Текст книги "Deeper"

Автор книги: Robin York

Соавторы: Robin York,Robin York
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

If that’s even what they were doing. Marinating in discomfort.

I don’t know. I’m just thinking about the best way to sweep the whole thing under the rug—apologize? But how can you apologize for sex noises? I would die—when West takes the conversation in completely the other direction.

“Is this one of those things where you mute the TV and replace it with another soundtrack? Like watching The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon, except with My Little Pony and Caroline and me fucking?”

I punch him in the arm. “West!”

Krishna starts to laugh.

Bridget covers her face with her hands and buries her head in the couch cushion. I think she says something about Twilight Sparkle, but it’s hard to hear her with her mouth against the leather.

“Dude,” Krishna says. “That was epic.”

“Right?” West is smiling in this way only a guy could—70 percent ego, 30 percent swinging dick. “I should get a medal.”

“Do you guys want a ruler?” I ask. “You know, for measuring your penises?”

Krishna makes a dismissive noise. “He’d win.”

From the depths of the couch cushions, Bridget makes this noise that’s like a scream crossed with a squeak.

“Do you want some ice cream?” I ask. Because that’s all I’ve got to offer. I don’t have one of those laser-gun things that can erase memories with one bright white pulse of light.

“Yes,” she says. “But only if you have the kind with the pretzels with peanut butter in the middle and chocolate on the outside, in the vanilla ice cream with peanut butter stripes.”

“Chubby Hubby.”

“Yes. Or I guess I’d take mint chocolate chip. But not that terrible stuff you had before with the fruit in it, because you know how I feel about fruit in my ice cream.”

“Why don’t you come with me and see?”

She gets up. I expect her to climb over Krishna, whose leg is partially blocking the path between the coffee table and the kitchen, but instead she goes the long way around and doesn’t look at him.

“Twilight Sparkle, huh?” West says to Krishna. “Is that what’s got you two all hot and bothered?”

“No, it’s that picture your mom sent me of her in her panties.”

“Oh, yeah? Was it as good as the video I got from your grandma last week?”

“Dude. Leave off my grandma.”

“That’s what your sister said when she wanted her turn.”

“Oh my God,” Bridget says. “Make it stop.”

My head’s already in the freezer. I take it out to call, “Settle down, boys! You’re both pretty.”

I try to sound scornful, but it’s hard to pull off when you’re smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

The week after Sex-Picture Day is crazy.

Spring break is coming up. West and I both have mid-semester papers and projects due. I endure another meeting with Student Affairs because my dad has decided he wants to be part of everything, except once he’s in the meeting he doesn’t say a word. It’s this weird repeat of the first meeting but with more people in the room.

The Internet-Asshat emails keep flooding into my in-box. I guess they’ve found my phone number, because now I’m getting all these hang-up mouth-breather voice mails and ranting, insane threats. I have to screen all my calls, delete three-quarters of my texts. I decide to suspend my Facebook account and shut down my Twitter altogether.

All of it has to be documented, too. Everything needs to be tracked. I’m already tired of it. I wish I could just switch off the phone, turn off the computer, and ignore the whole river of garbage that my life has become.

And, as if that’s not bad enough, West can’t get his mom on the phone. Frankie hasn’t sent him any texts for a few days. He’s worrying.

There’s nothing I can do.

I’m overwhelmed, weary of being hated, worn out from so much hard work.

There’s nothing he can do.

We stick together like we’ve been glued to each other.

We’re at the bakery when his phone finally rings. I’m mixing up the dill, and he’s slitting open a bag of flour to dump into the bin. Since I’m closer to his phone, I look at the screen. “It’s Bo.”

He drops the blade on the floor. I meet him halfway with the phone. I know he’s been hoping Bo, his mom, someone, will call him back.

“Hey. What’s up?”

I turn my back to adjust the volume on the music, and the ten seconds the job requires is all the time it takes for the color to drain from West’s face.

“How long ago?”

He paces the length of the table as he listens.

“Did you try to talk her out of it? Or … No, I know.… No. All right. And what about Frankie, is she—”

His shoulders sag.

His fingers are white where they curl around the phone.

“All right. Thanks. It was decent of you to call. I’ll … I’ll take it from here.”

When he hangs up, he just stands there.

He stands there for so long, I’m afraid to touch him.

“West?”

“She took him back,” he says.

“Your dad?”

“She fucking took him back.”

This is the possibility he’s been afraid to name for the past few days.

