A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (15 page)

He looks in the jewelry case the bracelet came from. He hides his expression, but I see his eyes widen just a little bit. Most of it is handmade in silver.

“Dylan, can we grab some coffee?” I ask, desperate to distract him.
“I’m not feeling well.”

At my words, he immediately shifts his attention to me. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “I just didn’t get enough sleep. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” he says. We take each other’s hands and walk out of the shop.

I don’t mean to be an ass, but I know that Alex is upset. She hasn’t asked me what’s wrong, but it is obvious she wants to know. . But I don’t know what to tell her. So I just kind of shove all of that to the side and keep going.

But the effort of shoving my grief aside leaves me feeling nothing at all, not even the heady, intoxicating emotions I normally feel around Alex. And that’s not okay.

So I walk through the market with her, holding hands. I feel outclassed, outmatched, when John buys a bracelet for Elle. She’s thrilled, I can see it, and she hugs him with a little squeal. I do a quick mental calculation of how much money I have left for this trip (not much), and look into the cabinet. And gulp. The cheapest item in the cabinet is 400 shekels… about a hundred dollars.

That’s more than I even have to last me for the remaining time we’re in Israel. Then Alex says she doesn’t feel well, and asks if we can get a cup of coffee.

I’m not an idiot. I can see that she put everything together very quickly, and is now rescuing me from myself.

I have to accept the lifeline because there’s no choice. So we walk out of the store and down the street, where we take a seat at a sidewalk cafe.

“I loved the smells in the spice market,” she says. I think she’s stretching to come up with something to say.

I don’t know what to say. So I nod, and say, “Yeah, I like it here.”

A waiter comes out, crooning, “Hello, English? German?”

“American,” Alex says.

“American! You know George Bush!”

“No,” I say, making a bit of a sour face. Then I find myself wondering if Alex actually has met him. We both ask for coffee, and the waiter swoops off.

I lean forward. “So…
do
you know George Bush?”

She sticks her tongue out at me. Then says, “I met him once, when I was twelve.”

When she stops speaking, I say, “Come on, Alex. Is that it? You met him once? Where? At the beach? The golf course? What?”

She laughs, then says, “If you must know, it was a formal dinner at the White House. My Dad was going on some diplomatic thing, I think to Iraq. I’d never been invited to anything like that before. I thought he was a nice man. He laughed a lot.”

“That’s wild.” I shake my head. “You know, we come from completely different worlds.”

She says, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it though? I mean… sometimes I wonder if we can really understand each other.”

“Of course we can.” Her eyes show a flash of hurt as she says the words.

I lean forward and take her hand. “It’s okay, Alex. I’m sorry.
It just means we have to reach a little further, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” Her tone isn’t angry. But it carries an urgency to it.

I swallow. T
hen I tell her about Spot.

As Dylan tells me the story of his friend Spot, I feel a growing sadness. He stumbles over his words, at one point just going completely silent.

“Anyway,” he says. “I never saw her again. But when I set up my Facebook account after we met, and I connected almost immediately with some people from high school, I guess I thought I might be able to use it to find her. But…”

His expression is so bleak, I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. I squeeze his hand.

“I found out last night … one of the guys … he says she’s dead.”

“Oh my God. What happened?”

He shakes his head, his face somber. “No idea. I asked, but he hasn’t answered. But … I mean… it’s not safe out there on the street. For anyone, but especially for girls.”

I squeeze his hand again. This is awful, and I hardly know what to say to him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there are things we just can’t understand about each other, because we come from different worlds. Maybe I don’t know what it’s like to lose a friend that way.

But I can still be there for him — and he can for me. I lean forward, taking his other hand in mine so that I’m holding both of his.
I look in his eyes. “You can talk to me, you know. I may not have lived the life you have, but I care. I
care.
”

He shifts uncomfortably, “Alex, I can’t dump all my problems on—”

“Stop. That’s what people do. They take care of each other. You did your best to take care of your friend, and I admire you for that. Well, now it’s my turn to take care of you. All right?”

He shudders. “I’m not used to depending on anybody.”

“Maybe it’s time you got used to it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

I smile. “Nothing worth doing is that
easy.”

He stares at me, slowly shaking his head. “Are we getting serious?”

“What does that mean?” I ask. Suddenly my heart is pounding. Because I haven’t told him. That I love him. How can I, when we’re going home in the blink of an eye? But I want to. I want to tell him, loud and clear: Dylan, I love you.

He swallows, and mutters, “I don’t know.”

“Let’s just let it be what it is, Dylan. We don’t have to give it words. We know what we feel.”

He nods. “Right. We just … let it happen.”

He looks so uncomfortable, I’m not sure what to say. So I don’t say anything. Instead, I stand and give him a kiss on the cheek. Then I return to my seat.

“That’s it?” he asks.

I grin. “For now.”

His eyes widen. “Wait… I thought…”

“Well… yes… I’m waiting. Until I marry.”

He sighs. Then we both laugh. For now at least, we’re okay.

A few hours later. We’re standing on the Golan Heights, overlooking the Sea of Galilee. I’ve got a scarf around my face because of the fierce wind that buffets our clothes. A speaker from the nearby kibbutz is talking about security problems and suicide bombers and the threat from Syria, just across the border. But neither I nor Dylan really pay attention.

Instead, we’re wrapped up, staring in each other’s eyes. I find his touch reassuring—and one of us is constantly touching the other. As the crowd of students shifts away from us, Dylan leans in close and says, “I need to kiss you right now.”

I whisper, “If you need to, then, I guess you should go ahead.”

