Authors: Katie Klein
“I don’t know what I wou
ld’ve said to him.” I pause
for a moment,
studying the
porcelain
sink
,
trying to process P
arker being here, working on it
wi
thout my even knowing. I glance
around the room, w
ondering if he
left a note—
some kind of sign.
N
ot a thing
is
out of place.
It
’
s almost as if
the faucet
appeared out of nowhere—lik
e magic. “Thank you,” I mutter
, still dazed.
He backs
into my b
edroom. “You’re welcome.
But I’m not the
one you should thank.”
I
n the next moment, I’m
alone.
My bedroom i
s nearly dark
,
the faint glow of dusk illuminating the window, casting
blue and gray shadows. I flip
my light switch on. The r
oom, too, is as I remember
. Parker didn’t
as
much as sit down on my bed, wrinkling the comforter. He didn’t move my desk chair. There
i
sn’t even a foo
tprint on my rug. Nothing.
Like
he came
through as an apparition, making on
ly the most obvious of changes—
a
new sink faucet—
and
nothing else.
I walk
over to my d
resser
.
The bouquet of tulips he placed
on my windshield the night before—the ones he left during the graduation ceremony—stand tall in their glass vase. I tuck my hair behind my ea
r
s
and lean in to breathe them.
My throat tightens.
He’s ready. He’s
just
waiting on
me.
I
lift
the lid of my jewelry
box; his photograph
is still
tucked safely inside. I
examine
it
,
taking in the dark eyes,
black hair
,
his serious expression.
He doesn’t even
look
like
he’s in high school
.
I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.
And his lips—the ones, i
n another lifetime entirely, I
touched
with my own.
I was
doing so well: throwing myself into g
raduation and
the house and
the wedding
,
finally treading water instead of drowning. But now, a
s I stare at the photo, knowing he was
so clos
e, everything comes
rushing back
,
like a wave, powerful enough to knock me over.
I return the photo to its place
,
snap
ping
the lid shut.
My heart pounds, blood hammering in my ears. I rush to the closet and pull out a pair of flip flops, slipping them
on as I run out the door, flick
ing off the light as I go, unaffected by the tear in the drywall where my Harvard sticker once resided.
My shoes thwack against each step as I bound down the stairs, fistfuls of lavender satin clutched in my hand
s
.
“
Jaden?
”
Sarah calls.
“
I have to go!
”
“
Jaden
,
it
’
s
late,
”
Daniel says. I can feel them watching from the top of the stairs.
“
No,
”
I reply, disappearing
into
the front living room, snatching up my purse an
d keys.
“
I have to do this
. N
ow.
”
I return to the foyer.
“
Tell Mom I
’
m sorry, and I
’
ll be home soon.
”
I
’
m twisting
the
d
oorknob, ready to leave, when:
“
Jaden?
”
I spin around and look up at my brother
, chest heaving
.
He pulls
his sweatshirt
over his head
and tosses it my way
. It lands in a pile at
my feet.
“
It
’
s getting cooler
.
”
*
*
*
I
take the road from school leading to that old trailer.
I drive slowly in the darkness, keeping my eyes peeled. I recognize some of the landmarks and houses I passed the day I followed Parker. And when I come to that familiar path, I turn into the driveway, bouncing in and out of potholes, dirt kicking up behind me. The yard is the same: overgrown, full of tires and trash and old car parts and rusted burn barrels. The house itself is the sam
e: the metal paneling dented, rusted,
stairs unsafe.
But
Parker
’
s motorcycle is gone.
Still, I push open the car door and step into the shin-deep grass, pulling the sleeves of Daniel
’
s sweatshirt tighter, hugging myself. I climb the rickety steps. The diamond window on the aluminum door is too high for me to look through, so I take a deep breath . . . and I knock.
When, after a few
, long seconds, no one answers,
I knock
again.
“
Where are you?” I whisper
.
I stand back, gazing at the old trailer. The clouds part, and the moonlight pours down, lighting the fields and the yard.
And it hits me.
He doesn
’
t live here. He didn't bring me here that day because this is where he lives.
That was part of the game, too.
He w
as playing a part.
A strong gust of wind blows in, driving the weeds in the field to their
side
s
,
tousling my ha
ir and whipping it into my eyes,
slappin
g it against my face. I gather
it at the nape of my neck as
the moon is swallowed by the clouds again, plunging the world into darkness.
I feel my way down the steps, moving toward my car.
Inside, I flip on the light and dig around my purse. When I find my cell phone, I call Information.
“
I was wondering if you could give m
e an address for Parker Whalen,
”
I tell
the operator.
“
How do you spell that?
”
she asks.
I wait, listening to a keyboard clacking on the other end.
“
I
’
m sorry.
I
’
m not seeing a Parker Whalen.
”
My heart plummets.
