What You Left Behind (19 page)

As the scout's visit looms closer and the promise of UCLA grows clearer, the possibility that I might not find the other journals before leaving town next year starts to become real. I feel myself panicking just a little more each day.

My house and Alan's house have been completely scoured from top to bottom. I'm clearly not able to search Meg's house, but Mabel swears she's looked and looked and there's nothing else, and I've even been to the storage unit a couple of days this week before dropping Hope at day care, just to check again.

Meg didn't really have any other friends besides Alan, and her aunts and uncles and cousins are all scattered around the country, so there's no one else I can think of who she would have left the journals with. But they've got to be
somewhere
, goddammit.

On Thursday, I skip lunch and drive to Meg's oncologist. He's the only other person who she saw on a regular basis during those last months. Yeah, I'll admit it: we've gone way past desperate.

I try to ignore the waiting room full of sick-looking people and explain to the receptionist that I need to see Dr. Maldonado.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

“No. I don't have canc—I mean, I'm not here for anything medical. I just need to talk to him for a couple of minutes.”

She studies me over the top of her glasses. “What is this in reference to?”

“That's private.”

“Well, I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you in to see the doctor without a reason. He's very busy.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms as if she's a bouncer at a club.

I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. It's about Meg Reynolds. Can you tell him that, please? He'll know who she is.” I nod to the phone. The sooner she calls the doctor, the sooner I'll leave her the hell alone.

Her face gets softer. “Meg Reynolds? My goodness, I never thought I'd hear that name again. We miss her so much around here. Were you a friend of hers?”

She looks at me so kindly, one side of her mouth turned up in a half smile brought on by some memory, and I suddenly don't want to tell her who I am. Clearly this woman liked Meg—loved her even. I can't tell her I'm the guy who singlehandedly brought on her demise.

“Yeah, we were friends,” I say. “I'm…uh…Alan.” I clear my throat. “Can I speak with the doctor for a minute or two? I promise it won't take long.”

She nods. “Of course, dear. Have a seat. I'll call you in as soon as he's finished with his current patient.”

Twenty minutes later, I'm following the receptionist down a small corridor and into an office. Meg's doctor—I assume he was Meg's doctor; I've never actually met him before—is sitting at his desk, typing away. He's an older guy, but really well put together, with slicked-to-the-side white hair, a close shave, and a perfectly knotted tie.

“Dr. Maldonado, this is Alan,” the receptionist says and then leaves us.

Dr. Maldonado looks up. “Have a seat, young man. I hear you were a friend of Megan Reynolds.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Such a bright young woman, she was.”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you, son?”

Son?
I've never been called that by anyone before. Not even my mom. It's weird as fuck. “I…um…well, I know this is kind of strange, but I was wondering…did Meg ever leave a journal here? It would have been a regular, one-subject notebook.”

Dr. Maldonado thinks for a minute. “I do recall her carrying around a notebook or two. But I don't think she ever left anything here.” He picks up his phone and pushes a button. “Ann, did Megan Reynolds ever leave a notebook here that you know of?” There are a few seconds of silence and then he says, “Thanks,” and hangs up. “I'm sorry, Alan, there's nothing here.”

I nod and stand. It was a long shot. I knew that going in. “Thank you, sir.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “And thank you for…taking care of her.”

“Of course, son. That's my job.”

I'm halfway out the door when a thought hits me. I turn back. “Um, Dr. Maldonado?”

“Yes?”

“Would Meg have lived? You know, if she hadn't gotten pregnant and didn't have to stop her chemotherapy? Would she have gotten better?”

The doctor's lips press into a thin line. It's the first sign I've seen that this guy is ever anything but cool, calm, and in control. “I'm afraid I'm unable to discuss specifics of my patients' cases.”

Oh, come on.

“But I'm her…best friend. And she's gone. What difference does it make now?”

“I'm sorry. Even after death, I'm still bound by a confidentiality clause.” His fingers are steepled under his nose, and he looks at me with apology in his eyes.

I nod and move to leave. My shoulders feel like they're weighted with all the boxes in Meg's storage unit.

“Alan.”

I turn.

He sighs and lowers his voice. There's no way anyone outside the office would be able to hear him.
I
can barely hear him. “Her cancer was very advanced.”

That's not really an answer to my question, but it seems like he's okay with breaking the rules now, so I ask another one. “But you wanted to keep doing the treatment? Before she got pregnant, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“So that means you thought there was a chance it could work, right? It wasn't completely hopeless?”

He looks at me, his gaze clear. “There was a chance, yes. A small chance. But a chance.”

“That's all I needed to know.”

It feels good to finally be back on the soccer pitch, playing in an actual game.

The air is a little bit cool, the lights are a little bit warm, the crowd is wild, and I am on fire. I feel like Spider-Man, anticipating every shot before it comes my way, knowing where the ball is going even before the kicker does. I block each goal attempt like it's nothing, like the goal is the size of a Whole Foods shopping basket.

I briefly wish the UCLA recruiter were at this game to see me play, but next week's is going to be even better, on our home turf, with everyone in the stands cheering my name. This week is only the warm-up.

