I'll Be Here Read online

  Is this some kind of cosmic joke?

  I have not seen Alex in over a year and now the very day after my heart gets flattened he pops back into my life? It’s so insane that I’m afraid I’m about to launch into hysterical laughter

  I squeeze my eyes closed and when I open them he’s still standing in front of me looking back at me with that face. He looks different than the last time I saw him. Older and… Oh my God—I won’t think it. Stopstopstopstop! Oh God. I can’t help it!

  I suck in a gulp of air.

  The fact of the matter is that Alex looks even better than the last time I saw him. The guy standing in front of me is familiar and different all at once. The only thing I’m sure of is that he is hot. Scalding. Smoking. As in: incredibly sexy. As in: makes a girl’s pulse speed up. As in: makes things turn over in places you don’t generally discuss in mixed company.

  He has these amazing blue eyes that have been known to send shivers down my spine and hair that is so dark it’s almost black. It grows in all directions like it can’t quite make up its mind and just now he’s wearing it cropped close to his scalp. Even short, it somehow manages to retain that sexy and mussed-up look that people ask for at high-end salons, though I doubt Alex bothers to pay big bucks for a haircut. He’s just naturally blessed.

  His skin is pale and under the overhead fluorescents of Patty’s office it takes on a transparent quality—a stark contrast to the few days of dark scruff growing over his jaw line.

  Made of shadows and moonlight. That’s how I used to think of Alex back when I let myself think of him.

  Ugh.

  Alex is great.

  Amazing actually.

  Brilliant.

  Wonderful.

  Outside and inside. The facial piercing doesn’t fool me. I know that he’s the type of person that takes his shopping cart back into the store before getting in his car. Alex helps old ladies cross the street and donates blood several times a year. He cares about things. He cares about the environment and about making the world a better place. He cares about people. He cares about doing the right thing.

  I used to have a mad crush on him. Or maybe it really was love or at least a twisted, juvenile version of the sentiment. It began when I was eleven and he was thirteen and he and his dad taught me how to bowl. Actually—roll that back—the truth is that my heart lurched the very first moment that I saw him leaning against the counter in the school office.

  Then, when he was in the eighth grade he ran for student body president of our middle school and tried to get the Styrofoam cups and plates used in the cafeteria replaced with biodegradable ones and my crush transformed into love.

  Just the sight of him makes my arm hair stand on end. Still.

  And here he is in front of me, telling me where Patty should fax the papers to after she signs them. I notice the muscles stretching under the skin of his taut forearms and the way his square jaw moves when he swallows. Now his smile changes. It’s almost wary. Hesitant. It makes my breathing falter. His eyes meet mine.

  “I’m here for my dad’s birthday,” he offers in answer to my unasked question.

  “Oh, sure.” This is an opening for normalcy. This is when I’m supposed to ask him a question or say something pleasant. “Tell Pete I said happy birthday.”

  His eyes blink under a dark fringe of lashes and he smiles softly. “I will.”

  “Um, how’s school going?”

  “It’s going. Just a few more classes and then finals and then summer. I’m not doing an internship this year or taking any summer classes so I’ll be home most of the time.”

  Am I imagining the pointed look he’s giving me?

  “How about you Willow?”

  I straighten my back and try not to dwell on the sound of my name coming off of his tongue. Absently, I pick up a pen from my desk and roll it between the fingers of my left hand.

  “I’m almost done too. I guess now it’s all about getting through the home stretch.”

  God. Did I just use a baseball euphemism?

  Alex steps closer to my desk and the fabric of his jeans brushes against the wood veneer. Using his fingertips, he traces the edge of my computer monitor and gently bites his bottom lip. “Ready for the next big adventure?”

  His increased closeness does weird things to my pulse.

  “Something like that.”

  “So…” That shy smile slowly creeps back across his face.

  “So…” I smile back this time.

  “Are you doing—”

  Alex jumps back about six inches when Smirna bursts through the office door. Before she’s even crossed the threshold, she starts complaining loudly about the bank teller.

