Carry Me Home (4 page)

She asks me a few questions and then I ask mine.

“What’s a 5150?”

“A code we use at the hospital.”

“So I gathered.”

She cocks her head and studies me a moment, assessing me for what? No idea, but it’s definitely something.

“A 5150 is the code for suicide watch. Sunny, a letter was found on your computer at the coffee shop indicating a wish to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. Are you having thoughts about self-harm?”

My head falls back against the thin hospital pillow.

Fuck. My. Life.

T
his is the third time I’ve driven past Sunny’s street in as many minutes. Instead of turning left to her place, I keep the wheel straight and end at West Cliff Drive, the winding road that hugs the coastline. The drizzle is more mist than rain. I get out, tug my hoodie over my head, and stride onto a narrow sandstone peninsula. Below, the earth gives way to the Pacific Ocean. A sea lion emerges from a kelp bed, looks around to get its bearings, and we make eye contact. He sizes me up, decides there’s not much to see, and ducks back under the waves.

After Sunny’s accident, I packed her stuff at the coffee shop, and yeah, fine, glanced at her writing before shutting down her MacBook. Maybe it was spying. I never know what the girl thinks, but finding that half-written letter is one thing I never expected.

A suicide note?

I’ve never known anyone more alive than Sunny Letman. If life’s a crazy journey, she’s in the driver’s seat, top down, wind in her hair, making you wonder what it would be like to go along for the ride.

I didn’t want to hand over her computer to the cops, but what the hell was I supposed to do? If she’d considered jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge and I said nothing, then I’d be a bigger piece of shit than I already am. Risking her wrath is better than inviting more death into my life.

A wave thumps into the rocks below with a boom, and spray shoots over my head. Who knows how far it traveled before arriving here only to break into a million drops?

I turn, trudge back to the car, and once inside, reach for the bag on the passenger seat. The cops took the laptop, but I have her purse. The rain arrives at last, beating a hard rhythm on the windshield. I unzip the bag and peer inside. The contents haven’t changed from the last time, or the time before that. I pull out the white feather and twirl it between my fingers, then hold the amber bead. There’s a scarf in here, too, a strange silky swirl of red, orange, and blue, soft to the touch. The last two days I’ve held it more times than I care to admit.

Last night, when the feeling started, the bad one, like an invisible boulder crushes my chest, I reached for the scarf. Her scent clung to the fabric, a spicy sweetness—sandalwood and fresh-cut grass. I held it against my face and breathed deep until sleep came. Woke this morning hugging the damn thing.

That’s when I knew I needed to go to her. All she sees is the guy who hurt her best friend, did a shitty thing he can’t ever undo. My life is fractured, but maybe I need to see if my relationship with Sunny is something I can repair, not leave it too late like what happened with Pippa.

I have to get back up one more time.

I
grimace into the mirror, my features slathered in a green-tea mask. The Swamp Monster from the Deep effect is pretty damn near perfect. Let my outside reflect my inside.

Today is sponsored by the letters,
F
,
U
,
C
, and
K
.

Trapped in the fucking hospital for three fucking days. Coded as a fucking 5150, on fucking suicide watch. Missed fucking Comic-Con and can’t get my fucking money back. Subjected to fucking psych evaluations. Mimsy drove me home and fixed me a cup of fucking tea before catching the tail end of the protests in Sacra-fucking-mento.

“The boy wanted to help,” she said before leaving.

Funny. Tanner Green’s help feels a lot like hurt.

Turns out he gathered my stuff after the accident and read my stupid mock suicide note. Mr. Boy Scout turned it over to the authorities. No one would listen to me or believe the misunderstanding.

I repeated myself like a broken record for seventy-two hours.

No. I’m not planning to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

No. I don’t want to die.

No. I am not depressed.

But guess what? I’m depressed now. This very instant I should be rocking out in my best cosplay costume. Instead I roam my studio in boy-shorts underwear and a ratty tank top, eating peanut-butter oatmeal straight from the pot.

There’s a knock, probably someone wanting to hear the gory details about my accident. I throw open the door, and Tanner stares at my bright green face and pink cotton panties.

“You.” I dive backward, stumbling on a pair of knee-high boots, nearly landing on my ass. I recover just in time, if you can call this hopping-on-one-leg, extra-booty-shake move a recovery.

