Tell Me Not to Go Page 17

  “They have us on a tight schedule. Housing tours, get-togethers, class visits. That type of thing.”

  “Make sure and leave the campus once in a while so you can check out the city.”

  “I’ve been to LA a few times. It’s kind of fun. Big. Lots of Botox.”

  He tugs on my hair. “Stop worrying. You’re going to love it.”

  “As much as I love it here?”

  Everything you need to know about Jeff is in his eyes. So when they soften I see that he caught my meaning and I revealed too much. He can’t give me an answer that’s going to make me feel better, so he rubs his thumb along my bottom lip.

  And when he drops me off at the airport, his eyes tell me that he’ll miss me, too.

  “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart.”

  And with one last kiss he’s gone.

  LA’s not as big as I remember it. Or maybe San Jose has gotten bigger by comparison.

  Doesn’t really matter because once I’m at UCLA, the city shrinks down to the size of the campus. If this is any indication of what med school will be like, I’m going to be busy.

  “Think we’ll get a bathroom break at any point?” the guy next to me whispers.

  The woman at the front of the classroom is explaining the housing lottery system for the second time. She’s wearing a sensible navy pantsuit that screams college administrator.

  “Doubt it. That’s why they give us water bottles.”

  When he laughs, I turn to look at him. A quick scan tells me he’s cute, but I ignore it.

  “I’m Mohammed by the way.”

  “Sam.” Since we have nametags, the introductions are kind of unnecessary.

  “You going to the meet and greet later?” He taps his pen on the table in a rhythmic pattern.

  “Not sure.”

  Jeff said he would call later, and I want to be available to talk to him. It’s nuts, but I miss him already. I keep wondering what he would think of the campus and the people here. Which is ridiculous, of course, because he won’t ever see them. Depressing thought.

  Mohammed chats me up a bit longer and then the session is over. I’m sure he’s hitting on me when he helps me put the strap of my bag over my shoulder. There will probably be lots of Mohammeds in my future—guys looking for casual hookups as they tread water in the program. Because we’re all going to be working our asses off.

  My depression deepens.

  Mohammed grabs his laptop. “You staying at the Ramada like the rest of us?”

  “Yeah.”

  He rips the corner off a piece of paper and writes his cell and room number on it. “If you change your mind about the thing tonight, let me know. There are a bunch of us heading over together.”

  I thank him and shove the paper into my pocket.

  I let myself into my room and change into a pair of pajamas, relieved that dinner is over. The school pulled out their most famous alumni to mingle and makes speeches, and it was hard not to be impressed. I’m all schmoozed out now, though. I should be heading to the meet and greet with the other students, but all I can think about is talking to Jeff.

  When my phone lights up with his picture, I crawl under the bedcovers and answer it.

  “Hey there,” he says, his voice husky. It makes me stretch like a cat getting its back stroked.

  “I’m so glad you called.”

  I know he’s smiling through the phone.

  “Hasn’t been that long.”

  “Long enough,” I say.

  “You all done?”

  “No. There’s a social thing going on right now.”

  He pauses. “I don’t want to keep you from doing what you need to.”

  I know he’s trying to do the right thing, but I’ve been looking forward to talking to Jeff all day, and it stings that he’s so willing to jump off the phone.

  “Well this guy Mohammed did invite me to go out with him and some friends.”

  “Mohammed, huh? Maybe you ought to stay on the phone, then.”

  I shouldn’t be pleased that my manipulation worked, but I am. “Tell me about your day.”

  As he talks, I picture him lying on his bed, tossing something in the air and catching it, like he sometimes does with his oranges or apples, or whatever is laying around—his big hands confident and strong. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but it’s too difficult when I can practically feel my fingers slip under his shirt and see him shiver. Can almost taste his skin on my lips.

  He insists I tell him about UCLA, so I do. But I don’t want to talk about a place we’ll never be in together.

  “This hotel room is lonely,” I whisper.

  “Yeah? My bed is cold.”

  “I wish I were there.”

  “You need to be where you are, babe.” But his voice drips longing.

  “I want to feel your hands on me. Gripping my waist.”

  “Damn, Samantha . . .”

  “I’m the only one feeling this way?”

  “You know I want that, too. Just two more days until you’re back with me.”

  But my mood is turning dark. “But then just a handful until I leave again.”

  He sighs. “Don’t think about that now. Talk to me instead.”

  So I do, but even after we’re off, I can’t shake my sadness.

  Mohammed’s wadded up piece of paper sits on the desk next to the bed, mocking me. I’m supposed to be here meeting people, getting excited about the next four years. Instead, I’m sitting alone in my hotel room, moping. I’m right back where I was when I was dating Luke—pining, getting so wrapped up in a guy that I can’t find my way out.

  No.

  I made a promise to myself. Never again. I get dressed and grab Mohammed’s number off the desk.

  I’ve been dreaming about this most of my life. Time to make it happen.

  Chapter 22: Jeff

  20 Days Left

  I replaced the carburetor and my car still doesn’t work.