  My brain is frantically sorting through Alex’s words but I come up with no answers. Was he going to ask me what my plans are for later? Would that imply some level of interest in me? Or that he wants to be part of my plans? Ack! Or maybe he was going to ask me something about college? That’s probably more realistic. But then again he was smiling that cute smile of his…

  Smirna quiets when she sees that we are not alone. She settles into her desk chair, stowing the blue money pouch in the bottom left drawer. As she brings her computer back to life she cuts a suspicious glance at Alex and then at me which I think he takes as his cue to leave.

  At the door he pauses momentarily like he’s going to say something more but he must think better of it because he just gives me a slight wave before letting the door swing shut behind him.

  Smirna is staring at her computer screen murmuring something else about the bank teller but I don’t hear her because my ears are straining to listen to the footsteps disappearing down the hall.

  The blood whooshing through my veins hisses a word and it’s Alex.

  Alex Faber.

  ***

  “Shit.” A bouquet of dead hairs sticks up from the beveled edge of the porcelain white sink.

  “Shit.” This is me repeating myself in case my reflection misunderstood my earlier sentiments.

  Mom knocks once on the bathroom door. “Everything okay sweetie?”

  I’m quiet for too long and she jiggles the doorknob. When she calls to me through the door, I can hear an edge of panic in her voice. “Willow!”

  “Uh—yeah,” I take another look at my reflection and squeeze my eyes tight. I try to make my voice sound as normal as possible. “I’m fine.”

  There’s a gap of silence and then I hear a soft sigh from the other side of the door. It’s like water rushing into the shore.

  “Okay… I’m taking Aaron with me to the grocery store. Just call my cell if you need me or think of anything that you want. Jake’s getting home around six tonight and we’ll do dinner and maybe something fun. As a family.”

  “Uh-huh.” I hear her muffled steps disappear down the hall. My fingers are still wrapped around the blue handled kitchen scissors. I place them down on the tiled sink counter with a shaky hand and brave another look.

  “Shit.” This time it’s barely a whisper.

  Okay. This is what happened.

  When I emerged from behind my closed bedroom door this morning, I couldn’t find mom or Aaron anywhere and just assumed they’d gone over to visit Frank Wallace. Frank lives a few doors down and last week he suffered a slipped disc from a kiteboarding incident. Mom’s been checking up on him.

  I leaned back against the counter and chewed on a bran muffin and Friday night and the Alex debacle from yesterday and just my general state of internal disarray started to become more real with each bite. My insides started zinging and I felt like I was a cloud moving across the blue sky. I wanted to grab onto to something to just stop myself from moving. I needed something to shock my system. A change.

  That’s when I dropped the half-eaten muffin on a plate, grabbed the kitchen scissors and came in here.

  It was one of those moments when you do before you think.

  Bangs.

  Now I have them. Thick and chunky across my forehead. I
t registers that look about five years old. Actually, I think the last time that I had bangs I was five years old.

  I continue to stare at the mirror, familiarizing myself with this new girl.

  She stares back and tilts her head to one side frowning like she’s confused.

  I am the odd man out in my little family. Where Aaron and our mother are cute and petite and blonde, I am not. I inherited my dad’s milky complexion and a mass of thick, unruly hair that has the unfabulous distinction of not really being able to be called blonde, brown or red. It falls into some murky category in the middle I refer to as “mud.” Now I’ve got mud bangs as well.

  I’m big for a girl. Not fat big—tall big. Tall and lanky, with arms and legs that dangle loosely from my body like they were never properly attached. I know this because I’ve watched a video of myself dancing at a wedding. Trust me, it’s not pretty. My version of “dancing” may, in fact, be outlawed in some states.

  Way back when, my dad had high hopes that my height advantage would make me an athlete. One game into my basketball career it became very clear that long limbs and a few inches couldn’t make up for a complete lack of hand-eye coordination and an absurd tendency to trip over my own feet.

