Carter
Carter, 15
Boone, 18
My heart is beating like a roadrunner as I walk from Boone's trailer to the woods. There's an old, rotting picnic table there that he and Declan like to hang out on. I was hoping he'd be at his trailer, but his dad answered the door instead, holding his Bible. Between spouting verses, he told me where he thought Boone was.
I haven't seen him since the dance. He kissed me again when he dropped me off, lingering against my lips and leaning into me. It felt like the beginning after an unreasonably long prologue.
Then nothing.
There has to be a reason. The kiss meant far too much for Boone to just ignore, right? Oh God, I hope so. I don't know if I'm ready to hear anything different. As much as I want an answer, I'm not sure I want the truth.
I hear Boone and Declan laughing obnoxiously before I actually see them—meaning they're probably under the influence. What influence, I don't want to know—particularly concerning Declan.
When they come into view, I see that Declan is laying on the top of the table while Boone is sitting on the grass with his back propped up against the bench, facing away from me. Boone is only wearing a pair of sweatpants, whereas Declan is wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a shirt that's so ripped up, it looks as though he was in an accident with scissors.
Declan notices me first. "Hey, it's my sister," he says dreamily. "Sorry I missed your dance."
I've talked to him and listened to his apology. The day after his high wore off, he showed up at our house. He was cranky and difficult and refused to leave unless he could "see" I accepted his apology.
"It's okay, Dec," I say softly.
At the sound of my voice, Boone shoots up off the ground.
Declan's head lolls to the side. "You find an ant in your pants?"
Boone swallows, pale. His eyes are red and distant, but something's in them fighting to gain some control. I should've waited for him to come to me. I didn't think he did this anymore, but I guess he does. He's not in the frame of mind to talk to me about the kiss or about what it means.
"Carter," he starts, "what are you doing here?"
I stare at him. What am I doing here? I don't even know, other than that I needed some sort of a resolution to what's happening between us. I keep thinking about the kiss, and the more I dream, the more his disappearing act hurts.
"I'm here to talk," I finally say. "About what happened at the dance."
"I'm so sorry I missed the dance," Declan apologizes again.
I ignore him. He's too spaced out to hear, care, or remember if I respond.
Boone's gaze flicks over to Declan and never returns to me. "We don't need to talk. Nothin' happened."
My heart stops beating. Nothing happened? But he kissed me, and he made it sound like he wants me, too. "What?"
"Nothin' happened. It was just a kiss. People kiss all the time. It doesn't always mean anything."
"But this did," I argue. "I know it did."
"Carter, you're confusing yourself. Just ’cause it was your first kiss, doesn't make it special."
"Yes, it does. It does mean something, and it's special because it was with you."
"Fine. It didn't mean anything to me."
Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away. "No, it did. I know it did."
"It didn't, Carter." His jaw pops, and he crosses his arms. Defensive. "I've kissed enough girls to know when it matters and when it doesn't."
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, frantic. I move closer to him, the bench still between us. I set my hands on the wood, not even bothered by the icky, wet feeling it's gotten from being outside. I don't know how Declan is just lying on it; I guess there's a reason why his clothes are always dirty.
"Because I don't want to hurt you by leading you on."
"You don't want to hurt me by leading me on?" I shake my head. I should've never come here. "You've already done that."
"It's best to give up now, then," he says.
I miss the guy who was tender and joking, who held my hand even though everyone made fun of him for it, whispered kind things into my ear whenever I got hurt, kissed my head every chance he got, who put me first.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks off. I wait for him to turn around and say he's joking or ask for it all to be taken back. He doesn't, and I refuse to run after him when I don't know why he's walking away.
I remain standing, and Declan's hand finds my shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't make the dance."
"I know," I whisper.
"I'm sorry Boone kissed you."
"Me, too."
He lets out a long sigh. "You're too good for this life, you know. You're too good for me and him and everything else we grew up with." Whatever he's on has him thinking retrospectively. "You should use this chance to leave it all behind."
