Time Between Us (5 page)

The storm that starts on Saturday morning rains out my track meet, keeps me awake all night, and doesn’t let up until afternoon. I walk to the bookstore in a daze, and when I manage to make it to the corner without breaking anything, I decide to reward myself with a latte. Even with the stop, I have fifteen minutes to kill before my shift, so I head into the record store.

“Anna!” Justin yells over the loud, steady backbeat of music coming from the ceiling, godlike and omnipresent. He walks out from behind the counter and pulls me in for a hug. “I was hoping you’d come by this weekend.”

“Hey, buddy,” I say, and silently scold myself for calling him that. It’s probably worse than calling him Freckles, but words like
buddy
or
pal
or some other brotherly sounding term seem to pop out of my mouth whenever I see him. He pulls back and looks at me, and even though it’s only for a brief flash, it’s there. A twinge, like I just insulted him.

“What’s this?” I ask, pointing up at the music.

He leans in close to me. “I scored.” He looks around the store to be sure no one’s listening—and no one is, since we’re the only ones here. “The drummer from Nirvana just cut a demo, and Elliot let me borrow it.” I don’t know who Elliot is, but I imagine he’s someone important at Northwestern’s student-run radio station, where Justin has been interning for the last three months. While I dream of visiting far-off places, he dreams of moving into a high-rise dorm just down the street so he can major in broadcasting and spend his college years as a DJ for the station’s legendary
The Rock Show
.

“Do you want to borrow it?” he asks as he steps even closer to me.

“No, really, that’s—” I’m shaking my head, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already walking away, and when he ducks down behind the counter, the music stops. He comes back carrying the CD. “Here, take it. Tell me what you think.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Just bring it back sometime next week.”

“Thank you. That is so cool of you,” I say as I press it to my chest.

“I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will. You know I trust you completely.” I look up and find him watching me, and that’s when I feel it. Him wanting to kiss me.

“Any other new stuff?” I try to turn his attention toward the rest of the new releases on the wire rack.

“Not there.” He shoots me a smile and gestures for me to follow him to his usual spot behind the counter. Then he disappears and pops up again, placing a jewel case on the counter between us. The paper cover is painted in watercolors: blues and reds and greens, all swirling in interesting patterns and fading off at the sides. Like any watercolor, it’s unique. One of a kind. Still, it matches all the others on my shelf in my bedroom.

“A new running mix!” I pick it up, flip it over, and read the track names. “You have no idea. I’m so tired of skipping through tracks on my CDs. I always run best to yours.”

“I have to say, I outdid myself this time.” He smiles and blushes, and I watch how the hue makes his freckles disappear. He’s kind like no other guy I know, and I wish for a moment that I could think of him as more than a friend.

“I’m sure you did.” And there it is again. In his mind, this is the moment in the movie where I leap over the counter and rip the buttons off his shirt. Instead, I look at my watch. Three fifty-nine. “Shoot.” I gesture across the street toward the bookstore. “I’ve got to run and release my dad from duty. Do you need any books?” I hold up my new CDs. “You know the deal—one for one.”

He nods. “Actually, I wanted to ask you some—” Justin trails off and we both turn our attention to the front door, watching as a girl in sorority letters walks in, comes straight to the counter, and stands next to me, waiting. Justin shoots me an annoyed look. “Never mind. I’ll just try to come by the bookstore later.”

Once my back is turned, I let out a sigh of relief and silently thank the Tri-Delt for buying me a bit more time.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl. Northwestern students come in and look around, then leave. Mothers come in with their toddlers in tow, browsing the Book Club Recommendations table while their kids destroy the picture-book section. I scan credit cards, adjust books into place until all the bindings are even and the newer books are displayed with prominence, and read the Michelin guide to the Côte d’Azur. At 8:50, I total the day’s sales, zip the cash into the green vinyl envelope, and lock it in the safe in the back room. I flip the sign on the front door to
CLOSED
and click the dead bolt in place.

The coffeehouse is already packed. Finals week at Northwestern has just ended, and no one’s studying tonight. In fact, most look haggard and worn, like they’ve been celebrating since Friday afternoon.

As I walk by, I casually look in the window to see if I can spot Justin with his radio-station friends. He seemed so eager to talk to me earlier, but he never came by the bookstore tonight.