He does.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: (no subject)

Dear Mom:

I’m writing from Haifa, which is a coast city in Israel. The town mostly sprawls on a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It’s truly beautiful here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve left reality entirely. Back home I’m the kid who dropped out of school and smoked too much pot and drank too much. Here, I’m — one of the smart kids. Just like everyone else. Except I often feel out of place. Like I’ve snuck into a party full of rich people, and I have to figure out the right kinds of manners to use.

The good news, Mom, is that you prepared me pretty well for this, just as you did for everything else. I know we’ve had our moments, our conflicts. But don’t ever think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed for me.

Anyway.

I’m mostly writing to tell you about Spot. Do you remember her? Her parents had kicked her out because she was gay. She was like a little sister, if I’d ever had one. I found out from Scott—one of the guys I used
to hang
out with, unfortunately—that she’s dead. I don’t know how or why or what happened, but I can imagine it. Drug overdose, or maybe she was murdered. There were always guys out there, predators who caught sight of a teenage girl on the streets and wanted—well, you know.

I’m not gonna lie, Mom. I’m heartbroken. She was my friend, and I feel like I failed. I wasn’t there for her, I wasn’t there to protect her. I know I had to get off the street and clean up my act, and I don’t have any regrets. But … it hurts to know that she’s gone.

Anyway. What else? We leave for Jerusalem tomorrow. It still doesn’t even seem real to me. A couple days ago we walked through a building they believe was occupied by the first generation of Christians two thousand years ago. I really want to learn more about this part of the world, about all this history. I’ve thought about coming back when I finish high school, maybe for a few months or a year, before I start college. I’d love to be able to really sink my teeth into this place.

I know that’s probably not the news you wanted to hear. I
will
go to college, I promise.

In the meantime. Can I tell you about Alex?

Hah. I knew I’d surprise you with something. I met a girl. She’s … beautiful. Smarter than I am, by a long shot. She speaks a fair amount of Chinese and Russian and lived in both countries. Her dad’s a diplomat. She’s — amazing. Honestly—I haven’t told her this yet. But I think I love her.

I don’t think. I
do
love her.

Problem is… she lives in San Francisco. She’s only sixteen, doesn’t graduate high school for another year and a half. Her life is… headed in a different direction. Maybe. I don’t know. She says she’s still trying to decide between Harvard and Columbia. Crazy, huh? Her older sisters went to those schools. I’ll be lucky if I can get into Georgia State.

All the same, as much as I miss you—and I miss you a lot—I am dreading going home. I’m dreading saying goodbye. It’s going to be at least two years before we can be together—if ever. That feels like an eternity. It is an eternity.

Would you ever forgive me if I asked Alex to run away with me?

I know. You’re always practical. That’s part of what I love about you.

Mom—thanks for everything. It won’t be long at all before I’m home. Please forgive me if I’m not as happy to be home as I ought to be. Because inside, when I say goodbye to Alex, I’ll be dying.

I love you,

Dylan

As I listen to a series of clicks and hisses after I dial the number, I find myself simultaneously irritated that it’s taking so long to place the call and exasperated with myself that I’m irritated. After all, I’m placing a direct dial call from my phone, in my pocket, with its San Francisco phone number, to another phone in Vienna, even though
that
phone originated in Boston. By all rights, it
ought
to take a long time to place that call.

Instead, it took twenty seconds, tops, before I heard Julia’s line begin ringing.

“Hello?” she said a moment later.

A little background here. I think I’ve mentioned that my sister Julia is twenty-five, the oldest of my sisters. She’s also the only one who is married. Her husband,
Crank, is an alternative rock/punk guitarist and singer. Picture: family holidays with my uptight-as-hell parents, with their son-in-law Crank flourishing his bright green mohawk and gleaming eyebrow piercings.

They don’t make reality TV that entertaining.

“Julia? It’s Alex.”

“Hey, little sister. What are you doing? Aren’t you in Israel?”

I smile. It doesn’t matter what’s going on, Julia and Carrie are almost always ready to drop everything to talk with me. I’m grateful for it. Sometimes it’s tough being at home with Mom and dealing with all of her emotional ups and downs. Sometimes tough, as a word, is inadequate.

“I am,” I reply. “In Haifa.”

“Beautiful city,” she says. “
Crank and I were there last summer for a concert. It reminds me a lot of San Francisco.”

“Me too,” I say.

Just then the door to the bedroom opens and Lilah walks in. “Oh!” she says. “Are you on the phone?”

I nod. She backs out. Lilah has been excessively polite and considerate since the outbursts the other night at the beach, as has her ex-boyfriend Yossi. Dylan reports that politics has been ruled too sensitive to discuss in the house for the remainder of our visit. Which is disappointing, really. We’re here to learn. But it seems like everyone’s afraid we’ll learn too much.

“So what’s going on?” Julia asks. “Is everything okay? How is the trip?”

I sigh. “It’s good. Wonderful, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, see… there’s….” I trail off.

“A guy? A girl?” she asks.

I chuckle. “A guy.”

“Okay. What about him?”

“It’s a long story. His name’s Dylan, and … Julia, I really like him. A lot.”

“Like?”

“Well. Julia.” I whisper. “I love him.”

“That’s so exciting!” Julia says.

“But that’s not why I called.”

“No?”

“Listen. You
can’t
tell Mom. I’m serious. You can’t tell her
anything.
”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.”

I sigh. Of course I know that. Even ten years later, the war between Mom and Julia is legendary. I was little when she left, but I still remember some of it. The two of them are on speaking terms now, but I doubt they’ll ever be close. I don’t see how
anyone
can be close to our mom.

“Okay. See, the thing is… Dylan is not exactly from the same kind of background as us. He’s… from a poor family. He dropped out of high school for a while. Got into drugs. He was even living out on his own for a while.”

In a droll tone, Julia said, “Alex, this is all very shocking.”

That makes me chuckle. Everything I’ve just said could also be said of Crank. “Okay. I knew you’d understand.”