I tell her about working at the gym, how fun it is to help teach classes and to learn more about how everything works. I don’t tell her that I’m starting to second-guess my plan to stay in Brooksby and keep working there; we’re in the keeping-it-casual part of the conversation, and it’s not the right time to change gears.
We reach the Winter Island parking lot, and I hand over my ten dollars, park the car, and get my backpack out of the backseat. “This is where we’re going?” Maddie asks. “You hate it here. Dirty beach sand and all that, remember?”
“I didn’t really give it a chance,” I say. “I thought it might be a quiet place to take a walk.”
She nods. “I know the paths pretty well. I come here by myself a lot.”
I hadn’t realized that. I never gave a lot of thought to what Maddie did when she was alone, I realize. If I’m going to be a better friend than I was a boyfriend, that will have to change.
Maddie leads me to a path around the island, lined with bright green grass and tall trees. The air smells clean and salty, and we walk for a while without talking. It doesn’t feel awkward like it did at the gym; being with her seems natural, even if I know it isn’t the same. We leave the path and Maddie shows me some of her favorite spots: an old ammunition bunker that looks like some sort of low-slung fortress; the different lighthouses, squat and white, one of which we have to climb on rocks to get close to. We walk for long enough that the sun starts to get lower in the sky, and Maddie takes me to a park bench that looks out over the water. “I’ve always loved watching these boats,” she says.
“I remember. You wanted to imagine where they were going, and I couldn’t understand why you cared so much. I’m starting to see it now.”
She turns to me. “You sound different. I know we’ve only been apart a few weeks, but I’ve felt different too. I thought I was making it up. But it’s you, too. It’s not just me.”
I want to tell her everything that’s happened since I last saw her, but that’s not what a good friend would do now. “How do you feel different?” I ask.
She considers the question. “When I was in middle school, feeling so awful about myself, I didn’t think I would ever be with anyone. Then I saw you starting to change, and you were so great about helping me change too, and I fell in love with you and couldn’t imagine being alone—it was like I did a complete one-eighty.”
I like hearing her talk about falling in love with me, even if it hurts.
“Now that I’m alone again, I’m starting to see it as not such a bad thing. Not that I have any regrets about being with you, because I don’t. I think we were really good for each other for a long time. I spent so many years feeling bad about myself, and to have spent most of high school feeling so good—that’s a big deal. And I wouldn’t have wanted to spend that time with anyone else. But now I’m starting to separate the things I want from the things we wanted, to find out what I’m like without you, and it’s actually been okay starting that process before I leave for this whole new life. Even if that’s not what I planned.”
Wow—she’s given me way more of an answer than I expected. I never thought about our relationship that way before, about how the things we wanted together might not be the same as what we want separately. But I’m glad she told me. I’m glad I asked.
I don’t know how to respond, though, so I reach into my backpack and pull out the Vincenzo’s bag. “Is Paleo one of the things you’re reconsidering? Because if so . . .” I hand her a sub.
Maddie’s mouth falls open in surprise. “Pack, you’re the last person I’d expect to bring me a sub. Even after that cupcake. Please tell me this is what I think it is.”
“Roast beef with sauce,” I say. “Does anyone order anything else from Vincenzo’s?”
“You and your salads,” she points out. “Is that what you got?”
“Nope.” I take out a sub. “I’m branching out. Not often, but on special occasions. I’m trying to see if there’s a way I can give myself room to enjoy things like this once in a while.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t come up with that on your own.”
“You know me well,” I say. “I’ll tell you all about it, if you want.”
“Definitely.” She unwraps her sub and takes an enormous bite, and with her mouth full, says, “You talk, I’ll eat.”
“Classy, Maddie. Real classy.”
She grins and takes another big bite. “Get cracking.”
