Where the Road Takes Me
Page 34
I should have seen it. I should have noticed him struggling. He’d always been able to know how I felt before I even realized it myself, but I’d been unable to do the same for him. He’d kept his feelings hidden so that I would never have to feel his pain. He’d always put me first, put everyone else first. He’d found a way to care for Mary and Dean and all the kids, even when he’d had no idea what it felt like to be cared for.
His past, his depression, the drugs—none of that was really who he’d been. To me—he would always be Clayton—the quiet boy who’d so easily become my best friend. My hero.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blake
“Blake.”
Something nudged my foot.
I waited a moment, trying to get my bearings. And then I remembered where I was and what had happened.
“Blake,” she said again.
When I opened my eyes, I expected to see her in bed next to me. But she wasn’t there. And it wasn’t Chloe who was saying my name.
It was Mary.
“Where’s Chloe?”
“She left early; she wanted me to come in and tell you that you should go to school and not wait around for her.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
“She just needs some time, Blake. It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate that you’re here for her.”
“I know that.” I shrugged. “I just wanted to see her. That’s all.”
She smiled warmly before leaving the room.
Chloe
His arms had felt nice around me.
I’d never felt the warmth of someone’s embrace before.
Not really.
Not before Blake.
Those clouds kinda look like Blake.
I brought the joint to my lips and inhaled deeply, blowing circles as I puffed out continuous, single, tiny breaths.
A lethal cocktail of recreational and prescribed pills—the cop’s words replayed in my head, over and over. But Clayton—he’d been smart. He’d known what the fuck he’d been doing. He’d wanted to die.
“I hope you’re happy, fuckhead,” I said aloud, ignoring the prickles of grass in and around my back. I was at an abandoned baseball field close to home. This was where Clayton and I had used to come and talk shit—a place where we’d pretended to have dreams. He was also my first kiss—right there—in that patch of grass. It had been gross, but he’d said that it shouldn’t be with some random guy I met at a party, just because he told me I was pretty. He’d said he wanted it to mean something. And it did. Even now, he’s the only guy I had ever kissed who meant something to me.
Before Blake.
“Have you seen my mom? My aunt Tilly?” I squinted at the sky, the sun so bright it made my eyes water. But I didn’t blink. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to use it as an excuse for these endless, goddamn tears. “What’s that?” I raised my heavy hand—or at least it seemed heavy—and cupped my ear. “No? You haven’t seen them? Then what the fuck was it all for, Clayton? Was it that bad here?”
I stopped myself and let out a sob. “I’m sorry,” I cried to the sky. “I didn’t mean that. I know you had your reasons, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t talk to me about them. I’m sorry that you felt like there was no other way.” I sat up and let the sob consume me. And when I was done—not just with the crying but with the entire joint—I got in my car, drove to the liquor store in the next town over, and bought a bottle of vodka.
I spent the night in my car in a constant cross-faded state.
Emptiness.
Perfection.
I woke up in the backseat, sweating like a pig. Moaning, I reached for my phone in the console; twenty-four missed calls. I didn’t bother to check whom they were from. Instead, I climbed back into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and drove back to the abandoned field.
And then I started all over again.
Clayton had introduced me to weed. He’d said that I would probably encounter it sometime, and just like my first kiss, he’d wanted to be the one to show me. He’d told me that I shouldn’t smoke often, but if I ever felt like I needed to, he had to be there so he could stop me when I wanted to fall too deep. Too far.
But then I’d have bad days, like the anniversary of my mother’s death. Days where the pain was so unbearable, I wanted to forget all about it—about her and about my chances. But it wasn’t limited to just that one day a year. The older I got, the more pain I felt. And the more I wanted to forget.
The weed-booze mix was perfect when I wanted to lose myself. It was my nirvana.
The Road had been my master plan since I was thirteen. Not just because I wanted to see and appreciate the little things the world had to offer, but because I thought it would be easier not to feel for anyone—and vice versa—if I was never in the same place long enough to develop any meaningful relationships.
But the longer I stayed, the harder it got.
Like when Sammy had introduced me as his sister to his pre-K teacher. Or when Harry had asked me for advice on relationships and I hadn’t had the answers. For a second, though, I’d let myself think about it, and what it would be like to actually have a relationship or to fall in love. To have someone who loved me, regardless of my future. Regardless of the cancer. And regardless of how much of my life I could possibly give them. I’d thought about having kids. Raising them. Maybe fostering some, like Mary and Dean. And then I’d thought about how they would be at risk. And that at some point, that risk could take their lives. And all because I was selfish and wanted something for myself: a white picket fence, a beautiful husband, maybe with dark shaggy hair and perfectly clear blue eyes. And kids. Lots of kids.
See?
Selfish.
At some point, I’d wanted more than just the emptiness inside of me. And one night, when I’d been walking past a house party and had seen a bunch of kids flowing out the door and onto the front yard, I’d gotten it.
I didn’t remember his name. I didn’t remember what he looked like. All I knew was that we’d had sex, it’d hurt like a bitch, and that he’d used a condom.
Blake
I’d tried calling Chloe no less than a million times, give or take. She’d never answered. When I went to her house, Mary and Dean said she was out, and that they’d tried phoning but had gotten the same response. They said not to worry, that she’d disappear for a while when things got to be too much for her but she’d always come back fine. I asked if I could wait for her there. They both gave me a sympathetic smile but agreed. I waited on her porch steps for three hours. She never showed.
