The Truth About You & Me (11 page)

Even in the
fall
, Green Valley Road was lush and beautiful, surrounded on both sides by vibrant green pastures and cedar trees. Cows dotted the fields, and elaborate mansions, set back behind fancy iron gates, popped up each time I rounded a curve. I crossed a bridge that spanned the Green River, the waters surging below me, then followed that winding, two-lane road.

But finally, when my knuckles were nearly white on the steering wheel and my nerves had turned into a painful churning in my stomach, I slowed at an asphalt driveway.

Your address was tacked onto a post where an old pipe gate hung open, so I turned up the drive, following the line of it until a tiny little cottage, partially obscured by big rhododendrons, could be found.

Your little red pickup was parked next to it, so I knew I'd found the right house. Once I put my own car in park, I couldn't help but stare.

I was glad that the house was set off the road like it was, and that there was only one real neighbor, back where the driveway met Green Valley Road. It felt like we'd found a private paradise—somewhere we could be ourselves, just like up at High Rock.

A place we could be just a boy and a girl.

I zipped up my fleece jacket before getting out, warding off the bite of the autumn air. I couldn't help but swing my hips a little as I strode toward your house, hoping my new, snug jeans looked as good as Katie's. I'd curled my newly highlighted hair that day, and it fell around my shoulders in a way that made me feel older, ready for you and for whatever lay beyond your front door.

I stepped up onto the stoop and raised my knuckles to knock, but your door swung open, my hair fluffing in the breeze of it. I froze like that for a second, feeling silly, before dropping my fist. “Oh, hi,” I said.

“Hey. Come on in,” you said, stepping aside and motioning to the house. You glanced outward, and for one millisecond I was annoyed, because I couldn't help but wonder if you were checking to see if anyone saw me. Then I realized I was being stupid. People really couldn't see us together, and besides, you'd hardly glanced. It was
me
being paranoid, overly sensitive.

“I'll give you the grand tour,” you said as I met your eyes. You looked amazing that day, more relaxed. You were barefoot, in jeans and a threadbare, warm-looking sweater. Your hair was product-free, falling into your eyes in a way that made them seem darker, sexier.

“Sounds great,” I said.

“Don't get too excited. It's a one-bedroom house, so it's a pretty short tour.” You grinned in that crookedly charming way of yours. “In any case, this is the great room,” you said, motioning to the space beyond the entry. “Isn't it … great?”

I half-laughed, half-snorted, feeling some of the tension leave my limbs.

A hardwood floor led into the living space, which was modestly furnished with a comfortable-looking brown leather couch and a small flat-screen perched on an antique sideboard. In the corner, Voldemort sprawled across a fluffy dog bed, snoring softly. A big still-life painting—a bowl of oranges—hung on the wall. The painting was a surprising contrast to the eclectic mix of bacheloresque furniture.

“My mom painted that,” you said when you noticed me staring.

“Oh, is she an artist?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to reel them back in.
Duh, Maddie.

You nodded. “Yeah. She has a studio downtown. I mean, it's not really profitable, but she manages to cover the cost of the rental space at least.”

I nodded. “And your dad?”

“He's a welder. He probably made half of the fancy iron gates you see on this road.”

“Wow, really? That's so cool.”

“Yeah, art runs in the family. He only likes to do the gates with something extra to them—silhouettes of horses and cows, or fancy twists in the iron or whatever.”

“So you didn't get your teaching gene from them, I guess.”

“No. What about you? Think you'll be a teacher of some sort, like your dad?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I mean, I don't really know what I want, I guess. But I don't think I'll teach.”

You nodded. “It's either for you or it's not. I love everything about it.”

You led me into a kitchen. It was small and a little outdated—with golden-oak cabinets and old laminate countertops in a deep shade of green, oddly—but it looked well used, like maybe you knew your way around a stove. I could picture myself sitting at the kitchen table on the wrap-around bench, watching while you cooked me breakfast or lunch or dinner, or anything, really. I would have settled for broccoli. I'd sit there, transfixed, that yellow swath of light spilling in through the windows, the light so warm and sunny I could stay forever, live my life right in that room beside you.

It burned, that candle in me, growing and flickering into a fire, and in that moment I knew I couldn't go back to where I'd been just weeks earlier, couldn't undo the thoughts I'd had and the things I wanted.

From that moment, it was you, and only you, and no one else mattered. I didn't care about those two stupid years, I didn't care that what we were doing was dangerous in so many ways, I didn't care that I was alone with a man who was almost ten years older than me.

I just didn't care anymore, because the only thing that really and truly mattered to me … was you. But to you, I knew, those two years would still matter, even if not in the law. And somehow, I would have to find a way to tell you.

On December 13th.

“So, the kitchen's not that fancy, but it works and that's the point, right?” you said, grinning. You were back to that boy on the mountain, the one who laughed and smiled and seemed so much closer to me in age.

I never thought of you as a boy when I was sitting in class, yet when we were alone, it was different.

You stepped back out into the great room, leading me down a short hallway. “Bathroom's right here,” you said, pointing through an open door.

I peeked my head in and saw a large bathtub/shower with frosted glass, a standard white toilet, and a big oak cabinet—the same age as the kitchen—with an old Formica counter, this time in cream and gold. I didn't really care about that stuff, though, because I was busy surveying the variety of things on the counter: an electric shaver and a razor, shaving cream, a comb, toothbrush … it was all so normal and also so exotic—the idea of you standing there in the morning, barefoot, shaving. I hoped that somehow as you got ready before class you took extra care, hoping to look good for me the same way I did for you, the same way I'd felt while curling my hair that very day.