  Mom used to call me “yarn doll.” She acted like it was a sweet thing—a term of endearment, but she stopped in the sixth grade when she called me that in front of some kids from school and I cried in the car on the way home. I remember that her face looked like she’d been slapped.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so self-conscious Willow.” She said. Her eyes were clear and blue in the thin sliver of the rearview mirror. “You’re beautiful. Tall and lean like a model or a ballerina. There are tons of girls that would give their left foot to look the way that you do. ”

  “Just stop mom. Seriously. Stop. I don’t want anyone to give their left anything.”

  “Laney?” Mom plied for support. My best friend Laney was sitting next to me in the back seat and her hand grasped mine and she didn’t say anything but I could tell by the way that her fingers squeezed me that she understood. She wanted my mom to shut up as much as I did.

  Taking a shaky breath, I stick some bobby pins that I find clumped on the bottom of my nail polish bin into my hair to keep the new bangs off my forehead for awhile and I go crawl back under my covers. Yes, I’m aware that staying in bed all day is such a pathetically ordinary reaction to a break up and there’s this part of me that wants to break the mold and skip around my neighborhood whistling show tunes, but she’s grossly overshadowed by the lovelorn teenager that can’t do much other than mope and settle deeper into the mattress.

  Ferdinand, our dark grey cat hops up on the bed next to me and begins to nose the covers and my ribs. This is his signal for wanting pets. I oblige. The thing about Ferdinand is that it’s dangerous not to. He’s been known to sink his teeth into an unsuspecting hand or two when he doesn’t get his way.

  As Ferdinand purrs and massages my side with his paws, his nails digging into the patterned duvet, I start to think about the things that Dustin said to me and one thing in particular. I thought you knew.

  Should I have known? We’d made plans. Lots of them. Plans for today actually. Plans for summer. Plans for next year. Plans for the college that we’d chosen together. Dustin would major in finance. I would major in Art History because he casually suggested that a fine arts degree wouldn’t be useful to me down the road. He thought Art History was a tad more civilized. We’d be busy with classes but we’d meet every day for lunch in the student union and then take a jog together in the last of the afternoon light.

  When we visited campus a few months ago we measured the distance from my dorm to his. 608 yards. 1734 steps.

  Does that sound like a couple on the verge of a break up?

  Ugh. I scrape up the ashes of my shame and wrap myself like a sausage inside the duvet. Ferdinand jumps from the bed and scatters from my room. Maybe my mom and Aaron are home. Jake is due back from his trip tonight and I remember mom’s warning of dinner and “family” time. She’ll use the guise that it’s a welcome home dinner for my stepdad who has been on a business trip for the last eight days, but really it’s just a way to make sure that I’m eating real food and not free-falling into some teenage depression that will spit me out on the other side with dyed jet black hair and a tattoo sleeve.

  My phone beeps from the round table next to my bed that houses a stack of to-read books and a framed photo of Dustin and me taken on the beach last summer. He’s got his arm draped across my shoulder and my head is wedged in the crook between his chin and collarbone. I honestly don’t remember exactly which day it was taken, but we do look genuinely happy. My hand snakes out of the blankets and I pick up my cell phone rolling my thumb over the blackened screen to light up the display menu. It’s a notification letting me know that my online “relationship status” has changed. Ouch.

  The crater in my gut cracks open further. Water rushes in and cascades over my lungs.

  I want to call someone. Words press behind my lips, crowding my mouth. It’s almost painful to keep them inside barred behind my teeth—caged. If I don’t get them out maybe they’ll explode in my mouth and burn it all up.

  Mom would love to talk. Of course she would. I’m sure that she’s imagining that because I talked to her Friday night it will become a habit and we’re suddenly going to become the inseparable mother-daughter duo of her fantasy. We can dress in coordinating hippie outfits and create a slew of homemade crafts together.

  I think of Laney.

  I think of Taylor.

  Allison.

  Alex.

  Dustin.

  Sabine. Even freaking Roland Corry and his awful girlfriend. That’s how bad the wanting is.

