The Night We Said Yes (5 page)

“Finally,” Jake said when a streetlight emerged on the path, signifying a street.

“I told you,” Meg answered. “Where now? What’s within walking distance?”

“Wing King?” Jake asked with a smirk.

NOW

9:00
P
.
M
.

“Um, I kind of lied,” Matt says as he pulls onto Alafaya Trail, a block away from Evan’s house. My head jerks up because this is not what I want to hear after leaving a party with him.

“About?”

“The song? I don’t have it in the car. I thought I did . . .” he says, then continues. “Okay, I knew I didn’t, but I just thought . . .”

“So you
are
trying to kidnap me,” I answer, because as much as I want to slap him for lying, I kind of get it. It was his way of pleading for me to come with him. But, honestly, I probably would have gone anyway, because I think I need to be here.

He laughs a little, but still looks worried; there are lines plaguing his forehead. Despite myself, I wonder what happened to him while he was away. If it was as bad as it was for me. If maybe it’s more than just being here that’s caused the worry lines.

“Only a little,” he says, and I nod.

“Well, just know I have backup ready and waiting,” I say.

“I’m sure you do,” he answers, and after a few seconds of silence adds, “So you’re still picking up objects?”

“Not often,” I lie. It’s still great writing inspiration, but mostly it reminds me of him. I might have gotten rid of every other reminder, but the physical act of picking up a piece of paper or picture off the floor keeps me thinking of him, despite not wanting to. It’s like I’m trying to find him in these objects. “Just when they’re good.”

“Like song lyrics.” He nods toward the sheet music still in my hand.

“Well, you never know when a guy will have the song in his car,” I answer, and he smiles slightly.

We stay quiet for the rest of the ride. He lowers the windows and lets the wind come in and surround us. We need the silence to acclimate us to each other again, to our sounds, smells, looks. It’s easier this way.

Wing King is all dark wood and bright lights. Booths and picnic tables give the place a southern backyard barbecue feel. Old tin signs hang on the walls, advertising oil, milk,
and pig feed. It’s not the nicest of places, but at one time it was ours.

“Two, please,” he says to the hostess.

It was presumptuous of him to bring me here since the place holds so many memories for us; I can practically breathe them in. The waiters and waitresses saw every phase of our relationship, from early flirtations to final conversations. I pick at my nails as I follow him to a table—to
our
table, the secluded booth in the corner where we used to plan epic nights full of adventure and excitement. Just as he’s about to sit down, he stalls, fidgeting in contemplation.

“Um.” He pauses. “Is this okay?” He looks over at me, just barely meeting my eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” I answer, sitting down. It’s too late to go back now. Since leaving the party, my heart has calmed down, but the
weirdness
of the situation hasn’t dissolved. I’m still jittery, still trying to figure out how I feel about everything.

“I’ve missed this place,” he says, and I wonder what it means.

“I’m sure it missed you, too,” I say offhand, pulling on my bracelet. I look up quickly, realizing what I said, realizing what he might think it means.

“It’s been a while,” he adds, looking away.

“Yeah, it has,” I answer softly, but what I don’t add is the exact amount of time it’s been. That it’s been six months since he’s lived in the state. That it’s been a year since I first
met him. I wonder if he remembers that, of all the times to show up, this night would have marked our one-year anniversary. I wonder if he knows.

He looks down at his wrist, twisting his watch around and around like he always does when he’s nervous. I observe, cautiously, unsure of what to say next, but also kind of enjoying seeing him squirm. “Your hair,” he says, clearly grasping at straws himself. “Is it darker?”

I subconsciously grab a piece and twirl it around my finger. It’s been so long, I almost forgot Meg and I dyed it black earlier this year. It was yet another one of her attempts to help me move on. Change my hair, change into a new person, I suppose.

“Oh, yeah,” I answer. There’s so much to say but so little I feel comfortable revealing just yet. I look over and feel his eyes staring at me—no, not me, my hair. As if he’s trying to un-dye it with his mind, and bring it back to something more familiar.