The worst thing.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. Bo didn’t even—he didn’t kick her out. He came home and all her stuff was gone, with a note saying she was sorry but she had to follow her heart.” He pounds his fist on the table. “Her heart.”

“Did they leave town, or … ?”

“They’re at the trailer park. Her and Frankie. They moved in with my dad.”

“Oh.”

I’m not sure what to say. There aren’t any words that will fix the defeat in his posture. The heavy dead sound of his voice, like someone has ripped all the fight out of him.

I know it’s bad because, when I stand in front of him and try to put my arms around him, he slumps against me hard enough that I have to lock my knees to hold him up.

Not for long. He gives himself ten seconds—surely no longer than that—and then pulls away.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m going to have to go home.”

“Sure.” He’ll have to make sure they’re safe. Talk to his mom. Check on his sister. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“I have to fly. Pack up my stuff. Right after this shift’s over.”

“Will you stay for your exam?” He has a midterm at ten tomorrow morning.

“No, there’s no point. Listen, can you look up flights for me? See what’s the earliest I can get out of Des Moines.”

“I will, but maybe you should take the exam, at least. So when you come back—”

It’s how he glances away that stops me.

It’s the pain I see before he turns his face so I can’t see it at all.

“West?”

He grips the tabletop with both hands. I’m looking at him in profile, his braced arms, lowered head, the straight line of his spine.

I know before he tells me.

He’s not coming back.

“It was never going to work out, anyway,” he says quietly. “I never had any business thinking it would.”

“What wasn’t?”

“It’s not something I should have let myself think I could do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot. West?”

When he looks up at me, he’s so far away. He’s in a state I’ve never been to, a place I’ve seen pictures of but can’t imagine, can’t smell. A town by an ocean I’ve never seen.

Oregon. I can’t even pronounce it right. He had to teach me how to say it like a native.

“Come on. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But she’s my sister, and I have to watch out for her. Nobody else is going to do it, nobody ever has. It’s my fault for thinking … It’s my fault.”

The way he looks at me, it feels like goodbye, but it can’t be. We’re mixing up the bread. We’re going to be here for hours—firing the ovens, slicing into the loaves, venting the steam. After we get through tomorrow, it’s spring break, and I probably won’t see him much for the week, but then we have the rest of the semester. Junior year. Senior year.

We have all this time still.

This can’t possibly be happening.

“You can’t just leave. You have to at least go talk to your adviser, take a leave of absence, or—”

I’m just getting warmed up when there’s a sharp rap from the other side of the room. The alley door is open, like always, because the kitchen gets so hot. Standing there, framed in it, are two uniformed policemen.

“Mr. Leavitt,” the one in front says. He’s blond, middle-aged, nice-looking. “Officer Jason Morrow. We met in December.”

“I remember,” West says. “What do you want?”

“We have reason to believe you’ve been engaged in the illegal sale of marijuana from these premises. We’d like to have a look around.”

I move closer to West. He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. Mumbles, “Keep quiet.”

To the policeman, he says, “This isn’t my property. I can’t consent to a search.”

“Is this young woman an employee?”

“No. She’s with me.”

“So you’re the only employee here, is that right?”

West steps away from me, toward the door, and blocks my view of the officers.

I’ve been here before, so many times, staring at his back as he puts himself between me and trouble. But this time the trouble’s come for him.

“Yes.”

“As the person in charge of the premises, you can consent.”

“You’re going to have to call Bob. He’s the owner. It’s up to him.”

“Mr. Leavitt, we have a team at your apartment right now with a trained dog. It’s in your best interest at this point to cooperate with our investigation.”

West takes the door in his hand and uses his boot to nudge away the wedge of wood Bob uses as a doorstop. “Until you come back with Bob or a warrant, I’m not opening this door.”

And then he shuts it and flips the lock.

“Call Bridget,” he says. “I’m calling Krish.”

“West, do you think—”

But he’s not even listening. He’s crouched down, rooting around in my bag. He finds my phone, puts it in my hand. “We have a god-awful mess and not much time to sort it out. If they’re in the apartment, I need to know what’s going on. Call her.”

My fingers do the work.

I feel as though I’m watching all of this happen from a few feet outside my body, like I can’t do anything but the task in front of me, and I don’t understand enough. It’s all swirling around in my head. West is leaving. The police are outside. He closed the door on them. They’re searching the apartment. He’s got to take care of Frankie. West is leaving. He could be arrested. So could I. I’m an accessory. I can’t do this.

