Starry Eyes

“Jesus,” I say, shocked. Can he monitor my phone? Has he already? My parents have always given me a fair amount of freedom. I never thought in a million years that they would invade my privacy.

“So that was it, basically,” Lennon says. “I planned on telling you anyway. At least, after I drove around town and stopped freaking out. That’s when I texted Avani and told her to let you know that I’d meet you at the homecoming dance, because our plan for me to show up at your house and tell your parents we were dating was . . . not happening. So I thought I’d just tell you what happened with your dad at the dance and we could figure out what to do. But then Sunny called and said my dad had tried to commit suicide, and we rushed into the city to wait at the hospital, because they didn’t know if he would live or not.”

He swallows, and his throat bobs. “Dad made it through the weekend. And my moms made sure his girlfriend was prepared to handle him at home—bought groceries for them, and stuff. And anyway, it was draining. And I didn’t get back into town until Sunday night. I was going to try to talk to you at school the next day, to apologize for homecoming and explain what happened. But then my dad made his second suicide attempt, and that time, no one was there to stop him.”

“Oh, Lennon.”

“Yeah.” He gives me a tight smile that fades. “That’s when I texted you the last time.”

I’m sorry.

I see the text in my mind as clearly as the day I received it. “I thought . . . you were saying that you didn’t want to be in a relationship. That you were chickening out of telling me in person.”

“I was afraid your dad was monitoring your texts, and I was in the middle of a nightmare. I couldn’t think straight. I just told myself that when I got back after the funeral, we’d sort it out. The last thing I expected was to come back to school and see you with Andre.”

Oh, Jesus.

Everything begins to slot together inside my head.

I remember that Monday with perfect clarity. I’d been crying all weekend, thinking he’d decided that being anything more than friends was too weird, and that he’d bailed on me. I didn’t want to go back to school. Mom forced me to go after I confessed about the Great Experiment. She said I should talk to him and find out what happened. Give him the benefit of the doubt. And—

“My dad had a long talk with me,” I say, too agitated to sit. I jump off the bench and pace around the plateau. “He said Mom told him I was upset and that I’d be better off not talking to you. To let it go, that all relationships change, and it was better to have pride than be the one begging. He . . .” I stop and put my hands on my hips to steady myself. I think I’m going to be sick. “I thought he was being a concerned father. Why would he care what we did or didn’t do?”

Lennon throws his hands up. “Right? I never understood it. I mean, I know my parents are way less uptight about sex—”

Dear God. I feel myself flush.

“—but it was so weird to me that he blew up like that.”

“Oh, he blows up, all right,” I say, pacing again. “He’s a keg of dynamite.”

“He’s petty, too. He kept Mac’s credit card—for leverage, he told me. When she went into a tizzy, trying to find it after my dad’s funeral, I couldn’t stand lying to her. So I confessed to the whole thing. She was furious at me. You know how she is about stealing.”

“I know.”

“But afterward, she was more furious at your dad. All the shit he said about the sex shop . . . That was the first big screaming match between our families, you know. It was about you and me. Mac went over to your parents’ clinic while we were in school and gave him a verbal ass-whipping.”

It was about us? All of this mess is what started the bad blood between our families?

He nods his head. “I wanted to talk to you about everything, but after my dad’s funeral, I walked into school, and there you were, kissing Andre in front of your locker.”

“I thought we were over! I embarrassed myself, crying at homecoming, and he was nice to me. He was there, and you weren’t, and I thought you didn’t . . . I never would have, if I’d known the truth. I didn’t know your dad died—you could have told me!”

“I thought you’d find out. It was on the news. But you didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t supposed to go near you, or your dad would kill me. The only time I could talk to you without him knowing was at school, but there you were, with Andre. Andre! And you wouldn’t so much as look my way. I felt like a disease. You moved to the courtyard at lunch to sit with Reagan and Andre, and then I saw you guys on a date at Thai Palace. . . .”

“I thought you hated me. I thought we were finished.”

He lifts his cap to run a hand through his hair and then settles it back down more tightly, tugging it low on his forehead. “I was messed up about my dad. . . . I didn’t know what to do. Everything was completely screwed up, and I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I was shattered, Zorie. Shattered.”

I hear the hurt in his voice, and it matches what I’m feeling in my heart.

Overwhelmed, I walk to the edge of the plateau and glance down the twisting steps. They look otherworldly, like ancient steps of a Tibetan mountain temple. Only, it’s just California, and there’s nothing holy here. No monks. No shrine.

Just the mountain and the sun and the two of us with all this pain in the middle.

A group of hikers climbs the steps far below. They look like ants. I walk a few steps to the benches circling a short wooden rail and gaze out over the jagged scenery. I wonder if this is one of the spots at which people fall off the mountain. It certainly doesn’t seem like a place people should die. It’s far too beautiful.

I hear Lennon approaching, but I don’t turn around. I don’t know what to say. I can’t process this. I’m trying, but I’m angry and utterly heartbroken, and everything feels raw.

Is all of this my fault, for crying on Andre’s shoulder and assuming the worst about Lennon’s motivations?

Is all of this Lennon’s fault, for assuming the worst about me?

And then there’s my father. . . .

“Everything that happened in the hotel . . . ,” I finally manage, talking more to the mountains than to him. “I mean, it’s almost blackmail, what my father did to you.”

“Actually, it was. See, there was something niggling me. Why was he at that hotel checking in? It was the middle of the day. And who needs a hotel in town when they live twenty minutes away? I didn’t really think about it much after everything went to hell. Not until that package was misdelivered to my parents’ shop last week.”

My body stills, heart racing erratically. “Why?” I ask, almost a whisper. I’m not even sure I want to know.

“Because the woman in those photos . . . I realized I’d seen her before. She was in the hotel lobby, standing near the registration desk. And then I saw her again, looking out the rotating doors when your dad dragged me outside.” Lennon pauses, and then says, “When I thought about it later, I wondered if maybe he made such a big scene to distract me from seeing her.”

This is the final blow. I want to hold my hands up in surrender. I’m dead now, so you can stop shooting, please and thank you. Nothing can hurt me anymore. I’m beyond pain. I’m just numb.