“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .”
I feel so light-headed, so happy and confused and wrong and good. But I don’t trust myself around him and I need to know if there’s any hope of a real us. An us that can be seen in public, that doesn’t have to meet up in parked cars on dark streets.
He looks at me expectantly, his face flushed, his eyes filled with the same heat.
“Are you . . .” My voice is garbled. I clear my throat. “Are you going to break up with her?”
His eyebrows shoot up before they sink low in—not exactly a frown, but whatever look that is, it isn’t good. He leans back in his seat, away from me, and I think that must be an involuntary sign. A preview of his answer, if I didn’t already know by the look on his face.
“It’s not that easy, Theo.” His eyes are trained on the dashboard, where a ribbon of cellophane curls into a corner. He sweeps it into the console with the pack of cloves it came from. “We’ve been together almost two years now.”
I pretend my throat isn’t aching. “But you make me feel something good, too.”
“What am I supposed to do?” He throws his hands in the air. “Tell her I met someone else and break things off, just like that? I can’t do that totally out of the blue and after two years.”
“You’re supposed to do what feels right.” I look down at my hands. They’ve gone ice-cold since I stopped touching him. “Doesn’t being with me feel right?”
“Do what feels right, huh?” He pushes a loud stream of air from his lips, like he’s trying hard to control his irritation. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one who has to make the decision.”
I push on the door handle and jump out of the car, yanking out my coat while Hosea stares at the seat. He looks baffled, as if he has no idea why I’m not sitting there. He snaps out of it when I slam the door, steps out of the car immediately.
“What are you doing?”
A full-body chill takes over. It’s fucking freezing. I’m standing out here in the stupid cold on a stupid street that isn’t mine, arguing with someone else’s boyfriend. What am I doing?
“I’m walking to the station and getting in my car and going home. Thanks for the ride.”
I’m shaking so hard, it’s amazing I can get my coat on at all, let alone line up the buttons with the appropriate holes, but I put my fingers to work anyway.
“Theo, come on. Don’t be like that,” he says in a voice tinged with annoyance.
“Then don’t talk to me like that.”
“Like what?” He’s standing next to the car, one hand on top of the doorframe, one resting on the black racing stripe that coasts down the middle of the roof.
“Don’t tell me about your dreams and how I make you feel good about yourself and then say you can’t decide.” My trembling fingers give up on the last few buttons; I pull the sides of my coat tight against me instead. “I don’t want to be your secret girlfriend. I don’t want you to want me only when no one else is around.”
I’ve done that before and maybe if I’d said something sooner . . . maybe Donovan never would have left and my life wouldn’t be such a mess right now.
Hosea shakes his head as he looks at me. “You really think that’s how I feel about you? You think I don’t want to be with someone as amazing as you?”
I don’t know what to believe but it’s not my heart. It flips and flutters like he’s said something that matters but I know when Chris said things to me with such tenderness, such passion, they were never true. Not in the end.
You’re my girl, Theo, but if you tell anyone about us, they’ll take me away. I wouldn’t be able to see you, ever again, and you know I can’t handle that.
I can’t stand being without you.
You have to promise you’ll never tell. Ever. I need you.
“I can’t.” I’m quiet but the street is so still that my voice seems to bounce off the thinning treetops, echo from the roofs of the nearly identical houses. “I can’t . . . be with you in private and watch you hold her hand when everyone else can see.”
“Theo . . .” His hands drop their grip on the car, fall slack on either side of him.
But I’m already walking. I can see the lights of the station from here. It’s across the street and half a block down. If I peer hard enough I can even see my car, I think. It’s nothing more than a black dot illuminated by the soft halos of light in the parking lot, but I see it. And it’s not too far to walk to, not even on a frigid night like this. I pull up the collar of my coat, clumsily shove my gloves onto either hand and stuff them in my pockets.
My name floats up from behind me twice more but I keep moving, keep marching along as if I never heard him in the first place. As if walking away from Hosea Roth is hurting him more than it’s hurting me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT’S THE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING AND THE GREASY FRONT windows of Casablanca’s are decorated with paper turkeys and cardboard leaves, its tables host to plastic gourds that could stand a dusting.
It’s the week before Thanksgiving but it feels like Christmas outside. When the heavy scarves and wool hats are out before the end of November you know it’s going to be a bad winter. I burrow my nose into my own chunky knit scarf as a blast of cold air tunnels its way through my layers.
The people sitting at the counter turn around and stare at me accusingly, as if I purposely waited for a gust of wind before opening the door. The looks you get for simply existing during winter in Chicago are enough to send you right back out to the cold sometimes. I keep my head down as I make my way back to Sara-Kate and Phil.
Except Phil’s not here. I didn’t see his car in the lot but I thought maybe he hitched a ride with Sara-Kate. That never would have happened before this year because they never hung out when I wasn’t around. I’ve always been the link between them. Phil was sitting with me in the lunchroom the first day of our freshman year when Sara-Kate approached with a tray of chicken nuggets, her face bright red as she asked if she could sit with us. But she and I were the ones who hit it off that first day. Phil was skeptical, partly because he’s wary of anyone new, partly because he thought Donovan would return someday and then there wouldn’t be room for someone else.
I don’t know what’s changed between them, but it’s there. It’s weird how you can go to school with a person forever and brush shoulders at parties for years and then something shifts. I wish I could pinpoint the moment it happens, but maybe it’s not a moment. Maybe it’s been there all along and nobody noticed.
I’ve gotten so used to seeing Phil next to Sara-Kate that she looks incomplete sitting alone at our back booth. Her head is bent over a fat fashion magazine, her asymmetrical bob pumpkin-colored for the holidays.
Sara-Kate looks up as I walk toward the booth and instantly pushes the magazine aside. “Did you know that Casablanca’s serves a full Thanksgiving meal every year?” She reaches for one of the menus, which have been stuffed with inserts advertising the dinner. “From open to close you can get a turkey dinner, complete with your choice of white or dark meat, mashed potatoes, a cooked vegetable, a dinner roll, and a slice of pumpkin pie. All for $9.99.”
I slip into the booth across from her. “It’s kind of sad,” I say.
Sara-Kate puts the menu back in its holder. “Considering they can’t even identify which vegetable they’ll be cooking? A sad Thanksgiving indeed.”