He shoves forward my oversized purse like it projects a force field. “Your bag…” His gaze bounces around my disheveled studio and settles on my bed, unmade after a day of rolling around in a grown-up temper tantrum.

“Great. Thanks.” My embarrassment is no match for this rush of anger. “And hey, thanks for narcing me out.”

His jaw tightens. “You wanted to jump off a bridge?”

“No, you idiot. It was a story.” I wave my hands. “Fiction.”

That gets his eyes on me. “What?”

“I was playing around with an idea for my graphic novel.”

He blinks, clearly confused.

I breathe slowly and explain in short, easy sentences the whole ridiculous situation. Something crosses his features, maybe relief but also defense.

“That’s messed up.”

I stalk to the dinette, which is covered with paper, pens, half-doodled sketches, and random envelopes scrawled with half-formed cartoons. Everything about my work space looks messy, just like my mind.

“No!” I spin around and go from angry to heart-pumping, limb-tingling, good-thing-I-don’t-have-a-butcher-knife-to-give-you-a-flesh-wound rage. “What’s messed up is you trying to assume the role of the big hero.”

He rocks from one foot to the other. “I didn’t come to fight.”

“I worked my ass off bagging groceries for months to pay for Comic-Con. Instead? I get mowed down by a Segway and locked in a hospital for three days on suicide watch.”

“Maybe think before you write.”

“Way to censor, Big Brother.” I make my voice dead, a barren wasteland where nothing will ever grow. “There is this book
1984
. I’m sure you don’t read, but it’s about—”

“I know
1984.
” He doesn’t look at me. “Why do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Because it makes your hate easier to accept,” I blurt.

Oh God, I want to take those words back so much. Instead they stomp around the ensuing silence like Godzilla in Tokyo.

“I don’t hate you. You hate me.” He digs his fists into his upper thighs.

His hands transfix me as a realization creeps in. I fight on the outside, rail against life or people until the pain doesn’t hurt. Maybe Tanner is fighting, too, but his rage is quieter, tearing him up from the inside.

“No. I don’t hate you.” As soon as I say the words, I know they are true. He’d been a lightning rod to blame because despising myself or Delilah hurt too much. The real Tanner, flesh and blood before me, isn’t perfect, and I’m still pissed about what he did to Talia, but he’s…he’s…Shit, what is he?

I get the sense I could rip him to shreds and he’d stand there and take it. But I don’t want to. All I know is he’s not the enemy that I’ve made him out to be in my head. When I’m near him, it’s like remembering the words to a favorite song.

But I’m Sunny and he’s Tanner, and that means we have history. It’s not as easy as turning a fresh page and starting again.

Right?

We stare at each other. If someone peeked through the window, they’d think we were imitating two goldfish, lips opening and closing, making no sound.

I’m putting myself in a position of weakness. Quick—rebuild the wall. Man the battlements. “Look.” I fiddle with my feather hair extension. “Don’t even worry about it. I haven’t slept well the last few days and—”

“Sunny.” The
N
spreads over his tongue like honey on a hot day while his gaze drops to my bare legs.

Muscles clench deep inside, and what is life?

His breathing hitches before he clears his throat, coughing into his bent elbow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I force an airy tone even as the earth’s axis lurches the same way it did that night in John Boy’s room. “You know me, right? Always an open book.”

“What’s all over your face?”

Huh? This is where he steers the conversation—off on some scenic route like he’s driving Miss Daisy?

I trace my fingers over the thick grit coating my cheek. “Oh, right. It’s just a mask.”

“For what?”

“Beauty,” I mumble, stepping backward with a shrug. Maybe if we have more space between us, it—

He reaches in an unexpected flash and wraps his hand around my wrist. My nerves zap to life as if his touch is a live wire strike. “You know you’re already fucking gorgeous, right?”

“I do?” I pull free, ignoring the hot lick of heat in my chest. “I mean, I don’t think I’m a troll hag or anything, but—”

“I was worried about you.” His brows aren’t furrowed with disapproval. No standoffish attitude creates a wedge of distance. In fact, we’re close, as close as we’ve been in a long time.

I shiver even though it’s not cold and reach for a crumpled skirt on the floor, hiking it above my hips, then head to the kitchen sink to wash off my face. Welp, time to add “Having sexy Tanner Green feels while looking like the Incredible Hulk” to my list of “Things I Didn’t Expect to Do Today.”