It’s all so thoroughly, confusingly screwed.

The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. West’s got his own phone by his ear, and he’s staring into the middle distance. “No answer?” he asks.

“No.”

Then my phone chimes with an incoming text. What’s going on???!!!

“It’s from Bridget.”

“Ask her where she is.”

I do, and she replies, At W & K’s. On fire escape. Police r here w/ drug dog!!!

West is right behind me, reading over my shoulder. “Shit. I was hoping they were lying about that. Find out where Krish is.”

The minute we have to wait feels like a lifetime.

In West’s room w/ cops & dog.

“Did you have anything there for them to find?” I ask West in a whisper.

“No. I haven’t sold all semester, you know that.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about.”

The look he gives me is almost pitying. “I wish that was how it worked. Ask if she can call you. We shouldn’t be texting this shit.”

Bridget says, There’s a cop watching me. Didn’t want me 2 answer phone.

A pause.

She tried 2 take it, but I asked if I was arrested, she said no, so I kept it. But text is better.

“Surprised she thought of that,” West says.

“She watches a lot of crime TV.”

After a few seconds, another text. They’re in Krish’s room.

West has his hand at my waist. He’s right behind me, right with me.

I don’t think I could stand it if he left.

They found something.

“Fucking hell,” he says. “That little wanker. I told him. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“Not to keep weed in the apartment. Ever. Under any circumstances. But he’s a lazy little fuck, and he doesn’t think. God damn it.”

He takes the phone from my hand and starts typing with his thumbs.

“What are you saying?”

“Shh. I’m going to call her. I’m just telling her to listen to what I say when she picks up. She doesn’t have to talk.”

He must get Bridget’s okay, because after a second he taps a few times, puts my phone to his ear, and waits.

“Bridge, listen, I need you to do something for me. I need you to just do it, if you want to help Krish, and I know you do. In a few minutes it’s going to be too late, so this is the deal. I need you to barge in that bedroom and get right up in the middle of everything and tell the police the weed belongs to me. Act like you’re Krish’s girlfriend, like he’s being noble trying to take the blame and you hate me, you want me to go down for trying to pin it on him. Say whatever you have to. You might have to go to the station for questioning, but just keep acting like you don’t know shit—which you don’t—and keep saying that weed belongs to me. You’ll be fine, and so will Krish. They don’t want him. They want me. And if he gives you a hard time about it, you find a way to tell him, ‘West says to do this. He insists.’ You hear me?”

West glances at me, then looks up at the ceiling. “And after it’s all done and you get released, I want you to find Caroline and take care of her for me. Take good care of her. I know you can’t talk right now, but you promise me just the same. She’s gonna need you.”

A booming knock at the bakery door makes me jump. “Mr. Leavitt!”

They’re pronouncing his name wrong. Leave-it rather than lev-it.

For no reason at all, that’s the thing that makes me cry.

“Thanks, Bridge,” West says, and disconnects the call.

He taps open the address book on my phone.

Bang bang bang. “Mr. Leavitt!”

Bo, he types. And then a phone number with a 541 area code.

He hands me the phone. “I’m going to open that door,” he says. “I’m going to let them in here, because there’s nothing to find, and they’ll get a warrant and be back tomorrow bothering Bob, anyway. So they’re going to search, and we’re going to make bread, okay? It might take them ten minutes, it might take them three hours, but at some point they’re going to decide to take me to the station. You stay here and finish the shift. I don’t want Bob to get screwed over any worse than he has to. Then just lay low, Caro. They couldn’t have found more than half an ounce in Krishna’s room. Maybe a quarter. It’s a misdemeanor. It’s nothing.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“In the morning, you call Bo and tell him what happened. He’ll take care of whatever needs taken care of. Tell him I said if he’s got one more favor in him, I need him to keep an eye on Frankie until I get this all sorted out.”

“West—”

Bang bang bang. “Mr. Leavitt!”

They have his name wrong.

I can’t stand it. I can’t.

“I need you to do what I said,” West says. “I need it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

When he kisses me, his mouth is warm and alive, his arms tight around me, but something is over, something is dead already, I want to scream. I ball up his shirt in my fists.

“I love you,” I tell him, without planning to. It’s not the right time. It’s not the right thing. It’s only what happens when I open my mouth, when I try to say what has to be said, now, before it’s too late.

His eyes are so full of caring and regret. Such a beautiful color, such a beautiful face. I tell him again. “I love you.”