  But here’s the thing. I have no one that’s all mine. And that’s no one’s fault but my own.

  This feels worse than Dustin Rant breaking up with me. This feels like being dumped.

  Way back when, Laney and I made fun of those girls. You know the ones. The ones that drop their friends the moment a cute guy turns their way. I’d laughed at their utter stupidity and then, with one cut of Dustin’s hooded hazel eyes, I’d become one of them. It was easy to rationalize it. Sure it was. It was easy to tell myself how lucky I was that Dustin Rant even gave me the time of day, let alone liked me. I had spent so much time feeling awkward. So much time longing.

  Longing to be kissed.

  Longing to be liked.

  Longing to be looked at.

  And he did look. At me. Me! All I needed was his eyes on me. I told myself that that was enough.

  Now they’re on somebody else.

  Time yawns.

  This is what I get. This is who I am.

  It doesn’t matter what I wear or who I date.

  I am Willow James.

  Big sister to Aaron. Daughter to Julie and Miles. Stepdaughter to Jake. Owner to Ferdinand the cat.

  Willow James is the kind of girl who ditches her best friend and her sketchbook because a pretty boy looks her way.

  This is Willow James and she deserves all she gets.

  ***

  Dinner is as awful as I imagined it would be. All that forced happy and bravado. Mom is trying way too hard, squeezing Jake’s hand when she thinks that I’m not looking, goading him to tell us funny stories from the conference. The only problem is that stories from the latest conference of gathered marine biologists aren’t funny.

  She asks about Alex so clearly she knows that I saw him yesterday at work. That’s pretty weird but I don’t let myself dwell on it. One emotional crisis at a time. Alex is just another reminder of my failed romantic escapades.

  Narrowly avoiding a game of Monopoly (which I so cannot handle right now), I skulk back to my room and wait. Sometime after ten I make the call. My fingers press the phone hard against the skin of my face.

  Maybe this is desperation but I’ve decided to reach out to someone in the group even if no one’s reached out to
me. I’ve chosen Taylor because of all the girls, I feel closest to her. I won’t try to pretend that she isn’t Dustin’s friend first, but maybe there’s a chance that she’s my friend too.

  She answers on the third ring and I can tell by her voice that she’s seen my number on the caller ID.

  “Hi!” She sounds way too excited to hear from me. Why should she be so excited?

  “Hey,” I counter. And then we’re both quiet for a moment. My mouth is full of copper pennies.

  There are sounds in the background and I make out someone shouting over the thump of music. More sounds. The sound of fun. Of Roland’s party. It’s not like that got cancelled because Dustin broke up with me. A girl’s voice asks who is on the phone and Taylor covers the mouthpiece so the sound is muffled but I can still hear my name. I can’t make out anything else that is said. Taylor giggles. It echoes through my ear canal like a yell.

  “So…” I start awkwardly but Taylor interrupts.

  “Wiiii—iii--loooow!” Sometimes she does this: says my name with too—oo—oo many syllables. She’s buzzed. She’s happy. And why shouldn’t she be? She’s a teenager at a party with all my friends. My ex-friends. “I’m so bummed about you and Dustin, you know? But don’t worry about him. He’s just a guy and all guys are pricks, right? Total pricks. Pricks on sticks!” She giggles at her joke. “How about you? Are you doing okay sweetie?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m okay I guess. It’s just—”

  It’s just what? I think. But I don’t need to finish. Taylor’s mouth is at work and she’s telling me that she thinks it was a mistake and blah blah blah. I thought this would make me feel better—less empty—but it doesn’t. The more she talks, the more her words slur together. Great. I want to ask her if she knows who the other girl is—maybe she’s at the party even—but something stops me. I do want answers but I know that once I learn them I can’t unlearn them.

  I am so pathetic. The line falls silent and I’m clued in enough to know that even though she hasn’t said it in so many words, Taylor wants to get back to the party. I say goodbye and we hang up with promises to talk tomorrow.

  If a dress could laugh, my gold prom dress would be laughing at me from its hanger.