Where You'll Find Me (14 page)

Before the sentence is even out of my mouth, the guy is throwing two tubs into a bag. “She’s going to love it. Make her a brand-new woman.”

It would take a lot more than a container of face lotion to make my mom a brand-new woman. More like a lobotomy, or a career change at the very least. But I just thank him as I hand over the cash.

The guy winks at me. “Take care, Hanley.”

“You, too.” As I wander through the mall, I search the crowd for Nate’s backpack or jacket. His short hair. But he isn’t here. He’s moved on. The thought makes me sick.

When I meet up with Misty, she motions to my bag and asks, “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Did you return the shirt?”

Misty pulls a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “Let’s get coffee. Caramel lattes are on my mom.”

This day seems to have lost all hope of getting better, but sugary espresso can’t possibly make it any worse. “I’m in.”

…

I lost against Misty in Rock Paper Scissors, so I’m the one who has to bring up the pregnancy issue with Rosalinda. Next time I’ll pick rock. “So, we need to talk.”

“Sounds serious.” Rosalinda grabs a textbook from her locker before walking down the hall with me.

“It kind of is.”

“Is it about your new lover?”

“No.” The word is more forceful than I intend because the thought of Nate stings more than it should, even though I know he’s gone and I should be forgetting about him. “It’s not,” I say at a volume appropriate for a deserted hallway in the middle of class. Good thing Ms. Pearson is lenient with hall passes.

“Then what?”

“It’s about you, actually.”

“How awesome I am? Well, yeah. That’s kind of a given.”

I roll my eyes. “Misty and I are kind of worried about you.”

Rosalinda glances at me. “About what?”

A check behind me shows that we’re still alone. “Misty told me that your period is late.”

“Ew, you two were talking about my period? You need lives. Seriously.”

“We know that you and Clinton have been hooking up, so we’re worried.”

“Hey, did you see what Alicia Holte is wearing today? She’s telling everyone the shirt is designer, but…”

“Stop,” I interrupt, anger creeping into my voice. “This is exactly what I was talking about before. Can’t you just be serious for five minutes?”

Rosalinda stops in front of me so we’re face-to-face. “Fine. You want serious? I’m on the pill. I’m not pregnant. Quit worrying.”

“But the pill doesn’t work when you’re on antibiotics, which you were.”

Her rich skin tone pales a shade or two. “We didn’t… It wasn’t…” She shakes her head. “We weren’t hooking up then.”

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been out sick a lot. You said yourself that you couldn’t stop puking, which is what happens when someone is pregnant.”

“I had the stomach flu. I can’t be pregnant. I just…can’t be.”

I squeeze her hand. “Are you trying to convince yourself or me?” She tries to pull out of my grasp, but I won’t let go. Not yet. “Take a test, okay? Just in case.”

It takes a minute or two and she won’t look me in the eyes, but she nods and says, “Fine. Just in case.”

The silence is heavy as we walk back to our classroom. When I reach to open the door, Rosalinda stops me. Her complexion and expression are back to normal, worry concealed if not erased.

“But seriously. Stop being creepy and talking about shit like that behind my back. It’s gross.”

I smile. “Noted,” I say. Then I follow her into the classroom and hope my suspicions are wrong.

…

It doesn’t take long to figure out that the best way to deal with Nate’s absence is to stay distracted. I download a new game on my phone and beat all twenty-seven levels in one day. I sleep even more than normal. On Sunday afternoon, I’m painting my nails bright pink—my third color in as many days—when my cell phone rings. It’s the ringtone I have set for Rosalinda. The fact that I can pick up the phone and answer it without smudging my still-wet nails should go on my resume someday. I shove the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hey.”

At first, there’s silence.

“Hello? Rosalinda?” No answer. She must have butt-dialed me again. I keep telling the girl to lock her screen, but does she listen? No. Just when I’m about to hang up, a noise comes across the line. A sniffle.

“Rosalinda? Are you there?”

There’s another pause, but I don’t hang up. Finally she says, “Yeah.”

Instantly, I’m on alert. Rosalinda’s voice is thick with tears. I’ve never seen or heard Rosalinda cry. This is bad. “What’s wrong?”

More sniffling. “You were right.”

I’m about to ask what I was right about and why the hell it’s making Rosalinda cry when it hits me. I was right…

“I’m pregnant,” she says, then breaks into hysterical sobs.