He kisses me one more time, but all he says is “I’m sorry.”

Then he opens the door.

I have to throw out the French. The yeast proofed before West finished the mixing, and the dough looks strange. But the rest of the bread is okay, and I carry on with the work, checking the clipboard, manning the mixers alone in the shrieking silence.

West is gone.

West got arrested.

West is lost, and I’m here, surrounded by a hundred jobs, objects, scents, tastes, that remind me of him.

I cry. A lot.

I stay, and I do the work.

At five-thirty, Bob comes in. He’s bewildered to meet me.

“West told me about you,” he says after he works out who I am. “Is he sick?”

“He got arrested.”

I don’t know—maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell him. But he’s going to find out, and I figure West would rather he find out from me.

The conversation takes thirty minutes. It’s unpleasant. I wish, after it’s over, that I’d handled it better. By the time we’re done, Bob looks sad and defeated, and I feel as though I’ve done a bad job of defending West.

Maybe when I go to law school, I’ll learn the right way to defend the man you love when he’s turned himself in for possession of drugs that weren’t his but may as well have been.

I think, though, it’s possible there is no right way.

When I leave the bakery, I call Bo, who is monosyllabic and a little bit scary. I think I woke him up. It’s not important.

Then I’m not sure where to go. I could walk to the police station, but what would I do there? West said to stay away. I want to do what I said I would, but I can’t stand this. I don’t know what it looks like where he is. I’ve seen a lot of cop shows, just like Bridget. I’ve read detective stories. All I can imagine is West in an impersonal room being interrogated by the blond cop. West being urged to name names.

West with that smart-ass mouth of his, saying the wrong thing. Getting himself in deeper trouble.

But then I think of Frankie, and I know I’ve got it wrong. There’s only so far he would go for Krishna, only so much he’ll give up.

He’ll be on a plane. This afternoon, tomorrow, the day after—nothing will stop him from going.

I wish I didn’t know that about him. I wish I weren’t so sure of him, so unshakable in my conviction that he’ll do exactly what he thinks is right, always.

I wish the right thing could be the thing that I want, but it’s not, and that leaves me here. Worried about West. Stuck with myself, alone, on the verge of tears because he’s going to go and I’m going to stay and I love him.

It’s not fair.

It’s just not.

I walk a few blocks to the police station and sit on the steps outside. No one’s around this early. Only the occasional car putters through the cold morning. It’s spring break as of tomorrow, but Iowa is stuck in winter, freezing and thawing only to freeze again.

I hate this place today. I hate Oregon, too—the ocean, the buttes I’ve never seen. I hate trailer parks. I hate West’s mom for being such a failure, for loving a man who doesn’t deserve to be loved and taking the man I love away from me.

So much hatred. But my hate doesn’t feel poisonous or toxic. It feels true, inevitable. I have to hate these things, because here they are, parked in the middle of my life. A giant metal box of Impossible, seams sealed, and when I kick it, it echoes. When I knock, no one answers.

Hating it is the only option I have.

I’m still sitting there on the steps an hour later when Nate’s friend Josh walks out of the station and pauses to light a cigarette.

“Caroline,” he says when he sees me. He’s inhaled, and he chokes on the smoke and takes a while to recover his voice. “Jeez.”

He doesn’t ask, What are you doing here?

He knows why I’m here.

Long-haired, loose-limbed, floppy Josh. I thought he was my friend. I thought he liked me.

He ratted out West.

“Is Nate in there?” I ask.

“What? No.”

“So it was just you snitching on him.”

He looks like I’ve smacked him in the forehead with a mallet. Totally unprepared for this conversation.

I stand up for the sole purpose of taking advantage of his surprise. Thinking of my dad in his office—the way he rises to pace when he wants to take a position of power over me—I even put myself a step above Josh. Why shouldn’t I use whatever advantages I have?

Why shouldn’t I prosecute? Haven’t I earned the right by now?

“What did he ever do to you?” I ask. “What did I ever do, for that matter, to make you hate me so much? I don’t get it. I need you to explain it.”

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t hate you.”

“You turned him in.”

“No, I didn’t, I swear. I—”

“What happened? Did you call in a tip, or did they pick you up?”

I watch his face with narrowed eyes, waiting for a sign. But I don’t need to be sharp to see it—it’s obvious. “They picked you up. What did you do?”

“I was smoking a blunt in my car.”

“Where, on campus?”

“In the Hy-Vee parking lot.”

“You’re kidding me.”

He shakes his head.

