Everything That Makes You (19 page)

Fi was still in her pajamas—well, sweats and a T-shirt—when she opened the door. Jackson stood on the porch, more appropriately dressed in jeans and a button-down. It was three in the afternoon, after all.

“Late night?” he asked with a smirk.

Fi glared back. It was after one in the morning when she got home from the disastrous night at Ole Miss—and hours later before she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Her mood—and breath—was foul. Her eyes were swollen, her throat felt raw from crying. She may or may not have lost her best friend.

And now her dead boyfriend's obnoxious brother was smirking at her. “Do you need something?”

He held a wrapped package out to her. “Peace offering.”

She eyed the package—and Jackson—suspiciously. “For?”

“Traditionally speaking, peace.” He held it higher, nudging it toward her. “It's not a bomb.”

She took the gift—it looked like a book—weighing it in her hand. “Uh, thanks.”

“Now we're at the part where you invite me in.”

Fi stepped aside. When he hesitated in the living room, Fi realized he'd never been in her house before. How odd—he'd been such a basic part of her life the past two years, but he didn't know where her kitchen was.

“Come on,” she said. “I haven't eaten yet. Are you hungry?”

“Sure.”

Fi pulled out apples, cheese, some crackers. She grabbed a knife, the cutting board, some glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea, and sat across from him. After pulling together a cheese-and-cracker plate that would have made her mother proud, Fi centered it between them.

Jackson took an apple. “Are you going to open it?”

“Oh. Right.” Fi inspected the package, mentally preparing herself for an oh-it's-just-what-I-wanted expression. Sliding her fingers along the taped edges, she pulled the book free and turned it back and forth in her hands. “A journal?”

“It's a Moleskine. Which is just a fancy name for a notebook, I guess.”

“And I need this because?”

“Read the first page.”

She opened it. “‘Never May the Fruit Be Plucked'?”

Underneath the title, a poem was written in the blocky handwriting she knew well. For a few moments, as she stared at the words Marcus's living hand had formed, she
forgot to breathe.

“It's the poem I was telling you about,” he said.

She looked up at him and he looked away, rubbing his neck. “I wasn't totally honest about how I remembered it. I've had this since he died.”

Fi stared at the words a long time before, quietly, reading them. “
Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough / And gathered into barrels. / He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs
—”

“Stop,” he said. “Please.”

She ran her fingers over the page, feeling the bumps from where Marcus had pressed too hard. “Why are you giving me this?”

“Because it was for you—or probably for you. Marcus didn't say specifically . . .”

“I don't understand.”

“He had a few of these—journals where he wrote down quotes he liked. After I read that poem, he asked me to get him a fresh one. Then I had to read it, really slowly, while he copied it down. I offered to do it for him, but he wouldn't let me.”

“And you've had it this whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“So—why now?” she asked, too overwhelmed to be angry.

“Because he would have wanted it,” he said. “Plus, I've been thinking about what you said in the park, all those questions you had. I felt bad. I didn't handle it well. Since I'm not the
best moral support, I thought a journal might work instead.”

She nodded. Tears splattered onto Marcus's words, so she quickly closed the book, to protect the pages. “Thank you.”

He gestured between the two of them. “Hanging out with you—it's weird that it doesn't feel weird anymore. Like, we're
friends.
”

Fi remembered how Trent looked, glaring at her, saying he didn't want to be her friend anymore. And then, it felt like her heart actually
twisted
around itself—because she'd thought of Trent before she thought of Marcus. “Marcus would be happy,” she said.

Jackson made a sad smile and took another apple.

“Do you think he'd want us to—” She put the Moleskine on the table, like it should be farther away when she asked the question. “Move on?”

“Move on how?”

“Dating.” She hoped it came across as casual. “He'd be happy if you had a girlfriend, don't you think?”

“Not interested,” he snapped.

“In dating or girls?”

Much to Fi's relief—why was he getting snippy?—he laughed. “I like girls.”

“I've never seen you look twice at a girl.”

He rolled his eyes. “That first day? When we first met you, in the coffee shop? I had these competing emotions—be a jerk or flirt with the cute girl.” He picked up a cracker, breaking it apart with his fingers instead of eating it. “Jerk obviously won.”

“I can't picture you flirting.” She also couldn't imagine Jackson thinking of her as cute.

“It's not pretty.” He laughed to himself. “And your cast! It was like kryptonite. I mean, I've got a serious soft spot for the fragile.”

“Soft spot for the fragile?”

“Dying brother.” He shrugged. “While you sat at our table looking awkward, Marcus reached a decision about what do with you before I did, thereby leaving the asshole path free and clear for me.”