“Shit,” I say under my breath. “Ros…it’s okay…”

“No, it’s not okay, Hanley. I’m pregnant! Do you get that? At this very moment, right now, there is a child growing inside me. A child that I’m too young to take care of and Clinton sure as hell can’t take care of.” The sobbing is so intense it borders on choking.

“Okay, okay.” I shift the phone to my other ear. “Calm down. Are you
sure
you’re pregnant? Like you read the test right and everything?”

“I bought four different brands. I checked the directions on each one seventeen times each. They all said the same thing. Pregnant.” She spits the word out like sour milk.

I have no clue what to say. The number of serious conversations I’ve had with Rosalinda can still be counted on one hand. Maybe even one finger. “Ros…do you want me to come over?”

She sniffles again. “No. Apparently the flu I thought I had is morning sickness, but I don’t just get it in the morning, I get it in the afternoon and the evening and all damn night. I doubt you want to be here for that.”

I wince. She’s right. “So…but…you’re not going to keep it, right?” It feels weird calling a baby an “it,” but I don’t know what else to call it. “He” or “she” or even “the baby” would make everything too real, especially if Rosalinda isn’t going to keep “it.”

Rosalinda snorts. “No. Are you kidding me? Look at my life. I can barely take care of myself, let alone take care of a baby.” She groans. “Ohmygod, what the hell am I going to do?”

At first I hope the question is rhetorical, but then I realize she’s actually asking me what she should do. Shit. Yes, I wanted a better friendship with Rosalinda, conversations about things that matter, but now I’m thinking we should ease into this. Talk about…math. Politics. Global warming.

I run a hand through my hair. “If you’re not going to keep it, there are two other options, right?”

“Don’t say the ‘a’ word,” she groans.

I consider. “Which one?”

“Either one. Just…just tell me I’m going to wake up in the morning and this will all be a dream. A really fucking horrible nightmare.”

“There’s nothing I want to tell you more in the world.”

“But you can’t.”

“Have you told your mom?”

“No. She’s going to kill me. I won’t have to worry about what to do because my mom is literally going to murder me. Will you press charges against her for me when I’m gone?”

“She won’t kill you. She might not be happy…but just think. You could be telling
my
parents instead.”

At that, Rosalinda snorts. “Okay. Thanks for giving me some perspective.”

“You’re welcome.” I rub at a spot of nail polish that somehow got on my knuckle. “Have you told Clinton?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

There’s a long pause before her response. In the quiet, I think I hear something in the garage, which is on the other side of the den wall behind me. But Heather’s still upstairs and my parents definitely aren’t home.

“I don’t know,” Rosalinda says. “I guess I need to decide what I’m going to do first, right?”

“You could,” I say. “Or you could ask him what he thinks. He had a part in this, too.”

Rosalinda just grumbles something about castrating boys with dimples.

“Let me know what you decide. And call if you need anything, okay? Wake me up in the middle of the night. I don’t care. If you need someone, I’ll be there.” They’re the words I wish I could have said to Kayla, and I’m not going to let them go unsaid to Rosalinda.

“You’re a good friend.”

Considering the fact that I’ve spend two years feeling like the worst friend in the world, the words mean a lot. But I can’t revel in them for too long because this time I definitely heard a noise in the garage. Almost like a sneeze. My heart rate picks up. “Likewise. Listen, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Later,” Rosalinda says.

As adrenaline pumps through my veins, I creep quietly into the garage. Once the door is closed, I call, “Hello?” Then I hold my breath.

It’s almost like the first night I met Nate, only instead of being relieved at the lack of response, I’m disappointed. “Nate?” I call one more time.

Then there’s a sniffle, a familiar coat rustle, and a sigh. I rush over to the Trans Am where Nate is wrapped up in blankets I never had the heart to take back into the house.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and it’s so cold and…” He sneezes again, and though it’s not as loud as one of
my
sneezes, I’m not surprised I could hear it from inside.

When he looks up at me, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, his cheeks are flushed, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The secrets and lies, how relieved I am, the anger and fear can all be dealt with later. I crouch down in front of him and press my palm to his forehead. His skin, usually so cold, is far too warm. “You’re sick,” I say, bringing the back of my hand down to his cheek. “You should be inside.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Come on.” I stand and sling his backpack over my shoulder. “There’s a couch inside with your name on it.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, he stands, wavering slightly. I wrap two of the blankets around his shoulders, then step carefully around the Trans Am. But when I glance back, he’s not following me. “Aren’t you coming?” I ask.