A huge grin splits my face as the buzzer sounds, indicating game over. Downey Pumas: 2, Clinton Central Pioneers: 0. I run out to the middle of the field to join my teammates in the celebration. They meet me in a frenzy of hugging and cheering and jumping up and down, and I pull my shirt off and swing it around over my head, screaming along with the crowd. After we shake hands with the other team (
losers
) and get a verbal pat on the back from Coach, half the team runs to the sidelines to make out with their cheerleader girlfriends. Dave and Shoshanna are the worst—she leaps up on him and wraps her legs around his middle, practically shoving her tongue down his throat. His hands grip her ass, under her skirt.

I grab my water bottle and towel from the sidelines and am crossing the field on my way to the visitors' locker room when I hear my name. “Ryden!” It's a girl's voice. I look back at the cheerleaders. They're all occupied. So I shift my glance over to the stands, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Who could it be? Some random girl from school? Mabel? My mom didn't come tonight, did she?

“Whole Foods boy!”

And then I see her—Joni. She's in the guest stands, a few rows back, waving and trying to get past all the celebrating Downey kids. I can't believe it. She came.

I toss my towel over my shoulder and run over to her. We meet at the bottom of the bleachers. Her face is red and flushed from the cool air, and she's got on a pair of purple earmuffs. She's grinning the grin I've seen on a million fans but never thought I'd see on her: the “holy shit, sports are fucking awesome, especially when your team wins” look.

“You're here,” I say, unable to keep the dopey ass smile off my face.

“I wanted to see you play. I figured no one I know would see me if I sat on this side.”

I glance around. No one's paying us any attention. “I think you're safe.”

“Dude, you're crazy good,” she says. “I mean, I don't know anything about soccer, but I know your job is to make sure the ball doesn't go into the net, right? And you, like,
really
did that.”

I laugh. “You sound surprised.”

She shakes her head. “That's not what I meant. I meant—”

“Joni,” I say. “I know.”

She nods quickly. “Okay. Good.”

“It means a lot to me that you came tonight.”

She looks up at me. Her nose ring glistens in the field lights. “It does?”

I hold her gaze. Why
does
it feel so good that she came to see me play? Why should it matter to me? “Yeah.”

We stare at each other a minute longer. The sweat on the back of my neck is cooling, and I get a chill. I'm still shirtless, and it's not exactly warm out here. But the only movement I make is to shift my gaze from her eyes down to her lips. Her tongue darts out to moisten them, almost in anticipation…

“Brooks!” The sound of my name snaps me out of it. Most of the guys are already making their way to the locker room. Coach is waving me over, pointing at his watch. “Bus leaves in ten. Go hit the showers!”

I look back to Joni. The stands are a lot emptier now, the sounds of cheering Downey fans and rowdy, drunk, grumbling Clinton Central fans fading in whatever direction the party is at.

“I should be getting home anyway,” she says. “See you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

She turns to go, and I know I should let her. That would be the right thing to do, the fair thing to do. But then my hand is shooting out and grabbing her wrist. She turns. I catch a fleeting glimpse of her confusion before I pull her to me and press my lips against hers. She melts into me, as if her body was ready, even if her mind wasn't expecting it at all. I feel exactly the same way.

I know I must taste like sweat, and I'm certain I don't smell awesome, but Joni doesn't seem to care. As our mouths move together, our tongues tangling, she reaches up and gently pulls the rubber band from my hair, slipping it around her wrist and threading both her hands through my damp, sweaty, knotty hair. It feels so good I actually let out an involuntary groan and pull her closer.

“Brooks!” Coach calls out again. “Hate to interrupt, Casanova, but we've got to
go
.”

Unlike the last time Joni and I kissed, I don't want to stop. I want to stay here forever, to lose myself in her soft, sugary, sexy-as-all-hell Joni world.

But I pull away. “I have to go,” I whisper.

She nods, her hands still playing with the hair at the back of my neck. “I know.”

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“You better.”

• • •

Since I was too late getting to the locker rooms to shower, that's the first thing I do when I get home. Tonight must be my lucky night, because Mom and Hope are asleep on the couch when I get home, a movie flickering away on the TV. I sneak past them and go straight to the bathroom.

I think of Joni the entire time I'm in the shower.

The taste of her mouth, the confident possessiveness of her tongue, the way she rubbed her body against mine as we kissed.

I wonder what she looks like naked.

I wonder what else that tongue of hers can do…

• • •

I barely sleep that night.

After my, um,
shower
, my head is a little clearer.

What do I do when I see her at work tomorrow? We can't just pick up where we left off. Of course we can't. Nothing has changed. Meg is still dead. It's still my fault. I still miss her more than I could have thought possible. I still
love
her more than I could have thought possible.

Joni doesn't even know me. I've been lying to her the whole time.

Kissing her was amazing, yes, and she's incredibly beautiful, yes, but we're still just friends. That's all I want us to be. I'm not ready for anything else. Fuck. I have to tell her that.