“And now?”

“Oh, I'm still an asshole.” His voice had regained that snippy quality.

Even so, Fi pressed the conversation onward. “No, I mean, are you still resolutely anti-relationship—or dating or whatever.”

“Like I said, not interested.”

Fi picked up her own cracker, snapping it into bits, too. “Do you wonder what would have happened if you decided to be nice? If you talked to me first?”

“I wonder about lots of things. Why didn't I eat that piece of chicken? What if we diagnosed it earlier? What if he didn't meet you at all, and I got his last year all to myself.”

“You're right,” Fi said. “You are still an asshole.”

They were quiet a minute or so. “What's with all the dating questions?” Jackson asked.

“It's been nine months. I've just been thinking about it.”

His eyes got hard. She shuddered, remembering how he would stand in the King doorway, looking down at her with that same disapproving look.

“You're Marcus's girlfriend,” he said.

She sighed, looking at the Moleskine. Then she picked it up and put in the kitchen drawer, just for now. “Marcus is dead.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” Why was she talking to him about this? “It's crazy. I need to forget it.”

“Crazy why?” he asked slowly.

Fi closed her eyes, wondering how she and Jackson King wound up in this unlikely relationship. “I've known him forever. He's my best friend.”

Jackson exhaled a loud “Oh, thank God!” and collapsed back against his chair. It almost fell backward, and he had to lunge forward to grab the table before toppling.

Fi gaped at him. “What the heck's wrong with you?”

All four legs of his chair on the ground, he placed a hand over his heart, looking like a man just rescued from drowning. “I thought you meant me.”

“You?” Fi recoiled. “Oh . . . that's . . .”

“I know! Gross, right?”

Fi frowned. “Well, I wouldn't say
gross.
”

He waved her off. “
You're
not gross. But the idea of kissing you is—it's plain wrong.”

“I don't want to kiss you, Jackson.”

“Right. Good thing.” He sat up, his mood visibly better.
Taking a happy bite of an apple he said, “So I was giving out relationship advice.”

“Very badly.”

“That's because I was fending off your advances. So, the guy? He's the one who always hit on you in front of Marcus? Trevor or something?”

“Trent wasn't hitting on me! Did Marcus say that?”

Jackson grimaced, shaking his head. “No, he said that y'all were best friends. Weird best friends if you ask me. Little bit dysfunctional.”

“And you would be the expert in functional relationships.” Fi scowled at him. “You're supposed to be making me feel better. And giving me good advice.”

“Can't do both. You want to feel better, or you want the good advice?”

Fi sighed. “Good advice.”

“Don't get involved. It'll totally mess up your friendship.”

This was not what she wanted to hear.

Why was this not what she wanted to hear?

Fi shook her head. “I changed my mind. I want to feel better.”

“Don't get involved. It'll totally mess up your friendship,” he said. “The feel better part won't kick in till later.”

“When?”

“When you don't lose your best friend,” he said. “Because losing your best friend
sucks.
”

Fiona sat at the foot of the bed, tying her shoes and staring at her guitar in the corner. It wasn't tragically out of tune or anything—she'd played it plenty over the past few weeks. It was the Moleskines, or what she had left of them, that were neglected.

At least she'd met the performance requirement for music. To make up for that horrid Individual Performance grade, she'd thrown everything she had into the composition work after. She had to start from scratch, since she'd tossed her best notebooks. But at least here on out, everything in Weitz's class was on paper.

Beside her, David yawned and stretched, dragging his fingers down the cement wall at the head of the bed.

“Where are you going?” His voice was still thick from sleep. He pulled his wrist toward his face, holding the watch close since his contacts were out. “It's already ten?”

Fiona pulled on a sweatshirt. “I'm going to grab some coffee. I'll bring you some.”

“'Kay,” he said, stretching again.

“Don't sleep too late.” She nudged his leg with her knee. “You've got to catch the ‘L' by noon.”

He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “I know” and pulled the covers over his face, muttering, “God, it's so
cold.
”

In the cafeteria, she lingered over her bagel and the school paper. It'd been a nice few days with David. They'd both spent too much money—eating out, going to museums, a band last night. As usual, they talked about nothing in particular. At least she hadn't needed to broach the awkward Jackson subject. She'd barely spoken to him since the beach—and the literal run-in in the dorm lobby, after her critique. The few times their paths crossed, he'd disappeared as quickly as he could.