I decide it’s best to go in order. I tell her how I hit a dead end looking for my mom but found my aunt instead, how I went to New Haven and met my family. I tell her about Nonna slipping me the address and going to New York to find I missed my mother but getting her bag of stuff instead. How Dad came to find me, how I went to find Manny, how I’ve now gotten so many different versions of the story it’s hard to believe there’s one true one in there somewhere, but that I feel like I’m getting close to figuring it out. I talk and talk until Maddie finishes her sandwich and I’ve run out of words.
Maddie’s eyes are open so wide they’ve practically doubled in size. “Holy shit, Pack, that’s a lot.”
“I haven’t even told you about the pizza,” I say. “But we can save that for another day. Right now, all I can think about is how stuck I am. I think I understand everything up to the whole thing about the two cops planting drugs on my mom. Who are they, and why would they do that? I’ve run out of places to look.”
“Have you talked to your dad?” Maddie asks. “He’s kind of conspicuously absent from this narrative of yours, now that you’re back from New Haven.”
“I haven’t,” I admit. “I’m still pissed at him. We aren’t really speaking.”
“Oh, Pack,” she says. “That must be awful. I know how close you guys are.”
She can’t imagine how awful it is; I’m not about to tell her it’s worse because I don’t have her, either. “I should talk to him, I know. He has no idea why any of this happened. He didn’t even know she was still alive.”
“He must be so confused right now,” she says. “But if you tell him, he’s going to want to find out who did it more than you do. And if Manny’s right about how dangerous it is, maybe that’s not such a good idea. Maybe you were right not to say anything. You’re the kid here—it’s not your job to make him feel better.”
I get what she’s saying, but we’ve always been more than just father and son, even as I’m starting to realize the ways in which that might not be a good thing. “I should tell him something, at some point,” I say. “But it would be nice if I could tell him something more. Like where she is. I think he still loves her.”
“I don’t know if that’s incredibly romantic or incredibly depressing. But maybe that’s why he never got together with anyone else.”
I think about the parade of gym ladies and how he never invited any of them over for dinner. The idea of him meeting the love of his life in high school seemed romantic when I thought Maddie was the only person for me, but now his refusal to move on makes me sad. “I just wish I knew what to do next.”
“Do you want help?” she asks. “Not to overstep or anything, but
. . .”
“Are you kidding? I want help desperately.”
“Do you want to show me the stuff your mom left? A fresh pair of eyes might be useful.”
I’ve got the photos and the notebook with me; I keep them in my backpack all the time now that I’m afraid Dad might go through my stuff. I get everything out and hand it to Maddie in a stack.
“Is there any particular order?” She’s opened one of the envelopes of pictures first, the one with photos of my parents.
“Doesn’t really matter,” I say as she scans through them.
“God, they were so young. Your dad was actually kind of handsome. And your mom—she’s beautiful. You look just like her.”
“You think?” I kind of think so too, but maybe I just want it to be true.
She’s already moved on to the baby photos. Maybe I should have filtered. “So adorable! Look at all that hair, and that squishy face—”
I grab the pictures away. “Okay, enough. Look at the notebook.” I flip it open to the time line page and tell her about Manny being Bolo, what it means.
“Yeah, he’s always been a big softie,” Maddie says.
“That’s not how I saw him.”
“He’s one of the most supportive people at that gym. Early on, if it wasn’t for him, I’d have quit.”
“I had no idea,” I tell her.
“Bolo’s a perfect nickname for him. Now you’re trying to figure out the 2?”
“Yup.” I walk her through all the research, the days and days of looking up the internet histories of every cop who’s ever worked drug crimes in Brooksby. “I’ve got nothing. Complete dead end.”
She peers closely at the notebook. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong.” I like how she says “we,” as if it isn’t obvious that if anyone’s looking at it wrong, it’s me. “Maybe the 2 doesn’t stand for the number two, as in two people. Maybe it’s more of a nickname, like Bolo.” She goes back to the stack of high-school photos. “You said a lot of these guys were buddies back then, played sports. Any of them wear the number two?”