His words hurt just as much as Boone's. "What about you? Dec, I can't leave you behind. I can't lose both you and Boone."
"What if you've already lost us?"
"What does that mean?"
He doesn't answer, and I turn to look back at him. He's fallen asleep. The whole world could be falling apart around him—and not just feel like it is—and he wouldn't care. He can just shut down and let everything go.
I think this is the most alone I've ever felt.
#
"You shouldn't read those notes," Luke tells me quietly as his parents say their good-byes. As soon as Boone left, I did my best to pretend like he was never there. I monopolized the conversation so Luke wouldn’t have a chance to ask about Boone. Evidently Luke was only biding his time to bring Boone up. I should have guessed—Luke is the type of guy who wants to solve problems. “I don't know what's going on between you two, but it can't be good for you."
I offer a sad smile. "You don't know the situation."
"You're going to read them, aren't you?"
I refuse to make eye contact. "I don't know."
“I hope you don’t,” Luke murmurs. He kisses me on the cheek and gets into his parents’ car. As they pull away, I bring my hand up to my face. Instead of tingles and butterflies, it feels numb. I don't even know what his lips felt like against my skin. Maybe it's because I'm older now, but I used to memorize all of Boone's kisses because they were all significant.
When they're gone, I tell Kara and Gabe goodnight and head up to my room. I close my door and listen to make sure they don't follow me up to talk about Luke. When I hear the TV on, I back away and head for the window. I nearly trip on the shaggy rug. Panic and nervousness bring out the klutz in me.
An anthology, he called them.
I carefully unfold each and lay them on my bed in order of how they're stacked, so I know which ones come first. Each paper is more weathered than the next, with some of the letters barely decipherable. I drop down to my knees beside my bed and lean in to read them.
Carter,
That kiss meant everything to me. Don't let it end this way. Our first kissed was ruined. This one can’t be also.
Boone.
That one doesn't feel like a part of the anthology, but it still grips at my chest. Our first kiss wasn't ruined. It was perfect. It was the after that was ruined, just like what happened on the swing set.
The next ones are the anthology because they're numbered one through five.
1. I never told you this, but when I was young, I didn't know how my mom died. I was too young to remember her death, so I believed my dad when he told me she left us. When I got older, he told me it was all a lie.
2. I think he waited so long to tell me because he wanted me to remember it. Understand it. He was sober and he didn't have his Bible. I think he wanted his sole focus to be on torturing me.
3. He told me I killed her.
4. I know I couldn't help it, but sometimes I wonder if I hadn't been born, if it'd all be okay, you know? He'd be happy, she'd be happy, you'd be happy. I think the real truth of it all is that my mom chose to die for me, but my dad let me kill him. He may be breathing, but he's cold and in Hell.
5. I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I just want you to know I've grown up thinking I was a killer, in more ways than just the murderous one. I didn't want to kill all your hopes and dreams, so I got close to make sure you achieved them and then I'd push you away out of fear I'd ruin it all. I hurt you because I didn't know how to love you.
Tears slip down my cheeks. He was such a sweet person when he was younger. How could his dad make him think he'd killed his own mom? It's not his fault she had cancer or that she'd chosen his life over her own. I always knew his dad was cruel, but I didn't realize it was to this extent. No wonder it seemed like whenever we'd reach a certain point, he'd push me away. He knew how to love me like a friend or a sister, just never how to love me love me.
I fall back on my butt and shimmy until I'm sitting up against my bed. I grope behind me for the letter that says, "He told me I killed her."
I remember asking him about his mom when we were younger. I thought it was amazing how I didn't have a dad and he didn't have a mom, as though it somehow made us connected and closer. When I asked, he was really distant and fearful-looking, never answering me. I was too little and maybe too self-absorbed to see his heartbreak.