I tap my fingers impatiently and breathe out. This is annoying because I want us to talk, but we can’t seem to find the rhythm we once had, the ability to talk for hours—in person and on the phone—without any bit of silence or discomfort. The ability to know what the other wanted to hear with just a look, a sound, or a nod. He knew I was hungry when I started sounding tense. I knew he was tired when his
s
’s started to lisp. That knowledge, though still so familiar, can’t be tapped into anymore. It’s another reminder of the
barrier between us, separating the Us of now from the Us of then.

“What will you guys have?” a waitress asks, wearing the required uniform: a tight, low-cut red top, black short shorts, and a tiny red-and-white-striped apron. It looks ridiculous, but guys love it.

“Oh, um, Coke?” Matt says, more of a question than an answer.

“Same,” I say, and watch the waitress walk away.

“I forgot we actually had to order,” Matt says with a nervous glance.

“It’s usually what you do at restaurants,” I say dryly. I look down and see the engraving on the table that we used to always joke about. The misspelled insult, which is more ridiculous than insulting (who misspells an insult?), and the
PG hearts TA
. At one point two people engraved their initials because they, for a split moment, felt love could conquer all and withstand time. But did it? Are they still together? We always wondered what happened to them—if they’re still connected at the heart or if they, too, broke up. While I know the probability of them still being together is slim, for some reason I still hope for them. Looking at their hastily scratched initials, I find courage to continue the conversation. I can tell Matt’s bursting to talk but having a hard time, so I give him the chance. Put him out of his misery. “So, you’re back.”

“Yeah,” he says, a bit more animated. “It feels good to,
you know, put my roots down somewhere, I guess, after moving around so much.” Matt’s dad works for the air force, fixing computers and other technological machines, so whenever one job is done, the family is off to a new city, state, or even, sometimes, country. He said the benefit of moving around so often was seeing the world and learning other languages. The downside was never really having a home.

“So you’ll be here for all four years?” I ask, not allowing myself to contemplate what that means.

“That’s the plan. Unless I do something completely stupid. Which, as it happens, I have a tendency to do,” he says, looking right at me, and this time
I know
he’s trying to tell me something. So I go along to see how far it’ll go.

“You
do
have a tendency to be stupid.”

“I know.” He pauses.

“So why here, out of all the schools?” I ask, starting my line of questioning. I’ll go in slow, hoping he’ll pick up. Hoping he’ll answer some without me even asking.

“Um, I don’t know,” he says, looking around and trying to find an acceptable reason. “Even though I wasn’t here long, this place felt . . . most like home to me. Which, as you know, doesn’t happen often.”

“Right,” I say, wondering what he means by “home.”

“What about you? What are you doing?”

I pause before answering. He doesn’t know I’m leaving. Do I tell him now? “Still going to major in writing,” I say instead, something comfortable, something easy to talk
about. I don’t need to tell him that I want to get away and start over because I’m tired of here, and everything that’s happened. Not yet, at least.

“You were always really good at it,” he says, and I smile.

“Thanks. It took my parents some convincing that pre-law wasn’t for me. But they’re okay now.”

“I can’t see you as a lawyer.”

“Right? I’d be awful.” I chuckle, and I miss how
easy
it used to be. “And you? Still want to open a recording studio?”

“I’d like to, yeah. I’m majoring in business and minoring in music. So, hopefully I’ll get experience in both fields.”

“How do you minor in music? Are the requirements playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” I ask.

“Harder. ‘Hot Cross Buns.’” We laugh again, and this time we look at each other. The tension is still there, but . . . less so.

The waitress brings us our drinks and waits for our orders.

“An order of honey barbecue wings? To share?” This time he asks me, not her. It’s our usual order. I nod in agreement. “So . . . how’s Meg doing?”

The question makes it awkward again. Like Meg said, he’d know if he kept in touch. He shouldn’t have to ask how his friends are. But still, I reply. “She’s good; you know, as good as Meg ever is.”

“That sounds about right. Still crazy?” He smiles.

“Delightfully so.” I tentatively smile back.

“And . . . Jake?”

I knew this was coming. Jake didn’t take it well when Matt left. How could he; they were best friends. And he got no more of an explanation than I did. Jake wanted to kill him half the time, stalk him down the other half. Until he did actually track him down. He played like he didn’t care, but I could tell. We all could.