His past, his depression, the drugs—none of that was really who he’d been. To me—he would always be Clayton—the quiet boy who’d so easily become my best friend. My hero.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blake
“Blake.”
Something nudged my foot.
I waited a moment, trying to get my bearings. And then I remembered where I was and what had happened.
“Blake,” she said again.
When I opened my eyes, I expected to see her in bed next to me. But she wasn’t there. And it wasn’t Chloe who was saying my name.
It was Mary.
“Where’s Chloe?”
“She left early; she wanted me to come in and tell you that you should go to school and not wait around for her.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
“She just needs some time, Blake. It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate that you’re here for her.”
“I know that.” I shrugged. “I just wanted to see her. That’s all.”
She smiled warmly before leaving the room.
Chloe
His arms had felt nice around me.
I’d never felt the warmth of someone’s embrace before.
Not really.
Not before Blake.
Those clouds kinda look like Blake.
I brought the joint to my lips and inhaled deeply, blowing circles as I puffed out continuous, single, tiny breaths.
A lethal cocktail of recreational and prescribed pills—the cop’s words replayed in my head, over and over. But Clayton—he’d been smart. He’d known what the fuck he’d been doing. He’d wanted to die.
“I hope you’re happy, fuckhead,” I said aloud, ignoring the prickles of grass in and around my back. I was at an abandoned baseball field close to home. This was where Clayton and I had used to come and talk shit—a place where we’d pretended to have dreams. He was also my first kiss—right there—in that patch of grass. It had been gross, but he’d said that it shouldn’t be with some random guy I met at a party, just because he told me I was pretty. He’d said he wanted it to mean something. And it did. Even now, he’s the only guy I had ever kissed who meant something to me.
Before Blake.
“Have you seen my mom? My aunt Tilly?” I squinted at the sky, the sun so bright it made my eyes water. But I didn’t blink. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to use it as an excuse for these endless, goddamn tears. “What’s that?” I raised my heavy hand—or at least it seemed heavy—and cupped my ear. “No? You haven’t seen them? Then what the fuck was it all for, Clayton? Was it that bad here?”
I stopped myself and let out a sob. “I’m sorry,” I cried to the sky. “I didn’t mean that. I know you had your reasons, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t talk to me about them. I’m sorry that you felt like there was no other way.” I sat up and let the sob consume me. And when I was done—not just with the crying but with the entire joint—I got in my car, drove to the liquor store in the next town over, and bought a bottle of vodka.
I spent the night in my car in a constant cross-faded state.
Emptiness.
Perfection.
I woke up in the backseat, sweating like a pig. Moaning, I reached for my phone in the console; twenty-four missed calls. I didn’t bother to check whom they were from. Instead, I climbed back into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and drove back to the abandoned field.
And then I started all over again.
Clayton had introduced me to weed. He’d said that I would probably encounter it sometime, and just like my first kiss, he’d wanted to be the one to show me. He’d told me that I shouldn’t smoke often, but if I ever felt like I needed to, he had to be there so he could stop me when I wanted to fall too deep. Too far.
But then I’d have bad days, like the anniversary of my mother’s death. Days where the pain was so unbearable, I wanted to forget all about it—about her and about my chances. But it wasn’t limited to just that one day a year. The older I got, the more pain I felt. And the more I wanted to forget.
The weed-booze mix was perfect when I wanted to lose myself. It was my nirvana.
The Road had been my master plan since I was thirteen. Not just because I wanted to see and appreciate the little things the world had to offer, but because I thought it would be easier not to feel for anyone—and vice versa—if I was never in the same place long enough to develop any meaningful relationships.
But the longer I stayed, the harder it got.
Like when Sammy had introduced me as his sister to his pre-K teacher. Or when Harry had asked me for advice on relationships and I hadn’t had the answers. For a second, though, I’d let myself think about it, and what it would be like to actually have a relationship or to fall in love. To have someone who loved me, regardless of my future. Regardless of the cancer. And regardless of how much of my life I could possibly give them. I’d thought about having kids. Raising them. Maybe fostering some, like Mary and Dean. And then I’d thought about how they would be at risk. And that at some point, that risk could take their lives. And all because I was selfish and wanted something for myself: a white picket fence, a beautiful husband, maybe with dark shaggy hair and perfectly clear blue eyes. And kids. Lots of kids.
See?
Selfish.
At some point, I’d wanted more than just the emptiness inside of me. And one night, when I’d been walking past a house party and had seen a bunch of kids flowing out the door and onto the front yard, I’d gotten it.
I didn’t remember his name. I didn’t remember what he looked like. All I knew was that we’d had sex, it’d hurt like a bitch, and that he’d used a condom.
Blake
I’d tried calling Chloe no less than a million times, give or take. She’d never answered. When I went to her house, Mary and Dean said she was out, and that they’d tried phoning but had gotten the same response. They said not to worry, that she’d disappear for a while when things got to be too much for her but she’d always come back fine. I asked if I could wait for her there. They both gave me a sympathetic smile but agreed. I waited on her porch steps for three hours. She never showed.