“You got picked up for smoking dope in your car at a grocery store? How stupid are you?”

Now he won’t look at me.

“So they asked you who sold you the pot, and you gave them West’s name. Even though it was a lie.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice. You just chose what was easy. Why not pin it on West? Nate hates him, anyway. It’s not like West is your friend. He’s just a dealer. He’s expendable. He’s nobody. It’s not like anybody loves him or anyone will care when he’s kicked out of school, right? He’s not as important as you. No one is as important as you.”

And the longer I’m talking, the angrier I’m getting. Not even at Josh. At Nate.

I was never really human to him. Never fully a person. If I had been, he wouldn’t have treated me the way he did—not while we were going out, not in August, not now.

He’s behind this. I don’t care if it’s Josh who turned West in—it’s Nate who made it possible. Nate who convinced all our friends, Josh among them, that I was a psycho bitch. Nate who treated me like shit, hurt me, and assaulted me, and Nate who got away with it.

I’ve spent so many months not being angry with him.

Why the fuck have I not been angry?

“Where’s Nate?”

“I don’t know. Sleeping?”

“Is he home?”

“Huh?”

“Did he go home to Ankeny for break yet? Or is he still here?”

“He went home.”

“Thank you.”

I jog down the steps, leaving Josh there for … whatever. For the crows to pick at. For April’s rains to wash away.

I don’t give a shit. I’ve finally got force and velocity, a direction to point in, and as soon as I hit the sidewalk, I start to fly.

By the time I get to Ankeny, it’s nearly eight, and the highway is clogged with people on their way to work. The traffic in Nate’s neighborhood is all headed in the opposite direction from me, so I already feel like I’m breaking rules when I park in his driveway. Even more so when his mom comes to the door.

His mom is so nice. She was always great to me. She seems not to know what to do with the fact that I’m standing on her doorstep, which I can understand. I used to be allowed to come in without knocking. I practically lived here senior year.

Now I’m dangerous—to her son, to her peace. She knows it. I can tell.

“Is Nate here?”

“He’s not up yet.”

“I’d like you to wake him up.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I am here.”

“You ought to let the college handle this, Caroline.”

I’m tired of the word this. I’ve heard it a lot since I first heard it from my dad—a word employed as a refuge, a little piece of slippery language that can be pulled over the head and hidden behind. This situation. This trouble. This disagreement.

I’m a prosecutor. I won’t allow her to hide behind words.

“Did you see the pictures?”

She can’t look at me. “Caroline, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Did you see them or not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize Nate’s comforter in the background?”

She crosses her arms. Stares at a spot on the ground by her foot.

“It’s me in those pictures,” I say. “But it’s your son, too, whether he likes it or not, whether he wants to admit that he’s the one in them with me. And I didn’t tell a single person they existed, so the fact that the whole world knows now? That’s on him. Nate has things to answer for. I’d like you to wake him up.”

For half a minute we stand there. I think she must hope that I’ll go, change my mind, but that’s not happening.

Eventually she turns and ascends the carpeted staircase. She leaves the door open. I stand on the threshold in the gray light of morning. An unwanted gift on the doorstep.

I can hear the radio on in the kitchen. From upstairs, a murmur of voices, a verbal dance between Nate and his mother too muffled to make out the specifics of.

A complaint. A sharp reply. Then the conversation gets louder—a door has opened.

“Why are you taking her side?”

“I’m not. But if I find out you did this, don’t expect me to support you just because you’re my son. It’s despicable, what happened to her.”

“What she did is despicable.”

“What she did, she did with you. Now, get dressed and get down there.”

Footfalls. Water running in the upstairs bathroom.

Nate comes down barefoot in a red T-shirt and jeans, smelling like toothpaste.

He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“Who says, the dean of students? Please.”

“I could get expelled.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you tried to ruin my life.”

His eyes narrow. “Melodramatic much?”

“You think I’m exaggerating?”

“Nobody tried to ruin your life, Caroline. Your life is fine. It’ll always be fine.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

His lips tighten. He doesn’t answer.

“You have no idea.”

It’s just dawned on me that he doesn’t. I mean, he really doesn’t.

When he said we’d always be friends, in some twisted way, he meant it.

“You think it’s … like a prank. Like the time you and the guys soaped all the windows at the high school or rolled the football coach’s car to the park and left it on top of the teeter-totter. What did you do, stay up late with a six-pack of beer, jerking off to porn, and then think, I should put Caroline up here?”

