You and Everything After

“I don’t know what to say. Everything is all…I don’t know…messy?” Rowe says.

I understand messy. I’ve been in what Ty would call one messy fussy fuss for weeks. But my mess…it’s kind of over. And I’m starting to appreciate the fact that my dad put an end to it, even if I don’t like the way he put an end to it.

“You know, Nate was sort of really put in a crappy position,” I say, rolling on my side to look at my friend. Her parents asked him to keep a secret, and he didn’t want to. She has to forgive him. She will, once she reads his letter. “He’s been a wreck.”

As much as Rowe wants to stay in this somber place, her lips can’t help but twitch into the faintest smile when I let her know how Nate has been feeling—feeling…about her. And I know the second she reacts to what I say that they’re going to be fine.

We’re all going to be fine.

The hours of solitude spent studying earned me a perfect score on my sign language exam. I don’t even need to see the grade to know. I had to hold a conversation with my instructor for five minutes, and I anticipated every question she would ask when I studied. My hands were perfect today, my signs perfect. She smiled at me when our time was up. She never smiles, so I know I did well.

I gave Rowe the letter just as Nate instructed, as soon as she was done with her finals. I was risking being late to the airport for my own flight home, but my task was too important. I wouldn’t mess this up.

When I got off the plane, I turned my phone on and saw I had two messages, one from Ty, and one from Rowe. I knew the letter worked. I called Rowe quickly and promised her I would help pull off whatever she needed to do to reciprocate his letter. I also apologized again for reading her business. But I’m not really sorry. It was beautiful. Rowe was planning on finding Nate when he traveled to Arizona for the first seasonal baseball tournament. She said something about singing to him, which sounds scary as hell to me, but Rowe…she can actually kind of sing. I want to be there with her for it, to support my friend through whatever crazy stunt she has planned. I’m also a sucker for big romantic gestures, just not when they put the spotlight on me.

My smile flips when I see Paige parked at the curb to pick me up. My mom had said she would do it, and I honestly expected my dad to be the one waiting for me. Paige was the last person I wanted to see, even though I admit to myself that I miss her. At least she’s not in my Charger.

She pulls the lever to pop her trunk, and I put my things in the back. Paige drives a Mazda. It’s pink. I swear it’s the only pink car Mazda ever made.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I say, slamming the door closed a little harder than I mean to. I really want to be nice, or at least pleasant. But being near her, it just brings everything back to the surface. I’m fighting so hard not to be mad, to remain rational.

“Sure,” she says, signaling and pulling out into traffic. Some guy honks at her, and she looks rattled from it, nervous. That’s not like her. Paige doesn’t get pushed around. “I asked Mom if I could get you instead. I wanted to. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I say, still not really sure if it is, but I feel like that’s what needs to be said right now. I think I’ve kicked her enough, and she’s still down. And today I don’t feel good about it.

She turns the radio up when we hit the highway, and we listen to the hits station for the next hour, not talking, only soaking in the familiar sounds of home. This is normal for us, riding together in silence. But it used to not feel so uncomfortable. We usually sing along with the chorus, for the few songs that we both actually agree on. There’s so many things unspoken floating between us now—I can feel them.

When we get to the house and pull in the driveway, I leave the car and move to the back to grab my things. Paige stays in the driver’s seat, her hands low on the steering wheel while she watches me through the rearview mirror.

I close the trunk and shrug at her to come inside, to get out of the car, to move, or say something. But she just sits there, staring at me. My bags are heavy, but I hold them to my sides, my duffel slung over my shoulder, while I drag everything to the car door next to her, her window now rolled down. She’s turned the ignition off, but she’s still staying in the car. It’s weird. And it’s irritating me.

“Paige, just come inside. Seriously…I’m tired. It’s late. I’m hungry. I’m not in the mood for your drama right now,” I say. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, her lips curling like they want to laugh, but no sound comes out.