“It's nice,” I said, stepping out of the bathroom.

“Eh, it's outdated like everything else, but it's big enough anyway.” You led me down the hall and stepped into the door at the end, where the carpet turned plush, not quite matching the rest of the house, and you flicked on a light. “This is the master. It's the only bedroom, so it's the master by default,” you joked.

My mouth felt a little dry as I stepped into your bedroom, as I stood in the place you slept, imagined the covers only partially covering you as you lay there peacefully, alone. As maybe you dreamt of me. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I thought of us, sometime in the future, together in that bed, under those hunter-green plaid covers.

December 13th would just be a kiss, but maybe someday …

“It's … ” I cleared my throat. “It's nice. It suits you.”

“Thanks. Although I'm not sure what that says about me. I'm outdated and well-worn?”

I laughed. “No, masculine and … erm … spacious?”

You laughed again and poked me in the side. “You're going to have to work on that.”

“Masculine and … nice-smelling?”

“Better.”

You flicked the light off and brushed past me in the hall, leading me back to the front door. “I was thinking we could walk over to the river, if you want. There's a trail behind my place. County owns the land. We could walk down there for a bit, until we get too cold, and then come back and have dinner.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, and I meant it.

An evening with you.

Alone.

The path to
the river was worn smooth, like you'd walked it hundreds of times. The autumn rains had turned the exposed paths slick, but as the sun rose higher behind us, warming me through my light jacket, I couldn't bring myself to care.

When we reached a downed tree, you turned and held your hand out, helping me jump over the log. This time, when I got to the other side, you didn't let go like you had on our hikes. You didn't act like what we were doing was forbidden, had to be a secret.

You smiled at me like a boy smiles at a girl, and I was lost to you in an instant, too far gone to care if it was all supposed to be wrong.

Too far gone to care if you were going to turn your back on me when you found out the truth. On December 13th, I was going to kiss you, and then I was going to tell you.

I don't think that's what people mean when they say kiss and tell.

“Your hair looks cute like that,” you said, reaching over with your other hand and tugging at my curls.

“Thanks,” I said, blushing a little bit and squeezing your hand, so pleased you'd mentioned it after all. It made that hour cursing the curling iron worth every second. “I like your sweater.”

I chided myself then because it sounded dumb, like it was some quid-pro-quo thing. I wish I had complimented you first.

“Thanks … I got it in Paris, actually,” you said.

“Oh, I thought it looked familiar. That picture of you and the Eiffel—”

I stopped then, realizing what I'd said and kicking myself.

You raised a brow. “Did I show you that picture?”

“I … uh … no. I saw it on your Facebook,” I admitted.

You grinned, revealing a wide row of gorgeous white teeth, saving that single crooked one I'd come to love. “Ahh, you Facebook-stalked me,” you said. “I'm so flattered.”

“Maybe a little,” I said, blushing. “I got curious.”'

Curious.
Sudden panic filled my chest. What if he got curious too? I would need to change my Facebook page to private immediately, before he saw I was a student at Enumclaw High School, before he saw all those young-looking faces I'd friended.

Before he discovered the truth.

“And?” he said, his own interest piqued. “Did it satisfy your curiosity?”

I shook my head. “No, it wasn't enough.”

“You wanted more,” you said, bumping my shoulder. “My my my, whatever will I do with you over the next eight weeks?”

Eight weeks. God that sounded like a long time.

“I have not a clue,” I said, batting my eyes innocently. Maybe it was too much—me being young and then trying to
feign
innocence—but I didn't think about it at the time.

The sounds of rushing water, which began as a faint, dull buzzing, intensified to a weak roar, and then we stepped onto the rocky banks of the Green River. I had to put my free hand out slightly as I stepped on the uneven surface, picking my way between the bowling-ball sized rocks. Sandy shores, this was not.

“In the summer this place is packed with tubers, but lucky us, we have it to ourselves,” you said, just as you let go of my hand. I wanted to chase your hand, put it back in mine and never let you go, but instead I pushed both of my hands deep into my pockets as the chill had already crept in. I wondered how long we'd last out here, by the almost-icy banks of the river, the air a chilly fifty degrees with a misty breeze coming from the rippling river.

“Do you walk down here a lot?”

You nod. “When I'm not buried in homework to grade, yeah. Sometimes even then. There's something about water that's calming. I think if I weren't a teacher, I would have wanted to join the navy or something. Sail the world.”

“It's almost as calming as hiking,” I say, thinking of the way you looked at High Rock, so different from the man in the classroom commanding thirty students while dressed in a no-nonsense button-down.

“Exactly. Something about it just … brings a little bit of clarity.” You shoved your hands into your jean pockets, and the way they pressed those jeans into your legs made me think crazy thoughts, thoughts I shoved aside. Then you added, “Sometimes just being away from everyone else helps you figure out what you want, you know?”

God I knew what you meant. It was under the roof at home where it was impossible to figure things out. Somehow when I was away from my family—at GRCC, or at the actual Green River with you … somehow the pressure lifted and I could almost glimpse, through the fog of life, who I wanted to be.

“And what kind of clarity are you craving these days?” I asked, watching the way the water rippled around a rock.

You stared at the river, not answering, and then you pulled one hand out of your pockets, leaning down to pick up a stone before tossing it into the river. After the
plunk,
the woods rang with silence. “I'm trying to decide if this is right,” you finally said.