The Truth About Forever
Page 75
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“This salad,” she said now, taking a sip from her wine glass, “is just wonderful.”
“Thanks,” I told her. “The chicken’s good, too.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Around us, the house was dark and quiet. Empty.
“Yes,” I said. “It really is.”
I missed Kristy. I missed Delia. But most of all, I missed Wes.
He’d called the first night of my punishment, my cell phone buzzing as I sat on my bed, contemplating the rest of my summer, which now seemed to stretch out ahead of me, endless and flat. I’d been feeling sorry for myself all day, but it really kicked into overdrive the minute I punched the TALK button and heard his voice.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Don’t ask.”
He did though, as I knew he would, just as I knew he would listen, making sympathetic noises, as I outlined my restrictive curfew and the very real possibility that I might not see him again, ever. I didn’t go so far as to tell him that he and everyone else from Wish were off limits, although I had a feeling he probably knew that, too.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “It could be worse.”
“How?”
The only noise was the buzzing of the line as he considered this. “Could be forever,” he said finally.
“It’s until the end of the summer,” I said. “It is forever.”
“Nah. It just seems like it now, because it’s the first day. You’ll see. It’ll go fast.”
This was easy for him to say. While my life had slowed to a near stop, Wes’s was now busier than ever. When he wasn’t working on sculptures to keep up with increasing demand, he was driving to garden art places to drop off pieces and take new orders. At night, he was working the job he’d taken delivering for A la Carte, a store that specialized in high-end, restaurant-quality dinner entrees brought right to your door. Most of our conversations lately had taken place while he was en route to one delivery or another. While I sat in my room, staring out the window, he was constantly in motion, crisscrossing town with bags of chicken parmigiana and shrimp scampi riding shotgun beside him. I was always happy to hear his voice. But it wasn’t the same.
We didn’t talk about our Truth game, other than to agree to keep it on hold until we got to see each other face to face. Sometimes, at night, when I sat out on my roof alone, I’d run over the questions and answers we’d traded back and forth in my head. For some weird reason, I was afraid I might forget them otherwise, like they were vocabulary words or something else I had to study to keep close at hand.
Kristy had been in touch as well, calling to extend invitations to come over and sunbathe, or go to parties (she knew I was grounded, but like “free time” for my mother, this was clearly a flexible term for her), or just to talk about her new boyfriend. His name was Baxter, and they’d met cute, when he stopped by the produce stand while she was sitting in for Stella one day. He’d talked to her for over an hour, then, besotted, bought an entire bushel of cucumbers. This was clearly extraordinary, or at least, notable, and now she was busy much of the time, too. That was the thing about being on the inside: the world was just going on, even when it seemed like time for you had stopped for good.
I was bored. Sad. Lonely. It was only a matter of time before I cracked.
I’d had a long day at the model home, stapling Welcome packets and listening to my mother give her sales spiel to six different prospective clients. It was the same thing I’d done the day before, and the day before that. Which was bad enough even before you factored in that I’d eat the same dinner (chicken and salad) with the same person (my mother) at the same time (six sharp), then fill the hours before bedtime the same way (yoga and studying). With all of this combined, the monotony hit lethal levels. So it was no wonder I was feeling totally hopeless and trapped, even before I went home and found an email from Jason.
Macy,
I’ve been wanting to get in touch with you, but I haven’t been sure what to say. I don’t know if your mom told you, but I came on the Fourth because my grandmother had a stroke, and she’s been deteriorating ever since. We’re very close, as you know, but even so dealing with this, and the very real possibility that she may not make it, has been harder for me than I expected. I was disappointed to hear that you quit the info desk, and while I have a few ideas on the subject, I’d like to know, in your own words, what it was that precipitated that decision.
That’s not really why I’m writing, however. I guess with everything that’s happening in my own family right now I feel like I’ve had some added insight into how things must have been for you in the last couple of years. I think I was hard on you about the info desk earlier this summer, and for that I apologize. I know I suggested that we be on a break until I return, but I hope that whatever happens we can at least stay in contact, and stay friends. I hope you’ll write back. I’d really like to hear from you.
I had read it twice, but it still didn’t really make sense. I’d thought that quitting the info desk would be the final proof he needed that I would never be the girl for him. Now, though, with the prospect of loss hovering over him, he seemed to think the opposite. If anyone understood, I could see him reasoning, with that even, cool logic, it was me. Right?
“No,” I said aloud. My mind was spinning. A week and a half earlier it had seemed like my life had changed for good. That I had changed it. But now it was all slipping away. I was back to being my mother’s daughter, and with this, it seemed maybe I could be Jason’s girlfriend, too. If I didn’t take action, somehow, by the fall everything that had happened with Wish, and with Wes, would be smoothed over, forgotten, no more than a dream. So that night, after I’d wiped the counters down and put away the leftovers, I picked up my yoga mat, told my mother I’d be back by eight, and broke her rules, driving off to Sweetbud Road.
I pulled in to the still signless road, and dodged the hole unthinkingly, glancing at the heart in hand as I passed it. I was looking at everything, surprised that it didn’t seem all that different until I realized it had only been about ten days since I’d last been there.
First I pulled into Wes’s driveway, but his truck was gone, the house dark. I walked around the side of the house to his workshop. There were more pieces than ever grouped in the yard: I saw angels, a few large whirligigs, and one piece that was medium sized, barely begun, with only the frame of a stick figure with some brackets attached to the back.
