Authors: Bryan Bliss
Meet Me Here (16 page)
I park at the top of the bridge, carefully lower myself out of the truck, and listen for Mallory’s voice—for cussing or crying, I can’t be sure. When I don’t hear anything, all of the adrenaline disappears, and I crash. I slide down the embankment, not sure what I’ll find, if she’ll still be waiting. But like so many times before, when I duck underneath that crumbling concrete, there’s Mallory.
“Shouldn’t you be gone?” she says, monotone. Barely even looks at me.
As always, I have no idea what to say to her. I try to force a joke. “Aren’t you supposed to be married by now?” But as soon as it leaves my mouth, I know it’s wrong. It
sounds petty, cruel. And I see her cringe.
“That was the plan,” she says. I open my mouth, and she says, “Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”
“I can leave.”
“Well, go already,” she says sharply.
“Hey, you texted me,” I say.
We stand there, facing off like two kids, waiting for the other to speak, to move, to do anything.
“Yeah, like an hour ago. Glad you had time to fit me in.”
I tamp down my indignation, the evidence I want to raise in my defense. I was getting the truck back. I don’t have a phone. Jake. But she already looks defeated, her face smudged with dirt. As if she had been down here digging holes. I take a cautious step forward, slowly sit next to her.
She doesn’t say anything.
“So, how was
your
graduation?” I ask. First she smiles; then she shakes her head. Like she doesn’t want to let herself laugh.
“It’s all unicorns and rainbows over here,” she says. “You?”
“Pretty much the same.”
She laughs once. “God, this is so fucked up.”
I let that statement define the evening, everything about the last few months as we sit in silence. The new day streams before us, already getting warm. I can see cars in the distance, can hear a plane traveling overhead. I could sit here all day—for the rest of my life—and wouldn’t be worse off.
“So, you’re getting . . . married,” I say.
She doesn’t immediately react, just stares out past the bridge. A faint smile appears on her face. “What were we thinking? What a damn cliché.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He seems like a good guy.”
“He is,” she says, her words fading away into the growing sound of the cicadas. She turns to me and says, “I wanted to do it. I really did. But one day I started worrying: What if I meet somebody else later? What if we don’t like living together? I don’t want to end up like my mom, nineteen and pregnant. Working full-time to pay for day care.”
“That sounds terrible,” I say. She laughs, louder than I expect.
“I know. Why do you think I quit that shit?”
I laugh, too, and in that second it feels like I can breathe.
“Really.” She continues. “It freaked me out. So last night at the party, I thought: Okay, just tell him you’re not ready. He’ll understand. But you know what happened.”
“I could take you to see him,” I say. She shakes her head, looking at me sideways.
“He’s so pissed at me right now. After you guys left, we talked, and I tried to explain it. But all he could hear is you and me. I told him it wasn’t like that.”
She puts her hand on mine, and the weight of it is extraordinary. We’re both looking out into the sun when she says, “You know I love you, right?”
My chest tightens because I’ve always known. Still, it’s not the sort of thing we say to each other. We were beyond words, beyond needing anything to solidify who we were and what we meant. But now, with her hand on mine, how wrong could I have been? How easily you forget the essential parts of yourself.
So I say: “I guess I love you, too.”
“Wow. Thanks for that, Thomas.”
But she’s smiling, still holding on to me like I’m a wayward balloon, ready to float away. And I just might. Hearing her say she loves me makes me sad because the only thing we have left to say is good-bye, to officially end
this night. And that’s not coming as easily. I don’t want her to move her hand off mine either, because that’s no different. A confirmation that the time has come and this is done.
I put my other hand on top of hers, and she one-ups me, like we’re kids trying to figure out who gets to bat first. I smile. She laughs. Our hands separate, and the cool air on my palm feels awful.
She stands up and, facing me, pulls me to my feet. I squint into the hot sun as she buries her face into my chest. I don’t want to be the first to let go, so I wait for her to do it, and a minute later she’s wiping away tears and laughing.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she says.
“Because you’re going to miss all of
this
.” I flex, pose. She laughs.
“You’re stupid,” she says, hitting me once. “So . . . what happened?”
“I told them,” I say.
“And?”
I shrug. She has to know how it went. “I’m going down to the recruiter in a minute. They’re not going to let me go with my leg like this anyway, I don’t think. But I need to go and at least talk to them. From there . . . I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
We stand there, facing each other, the skeletons of our childhood buried in the ground beneath us, the smell of the pine trees, the promises of everything we were to each other coming in every sound, every smell, every tiny speck of dirt that floats through the sunlight.
“Well, if you’re still around,” she says, “I think we should go back to the Grover tonight.”
I laugh. “I have a feeling that I’m not going to be doing much of anything for a long, long time.”
“Are you going to leave?”
I shake my head. And then we stand there, watching the sun rise higher and higher in the sky.
She moves first, leading me away from the bridge. As I struggle up the hill and she grabs my hand for balance, for leverage, I want to believe that we make our own plans. I want to believe that we are the ones in control of our lives.
But as Mallory Carlson gets in my truck—not for the last time because I know that can’t be the truth—as we pull away from the bridge, as we make it onto the road and I drive toward her house, I have to believe in whatever magic brings us down twisted roads, leading us to places we never expected. Leading us back to the place we should’ve been all along.
There are so many people to thank, and I have to start with my family. Michelle, Nora, and Ben allow me to disappear—both physically and mentally—in order to make these books happen. I appreciate that time, even if it’s spent away from all of you.
Leon Guthrie (U.S. Marines) was integral in helping me wade through a culture I respect but know very little about. His knowledge of the military and his respect for veterans everywhere allowed me to really understand what it means to live a life of honor and courage—both before and after the military. He was the first person I ever met when I moved to North Carolina, and I’m happy to still call him a friend.
Ray Veen (U.S. Army) was also invaluable. As both a writer and a friend, he has never been too busy to listen or answer questions. I can honestly say I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without his friendship.
I wish I could list all of the friends and mentors I’ve encountered in this world of book writing. Molly, Sara, Chris, Paul, Matt, Seth, Aaron, Kate, Steve, Jeff, and so many more . . . I am lucky to have access to such great people. Speaking of great people, I worked on this book while a student in the M.F.A. program at Seattle Pacific University. Thanks to Greg Wolfe and company for a truly life-changing experience.
Martha Mihalick edited this book and made it what it is. Her name should probably be on the cover somewhere—that’s how much she does for me in this process. Thank you.
Michael Bourret, my literary agent, is always on board, no matter what I want to do. Well, maybe not the professional wrestling book. But . . . maybe? In all seriousness, there is no one better to have in your corner.
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BRYAN BLISS
has worked with teenagers for more than ten years. He holds an MFA from Seattle Pacific University and is the author of
No Parking at the End Times
. Bryan and his family live in Minneapolis.
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Cover art © 2016 by underworld / Shutterstock and by Napat Uthaichai / Shutterstock
Cover hand lettering by Erin Fitzsimmons
Cover design by Paul Zakris
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
MEET ME HERE
. Copyright © 2016 by Bryan Bliss. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062275400
ISBN 978-0-06-227538-7 (trade ed.)
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