Another pause. “You didn’t lock the door.”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”

Then he follows me inside.

Chapter Eighteen

I drop Nate’s backpack in the living room and motion to the couch. He takes off his coat and sits with his head back and his arms folded over his chest, looking miserable. He’s got a cough that sounds miserable, too. I tuck the blankets tightly around him. “You’re a mess.”

“It’s just a cold.”

“It was just a cold before you spent too much time in the cold. Now it’s probably pneumonia.”

He rolls his eyes. “Dramatic.”

I can’t help but smile. I missed him even more than I thought.

Before I can respond, Heather’s bedroom door opens. As she walks downstairs, I say, “Nate’s here.”

She gives me a raised-eyebrow look until she sees Nate. Then she frowns. “No offense, but you don’t looks so good.”

He gives a weak smile. “None taken,” he says, then breaks into a coughing fit.

“Is he okay?” Heather asks.

“Not sure. His parents are out of town. I didn’t want him to be alone.” The lie comes easily. I rub Nate’s back while he coughs into the crook of his elbow. When I look up, Heather is gone, probably back to calculus or physics or whatever other homework Nate’s appearance interrupted on a Sunday afternoon. “You’re okay,” I tell him as the coughing slows down. “You know, you really should keep your lungs inside your chest, where they belong.”

“Trying,” he gasps, wincing as he swallows.

Heather reappears, not with a textbook, but with a thermometer, Tylenol, and a bottle of water. Okay. It’s going to take me a while to get used to the “my sister doesn’t
completely
suck” thing. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She turns on the thermometer, and Nate digs a hand out from the blankets to put it in his mouth. We sit in silence until the thermometer beeps.

“One oh two point four,” I read. “It’s official. You’re sick.”

Heather hands him two Tylenol and the bottle of water. “As if we needed confirmation.”

“Thanks,” Nate says, and closes his eyes. He’s asleep almost immediately.

“I’m going back upstairs. No inappropriate behavior between you two.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, like I’m going to take advantage of him in his weak state.” That thought takes my mind to Rosalinda’s teary phone call before Nate’s reappearance. “Hey, Heather?” I leave Nate’s side and follow her halfway up the stairs so we won’t disturb him.

“Yeah?”

“You should probably know that Rosalinda is pregnant.”

Heather gasps. “Ohmygod. Seriously? What’s she going to do?”

“She’s not sure yet.” It’s obvious Heather isn’t making the connection. “But the reason I’m telling you…the father is…”

“…Clinton,” she finishes for me, her eyes closed. When she opens her eyes, the disappointment is obvious.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

She sighs and shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s not like I ever had a chance with him. He just seemed…nice. And cute. And fun.”

“There are other nice, cute, fun guys,” I say. “Ones that don’t sleep around and get girls pregnant.”

Heather nods in Nate’s direction. “Yeah. There are.” Then she goes upstairs.

…

Most of the afternoon and evening is spent curled up on the couch, watching TV while Nate sleeps. I have enough foresight to text my parents and let them know that Nate is here.

When Mom gets home, she immediately comes into the living room. “Hi, Hanley.” Her “we have a guest over” smile is plastered on her face. Then she sees Nate, and the smile turns to a frown. “Is he okay?”

“Sick,” I say. “His parents are out of town, and I didn’t want him to be home by himself. I hope that’s okay.”

Mom nods, concern obvious. “What’s wrong with him?”

I shrug. “Fever. Cough. Sneezing.”

As Nate wakes, he looks disoriented for a minute, like he can’t figure out where he is or why he’s here.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say.

“Hey,” Nate croaks, voice hoarse, before coughing. His gaze falls on my mom, and he immediately straightens. “Mrs. Helton. Nice to see you. Sorry, I…” He struggles to throw off the blankets, but Mom stops him.

“Just stay put, Nate. I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well. Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“Will you be joining us for dinner? I could make soup,” Mom suggests. “Best thing for colds and the flu, you know. And if you’d like to stay the night, you’re welcome to. Not in the same room as Hanley, of course. But I’d hate for you to be home alone when you’re sick.”