I keep walking, and round the corner to my dark and quiet block. I see a sudden movement in the park across the street and I slow my pace, squinting into the darkness. It’s hard to see any details, but there’s definitely someone there, and I narrow my eyes again until I make out the shape of a person, doubled over on the park bench, rocking back and forth. I step onto the grass to get a closer look. I gasp, because even from this distance, I’m pretty sure I know who it is.

My feet seem to move toward him on their own, and when I’m within earshot, I whisper, “Bennett? Is that you?” There’s no response, but now I’m close enough to make out the sound of groaning, low and weak. “Bennett?” I take small steps, moving in a little closer. “Are you okay?”

“Go away,” he grunts. He tries to raise his head, but it drops farther into his lap, and he rubs his temples, making that guttural sound again. I realize he’s saying something, so I bend in closer. “I can’t leave,” he’s whimpering. “I’ve got to find her.” He’s rocking and moaning and repeating the words, and I’m watching and shaking and starting to freak out.

Suddenly, he stops moving and his eyes find me. He seems surprised to see me standing next to him. “Anna?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m going to go get you some help. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“No!” He says the single word with force, but it’s tinged with agony, and I know there’s no way that I can handle this alone.

“Bennett, you need help.” I pivot on my heel to leave.

“No.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Please. Don’t. Go.” I stop cold and whirl around. It looks like it’s taking all his strength for him to lift his head. “It’s…” He takes another deep breath. “It’s easing up now.” But I don’t believe him. In spite of the temperature and the frozen bench he’s planted on, sweat is beading up on his forehead and running down his cheeks. He looks like me after a sprint, concentrating on each inhale and exhale. “Please. Just. Sit.”

I look around the pitch-black park, drop my backpack on the ground by his feet, and kneel down beside it. I can’t bring myself to sit on that cold bench.

“I’ll be okay.” He rubs his temples again and slowly raises his head. His voice sounds a little stronger now. “It’s a migraine,” he says between breaths. “I get them when…” His voice trails off. “Just sit with me, Anna? Please?” I look back toward the coffeehouse.

I start to lean forward to rub his back like my mom would, like a friend who knows him much better than I do might, but I catch my hands and force them to my sides. For the next five minutes, the only sound between us is his labored breath.

“Keep breathing.” It’s the only thing I can think to say, even though I realize it’s not helpful.

Finally, he sits up a little straighter. “Do me a favor?” He hasn’t even told me what it is and I’m already nodding. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t.” I shake my head and watch the sweat still dripping down his cheeks. “But can I please go get you some water? I’ll be fast.”

He doesn’t say yes, but at least this time he doesn’t argue. Before he changes his mind and stops me, I stand up, leaving my backpack at his feet, and sprint back to the coffeehouse. The girl behind the counter gives me a cup of ice water, and I run back to the bench.

“Here you—” I start to say, but my words hang in the air. My backpack is still on the frozen ground, but Bennett is gone.

Bennett’s not in Spanish on Monday. Or on Tuesday. I’m starting to lose my mind with worry, but Ms. Dawson in Administration is less concerned.

“Can I just get his phone number?” I beg. “I just want to be sure he’s okay.” I use my most responsible voice, but it doesn’t have the desired effect.

True to my word to Bennett, I’ve omitted large sections of the story I told her—like the park, the sweat beading up on his face, and the fact that he was moaning about needing to find someone. I’m not sure which part of “Don’t tell anyone about this” Bennett wanted me to keep under wraps, but I hope it didn’t include the migraine, because I can’t think of any reason to be asking about his personal information without disclosing that part.

“I know you just want to help, Miss Greene, but you know I can’t release another student’s confidential information. I’m sorry.” Her tone is patronizing and not at all apologetic. “I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow.”

How the hell do you know?
I want to say, but instead I mumble, “Thanks,” and shuffle out the door. I never should have left him there. All he wanted me to do was sit with him, and instead I left him alone on a bench in a dark deserted park, sweating and panting.

I head into the locker room and change, but as I listen to the team chatter, I start to dread the idea of running in a circle on an overcrowded track. I duck out before anyone notices and make my way to the abandoned and frozen cross-country course instead. And as I run, I try to listen to the sounds of the wind and the woods, the rhythm of my feet sloshing through the mucky trail, but all I hear is his voice in my head:
Just sit with me, Anna? Please?
I feel horrible.