More tears start to fall the more I look at the letter, so I reach for the final one. My fingers trace over the line about not knowing how to love me. He told me in another letter that he "loved me too much," which makes sense now, too. He didn't know how to love.
Behind me, I hear my bedroom door open. I smack at my face, trying to get rid of the tears. It's like Kara has some sort of a spidey sense for when I'm ugly-crying.
"Yeah?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Please don't come around the bed. Please don't come around the bed.
"What are these?" she asks.
Never mind.
I have no choice but to look at her. The second she sees me, she drops the paper—the second note—back to the bed and moves to sit by me.
"Why're you crying? What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," I whisper.
"It's something. What are these?"
"They're notes from Boone," I admit. "I've been letting him walk me home, and he's been writing them for a while now."
"Oh, Carter," she says, smiling sympathetically. "I thought you were done with him."
I want to tell her I am, or I will be, but instead, I burst out into more tears. "I'm not. I don't know how to be."
She pulls me into her arms. "I know, sweetie. I know."
She lets me cry until there aren’t any tears left and then she just holds me while I sit and think. She rubs my head and tells me it'll be okay, as moms always do in the movies.
"What's wrong with me?" I ask. "I want to like Luke, but …"
"But Luke's not Boone."
"No."
"Sweetie," she says, but doesn't seem to know what to say next. I don't either. She hugs me tight and then lets go. She reaches for the other notes and reads them over in order, then shuffles back to the beginning to read them all again. "It sounds to me like he's serious about you this time around. He's being open and honest." She sets them in her lap. "There are others?"
I hesitate before I nod. The answer to that should be there were others. If I were in my right mind when I first received them, I would have burned them or shredded them or let a pack of wild horses trample over them. Obviously, I wasn't and—I'm still not—sane. I've completely lost it. Instead, I put each letter into a plastic bin hidden beneath my bed. The only thing holding me back from being full-on mental is I haven't re-read any of them. Believe me; I've wanted to.
I roll onto my hands and knees and grope beneath my bed until I find the bin. I pull it out and force myself not to look at Kara. I know I have a problem. I'm just not at the "admitting it" stage.
"Can I look at them?" Kara asks.
"Yeah."
I slide it her way. She spends the next fifteen minutes reading each note thoroughly. She has the look on her face she gets whenever she has a new novel to read—a mixture of excitement and reluctance. It's a pipe dream, though, because Boone and I don't have the type of love story she likes to read about. We barely even have a story.
"This is different than he usually is," Kara remarks , shuffling through the stack until she gets to the one that says, "It was because I loved you too much." She holds it up between two fingers, repeating the words quietly.
"That's what scares me," I admit. "That he's different. These notes—they're from a guy who would be easy to love. What if he's just really, really good at coming across this way on paper?"
"How's he been when he's walked you home?"
"The same, but still different. Better."
She nods and sets the note back with the others. She lines them all up, her forehead wrinkled as she thinks. "The thing is, he might be better and different, and he might be saying these things and feeling them, but what matters the most is that you have the same intentions. The last time you both wanted different things, and it didn't turn out well. You got hurt, and I don't want to see you hurt again—by him or anyone else."
I appreciate Kara for being so genuine and for not telling me what to do, even if she has her own set of opinions. She's on my side, no matter what, which is why I should have talked to her sooner.
"Kara?" I ask, nervously picking at the hem of my shorts.
"We won't tell Gabe," she replies, somehow reading my mind. "Eventually, we'll have to, but he'll just make things hard."
"Thank you," I say. "He's going to be mad."
"No," she says. "He could never be mad at you or me or anyone, really. Well, at Dad maybe. He just wants to see you happy, and it's hard for him to let you go and figure out things on your own." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "You're his favorite daughter."
She always says that, which is weird considering there's no one else in the selection pool for the designation of favorite; plus, I'm not even his kid. "He's my favorite dad."
She laughs, but quickly gets serious again. "Try to do me a favor? Play it close to the chest."
"I already am."