“He’s recording right now with Barker and . . . the new bassist,” I say, knowing it will sting. But he should know that after he left, they still had gigs lined up, so they had to grab a random guy to fill in. He’s nowhere near as good as Matt, but they keep getting more shows, so he’s kind of stayed around.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I mean, of course they replaced me. I just . . . didn’t know. I’m glad they’re still going strong, though. God, Jake is so talented.”

“Yeah, it’s a major asset and major downfall.”

“How so?”

“He’s so talented, and he has so many great ideas, but practically no follow-through. It’s gotten worse this year.”

“I remember that about him.”

“They’re recording because Barker set it up. But Barker’s moving to Chicago at the end of the summer.”

“He is?”

“Yeah, college. He’s really excited, and I think it’ll be good for him.”

“Gabby?”

“She’s going, too.”

“Not surprised. I half expected them to be married with seven kids by now.”

“Right? So, yeah, with Barker gone, Jake won’t have anyone to push him. The new bassist is kind of useless, and I think he’s leaving as well. Jake’s staying here, of course. But you can’t really get big in Central Florida.”

“Unless you’re a boy band,” Matt points out. “What about Meg?”

“She’s staying too.”

“And they’re . . . ?” he asks.

“It’s a long story,” I say, thinking of their on-again, off-again relationship, and how I could never have that. I could never know that a relationship might just be temporary. I still don’t know how she holds it together. Had I known Matt would only be here for a handful of months, and not at least a year, I think our story would have been much different. Then again, maybe not.

“I’ve missed them. You know, I haven’t played bass since I left, really,” he admits, his eyes wandering.

“You missed them?” I ask, tilting my head, and feeling my face start to heat up. “You could have kept in touch, you know. With them.” With me.

“I know.” He lowers his head, clearly unhappy with the turn of the conversation. And it had been going so well. “It was . . . complicated.”

“Too complicated to make a phone call?” I start,
readying myself for his answer. And as if on cue, my phone rings. It’s Meg. Matt sees, too.

“You should—”

I grab my phone, get up, and walk outside. “Hey Meg,” I answer.

“Where are you?” she demands.

“Wing King. With Matt.”

“
What?
What are you doing there?” she practically yells. In the background I can still hear the party going on without me and my drama.

“He suggested we get away to talk. You said I should get answers,” I remind her.

“Yeah, but I didn’t want you to
leave.
What if something happens?”

“What’s going to happen? He’s going to get upset and sigh loudly? This is Matt we’re talking about. He’s not exactly dangerous.”

“God, I’m not talking about
that
,” she says, and I can almost feel her nudge me until I get what she’s saying.

“We’re not going to make out.”

“Good. Because I’ll sooner punch you than let you do that.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. I turn around and look into the restaurant’s window and can just spot Matt in the corner. He’s glancing at his phone, too, and I wonder what he’s looking at.

“Just be careful. And keep in touch, ’kay?”

“I will,” I promise her, still looking at Matt. “How’s Jake?”

“He’ll probably be calling you soon,” she warns.

“Not surprised. Anyway, I should go.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Just . . . get answers and come back.”

“I will,” I say, and hang up after saying good-bye. I take another look at Matt and my heart leaps like it used to when he was around. I
will
be careful.

I walk inside and back to our table. He looks up when I’m near, and his mouth twitches.

“Meg making sure I haven’t hurt you?” Matt asks, trying to make light of the situation. I smile in response.

“Something like that,” I respond, sitting down.

“Your wings,” the waitress says, setting them down and pushing away our previous conversation. There’s no going back now.

We split up the food and start eating in silence, my last question, prior to the phone call, still echoing in my mind.

“I’m glad you’re here. With me, that is,” Matt says, finally, looking up at me. I catch his eyes and once again I’m not sure if I want to slap him or kiss him. Because I’m happy we’re here together, too, and I hate him for making me think that. So I simply nod and sadly smile, and look back down.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he admits, and I look back up. It’s the first time he’s mentioned that he was wrong, first time that he verified that I was right. I open my mouth to speak, but first notice barbecue sauce on his nose and smile at the sight. “What?”