“Are you crying?”
I nearly give myself the hiccups with the gulp of air I swallow.
Jonathan is standing in my bathroom doorway, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Sorry.”He takes a step into my room.“I planned to leave before you came up.”
“Why?”
“Um… because we’re not talking?”It’s a question, like he’s asking me if this is true.
“Why?”I ask because I don’t want it to be true.Not anymore.
“I honestly don’t know.This has been the longest month of my life, not being able to talk to you.”
“Thought not talking was our thing.”
“Does it need to be?”He looks like he’s asking me for permission.
I’m silent for a moment, peering into his pleading, dark eyes.What is he seeking exactly?An apology?Forgiveness?Permission to forget everything that happened?And as much as it’s been the longest month of my life, too, I can’t pretend like I didn’t see anything.Not at the bonfire.Not at the garage.Not at his house.
“What does that mean?”
“Do you want to… talk?”
“About?”I eye him carefully.It’s a challenge.I need him to open up this dialogue with something meaningful.We’ve been dancing around deep conversations our entire lives.Staying on the surface, where it’s safe.Laughing and having fun.And that may have been enough when we were young and unaware.But it’s not enough now, when I know better.There’s too much at stake—and not just my heart.
“Anything.Everything.I don’t care.I just… miss you.And I don’t want to do this anymore.Whatever this is.”
My heart falters.Oh shit.Are we about to have the friend talk?!“Do what?”
“Whatever is keeping us apart.”
“Are you saying… you want to go back to the way things were before?”I don’t want to cry again, but this isn’t what I want.This isn’t what I meant.I want to move forward, not slip back into oblivion.
“Before what?”
“Before, before?”I’m not going to be the one to say it.
He narrows his eyes.“Before you had sex with Graham Westhouser?That’d be great.”
I laugh in surprise and say in a deep voice to mimic Graham, “Before… before.”What are we doing?
“We really do suck at talking, don’t we?”Jonathan offers a deprecating smile.He walks to my desk and sits on the rolling chair that is miraculously free of clothes.“Let’s try this again.”
Jonathan rolls the chair to the side of my bed and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.“I lied to you every time you asked how I got hurt.Where a bruise came from.How I got a cut.”
“Every time?”
“Okay.Not every time.Only when it was from my dad.Sometimes, I really had gotten into a fight, had an injury, jumped off something.He’s hurt me most of my life.Not always enough to leave a mark.Sometimes, the words are worse than his fist.”
“What does… what does your mom do?”I’m trying to remain calm, but emotion breaks my voice.My thoughts are exploding with panic, wanting to ask a thousand questions.
“He doesn’t do it in front of her.He loves her too much.Same with my brother.For some reason, I’m the one who always disappoints him.It’s like my existence alone makes him hate me.I’m not sure what they know other than that we argue a lot.He makes sure to always lay into me when they’re not home, or in the garage or somewhere else no one can see us.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.My eyes blur.I blink back the tears.“No one should ever feel like they shouldn’t exist.”
His eyes find mine.They shine with desolation.“Sometimes… I wish I didn’t.”