She'll probably hate me when I do. She has every right to, after the way I've been dicking her around. So maybe we won't end up being friends at all.

Which is good, I guess, because damn if I don't keep thinking about her in a very
non-friend
kind of way.

I punch in at ten a.m. and take a deep breath, psyching myself up to go find Joni and put an end to whatever started last night.

But before I can even put my hand on the break room doorknob, the door swings open, and she steps inside and closes it behind her.

She's wearing black jeans, huge, chunky boots, a black tank top, and a blue belt. Her lips are bright red and her hair is falling over one eye. She looks like some sort of futuristic, ass-kicking warrior.

“Hey,” she whispers, taking a step toward me.

“Hey back,” I hear myself say, suddenly glad there's no one else in the break room.

Dude. No.
Wake
the
fuck
up.
I have a plan. A speech, actually. It starts with, “Joni, thank you for coming to my game last night,” and ends with, “And that's why it's best if we are just friends.” But I can't for the life of me remember the middle part.

Just friends? Force myself to be around her all the time, staring at that body, watching those lips, laughing at whatever happy-making thing she's saying or doing, but no more kissing? No chance for anything else?
Jesus
Christ, man, haven't you been through enough torture?

“Well…” she says, blowing her hair out of her eye. Her lower lip juts out a little with the motion, and next thing I know, that lip is between my own, and I have Joni pressed up against the wall next to the break room door. She matches my intensity point-for-point, and our hands are
everywhere
. I know she feels my boner pressing against her hip, but I'm too lost in her to be embarrassed.

Joni runs her hands through my hair like she did last night, and it feels so good, like her fingertips are working delicious magic and pushing all the negative energy out through the ends of my hair.

She tastes like Skittles today.

We break apart for air but hold each other's gazes, breathing heavily.

I hook a finger into her belt loop and pull her hips close to mine while one of my other fingers traces the line where the top of her pants meets the bottom of her shirt. I graze her stomach skin, but she doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. Doesn't react at all, really. She just stares into my eyes, trusting, almost challenging, as if she's waiting to see what I'll do next.

I take that challenge.

I turn my hand so my palm is flat against her stomach, my fingers pointing down, and inch them slowly, meeting the top of her jeans and plunging farther, underneath the fabric. The farther down my hand travels, the more labored Joni's breathing becomes—her chest is rising and falling visibly now.

But I don't stop.

I can't believe this is happening. At work. At all.

She's so fucking sexy. How did I not see it from day one?

Joni makes everything better.

She makes it easy to forget.

I close the gap between us and kiss her with everything I have. Everything the old Ryden had. Everything I had no idea was still in me. She wraps her arms around me, slipping her tongue into my mouth, hitching one leg around my ass as I loosen her belt and undo the button of her jeans for easier access. My breath catches as the tips of my fingers hit the point of no return and Joni lets out a soft, encouraging moan.

And then the door swings open, hitting my back, making me lose my balance and stumble into her, which of course makes her lose
her
footing, since she was standing on one leg to begin with. I catch a glimpse of her horror and panic as she turns toward the corner to right her clothing. I can't ask her if she's okay because I need to deal with the fucker who just interrupted the best damn moment I've had in months.

Some dude from the seafood department walks to the fridge, looking at us over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, a smart-ass, know-it-all grin on his stupid face.

I don't know what exactly he saw, but this isn't good. I need this job. I can't get fired. “Oh, hey, man,” I say as coolly as I can. I shove my hands in my pockets in an attempt to hide the evidence of what we were just doing. “We were, uh…I was checking Joni for ticks. She…went camping last night. Lyme disease is serious stuff, ya know? Can never be too careful.” God, I'm a fucking loser.

The seafood guy grabs an iced tea from the fridge and heads back to the door, shaking his head and chuckling. “Whatever, man.” He leans in close as he passes. “Nice work.” He holds his hand out for a fist bump, which I return after a few seconds. Anything to get him out of here. “Your secret's safe with me.” He winks and leaves.

I turn back to Joni. She's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, all traces of her earlier daringness gone.

I gently put my hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

She nods, staring at the floor. “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? You don't look fine. Don't worry—he's not going to tell anyone. I don't think he saw much anyway.”

“I don't know what I was thinking, climbing all over you like that here, where anyone could walk in at any time. After everything that's been going on at school, why the hell would I invite that same shit into the place where I work?” Her voice is hard.

She's right. I shouldn't have let it go as far as it did, especially knowing what she's been through lately. “I'm sorry, Joni.”

Finally she looks up at me. “Don't be sorry. It's my fault as much as yours. We got carried away. We just can't let it happen again.”

I drop my hands and take a tiny step back. “Yeah. Carried away. Totally.”
So
she
doesn't want it to happen again.
Okay, yeah. That's probably better. That's what I wanted—want—anyway. Clean break. Mutual agreement. Couldn't have worked out more perfectly.

I take a couple more steps backward and am about to head out the door when her voice stops me.

“We'll have to stick to more private places from now on. Bedrooms and the like.” She smiles, and her eyes show some of that fire again.

Oh thank God.