As it turns out, Ms. Dawson was wrong. Bennett isn’t at school on Wednesday. Or on Thursday. By Friday afternoon, as I’m walking The Donut between fifth and sixth—and freaking out about facing the entire weekend without knowing what’s happened to him—the solution hits me out of nowhere. It’s my only option.

I rush to Emma’s locker and wait, but she doesn’t show. When the bell rings, I pull out my spiral notebook and scribble,
I need to talk to you
. Folding the paper into a small square, I feed it through one of the vents and sprint to class.

After the bell rings again, I race back to Emma’s locker and find her there, reading my note. “I need your help, Em,” I blurt out. “Do you think you can get something from the office for me?”

“Probably.”

“I need Bennett Cooper’s phone number. I asked Dawson and she wouldn’t give it to me. But she likes when you come into the office and talk about your auction-party planning, so maybe she’ll tell you.” She starts to say something, but I stop her. “Please don’t ask why I need it.”

Emma presses her lips together and raises her eyebrows. She stares at me and does that
tell-me-everything
superpower thing.

“Look. I ran into him last Sunday night, and he was…sick. Now he hasn’t been here all week. I just want to be sure he’s okay.” I’m standing there, bracing myself against her locker and preparing for the inquisition, when she breaks into a huge grin.

“You wanna shag Shaggy!” She laughs as I look around wildly to see if anyone’s heard her. “Come on, just say it. You like this guy, don’t you?” We stare at each other. I don’t reply. She repeats herself. “Don’t you?”

I let out the breath that’s been constricting my chest. “I’m just worried about him.”

She stares at me with big eyes.

“Okay, maybe.”

She grins. “See. You did it. The first step is admitting you’re powerless,” she says, bastardizing the first of AA’s Twelve Steps. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll meet you at the car after school.”

“How are you going to get it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”

An hour later, in the warmth of the Saab, Emma is euphoric, boasting about her skills in crafty manipulation.

“I really can’t take any credit for the first thing that happened. That was absolute luck,” she says as she whips the car out of the parking space. “Get this. I walked in and Dawson’s on the phone—with Argotta, I assume—saying she needs this week’s Spanish work so she can take it to Bennett Cooper’s house tonight.” Butterflies come to life in my stomach at the sound of his name. Someone, please shoot me. “So I offered to take his homework to him.”

“She gave you his homework?”

“No. She said she couldn’t do that—it wasn’t allowed.
Not even for you, Miss Atkins.
” She mimics Dawson’s voice to a tee.

“So you didn’t get it?”

“Of course I got it.”

“Great. Where is it?”

“I’m getting to that part.” She turns in to the street and the driver she cuts off lays on the horn. “So I start asking her questions about the auction—so she thinks that’s why I came in, right?—and Dawson starts telling me about this great cabin in Wisconsin that the Allens own.…”

“Oh, please. You’re killing me. Get to the point.”

“Okay, okay. So we’re talking about the auction, and Señor Argotta comes in and drops a stack of papers on the counter. She thanks him, he leaves, she goes to the monitor—now she’s telling me about some antique photos someone else is donating to auction off—grabs a Post-it, writes down the address, and sticks it on the pile.”

“And?”

She pauses for dramatic effect. “Two-eight-two Greenwood.”

“What about the phone number?”

She flips around to face me. “Are you kidding? No
Thanks, Emma
? No
You’re amazing, Emma
?” She brings her attention back to the road, shaking her head.

“I just wanted to call—”

“Well, she didn’t write down his phone number, and I couldn’t see the screen. But don’t you see? I got the better of the two!”

“But now I have to go there!” I wince at the thought.

She shoots me that satisfied smile she wears when she gets her way. “Exactly.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I peek out from behind the tall hedge again and stare at the house. Impressive. Two, maybe even three, stories. Tudor style. A carriage house out back, if I’m assessing accurately from this distance and the three times I’ve walked past the house, chickened out, and hidden behind shrubbery.

Why am I doing this?

I let out a heavy sigh as I move from behind the bushes, walk toward the house again—this time with a determined stride—and turn onto the recently shoveled walkway. It’s only 5:30, but it’s almost completely dark, and I’m shaking as I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I pick up the lion’shead door knocker and take a deep breath before I bring it down.

