Page 80 of The Last to Let Go
“So?” I repeat, louder.
“Yeah. So. What’s your deal, anyway?” he asks, looking at the dim sky, at the tiny pinpricks of light, muted as they peek through the veil of thin clouds. It’s been staying light later, another sign that spring is winning the battle.
“Mydeal?”
“Yeah, your deal.” He finally cuts his eyes at me. “Klepto?”
“Klepto?”A klepto would stealthings, not money, but I guess pointing that out wouldn’t exactly help my case.
“What then, just stickin’ it to the man?” he jeers.
“Sticking it to theman?”
“That’s really annoying.”
“What?”
“What?” he mimics. “You keep repeating everything I say.”
“Actually, you just repeated whatIsaid.”
That gets me a smile. “I know about your mom, and all. Brutal,” he says under his breath, mumbling the word into one syllable.
I’m not sure which thing it is he’s referring to as brutal: the fact that my mom’s in prison—not jail, but prison, and will not be getting out anytime soon—or the fact that she killed my father with the kitchen knife, or that my family is split into pieces, scattered like broken glass.
“Owen,listen—I’m not going to do it again, okay?” I look at his face, not certain if I mean it or not, or if I only mean it right now. “I’m really not,” I say anyway, maybe more to myself than him. “So do you think you can keep it between us? Please? Can you just forget what you saw?”
He breathes in deeply then, reluctantly looking at me. “If you do it again, I can’t cover for you. I need this job too. And who do you think Jackie will blame when she figures it out, me or you? Think about that next time.” Then he stands up and brushes past me without another word. The yellow bucket glides across the grease-stained pavement, moved by some invisible force. I sit there and watch. Try to breathe.
At closing time Owen locks the front door behind us. He mumbles, “G’night,” and we part ways as usual. Except tonight, as I look at his back walking away from me, I think about how I’ve been seeing too many backs walking away from me lately.
“Hey, Owen?” I call after him.
He stops and turns around but doesn’t come any closer to me. So I have to shout across the parking lot.
“How come you never talked to me? I mean, when we went to school together?”
“How come you never talked tome?” he asks, not missing a beat.
I think about it. “I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I guess I thought people had made up their minds about me a long time ago.”
He nods as he considers this. “You always acted like you wanted to be left alone. That’s why people never talked to you.”
“I guess I did,” I shout across the space between us—it feels weird to be shouting one of the most intimate and honest conversations I’ve ever had with anyone. “Want to be left alone, I mean.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything.
“So, are we friends?” I ask, realizing how stupid and childish it sounds only after it’s out of my mouth.
He takes one step closer. “If we weren’t, I’m telling you we would not even be having this conversation.” It’s only right now, in this moment, that I realize something about him. He has tons of friends not just because he happens to be talented at sports or great-looking; they like him because he’s nice and honest and a genuinely good person.
On my walk home the chill in the air feels purifying, cleansing, like drinking a cold glass of water when you’re really thirsty. I have the strongest urge to call Dani, but I don’t. I sleep better that night than I have in months.
STARTING OVER
THE PARK IS BEGINNINGto come back to life. Small green buds dot the trees. Ducks and geese and birds and squirrels are suddenly everywhere, kids playing again, climbing on the big boulder, parents yelling, joggers shuffling, the river running strong, things beginning again, starting over.
I came here to study—I have my whole messenger bag full of books and notes. I’m sitting under a tree along the river. The ground is damp and I feel it seeping through my jeans, but I don’t mind; it’s good to be outside, breathing fresh air.