“Thanks,” I told her. “The chicken’s good, too.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Around us, the house was dark and quiet. Empty.
“Yes,” I said. “It really is.”
I missed Kristy. I missed Delia. But most of all, I missed Wes.
He’d called the first night of my punishment, my cell phone buzzing as I sat on my bed, contemplating the rest of my summer, which now seemed to stretch out ahead of me, endless and flat. I’d been feeling sorry for myself all day, but it really kicked into overdrive the minute I punched the TALK button and heard his voice.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Don’t ask.”
He did though, as I knew he would, just as I knew he would listen, making sympathetic noises, as I outlined my restrictive curfew and the very real possibility that I might not see him again, ever. I didn’t go so far as to tell him that he and everyone else from Wish were off limits, although I had a feeling he probably knew that, too.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “It could be worse.”
“How?”
The only noise was the buzzing of the line as he considered this. “Could be forever,” he said finally.
“It’s until the end of the summer,” I said. “It is forever.”
“Nah. It just seems like it now, because it’s the first day. You’ll see. It’ll go fast.”
This was easy for him to say. While my life had slowed to a near stop, Wes’s was now busier than ever. When he wasn’t working on sculptures to keep up with increasing demand, he was driving to garden art places to drop off pieces and take new orders. At night, he was working the job he’d taken delivering for A la Carte, a store that specialized in high-end, restaurant-quality dinner entrees brought right to your door. Most of our conversations lately had taken place while he was en route to one delivery or another. While I sat in my room, staring out the window, he was constantly in motion, crisscrossing town with bags of chicken parmigiana and shrimp scampi riding shotgun beside him. I was always happy to hear his voice. But it wasn’t the same.
We didn’t talk about our Truth game, other than to agree to keep it on hold until we got to see each other face to face. Sometimes, at night, when I sat out on my roof alone, I’d run over the questions and answers we’d traded back and forth in my head. For some weird reason, I was afraid I might forget them otherwise, like they were vocabulary words or something else I had to study to keep close at hand.
Kristy had been in touch as well, calling to extend invitations to come over and sunbathe, or go to parties (she knew I was grounded, but like “free time” for my mother, this was clearly a flexible term for her), or just to talk about her new boyfriend. His name was Baxter, and they’d met cute, when he stopped by the produce stand while she was sitting in for Stella one day. He’d talked to her for over an hour, then, besotted, bought an entire bushel of cucumbers. This was clearly extraordinary, or at least, notable, and now she was busy much of the time, too. That was the thing about being on the inside: the world was just going on, even when it seemed like time for you had stopped for good.
I was bored. Sad. Lonely. It was only a matter of time before I cracked.
I’d had a long day at the model home, stapling Welcome packets and listening to my mother give her sales spiel to six different prospective clients. It was the same thing I’d done the day before, and the day before that. Which was bad enough even before you factored in that I’d eat the same dinner (chicken and salad) with the same person (my mother) at the same time (six sharp), then fill the hours before bedtime the same way (yoga and studying). With all of this combined, the monotony hit lethal levels. So it was no wonder I was feeling totally hopeless and trapped, even before I went home and found an email from Jason.
Macy,
I’ve been wanting to get in touch with you, but I haven’t been sure what to say. I don’t know if your mom told you, but I came on the Fourth because my grandmother had a stroke, and she’s been deteriorating ever since. We’re very close, as you know, but even so dealing with this, and the very real possibility that she may not make it, has been harder for me than I expected. I was disappointed to hear that you quit the info desk, and while I have a few ideas on the subject, I’d like to know, in your own words, what it was that precipitated that decision.
That’s not really why I’m writing, however. I guess with everything that’s happening in my own family right now I feel like I’ve had some added insight into how things must have been for you in the last couple of years. I think I was hard on you about the info desk earlier this summer, and for that I apologize. I know I suggested that we be on a break until I return, but I hope that whatever happens we can at least stay in contact, and stay friends. I hope you’ll write back. I’d really like to hear from you.
I had read it twice, but it still didn’t really make sense. I’d thought that quitting the info desk would be the final proof he needed that I would never be the girl for him. Now, though, with the prospect of loss hovering over him, he seemed to think the opposite. If anyone understood, I could see him reasoning, with that even, cool logic, it was me. Right?
“No,” I said aloud. My mind was spinning. A week and a half earlier it had seemed like my life had changed for good. That I had changed it. But now it was all slipping away. I was back to being my mother’s daughter, and with this, it seemed maybe I could be Jason’s girlfriend, too. If I didn’t take action, somehow, by the fall everything that had happened with Wish, and with Wes, would be smoothed over, forgotten, no more than a dream. So that night, after I’d wiped the counters down and put away the leftovers, I picked up my yoga mat, told my mother I’d be back by eight, and broke her rules, driving off to Sweetbud Road.
I pulled in to the still signless road, and dodged the hole unthinkingly, glancing at the heart in hand as I passed it. I was looking at everything, surprised that it didn’t seem all that different until I realized it had only been about ten days since I’d last been there.
First I pulled into Wes’s driveway, but his truck was gone, the house dark. I walked around the side of the house to his workshop. There were more pieces than ever grouped in the yard: I saw angels, a few large whirligigs, and one piece that was medium sized, barely begun, with only the frame of a stick figure with some brackets attached to the back.
