Page 15 of When the Night is Over

Wes’s face, a face I never once saw harden in my life, is now cold and unforgiving. I undo my seatbelt and open the door to, I don’t know, get some air or distance or something. The truck starts to move slowly. I jump to get out of the way, staring at the tailgate like a dumbfounded fool as he picks up speed. It doesn’t sink in until a few moments later that Wes has left me out here alone.

Chapter Seven

Simon

You don’t know shit.

Those are the words I spat at her. And the truth is that she didn’t know, she didn’t know a damn thing about what happened back then. I could see it in her eyes, the realization. I was rewriting history for her right out there in the middle of the street. I can’t keep from feeling just the slightest bit guilty that I’ve tarnished her opinion of her brother, being that she just lost her mother and all, but that’s stupid and weak on my part. Christian Mason doesn’t deserve to hide behind his lies.

I don’t even know if she showed up to work yesterday because I kept myself busy inside most of the day. I didn’t spare one look in her direction. I can’t play it off like I’m indifferent towards her. No, even after that all went down, the polar opposite is true. I feel tethered to the girl in some fucked up way. I want Charlotte more than I want my next breath, but I won’t let myself have her. I tell myself nothing good will come of it—repeat it to myself like a mantra.

So Monday morning when the pale blue paper falls from my locker and floats down to the floor, I don’t move to pick it up right away. I know it’s from her. I stare down at it, this radioactive thing that holds the power to crush me, while studying the delicate handwriting, the way she crafts my name. I don’t snatch it up until I hear the pack of them approaching. I stuff it in my back pocket and walk off without answering when Skylar teases, “Hot damn…Is that a love note, Simon?”

Dear Simon,

If you decide to rip this note up without reading it, I can’t say that I’d blame you. I’m ashamed of the way I acted on Saturday. I’m ashamed of the way I judged your brother, and of the way I blindly took my own brother’s version of events and accepted them as truth.

So I’m sorry, that’s what I want to tell you.

I love Christian, even though we’re not close anymore. I love him and I hate him and I pity him. I don’t expect you to ever forgive him, especially since he’s never had to pay for his sins. But I know from where he comes, and contrary to popular belief, growing up in our house was no picnic. I don’t see him in black or white terms, as good or evil. I see him as someone who is flawed and struggling, and (I hope) trying to do better. I’m sure it’s not too far off from the way you see Timmy.

I think I have a better idea of what happened back then, both from you and from others who have filled me in. So now I understand why you look at me the way you do. I wish things were different, I really do, but at least I get it now.

-Charlotte

My hands were shaking when I opened the paper folded by her hands, and now that I’ve read the words, I imagine our hands are touching as I refold the paper.

I get it now.

No, she doesn’t. The girl thinks I hate her when nothing could be further from the truth. Her words confirm everything I thought I saw in her but couldn’t really know for sure. Maybe no one is good or evil, there are no absolutes, but there’s a beauty and goodness in Charlotte that I want her to see reflected in me.

Everything in me hurts. I want her to know that I wish things were different too. To want someone and know you can’t be with them is the definition of pain. So instead of heading to class, I settle into a quiet corner at the top of the stairwell next to the rooftop exit. I write back to Charlotte, giving myself the freedom to tell her everything I know I’ll never say out loud.

She’ll never read it.

* * *

Charlotte

I was there before the first bus pulled in, before most of the teachers arrived. My fingers trembled as I slid the letter through the top slat in his locker door, looking from side to side to make sure the hallway was empty.

Writing to Simon was either the most courageous thing I’ve ever done or a grave mistake. Odds are good he’ll make me come to regret the decision, but right now I’m glad I did it. Writing to him felt good, lifted a burden. The note was simple but said what needed to be said. At least he knows I’m sorry.

I wanted to say more in the letter, but I’m not that brave. I want to tell him things. I want to tell him that I like watching him work, I admire his strength and the way he uses it to help people who aren’t so strong. Also that I read the poem he wrote, the one about his mother that Mr. Vargas keeps on his office wall, and it made me cry. I want to tell him that when he touched my wrist the other day, it was like a shot of adrenaline to my system. I felt it everywhere—deep in my chest, the base of my spine, and out to the tip of each and every finger and toe.

Hopefully Simon will read between the lines, he’ll know that I care about him. And if he doesn’t feel the same, even if he never speaks another word to me again, at least he knows I never meant to hurt him.

Daisy runs into me when I stop short. “What’s up, Mason? Are you trying to take me out? I’m clumsy enough without you trying to trip me.”

“Sorry,” I say absently. “I just need to walk.” I gesture to my side. “Cramp.”

“Better not let that witch see you.” Daisy puts her index finger sideways under her nose and speaks in what’s supposed to pass as a German accent. “Ven I vas yur age, I could run a kilometer faster zan you can say bratwurst!”

I laugh and wave her off. “Go!” I’m on a solo mission right now and need to concentrate. It’s no surprise that I spotted him. My eyes always look for his truck in the parking lot, just as I always set my gaze on locker number eighty-four when I pass by in the hallway. And I probably spend more time staring across the street to catch sight of him working than tending to my own customers in the diner. I never miss a chance to get a glimpse of anything associated with Simon—I’m pathetic like that.

What is he doing? Leaning back against the passenger side door of his truck, both hands are in his hair as he looks up to the sky. It’s third period and he’s not in class. Did he find the note? Has he read it? My heart sinks. I jog at a snail’s pace, looking over every few seconds. Two more laps and he’s still in the same position. But wait, now he’s in motion. I stop in my tracks when I realize he’s heading in the direction of my car with purposeful, determined strides. I can’t make out his expression but considering the last time I saw him it was in a state of barely contained rage, I’m prepared and bracing for the sound of my front windshield shattering. The sound of the bell ringing from inside school and our teacher yelling at us to line up are muted in the background. I’m transfixed, watching as he lifts one of the front wipers and tucks something against my windshield. Simon is still there when Ms. Brunner yells at me to line up.

There’s nothing on my car when I ask for a bathroom pass and sneak outside during fourth period. Nothing. I search the exterior of the car and even go down on my hands and knees looking underneath to see if it dropped or possibly blew away. I could have sworn I saw him place something on the windshield.

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