You and Everything After

We drive three more blocks, and he pulls into a neighborhood diner. It’s one of those pancake houses, a place for truckers to stop. I pull in to an end spot, one that gives me a good view of the entire parking lot and the bay of windows looking into the restaurant.

When Jared gets out of his car, he stops and pulls out his phone, probably to make sure Kelly hasn’t called or texted…or maybe he’s getting a message from his dealer. He looks around the lot, but thankfully his head never fully turns in my direction. I’m not very good at hiding. And I’m not sure I don’t want him to see me.

After a few seconds, he walks to the diner entrance, steps inside, and moves toward the line of booths along the window.

And then it all becomes so painfully clear.

The girl is beautiful. Long, red hair, she looks to be about the same age as Kelly. She’s wearing a blue sweater and jeans, and looks like she dressed up just enough to impress someone—impress a boyfriend or a date.

They kiss.

His hand moves to her face.

His other hand grips her hand.

They hold hands on the table.

He orders coffee. So does she.

They drink.

They laugh.

They talk.

They kiss more.

He puts some money on the table, and she follows him out to the parking lot.

He gets in his car.

She gets in his car.

He drives to the back of the lot, near the unkempt trees and bushes that block most of their view.

She climbs on his lap.

They kiss more.

I take a photo with my phone.

I leave.

He’s not using. Goddamn how I wish that were it. I wish he were using. I could be angry at him, punish him, force him into rehab—make him do right by Kelly.

But this? I can’t forgive this. For me, this is unforgiveable. This is unacceptable. You don’t make promises of the heart just to break them. I never promised a girl something I couldn’t give her. The only promises I’ve made are to Kelly and Cass. And I’m living by them both.

Jared is a coward.

Jared is a dead man.

And I have to tell Kelly, because he’ll just keep doing this. And she deserves better.

I spend ten minutes in her driveway, trying to figure out what to say—how to pull her away from her parents, how to have this conversation. I sit there for so long, eventually she sees me out the window. She comes out of the house, down the driveway to where I’m parked.

“You know, you are allowed inside,” she says when I unroll the window.

I can’t even fake this, and she knows me too well to be able to ignore the expression on my face.

“What is it?” she asks. She looks so tired. But she’s still Kelly, still the beautiful girl I’ve known for so much of my life.

“Can you…take a short drive?” I ask, hating that I’m pulling her away from her family on a holiday, but not knowing how to handle this any other way.

“Give me a minute,” she says, walking back up her drive to the house. I notice her hand flexes as she walks. She does this when she’s stressed, when she’s angry. She knows something bad is coming.

She comes back out with keys and her phone in her hand. Picking up her step, she jogs to the van, rounding the front and getting inside. She smells like pie—she’s been baking.

“My parents are watching Jackson. We have some time,” she says, her gaze empty, her focus lost out the front window, her hands clutched to her phone and keys. She relaxes just long enough to put on her seatbelt. I back out and drive us a few blocks to the old elementary school. I pull in so we’re facing the swings, the same ones she used to push me on—the ones where I used to look up her dress. The memory makes me laugh under my breath.

“I used to pretend to fall out of the swings, you know,” I admit.

“I know,” she says. “You were looking up my dress. That’s why I wore shorts.”

Her confession makes me smile, but now is not the time for smiling or happy memories, so I hold my hand over my mouth until I can regain my composure.

“I followed Jared,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, but her grip on her belongings gets tighter. I hear her swallow, see her throat move slowly, see her eyes twitch with both fury and tears. But she holds it all in, her breath heavy through her nose.

“Kel,” I say, reaching my hand over to her arm, sliding it down to her hand, forcing her hand loose from its grip, until she holds mine back. Her eyes still stay forward. “He’s not using, Kel.”

She remains rigid, but her hand squeezes me tightly. A single tear falls from her eye, slides down her cheek, lands on her arm, and waits to dissolve completely.