“
Ther
e
’
s not an address or a number?
”
“
No.
There
’
s not
a single Whalen in the county.
”
“
There
’
s nothing?
”
I ask, not wanting to believe her.
“
I
’
m sorry.
”
I
don
’
t go home right away.
I can
’
t.
Instead I drive
. W
andering, aimless.
From one side of the county to the other, trying to clear my head.
I finally
park
my car along the curb in front of my house just before midnight, defeated
. E
xhausted.
Mom meets me in the foyer.
“
I
’
m sorry,
”
I tell her, exhaling loudly
, tears filling my eyes
.
“
I just . .
. I just wanted to talk to him.
”
She
offers a resigned smile.
“
Get
some rest. We
’
ll
figure it out in the morning.
”
I trudge up the stairs, passing the row of family photos
,
Daniel and Sarah
’
s room, which is empty.
I shut my bedroom door,
pull Daniel
’
s sweatshirt over my head,
and flip on the bathroom light. My new faucet sparkles.
I open the door to my white medicine cabinet and pull out the glass I keep inside. The water splashes against itself, bubbling as I fill it. I
take an Advil and drink a few swallows, then
turn out the light, plun
ging the room into darkness.
I’m waiting for my eyes to re-adjust when
I hear it. My heart stops.
I wait. And listen. S
training my ears.
And I know
it’s real
. It’s not my imagination. I’m not lost in my
sleep-deprived
delirium. I know
,
without a doubt,
as those feather-light taps sound against
my window
: this is no dream.
And so
I mak
e my way
across the room
steadily, carefully. H
ands shaking, I
pull
the string, lifting
my blinds. They ri
se
slowly, drawing more
moon
light into the room with every inch.
A
nd there he i
s, crouched low on the roof
. Same
leather jacket.
The hair i
s his, the cheekbones, the
perfect nose . . . the eyes:
dark and mysterious . . . full of secrets. . . . My heart
flutters, body light.
I reach
out to touch him,
thinking he might disappear,
my fingers disrupted by the windowpane.
On the other side, Parker lifts his hand and mouths
:
“Hi.”
I mouth
“Hi” back.
He ho
ld
s
up a single finger, s
ignaling me to hold on. He picks
up a spiral-bound notebook
and
flips
open the cover,
turning
th
e first page to me. I recognize
his neat, block print instantly: bold, black Sharpie.
I know this is unexpected
. . . , I read.
He flips the page.
. . .
a
nd strange
. . .
I lift
an
e
yebrow
.
. . .
b
ut please
hear
read me out
.
He flips to the next page.
I know I told you
I never lied
. . .
. . .
but that was
(obviously)
the biggest lie of all
.
The truth is: I’m a liar
.
I lied
.
I lied to myself . . .
. . . and to you.
Parker watches as I read. Our eyes meet, and he flips the page.
But only because I had to.
I wasn’t supposed
to fall in love with you, Jaden . .
.
. . . b
ut
it happened anyway
.
I clear my throat, and swallow hard, but it’s squeezed shut again
,
tight.
And it gets worse.
Not only am I a liar . . .
I’m selfish.
S
elfish enough to want it all
.
And
I know
if I don’t have you . . .
I ho
ld my breath, waiting
.
. . . I don’t have anything.
He turns another page, and I read:
I’m not Ethan
. . .
. . . a
nd I’m not going to give up
. . .
. . . until I can prove to you . . .
. . . that you are the only thing that matters.
He flips to the next page.
So keep sending me away . . .
. . . but I’ll
just
keep coming back to you.
Again . . .
He flips to the next page.
. . .
and again
. . .
And the next:
. . .
and again
.
Goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I shiver, hugging myself
tightly
.
A
nd if you can
ever
find it in your (heart) to forgive me
. . .
There’s a big, black “heart”
symbol
where the word should be
.
I will
do everything it takes to make
it up to you.
He closes
the notebook
and tosses it beside him. It lands
on the roof with a dull thwack.
Then, lifting his index finger,
he
dra
w
s
an X across his chest.
Cross my h
eart.
I
stifle
the happy laugh welling inside
,
hiding the smile
as I reach
for the met
al latch to unlock my window.
I
slowly,
carefully
,
raise
the sash. A burst of
fresh
honeysuckles s
aturates
the
balmy
, midnight air
,
sickeningly sweet,
filling the room.
I close
my eyes, breath
ing
it in,
as
a t
housand sleepless nights melt
, slipping away.
I
gather the lavender satin of my dress in my hand,
climb
th
rough the
open
window
,
and stan
d
tall
on the roof
,
feeling the height,
the warmth of the shingles beneath my bare feet,
facing Parker.
He
touches
the length of the
scar
on my forehead
with his cool finger
,
tuc
ks
my hair behind my ear
, traces
the edge of my face
with the back of his
hand
.
My eyes close.