I wait.

There’s no answer.

I knock again, tightening my coat against the wind, and glad I’ve traded my tights and skirt for jeans.

Just as I turn to leave, I hear footsteps. “Who’s there?” asks an elderly-sounding woman from the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry. Never mind.” I back away and head for the steps. “I think I have the wrong house.”

The dead bolt makes a heavy
thunk
and the door opens slowly. She’s older but not elderly, and striking, with long gray hair and smoky blue eyes. She’s wearing a red silk scarf over her dark, loose-hanging clothes, and smiling at me with a curious expression.

“Hi.” She opens the door, wide and welcoming.

“Hi. I’m looking for someone named Bennett, but I’m so sorry. I think I have the wrong address.” I start to turn away again.

“No, you don’t; Bennett’s here. Come on in and warm up.” She moves back to make room for me in the entryway.

“I’m Maggie.” She holds out her hand.

“Anna.” I shake it, still wondering who she is.

“You must be a friend from school.”

“Yes.” I’m not sure I qualify as a friend, but it’s the simplest answer. “I’m sorry to impose, ma’am.” Yes. I’m an idiot for coming here. And I’m just now realizing this.

“No imposition, dear.” She gestures toward the room on the other side of a wide arch. “Have a seat, and I’ll go up and get him.”

I peek inside as she turns and starts up the staircase. The living room, with its massive windows, is beautiful, tastefully decorated with dark antique furniture that makes it even more welcoming than I expected it would be. The fire is warm and creates a soft glow.

Instead of sitting on the couch, I walk around, taking a closer look at the room. The wall surrounding the fireplace is lined from top to bottom with dark-stained bookcases filled with a collection of classics that puts the bookstore’s section to shame. With the exception of a large black-and-white portrait of Maggie and her husband on their wedding day, framed photos of a little girl—dark hair, bangs cut straight across her forehead—take up every available surface. Some include her mother. A few feature both parents. It’s hard to miss the framed snapshot in the center of the mantel: the same little girl, sitting in a chair and smiling up at the camera, clutching a tiny baby with a tuft of dark hair.

“Those are my grandchildren,” says a quiet voice behind me, and I jump. I hadn’t heard her return. “That’s Brooke. She’s two. And that’s my new grandson.” She runs her finger across the glass.

“They’re really cute,” I say.

She returns the photo to its shelf and picks up another one. “This is my daughter.” She points to a photo of a woman with the same little girl on her lap.

“Do they live here in Illinois?”

“No. San Francisco.” She lets out a sad sigh. “I keep trying to get them to move back home, but her husband’s job keeps them in California. I haven’t even met the new baby yet.”

Suddenly, I have the strange sensation that we’re no longer alone. I glance over my shoulder and find Bennett standing in the archway, watching us. His hair is stringy, his skin is masked by patchy stubble, and the heavy circles under his bloodshot eyes make him look as if he hasn’t slept in days. The vacant expression on his face ups the severity.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is tight, and he blinks involuntarily, like his eyes are adjusting to what little light there is in the room.

Maggie jumps in before I can find my voice. “I was just showing your friend photos of my new grandson, Bennett.” She turns back to me. “Can you believe that ? I’ve never met anyone with the first name Bennett, and now I know two of them!” She shakes her head at the impossibility.

I look back and forth between them, confused. Bennett winces.

“Do you two want some tea?” Maggie says, seemingly unaware of the tension that’s hanging around us. “I was just about to make some.”

“No,” Bennett answers before I can, shifting his weight back and forth.

Maggie ignores him and looks at me, her eyes still innocent and questioning. “Anna?”

“No, thank you, Mrs.—”

She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Call me Maggie, dear. Maggie’s just fine.”

I return her smile. “Thank you, Maggie.”

Bennett gestures for me to follow him, and we leave Maggie alone to make her tea. We climb the staircase in silence and continue down a dark hallway. Like the living room, its walls are lined with photos, but these are more dated.

His bedroom is nearly dark, insufficiently lit by a small lamp that barely brightens the wooden desk. Coffee cups and empty plastic water bottles are scattered everywhere. Books and papers are strewn all over the floor and across the surface of his twin bed. The antique furniture is beautiful, but hardly reflects the tastes of a high school boy. He looks out of place in the sea of mahogany.