  This is the first text I’ve ever gotten from Jude. When I see him, he treats me like a buddy, but I only ever see him if he’s with Lizzie. Except she and the girls are hanging out tonight, so I’m guessing he’s bored. I am, too, come to think of it.

  Ever since Sam got back from LA, she’s been detached. Not completely. Not enough to call her on it. Just a bit cool around the edges, like she’s already distancing herself from me. Maybe I don’t blame her, but I miss her.

  You did something wrong, I type back.

  He sends me an emoji of a middle finger. This dude needs to lighten up.

  I need help and you’ll have to do, he writes.

  This is obviously about more than helping him with a car. He wants to hang out with me.

  Do I want to invest in Jude? No choice, really. After all, Lizzie already has.

  As I’m heading out, I see Diego poking out of the tomato plants in the garden.

  “Hi there.” I hold up one hand in a wave.

  “I’m picking the fruit.” He’s squatting among the vines, a green tomato in his grip.

  “You need to stick to the ones that are bright red.” I crouch down next to him and find a big juicy tomato. “Like this.” I twist it off the vine and put it in his bucket. “Don’t pull. Twist.”

  “How do you know?” He cocks one serious eyebrow at me which looks strange on a face that small, and I have to stop myself from laughing.

  “My family grew lots of things. Tomatoes and beans and cucumbers. Mom made us help pick and can all of it. I even know how to make pickles.”

  “Pickles are yucky.”

  “Not the way I make them.” That all feels like such a long time ago. Every day I’m here I feel a little further from my roots, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing sometimes. Maybe that’s what’s kicked up some of these memories of the baby.

  Diego grabs another tomato and twists. “Will you show me how to make pickles?”

  It’s sad that Diego and his dad don’t spend more time together. Except not
all dads are created equal. My father never gave an inch, but he was always there when I needed him and there was never a question that he would be. I wonder what kind of father I would have made. Would I have been strict or a pushover? Kind or critical? Maybe I would have been all of those things. Maybe I still will be.

  “Not many tomatoes yet,” Eva says, coming out the back door. “Maybe try the zucchini, Diego.”

  He runs over to a small patch of zucchini, trampling a few carrots on his way.

  I hand Eva a tomato. “My dad used to eat these whole, like apples.”

  “My grandfather did that, too. I don’t have the stomach for it. But then again he was a tough old bird. Could drink tequila straight from the bottle.”

  “Diego’s something else,” I say, watching him wipe his hands on his shorts. He’s wearing shark-patterned flip-flops with a strap on the back to hold them on his feet. “He’s everything. The painful marriage, the sleepless nights—all worth it.” Eva’s eyes are moist, and I don’t think she’s a woman that cries easily.

  “You think someday you’ll remarry?”

  She shrugs but doesn’t look hopeful. “I already saw that movie once and it didn’t end well.”

  I nudge her shoulder with mine, the way a friend would. “Come on. You’re not a cynic.”

  “No, but a guy would have to be nuts to take me, my ex, my kid, and my mortgage on. Not sure I want a guy stupid enough to try.”

  She laughs at herself, and in that moment her strength and resilience make her beautiful. I have no doubt that when Eva’s finally ready to let someone in, there will be plenty of men interested. I only hope he’s worthy of her and Diego.

  When I finally get to Jude’s place, he’s in the driveway wearing coveralls, his engine in pieces. He’s got EDM playing in the garage, the synthetic, spastic beats giving me an immediate headache.

  “Took you long enough,” he says.

  “Don’t you have anyone else to help with this?”

  Jude turns his baseball cap around and smiles. “You think my friends know how to fix engines? They get pissed when their seat warmers don’t heat up fast enough.”

  I don’t doubt it. “Hand me the carburetor. And if I’m going to help, turn that shitty music down.”

  He scowls but lowers the volume. “Lizzie doesn’t like it either.”

  “Because we raised her to have good taste. You already check the spark plugs?”

  He looks insulted. “Of course.”

  I get to work on the engine, double-checking each connection. “Did you teach Ryan how to fix cars?”

  Jude stiffens when I say his brother’s name. Those two might have even more crap to wade through than I thought.

  “I tried. He’s more the book type. And I was learning on the fly anyway, so I wasn’t the best teacher.” He doesn’t meet my eye. “But yeah, we worked on things together.”

  “I would say it must be quiet without him here, except my sister is always around.”

  His smile breaks the tension around his mouth. “Not as much as I’d like.”

  We work in silence for a while until the carburetor’s back in. Once we’ve reassembled everything, Jude cranks the engine and lets out a victory yell when it starts right up.

  “Nice.” There’s something very satisfying about fixing something that’s broken.

  Jude gets out and starts cleaning up the tools. “I owe you one.”

  “Nah.” I scrub at the oil on my hands with a rag, but it’s making little difference. “So, Ryan will be back soon.”

  Jude shoves the wrench in his toolbox with extra force. “I know.”

  “What happens if he can’t live with Lizzie moving in here?”

  I should leave Jude alone, but I want to know how much misery my sister is in for.

  “Well, I can’t live with it if she doesn’t.” He slips the last tool into place. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Things seem pretty serious with you and Sam. You going to keep that going after she leaves?”