Since fate mocked her, the one time a real conversation might have taken place was the day David arrived. Fiona had met him at the “L” platform nearest campus and walked him back to her dorm. They'd stepped into the refuge of the heated building just as Jackson was walking out. He'd held the door open—Fiona imagined he didn't realize who he was holding the door
for
until it was too late—and it was David who stopped and said, “Aren't you the guy from Memphis?”

Jackson stood there, at a loss. Finally he released the door and shook David's hand.

“Yeah. Jackson. We met at the coffee shop.” Jackson nodded toward the bag. “You came to visit?”

“My spring break,” David said, snaking his arm around Fiona's waist and pulling her closer.

After that rousing conversation, the three stood there awkwardly until Jackson said, “I've got class. See y'all later.”

“He seemed friendlier over Christmas,” David said, watching him leave through the glass doors.

Indeed, he did.

Now finished with her bagel and the paper, Fiona looked at her watch. David slept like the dead, something she hadn't known about him. Last night, two of her suitemates were partying with a bunch of friends in the suite common room—at one in the morning. David hadn't so much as flipped over.

He also took
forever
to wake up. He had time before his flight, and she didn't want it to look like she was kicking him out or anything—but still, she was ready. Her suitemates kept telling her how lucky she was to have a single—no closet space to argue over, no one else's alarm to sleep through, no quirky habits to deal with. Now she understood. Her tiny, cement-walled, perpetually cold room with poor acoustics was, at least, all hers.

Getting herself a refill and fixing a cup for David, Fiona started upstairs. She wrestled with the suite door a moment, juggling the two hot cups, before walking through the common room on the way to her own.

There on the couch sat Jackson. He leaned forward, elbows
on his knees, his hands held in a tepee in front of him. “Got a sec?”

He looked awful—bags under dulled eyes, skin more yellow than olive. His voice sounded thinned. Whatever had taken him from there to here must have been quite a journey.

She stood there a moment, not sure what to do. His eyes traveled to the two cups.

“Oh,” he said, getting up. “I didn't realize he was still here.”

“He's sleeping, I think,” she said, looking toward her door.

Jackson looked at the door, too. “I can catch you later. It's okay.”

“No,” she said, too quickly. Putting the cups on a table, she pulled a chair over. She was at a weird angle to the couch, but she wasn't sure how lined up he wanted her to be. “It's fine,” she said.

He looked at the door again, his expression simply
devoid—
no sarcasm, no joy, no anger. Just emptiness. He resumed his original place on the couch, looking at his knees a long while.

They sat there several silent minutes before Fiona asked, “So . . . you wanted to talk about something?”

Jackson chewed on the inside of his cheek, glancing from his hands to the backpack at his feet and back again. “I've been meaning to come by, to check on you. You seemed upset, you know, after . . .” His voice trailed away. Fiona wasn't sure to which
after
he referred.

“I've been here. You could have just talked to me.” Her
voice sounded watery to Jackson's thinned. Both used only a fraction of their vocal cords.

“Yeah, well, it's pretty complicated.” He dragged a hand through his hair, nodding toward the closed door. “Exhibit A.” He frowned. “Or B.”

She picked imaginary lint from her jeans.

Jackson's eyes were locked on his legs as well. His elbows rested on his knees. “I really fought my mom about coming up here—didn't see the rush and all that. But once I got here, I don't know, it was nice. Everything was new. Mine.” He shook his head. “That sounds awful.”

“No. I get it,” Fiona answered quietly.

He spoke quickly, like if he didn't say it
right then
he wasn't going to say it at all. “Having a sick brother changed every part of my life. I mean, I let it. But still, it defined everything.”

Fiona swallowed. She didn't know where this was going. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

Jackson leaned forward and dug through the backpack. When he sat up, he held five Moleskine notebooks. “They were sticking out of the trash downstairs. I haven't read them.”

After a few seconds of gaping, Fiona carefully took the notebooks, resting them on her knees like they might break. She opened the cover of the top one, letting her fingers drag down the length of the page. As always seemed to happen in the presence of Jackson King, she struggled to speak past the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

“I know I should have given them to you earlier.”

She nodded, not able to process past the shock. Maybe she should be mad. But, after everything, she figured he deserved a pass.

Jackson took a breath, looking Fiona head-on. Bloodshot veins turned the whites of his eyes near pink. “I wanted to see you. I just didn't know what to say.” He gave a faint smile. “Ironic as it sounds, Marcus would have loved this little dilemma. The guy loved any and all hypotheticals. Not to mention he could talk to a post.”

Fiona shook her head. She couldn't have this conversation. “Jackson—”

“Just hear me out,” he said, holding up a hand. “I prepared a little speech and everything.”

She gave a reluctant, terrified nod.

