Page 107 of Fade into You
“Fine! Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe he was bragging. But I knew nobody would be talking about you today if this was out there. And I’m standing by that.”
“Jessa, god! I don’t need you to protect me from being outed. How many times do I have to tell you that? If you’re so concerned about protecting people’s privacy and how fucked up it is to be outed by someone else, why in the world would you turn around and do that to Kayla?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Maybe it is. You outed her. Except it wasn’t even the truth.”
“Bird…”
“And another thing, you did this to Dade, too! This is how you treat people you claim to care about?”
“It was for you,” she repeats.
“No, I’m not accepting that! You are not putting that on me. This wasn’t for me. I didn’t need that. You did this for you.”
“Why?” she says, almost breathless. “Why would I do this forme?”
“I don’t know! But I can’t sit around and help you figure it out right now. I need to go find Kayla before she does something stupid.”
“Bird, wait. Are we… Are you… Is this over?” she says quietly.
“You know, I honestly couldn’t believe you’d ask me for a break after everything we’ve been through. But now I think I need one.”
“A break or a breakup?” she demands. “Just tell me right now.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Why not?” she whispers, and I realize she’s getting quieter because there are people out here. A few people. Most are just standing around smoking cigarettes. Not close enough to hear us but close enough to see us.
“Because.” I step in close to her and tuck her hair behind her ear, her eyes darting all over. I hold on to the sides of her jacket to pull her close and she’s shaking her head, about to tell me not to, but I do. I kiss her. Out here in the open where anyone can see. “Because,” I repeat. “You don’t get to control everything.”
JESSA
Bird not speaking to meis agony. Somehow my attempt to keep her safe from outing has rocketed her from my life. This is not the outcome I wanted. She’s not with me, and she’s not safe, either. She saw to that. Her kisses have always been powerful, but she used her kiss this time to prove a point. To make a statement. I got it loud and clear, and I’m not the only one. If I wasn’t so scared for her, that kiss might have been the biggest turn-on ever.
I know she didn’t say we were broken up, but I have no clue how to climb back up this hill. I’ve spent the past two days hiding in my room, sneaking down to grab food and pee when I hear my parents leave. I think Mack is low too, and they’re probably terrified I’m also going downhill… but I’m sad for a very good reason. The inside of my chest is cracked open and my heart is being slowly pulled out and crushed. I still love Bird and she doesn’t want to see me.
I blast Pantera and Megadeth, and though I keep trying to find the anger, which is so much easier to embrace, I can’t stopcrying. I don’t want Mom and Dad to see the puffy face and red-rimmed eyes and ask me what’s wrong. Plus, some little evil part of me is glad they’re probably worrying. They should worry. Everything is going to hell in a fucking handbag and the world may just end on January 1, so let them fret I’m crazy. Letthemworry for once.
I pull out the one photo I have of her. Bird in the general store of the mill village, surrounded by peeling white walls showing discolored paint below, sun casting in through the huge wavy glass windows, a spotlight of late afternoon sunshine on her beautiful face, looking up to the wood floors of the second story, hefty beams holding it aloft after a century of age, exposed brick a rough contrast to her smooth skin—velveteen, I remember, my hands aching now in the realization that they may never touch her again. But at least they got the chance. Love lost, right? So much better. Why does it feel like my losses are so much worse? Why does it feel like there’s nowhere left to go? Other fish, I don’t want them. I want Bird, and without her I’m drowning.
I don’t know how to fix this.
I’m skulking downstairs, trying to slap together a pathetic sandwich from the old pimiento loaf in the fridge (why does Mom buy this crap?) when I cross paths with Mack, who’s also emerged for parent-free sustenance. We look like horrifying twins, both in wrinkled clothes, ratty hair, puffy-faced and pathetic.
“Bad day?” she murmurs.
I nod and try not to cry as I smear mustard on the bread with a butter knife. She fills an old Smurf jam jar glass with milk, grabs a box of Wheaties, and starts walking away.
“Don’t let it eat you alive,” she says, and is gone before I can think of anything to say.
My cell phone lights up, my heart brightens, my sentence is over.
Then it all bottoms out. ’Cause the caller ID shows who it is: Dade.
It’s weird how alien yet familiar Dade’s place seems. Two whole months away makes me feel like a stranger, but I hope it’s like riding a bicycle or something and this wave will pass and I’ll remember how to feel normal. At first I think about knocking, but instead walk in as I always did, stepping down the stairs to the rumpus room that we sometimes watch movies in. He’s laid out on the couch, all in black, staring at the ceiling andsmoking inside. Dade’s parents both smoke, and they’re cool with him smoking, but cigarettes indoors? His mom would flip. Hopefully she’s out of town for work or he’s getting grounded again.
“Hey,” I say, and flop into the oversized chair that’s been designated as mine from years of hanging out.