Nate nods, looking hesitant but grateful. “Okay. Thank you.”

“I’ll go start dinner.” Mom retreats to the kitchen. Nate stretches and gives a weak smile in my direction.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little better.”

When I put my hand on his forehead, he leans into the touch. “You’re still burning up.”

He clamps his hand over mine, trapping it there. He moans. “That feels good.”

“Headache?” I ask, even though I know the answer. The pain in his glassy eyes can’t be missed.

“Yeah.” Soon my hand is the same temperature as his head, and he lets me remove it. He coughs and asks, “What are we watching?” as he nods to the TV.

“Some movie,” I say, curling up next to him and resting my head on his shoulder, testing the waters. It doesn’t feel completely natural again yet, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Some movie, huh? That good?”

“That good.”

Apparently, it is not that good, because Nate falls asleep, and I follow suit not long after, overly warm from being curled against his feverish frame.

At dinner, Mom wakes us and brings soup. She sets up TV trays so we don’t have to get off the couch. I can’t remember the last time Mom did that for me, and I’m struck again by how much my parents like Nate. It’s ironic that the person they like most might be the person they should like least.

Nate doesn’t eat much, but at least he drinks juice and takes the cold medication Mom offers him. It’s one of those all-purpose drugs that claims to knock out the fever, headache, sore throat, sneezing, coughing, pollution, and world hunger. I just hope it works.

When Nate falls asleep again, I can tell he’s drugged pretty deep. He’s breathing heavily, almost to the point of snoring, and when I move, he doesn’t stir. He coughs every once in a while, but other than that he seems to be doing better. There’s even a little bit of sweat on his forehead and upper lip, like his fever might be breaking. Hopefully, this is only a twenty-four-hour bug. I’m not sure how long I can convince my parents to let him stay, and I don’t have the heart to send him back out to the freezing cold garage when he’s sick.

“Hanley, you should get to bed,” Mom says, leaning on the banister on her way up the stairs. “Want me to get pillows and more blankets for Nate?”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

I run a hand over Nate’s warm arm, and he sleeps on. When Mom returns, we get him set up with pillows and more blankets. He stirs, but doesn’t emerge from the deep layers of sleep he’s trapped under.

“He’s down for the count, huh?” Mom asks. She smoothes her hand over Nate’s forehead.

“Yeah. I think the medicine kicked in. Seems to be helping, though. He’s not coughing so much anymore.”

Mom nods. “He’ll be okay,” she says before heading upstairs. “See you in the morning.”

After turning off the TV and the lamp, I press a gentle kiss to Nate’s forehead. “Good night,” I whisper before heading upstairs as well.

…

The knowledge that Nate is in the house should keep me from sleeping, but it doesn’t. When I wake in the middle of the night, it’s to the sound of coughing. At first, I roll over, prepared to go back to sleep, until I remember who is doing the coughing. I pull a sweatshirt over my pajamas and head out of my room. When I open the door, I’m surprised to see that the lamp in the living room is on, and Nate is not alone.

I don’t bother to avoid the Third Step Creak on the way down the stairs. Dad isn’t snoring, so he must be awake, too.

“What’s going on?” I ask my mother.

Nate looks miserable again. He’s coughing, his face is splotchy red, and he’s shivering. Mom presses a washcloth to his forehead. “The medicine must have worn off,” she says softly. “His fever is up.”

That explains the misery. As much as I want to curl up on Nate’s lap and comfort him, Mom would probably not be a fan of that. Instead, I settle for a seat on the arm of the couch, placing a hand on Nate’s arm when he coughs and moans.

“Not feeling so good?” I ask.

“No,” he says, his voice raspy and hoarse.

“Why is he getting worse?”

“Fevers spike in the middle of the night,” Mom says. “I don’t know why, but that’s what they do. I gave him more medicine. Hopefully, that will kick in, and he’ll be able to get more sleep.”

“Sorry,” he whispers before breaking into another coughing fit.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she soothes. “You’re going to be fine. I’m just glad you’re here and not home alone.”

That statement may or may not be true if she found out where Nate’s “home” actually is.

It takes a little while, but Nate’s coughing eventually slows. He stops shivering, and his eyes grow heavy.

“There we go,” Mom says. “Medicine is kicking in.”