“Even though Marcus really believed some miracle would happen, he didn't waste a second.” He gave a sad, lopsided smile. “So I learned this from my dying brother.
Don't waste it.
”

“Waste what?” she whispered.

He looked at her a long time. “Everything that makes you.”

“I don't understand.”

Grabbing the arms of her chair, he dragged her over until they lined up knee to knee. His eyes drifted down as he spoke. Not deliberately away—more like he gradually focused on nothing in order to stay on track in his head. “Look, in the end we're all just experiences. Some are crappy, some are great, some are just plain dumb. But the
more you have, the more you are. And I think Marcus knew that, it's why he wanted to do, do, do. It made him bigger than his disease.

“Being sick was part of that experience, too. It shaped his life, but it wasn't all that defined him. Eventually, the disease killed him. But it never, ever won.”

Fiona felt humbled by this boy she'd never know. Even from a sickbed, he lived bigger than she did. He had looked his fate in the eye. He had faced his fear—while she always took the cowardly route around.

Even now that she was fixed, was she really any better?

No. No, she was not.

She swallowed, shaking her head. “It's not that easy.”

For the first time since they discovered the horrible May 18 coincidence, Jackson touched her. After tucking some fallen strands behind her ear, his fingertips grazed her cheek for the slightest moment. Her skin tingled beneath his touch. Then he dropped his hand, wrapping it around hers and edging himself closer. With their knees staggered between each other—Jackson-Fiona-Jackson-Fiona—he nodded to the notebooks in her lap. “We've all got baggage, Fiona.”

“I'm the only one wearing it on my face.”

He shrugged. “So what? Other people wear it in bruises. Or on their hearts, when they lose the people they love. Kids who grow up surrounded by hate have it all over their souls. And the rest of us? We shove it way down where it rots, poisoning us slowly. Which way's better?”

She stared at her notebooks, watching fat tears plop on them one by one. “It's too hard.”

“Only because you make it that way.”

Again, she shook her head. “If I get up there and sing these songs, everything I feel, I am, it's just up for grabs. It becomes
entertainment.
Everyone knows me, but no one has to give it back. I'm naked when everyone else is in fur coats.”

Jackson gave a short, unamused laugh. “Fiona, no one demands you write. No one's forcing you to play that guitar. There's no grand conspiracy to know you.” Using the knot of their four hands, he pointed toward the notebooks, now splattered in tears. “So the question is, if it's not
fundamentally important to you,
why have you spent a small fortune on these notebooks? Why did you come to one of the country's best writing and music schools? If this isn't who you are, why are you so tormented over it?”

“It
is
who I am,” she argued, annoyed now. “That's what I'm saying.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers and looking down at her. “Then be who you are.”

She stared back at him, unable to come up with a reply. They stayed there, knees wedged against each other, hands knotted against the notebooks in her lap. Joined foreheads completed their breathing triangle.

When her door clicked closed, both pulled away. David stood on the edge of the common room, his bag by his feet.
He pointed to the cups on the table. “I was looking for the coffee. And you.”

Jackson and Fiona stood up at the same time, the Moleskines tumbling to the floor between them. She rubbed her hands on her jeans, while he leaned over to pick up his backpack. After an awkward moment, Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets, said, “Have a good flight,” and walked to the stairwell.

Fiona took a breath. “It's not what it looks like.”

“What's it look like?”

“We're just . . . he's been someone to talk to. Up here.”

“About?”

She pointed to the notebooks at her feet. “All this—all
my—
ridiculous stuff.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed in front of him. His voice came out sharp, his posture seemed rigid. “We've dated two years, and you've never told me any ridiculous stuff.”

“You've never asked.”

“I've asked plenty.”

Fiona sank to the couch. David stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. “Any particular reason you were never compelled to talk to
me
?” he asked.

“I have no idea. Maybe—I never felt the need? Like I had to?”

“And you do with him.”

She shrugged.

He watched her a long time before he eventually pushed himself from the wall, shaking his head. “Guess that's all I'm getting.”

“David, I—”

He slid the strap of his bag over his shoulder then stood there, waiting. Fiona willed herself to say something, to say the words that explained all of this. But the girl who could fill notebook upon notebook with her thoughts and words suddenly had nothing to offer.

David looked at his watch. “I've gotta go.”

“Let me get a coat.” She stood. “I'll come with you to the station.”

“No. Don't.” He adjusted his strap, zipped his jacket. “I know the way.”

They stood there another long moment, Fiona by the couch, David a few feet from her.

“I'm not sure what to say,” Fiona said.

David laughed—a bitter laugh, not like him. “That says it all.”