  “We both know long distance won’t work. Plus, she doesn’t want a commitment.”

  Jude cleans the fingerprints off his hood. “Could have fooled me. You’re practically conjoined twins.”

  “She’s been cooling off. Ever since LA. Probably realized how much fun it will be there.”

  He leans back on the hood and crosses his arms. “Sam’s a tough nut to crack. She could be freezing you out. Or she could be protecting herself. I’ll lay ten bucks on the second one.”

  That’s not a bet I’m going to take.

  “You want to watch that new sci-fi show?” I ask Sam as she nestles into my side.

  “Sure.” Her voice is chipper. Too chipper. It’s missing that Sam tone—the one that flirts with sarcasm, but manages to remain sincere.

  I turn to her, wrapping my hand in her hair. “You ever gonna tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes make a liar out of her.

  “You think I don’t notice the cold shoulder you’ve been giving me since you got back?”

  “We had sex last night.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” I say, feeling like we’ve switched gender roles. I’m usually the one giving the non-answers.

  We stare at the TV again. I doubt either one of us is registering much.

  I fiddle with the throw pillow my hand is resting on. Since when did I have so many of these? I bought one when I moved in. But now there are four—in weird shapes and colors—purchased with Sam on random outings because she insisted they would make the place cozier. She overestimates the pillows and underestimates herself.

  “Alright, get on the floor,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “What?”

  “Get on the floor.”

  “Is this a sex thing? Because I’m not really in the mood.”

  I start throwing all the pillows onto the area rug. “We’re making a fort.”

  One of her dark eyebrows shoots north. “We’re making a what?”

  “Fort. Never made one?”

  She doesn’t need to answer that; I know she hasn’t.

  I head up the ladder and come back down with blankets and sheets. Sam is still sitting on the couch, staring at me like I’ve had a breakdown.

  “This is a time-honored Price tradition. When we were kids, we made forts every day,” I explain. “Lizzie was the one that came up with the idea of a truth fort. When you were in it, you couldn’t lie, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Whatever kids are scared of. Bad luck, your dog will die, you’ll lose your football game. Anyway, we’re making one now.”

  She crosses her arms. “And you think I’m getting inside of it?”

  I sit back on my heels, untangling blankets. “Yep.”

  She shakes her head, no.

  “When you left for LA, we were solid. Now, you barely look me in the eye.” I hold my hand out to her. “I want to know why.”

  She studies my face for a minute, her lips going soft, her eyes even softer. Then, she slips her hand in mine—cautiously—and I lower her to the floor.

  It isn’t any easier to build a fort now then it was as a kid. Maybe even harder, because I’m less willing to topple over furniture or break something. But I show Sam how to anchor the corners of the blankets in drawers, under heavy objects—whatever we can find to raise it high enough to sit under. I put a front door on our fort by throwing the sheet over the top and front, and I drag the pillows inside so we can get comfortable. Or as comfortable as a guy my size can get in a space this small.

  We stretch out on the floor, Sam’s head on my shoulder as we lie in the dark.

  “You Prices are weirdos,” Sam says.

  “We’re in the truth fort. You can’t lie.”

  “That’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “You made me dance in a naked circle.”

  Sam giggles, the sound soothing my worries. I hate feeling her slip away. />
  “Pretty sure you chose to do that all by yourself. Plus, what’s really going to happen if I don’t tell the truth?”

  “You’ll get a flat tire. Or maybe a bird will poop on your head.”

  “I’m not a kid. I don’t believe in bad luck.”

  The roof of our fort is close enough to my face that all I see is black. As I stare, the darkness begins to take form and shape. I’m waiting her out, because—deep down—we all believe in bad luck. And I believe she cares about me.

  Finally, “What do you want to know?” she asks.

  I put my hand on her face and turn it toward mine. It doesn’t matter that all I see is her outline. I’ve memorized the fullness of her lips, the slight upturn of her eyes. The exact shade of her skin.

  “What happened in LA?”

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  She shakes her head and pulls away. “No. I mean I missed you the whole time. All I could think about was how you would never see my apartment or where I went to school. Or meet my friends.”

  “You were supposed to be having fun,” I say.

  “I know. I tried to shake off my pity party by going out with classmates. It worked a little. But not enough.” She puts her hands over her face. “Man, I sound lame. Nothing ever changes.”

  I pull her hand down. “You’re not lame. The whole time you were gone, I slept with extra pillows on your side of the bed.”

  My body goes numb at that admission. How did I let it get to the point that she had a side of the bed? If I start counting the ways she’s already crept into this house, into my life, the numbers aren’t going to add up in my favor. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid—commitments, expectations, chains.

  “I can’t afford you,” she says. “The price will be too high.”

  That hurts like hell, but I’m not going to push the issue. She’s smart to put some distance between us. It’s what I should have been doing all along. But now I’m not sure how to put the genie back in the bottle.

  “We have twenty days left,” I say.

  “You counting down?” she asks, trying to make a joke.

  Too bad it’s not funny.

  “Yes. But if you want to end things now, I understand.”