Love Over Matter (24 page)

I dig the phone out and cup it in my
palm for a long, quiet moment. After a tense exhale, I try powering
it on.

Epic fail.

Of course, I should’ve
expected this. I mean, batteries don’t last forever. I crawl to my
nightstand and root around in the drawer until, shockingly, I
locate a cord that fits. I connect everything up
and—
voila!
—the
screen glows to life.

A surge of nausea punches
me so hard in the gut that I cover my mouth.
You can do this,
I tell
myself.
It’s time you knew. And you owe it
to George.

It takes me a few tries to locate the
saved texts (boy, this phone seems ancient now), and when I do, I
freeze again.

But I can’t.

Because I’m not a coward.

And even if I am, I won’t
be.

Not about this.

“
Okay,” I murmur, hoping
George is listening. “Here goes.” I force my thumb into action,
selecting the fateful text, and
then . . .

Ta-da! The message appears, as if
hammered out only moments ago:

You’re right. Sorry. None of
my business.

Wanna kiss and make
up?

It’s as bad as I thought.
Worse even. Because he went down without a fight. If he’d called me
every name in the book (pure fantasy and something George
never
would have done),
maybe a tiny part of me could’ve stayed mad at him forever. And
that microscopic sliver, at least, could have let go of the
guilt.

Be thankful it’s not a
voicemail,
I think.
It’s just letters on a screen. If you had to hear him say
it
 . . .

I
take a mental step back and marvel at the fact that I’m not
crying. I don’t even
want to
cry. The sadness of losing George is still with
me—
in
me—as strong
and deep as ever. But somehow it’s stopped
hurting
me. It’s settled into a space
all its own, carved out a spot that will forever be his. Mine.
Ours.

I find myself grinning irrationally,
the joy and wonder of knowing George—of loving him—consuming me
like white-hot fire. “Well, you did it,” I say, laughing. “You
finally did it. Are you happy?” For more than two years, he has
been nudging me—sometimes gently, sometimes with a bayonet at my
back—to release the pain, let the goodness take root. Nurture it
and put it in the sun, where it belongs.

And now I have.

I will.

Always.

* * *

“
You sure you want to do
this?” I yell into Aleks’s ear, his motorcycle rumbling beneath us
as we roll through the gates of Redeemer Cemetery on the hunt for
George’s grave.

His whole body nods in response.
“Yeah,” he answers, turning his face so I can hear. “Don’t
you?”

I give his midriff an agreeable
squeeze. “Sure. Yeah.”

It’s another hot, sticky day, but
Aleks is clad in jeans (perfect for motorcycle riding) and a soft
cotton polo shirt. I’ve risked wearing a cute pair of plaid shorts,
complemented by George’s teal hoodie (girls need protection from
bugs and wind too) and, of course, Aleks’s chic skull-cap
helmet.

With a few twirls of my wrist, I
direct him through a maze of narrow streets, over a delicate
fairytale bridge, past monuments and crypts and, eventually, to the
mouth of a small, tree-ringed pond.

I give the stop signal and he pulls
over. Once we’ve safely dismounted, I wave at a patch of perky
green lawn that has filled in nicely since George’s burial. “This
way,” I say with a gentle smile, leading the charge. In the years
since George died, I haven’t been able to bring myself here. It
made everything too real.

We sneak up on George’s headstone, the
sight of which makes Aleks wince. “So this is it, huh?” he says,
trying—but failing—to sound nonchalant.

“
I’m sorry. This must be
hard.”

He shakes his head. “I wish I knew
him.”

“
He was great,” I say. “The
best.” I let my fingers brush his. “His sense of humor was wacky,
but he made me laugh a ton.”

A hush falls over us. Finally, Aleks
asks, “Do you think he would’ve liked me?”

“
Oh, yeah. Of course,” I
assure him. “He would have been psyched to have a twin—and to know
your dad. He was very . . .
curious
about his
parents.”

“
I never met her, you
know,” he confides, presumably referring to Ruth Dawson.

All I can think to say is, “That
sucks.”

“
You’re lucky to have”—he
sighs—“all your family still.”

Something—or
some
one
—tells me
to open up to him. “My mom had a heart attack. She
almost . . .” I get a shiver. “And Ian? His dad had
a bad liver.”

“
So
he . . . ?”

“
Yep.”

“
Wanna sit down?” he
asks.

I get a sudden jolt of guilt over
George’s bare plot, which a responsible friend would have decorated
with a wreath or flowers or a colorful potted plant.

He eases onto the grass, sits
cross-legged and offers me a helping hand. “Oh, I forgot,” I say
once I’m nestled in beside him. “I brought you something.” I
wriggle back up to my knees and probe around in my pocket, my
fingers finding the map first. I unfold it nervously and say, “In
case you want to come here again, without me.”

The look on his face is a
mix of surprise and gratitude. “You made this?” he asks, taking the
paper into his hands—
George’s
hands.
“For me?”

I shake my head, fight back a grin.
“Uh-uh. It was for me. But I don’t need it anymore,
so . . .”

“
Thanks.” He gives a shy
nod, then gingerly folds the map and stuffs it in his
jeans.

I go back into my pocket for the rock.
“Here,” I say, offering him the memento. “This was George’s. He
loved it, for some reason.”

He tosses the rock back and forth
between his hands. “This is . . . cool,” he says,
studying the dense quartz veins that dominate the speckled gray
specimen. “Where’d he get it?”

I shrug with embarrassment. “I don’t
know. I think maybe he picked it up on a hiking trip with”—should I
still refer to the Brookses as his parents?—“Lillian and her
husband.”

