After hearing the front door shut, Karl sank deeper into the woods, navigating more by instinct than by sight. He’d discovered the twisted tree by accident that summer, but in the months since he’d found it, he’d walked the path between his house and the tree more times than he could count, at all times of day and night. By now, he could probably get there even with no light at all.
It was about a ten-minute walk to the tree. He didn’t know how far that made it distance-wise; it felt far away from everything, and that’s what was important. The moon was full that evening, casting the canvas walls of his fort in a soft glow. Karl swept aside the flap covering the entrance and stepped inside.
It wasn’t big, his fort. The twisted tree grew out of the ground like a question mark, its limbs twining out and up over his head. He’d built the fort off it, piece by piece, out of materials he’d found in all sorts of places. A canvas drop cloth from the back of their handyman’s pickup truck. A length of clothesline he’d found coiled in the laundry room. A short wooden bookshelf holding empty paint cans in the back of the garage. A kitchen chair from the set his mom had put out in the driveway to donate to the church yard sale.
That one had been particularly thrilling. He’d sat in the kitchen eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while his mom paced back and forth, phone pressed to her ear, assuring the volunteer on the other end over and over that yes, she was sure she’d set out all eight chairs to be picked up, and no, she didn’t have one still in the house, and no, she didn’t miscount; What sort of dining set comes with only seven chairs? and What are you, some sort of imbecile?
Karl sank into the pilfered chair, plucking a flashlight from where it hung off a knot on the side of the tree. He flicked it on just long enough to find the book of matches on the shelf, which he used to light the row of pocket-size candles he’d smuggled, one by one, out of the Food Mart.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his mother’s brooch. After turning it over in his hands, running his fingers across the smooth pearls, he placed it on the shelf beside his other treasures—pieces taken from his mother’s jewelry box, his sister’s nightstand, his father’s tray of gleaming cuff links—and watched the flickering candlelight reflect dimly off their shining surfaces.
SATURDAY
Chapter Nine
JUSTIN
“Are you still awake?” Alyssa whispers, hovering between the kitchen and the living room.
I look up over my phone, my feet jammed up against the armrest of the too-short couch. The lock screen tells me it’s well after midnight.
“Yeah.”
I gave up on sleep a while ago; between the cramped couch and Stan’s voice echoing in my head, screaming about how worthless I am, relaxation didn’t feel like a thing my body was capable of. So instead I’ve just been mindlessly scrolling on my phone, hoping I’ll eventually pass out from boredom.
Alyssa pads over to the couch in bare feet, clutching two mugs to her chest. I scoot into a sitting position, leaving my legs stretched out under the blankets, and she sits on my feet, handing me one of the mugs. I give it a sniff and raise an eyebrow. “Hot cocoa? What are we, twelve?”
She shrugs. “There’s no age limit on deliciousness, Jay.”
“Fair enough,” I say, raising my mug in a faux toast before taking a sip. It’s a slightly awkward drinking situation; she’s given me a mug shaped like Appa, the giant white, furry creature from Avatar: The Last Airbender. But I manage.
“Why are you still up?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Sitting here in the dark, it feels like quiet is the only option.
She sighs, holding her own mug just under her chin. Hers is printed with a picture of that distracted-guy meme, where the girl with him is “starting the day” and the one walking past is “more coffee.” “I just keep thinking about what Stan said this afternoon.” She tilts her head to look at me, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Are you really okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Justin.” She pivots, tucking her feet under the blanket so that they touch mine. Her toes are like ice, but heat radiates up my legs. “You can tell me, you know.”
I sigh, buying myself some time with slow sips of hot chocolate. “I guess I just . . . I don’t know, I knew he didn’t like me, but . . .”
“That was really awful, what he said.”
“I thought you liked Stan.”
“I like you more.” She pats my legs through the blanket, giving my ankle a squeeze, and smiles.
I could drown in that smile.
“I’m really glad he didn’t do any of those things he said,” she says softly. “I’d miss you if you weren’t here.”
“You wouldn’t know me to miss me.”
“I think I’d know something was missing anyway. Even if I didn’t know it was you. Something wouldn’t feel right.”
“That’s how I feel all the time,” I say. “Like I took a wrong turn somewhere, and now everything about me is just . . . off. That thing Stan said about me being broken from the beginning, I think . . . maybe he’s right.”
I don’t normally voice my dark thoughts out loud, but there’s something about sitting here with Alyssa in the middle of the night that brings them closer to the surface. Harder to hold in. Plus, between the citizenship-award assembly and the internship applications and Stan’s bizarre tirade, today has made it abundantly clear that whatever I’m supposed to be at this point in my life, I’m not it. Like I came from the factory defective.
Alyssa adjusts her position again, pushing my legs to the side and tucking her body into mine to rest her head against my shoulder. My arm goes around her automatically, fitting her into my side like a missing piece. She’s always been a cuddler, especially when she’s tired. I used to think it meant something, but now I know better—or at least, I try to know better. Her hair tickles my nose, and I smooth it down as best I can with my free hand, resisting my desire to leave my fingers buried in her soft curls.
“I wish you didn’t think like that about yourself,” she whispers, her voice vibrating softly against my chest.
“I can’t help it.”
“I don’t think you’re broken.”
“I know.” I rest my chin on the top of her head. “What am I going to do when you’re gone next year?”
“I won’t be gone gone. I’ll come home on breaks. And we’ll still talk all the time.”
“Talking isn’t . . . this, though.”
“Yeah.” She sighs, then swivels her head to look up at me. “I’ll miss this, too.”
I have the overwhelming urge to kiss her. Her dark eyes are infinite, her lips slightly parted, so close I catch a whiff of coconut lip balm mixing with the hot cocoa on her breath. She’s right there, just a head tilt away.
Instead, I look up, staring out into the darkness. “That is, until you fall in love with one of your ripped naked models and run away with him,” I say, keeping my voice light. “That’s all art school is, right? Drawing naked people in soft lighting?”
“Oh, for sure. Hundred percent, that’s what it is. And you’re right, once I get my freakishly hot naked boyfriend, I probably won’t even remember your name,” Alyssa says. “But that still leaves at least a couple weeks for me to miss you before I completely forget you exist.”