“Someone stole my phone,” he mumbles.

“Oh, bullshit. That is such a giant, steaming pile of shit, I’m not even going to—God. You did, didn’t you? You thought you could do this and it would just be funny or awesome or what I deserved. You didn’t think it was going to mess up my chance of getting into law school. Ruin my relationship with my only living parent. You didn’t know it would make it so I couldn’t sleep for months, couldn’t look at a guy without flinching, couldn’t pull on a shirt in the morning without thinking, Does this make me look like a slut? I thought about changing my name, Nate. I get phone calls from strangers telling me they want to stick a razor blade in my cunt. That’s what you unleashed. That, and a million other awful things. I want to know why.”

“I didn’t do it.”

His voice is small, compressed. This is a lie, a bald and ridiculous lie that he’s abandoned here in the space between us. Too pathetic even to back up with volume, body language, anything.

“You did it.”

He shrugs.

“You’re pathetic,” I say. Because he is. He’s so pathetic. Hiding behind his hate, looking down on me, looking down on West. “I feel sorry for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a bitch.”

“Why? Why am I a bitch? Is it because I broke up with you? Because I’m standing here? Because I wouldn’t let you put your penis in my butthole? I was good to you, Nate! I loved you! For three fucking years, I did every nice thing I could think of for you, and then you paid me back with this. I want to hear, from you, what you think I did to deserve it.”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

His expression is so mulish—I wish his mom could see him right now. I honestly do. He looks like a four-year-old.

He’s a boy, too stubborn to tell me the truth, too childish to comprehend the consequences of his actions.

He hates me because he can.

Because he’s been allowed to.

Because he’s male, he’s well off, he’s privileged, and the world lets him get away with it.

Not anymore. The life those pictures ruin? It’s not going to be mine.

“Enjoy your break,” I tell him. “Enjoy the rest of your semester. It’ll be your last one.”

And I can see it in his eyes—the fear.

For the first time. Nate is afraid of me.

I like it.

When I get into my car, the slamming door seals me into silence.

I’m in the metal box now, but it’s fine. I can come and go as I please. I can find a way to get comfortable with all the impossibilities in my life.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about Nate, whether the administration will back me up in a fight against him, if there’s any way I can go after him legally—a criminal trial, a civil trial. I’ve poked around a little bit online, but until this month I didn’t want to think about fighting, so I haven’t really considered what this fight is going to look like. How long it might take. What I even want from Nate, now that I’m allowing myself to want things again.

Today’s not the day I’m going to worry about it. Today there are other impossibilities to think about.

West is leaving, and I love him.

I can’t change that. I can only find a way to cope.

I have work here. I have things I need to do, power to exercise, wrongs to right.

I back out of the driveway, headed to my father’s house.

There’s a favor I need to ask, and he’s the only one who can grant it.

“I need you to get my boyfriend out of jail.”

It’s a sentence I never expected to have to say to anyone, much less to my dad, but it comes right out, fluid and easy.

All the fluster, the confusion, is on his side.

“You need me to—your what? Out of jail?”

Maybe I should have worked my way up to it.

I wish I could have picked another time, some morning when I walked into the kitchen and he actually looked happy to see me. As opposed to this morning, when I found him reading the paper with his coffee, the circles under his eyes too dark, his mouth too sad when he caught sight of me at the French doors.

There’s no other time, though. Only this time, this pain twisting in my guts as I think about how my future with my dad could be like this forever—this disappointment perpetual, our old relationship impossible to recover.

“His name is West Leavitt, and he’s being held in Putnam by the police. At least, I think he is. It would be good if you could find that out for me, actually. He was planning to confess to misdemeanor possession of marijuana.”

“You have a boyfriend. Who smokes marijuana.”

“Sort of. I mean, yes, he’s my boyfriend. And he occasionally smokes it. But mostly he just …” Sells it.

Gah. I need to pay more attention to what I’m saying, because my dad is sharp. He’s been talking to accused people for a long time. I guess he’s pretty good at hearing what they don’t say.

When it dawns on him, I can see it in his eyes. The lines deepen in his face, and his jowls look saggier.

I always used to think he was the handsomest dad. I’ve never seen him as old before, or weak, and it hurts so much to be what’s weakening him.

“This is that kid,” he says. “That kid from across the hall. Last year.”

“Yeah.”

“You promised me you’d stay away from him.”

“I did stay away. For a long time.”

Then there’s silence and snow tapping at the windows, because the weather has turned foul.