Hesitantly, he tells me, “I’ve got a
stone just like this at home.”

“
Really?”

“
Yeah. I’ve had it as long
as I can remember.”

Now
I’m
the curious one. “Where’d it come
from?”

He thinks for a while and then, in a
far-off voice, says, “She must have sent them to us,
before . . .”

I get his meaning immediately. “Ruth
Dawson?”

Instead of answering, he
gulps.

I try not to stare at the tears
pooling in his eyes. “We should stay in touch,” I suggest, waving a
lazy hand between us. “It’ll help me remember George, and you can
pick my brain about him whenever you want.”

“
You
did
say you were considering
Columbia, right?”

It’s time for some truth telling. “Uh
. . . I’m not exactly sure my grades are good
enough.”

“
I could tutor you,” he
offers, his voice sparkling with enthusiasm.

A gentle breeze stirs my hair. “That’s
all right,” I say. “It probably wouldn’t help much. I think I’ve
maxed out my intelligence.”

He chuckles (thank God).
“Ha-ha.”

I say, “Seriously.” But the
goofy smirk on my face announces that I’m anything
but
serious.

“
Well, if you change your
mind . . .”

“
I don’t think so,” I say.
“But thanks anyway.” I’ve lost track of George’s rock but found
Aleks’s hand. As my fingers skip across his, he grabs
them.

Neither of us says anything; we just
lock hands and stare at George’s grave. “I can see why he liked
you,” he tells me eventually. My palm is sweaty against his, but I
don’t care. “You’re different.”

I’m not sure this is a compliment.
“Okay . . .”

“
Different in a good way,”
he clarifies, sensing my confusion. “You’re so
un
dramatic, if that’s a word. I feel
calm around you. I bet”—he pauses as if he’s weighing his words—“I
bet George did too.”

A couple of crows land on an overhead
branch and start chatting it up (sometimes I swear I can interpret
their squawks, thanks to my good ol’ bird-friend Clive). I wait for
the conversation to die down before responding, “I hope so.” The
air is balmy, which explains the errant raindrops splattering my
forehead. It crosses my mind to press George’s hoodie into service,
but that would require releasing Aleks’s hand. And I don’t want to.
“Can I ask you something?” I say instead.

He nods, his fingers tightening around
mine.

“
Do you ever sense him?
Like, you know, how twins have that special bond?”

He shakes his head so glumly that I
almost regret asking. But I can’t stop now. “Remember how you
promised to do me a favor, if I helped you catch them?”

“
Not really.”

“
Well, you did.”

He shrugs.

There’s no civilized way to say this.
“Can I kiss you?”

His eyebrows pull together.
“
Kiss
me?
”

“
It’s not what you think,”
I rush to explain. “It’s just that . . . Have you
ever heard of channeling?”

“
That’s not real,” he says
flatly.

“
How do you
know?”

“
I just do.”

I wiggle my hand away from his and run
it through my hair. “Can’t you at least try?”

“
For what?”

Seriously? He’s going to make me beg?
After all we’ve been through? “He might be able to use you,” I say,
feeling a tad creeped out at the idea, “since you have the same
DNA. I mean, it should be easier for him than inhabiting a
stranger.”

There’s pain in his voice. “Is that
why you invited me here?”

By “here” I assume he means Milbridge,
not the cemetery. “Of course not.”

“
Sure sounds like
it.”

“
What could it hurt?” I ask
in a coaxing voice. “Just one little kiss?”

“
I’m not him. I
can’t
be
him,” he
says, his tone edgy.

I give a frustrated sigh. “That’s not
what I want,” I argue. “I just want him to have a chance, the best
chance to . . .” After an awkward silence, I murmur,
“I miss him.”

He spends so much time studying me
that I’m convinced he’s counting my eyelashes (a bold feat,
considering they’re so white they’re practically invisible). “I
guess we can try,” he relents, getting to his feet and leaning
against a tree. The look he shoots me is too heartbreaking to
bear.

Please, George,
I beg silently, my lips starting to tingle.
Just this once. Do it for me.

Soon I’m in position, my hands hanging
on Aleks’s hips, my eyes closed, my face tilted in anticipation. I
expect him to warn me, but he doesn’t. Like the snap of an angry
fish, his lips land on mine. He kisses with authority and
determination: sterile, robotic, devoid of passion.

This feels wrong. I want to cry.
Instead, I summon George’s smiling face and pretend. My mouth
softens under the friction of his tongue, floods with tepid
sweetness. But it’s not enough to overcome our weak chemistry or
the finality of death.

“
Sorry,” I say, pulling
away from him, “but I don’t think it’s working.”

His eyes are sad. “If I’d known
him—”

I don’t want him to hurt like I do.
“It’s not your fault,” I interrupt. I give his hand a friendly
squeeze and then head for the motorcycle.

In a quiet funk, he follows
along.

chapter 20

We roar up to the curb in front of
Opal’s house, the rumble of the motorcycle competing with the snarl
of storm clouds overhead. “Looks like rain,” I say, glancing at the
sky (and struggling for post-cemetery conversation).

Aleks takes the helmet from me, hangs
it over the handlebars. “A church?” he says, noticing the unusual
structure the Maddens call home.

“
Yup.” I give him what I
hope is a truce smile and wave at the Maddens’ front door, which is
embellished with a banner in Ian’s honor proclaiming:
We’ll miss you!
“Shall
we?” I say.

As we hike the steps, Opal whips the
door open from the inside, an exuberant grin on her face. “Come in!
Come in!” she squeals, grabbing my arm and tugging me forward.
(Note to self: Opal’s “migraines” are ironically about as reliable
as the weather.)