Soon he’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

Mom nods. “He’s a good guy.”

I don’t argue.

“Maybe you should stay down here on the couch with him. In case he gets bad again.”

“Really?”

“Just don’t tell your father, okay?”

“Deal.”

“Here.” Mom hands me the washcloth. “Try to keep him cool. Wake me if you need anything.”

We say good night. As soon as Mom is out of sight, I curl up next to Nate. He groans and opens his eyes. “Shh,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”

Mom was so gentle with him. So caring. Where was that side of her after Kayla died? The question drags a memory from the depths of my mind. Of Mom holding me, wearing the black dress that smelled like flowers from the funeral home. Rocking me. Thumbing at my cheeks, like she expected the tears falling from her own eyes to appear beneath mine. The memory stings, and I shove it aside.

“Hanley?” Nate asks, voice thick with congestion and sleep.

“Yeah?”

“I need to tell you what happened. Why I’m hiding.”

“Shh,” I whisper, afraid my parents are still awake. “You can tell me tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, okay?”

“Tomorrow.” He snakes his hand out from under the blanket and clumsily intertwines his fingers with mine. “Hanley?” he asks again.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

A smile spreads across my face. I kiss his temple. “I love you, too.”

…

By morning, Nate’s fever is gone. He’s still coughing some, and his voice isn’t all there, but he seems to be doing better.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay while I’m at school?” I ask. My parents offered, and one more day in the warmth might do him good.

“I feel better,” he says before pulling his stupid Michigan State hoodie over his head. At least I managed to convince him to take a shower.

Lowering my voice so Heather can’t hear from the bathroom where she’s getting ready for school, I say, “Stay in the garage and rest. If it gets too cold or if you need anything, come inside.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Oh good, when you ignore me and get sick again, I’m sure your sarcasm will take good care of you.”

He laughs a hoarse laugh. “I’ll come inside if I need anything. Promise.”

“Much better.”

When we get downstairs, Dad is sitting at the kitchen table with his tablet and a cup of coffee. Mom’s already at work.

“Good morning, Nate,” Dad says. “I hear you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you.” The words are convincing, even though the cough that follows is less so. “I’m going to head home.”

“Next time we’ll have to see you under better circumstances.”

“Sounds great.” Nate clears his throat. “Thanks again for having me.”

I dig through the pantry, grabbing a handful of granola bars. From the fridge, I grab a bottle of my mom’s juice that tastes horrible, but advertises at least twenty-seven different vitamins that would probably be good for a sick person. Maybe he’s still sick enough that he won’t be able to taste it. “For the road,” I say, handing them over to Nate.

Dad wrinkles his nose. “Oh, Hanley, don’t give him that juice. It tastes like feet.”

“It’s not that bad,” I say. “And it’s healthy. He needs it.” I nudge Nate toward the garage.

“I’ll drink it, feet or not. Thanks again, Mr. Helton.”

On the way out to the garage, I grab an orange from our fruit bowl and shove it in the pocket of Nate’s coat. In the garage, he gets settled between the Trans Am and the wall.

“You sure you’re going to be okay here?” I tug the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head, then follow suit with the jacket hood, pulling the strings tight. It looks ridiculous, but at least his head and ears will be warm.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Will you be here when I get home?”

He reaches up and presses a thumb against my Petoskey stone necklace. “If you want me to be.”

I bite my lip. “Do you remember what you said last night?”

“I’m going to tell you what happened.”

A ball of nerves forms in my stomach. Even with all the time that has passed and all the possibilities I’ve brainstormed, I still get the feeling I’m not prepared for the truth. “What about the other part?”

With a hint of a smile, he pulls me closer. “You mean the part where I said I love you?”

I nod once. “Yeah. That.”

He leans in and kisses me, sending warmth through me despite the temperature in the garage. Yeah, I missed him. I missed
this
.

When he pulls away, he whispers, “Don’t want to get you sick.”

I force my eyes open and can’t help but laugh. I tug on one the hood strings again. “You look ridiculous.”

He smiles. “You love me, too.”

I tug on the other hood string. “Yeah. I do.”

After one more kiss, I head back inside. Dad’s standing at the sliding glass door, looking outside, coffee cup still in his hand.

“Hey, Hanely?”

“Yeah?” I pause, halfway to the stairs.