“I wasn’t sure what was going on with you, but I didn’t want to take a chance,” he says from behind. “I’m sorry I told the cops, but I needed to know you were okay.”

My anger recedes like a wave on the shore. I flick off the tap and take my time turning back around. “Guess it’s nice to know if you really thought I’d jump, you’d care enough to tell someone.”

“Is that what you think? That I don’t care?” The colors in his irises are fascinating, like watching a smoke signal and trying to decipher the meaning. “Jesus, Sunny.” He’s hoarse. “I care.”

Two little words and I swear we are another inch closer.

“You do?” Yet another inch. He still smells exactly the same, like Irish Spring soap and peppermint. How can he do that? It creates this unfair illusion that nothing’s changed in the years we’ve been adrift from each other.

“So much.” A hundred guys have given me this look, but now it’s Tanner and there’s a strange sense of indefinable rightness, as if to him I’m something more than a random hookup. A light, floating sensation tugs behind my knees, spreads up my hamstrings. When did the world stop making sense?

“I’m sorry you missed your convention,” he rumbles. “But not that I spoke up. You deserved no less.”

This gallant shtick shouldn’t send me into a pleased twitterpated fluster. How am I not immune? I’ve watched how his mere presence propels other girls into a mess of simpers and hair twirling. Take Talia for example. All through high school and straight into college, Tanner Green was the alpha and omega of her girlhood fantasies. She never directly admitted it, but I had two functional eyes.

Tanner did, too, though to his credit, he pretended not to notice.

I used to have a strange feeling things weren’t always peachy keen between him and Pippa. I don’t know what was up with her or the rest of the Stolfi family. They joked around and smiled. You’d think everything was cool unless you ever caught a good look at anyone’s eyes. Sometimes we’d all be hanging out and he’d stare at me like a guy under siege, as if I could charge in on a white horse and liberate him Joan of Arc–style.

I did my best to ignore it for my friend’s sake…and mine.

Finally, Talia moved on, went to Australia, and fell head over heels for a surly surfer, Bran. The verdict is still out where that guy is concerned, but at least she no longer fixates on Tanner. He hurt her so much, but for the first time I wonder.

Did Tanner hurt too?

Maybe I shouldn’t care, but as big as he is, there’s something lost about the way he holds himself, like he’s this baby bird fallen from the nest.

Eh. Blame Mimsy. I’m a sucker for hopeless causes.

“What are you working on?” He glances at my vintage dinette set buried under paper.

“I’m playing around with this graphic novel thing.” I fidget with the waist of my skirt. “I can draw the characters, but I hate writing.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like words. I trust action. Drawing is alive to me. Words are stiff. They never say what I need them to.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“My story?” I crinkle my nose. “Like out loud?”

He crooks his mouth in one corner. “Yes, with actual words out of your actual mouth.”

“Now?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have any big plans tonight. Do you?”

I pause, considering. “No. I guess not. It’ll be like the old days.”

We used to lie in my bed, side by side, and make up stories. I’d always start with “Once upon a time” and then do a setup. After a few minutes, he’d pick up the thread, add his two cents, and we’d go back and forth. Our plots were always crazy. There was one about mermaids who become pirates who eventually ruled the South Pacific from thrones of crab shells in Tahiti. Or the vengeful mountain lion who came down from the hills at night and ate our enemies—a personal favorite.

The far-distant past suddenly feels very present. I see the boy he was and reconcile him to the man he is now. No, not a man. He’s not quite there yet. He’s, like, right on the cusp and, Jesus, he’s beautiful.

I walk to the orange love seat, sprawl on a cushion, and pat the space beside me. “You want to come sit?” I tuck my ankles under my ass and hold out my hand like Magneto to a hunk of steel. That’s all it takes. By my next breath he’s there, lacing his fingers with mine.

“I don’t know how to do this.” The tense line of his lower lip—of his whole body—is palpable.

“What?” I keep my voice soft, light, even though he’s gripping my hand tight, almost crushing my knuckles. “You don’t know how to hold hands?” I draw him down. A strange happiness blooms deep inside as he rests his head on my lap, the warmth of his skin sinking into my bones.

Can starting over our friendship be as easy as once upon a time?