Page 57

Unconditional

Seventeen Years Old, Virginia

The trip from Charlottesville to Northern Virginia passes in a flash.

I drive, insisting Isaiah get some sleep. He tips the passenger seat back and closes his eyes, but I’m not sure if he’s nodded off. Regardless, I’ve got music for company, another cycle of Paloma’s playlist and one Macy and I used to listen to, when our friendship thrived.

In Fredericksburg, I stop again for gas, leaving Isaiah in the car while I run into the station for a pair of Mountain Dews. Standing in line, I take out my phone to tackle the correspondences I’ve been dreading.

First, I check in with my parents, a quick Everything good? sent to the thread the three of us share. I get a thumbs-up emoji from Dad, followed by a picture from Mom: Norah and Mae at the Byrnes’ kitchen table, surrounded by crayons, glue, and glitter, grinning as they hold up colorful works-in-progress.

They’re adorable—I can’t wait to see them.

Draining the last of my courage, I tap out another text, a message I’ve been mentally drafting since Isaiah and I got on the road last night.

Hey, Mace. I’m the worst for reaching out now, when I need something, but… I need something. I’m on my way to NoVa with a friend, and I’m hoping we might crash at your apartment for a few nights, if you and Wyatt are cool with company. No worries if not. I can figure out something else. But I miss you, and I’d love to see you. Let me know, okay?

I read over my words, feeling like an asshole, calling on this girl I abandoned after so much time has passed, but I have no one else to turn to. When I decided to make this trip, I figured I’d have to buck up and stay with the Byrnes. When Isaiah asked to come, though, I knew I’d need to make other arrangements. I could book a hotel—I have a credit card for emergencies—but, God, I’d feel gross making my parents pay to put Isaiah and me up.

I’m finishing at the register when my phone vibrates. My heart squeezes as I pull it from my pocket: Stay as long as you need, babe.

Macy includes her address, an apartment complex close to George Mason University.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

***

She and Wyatt have a doormat, which strikes me as very grown up. It says Come back with a warrant , but still—a doormat. A plant, some sort of palm, flourishes in a pot beneath the doorbell. I try to picture these friends of mine tending to it, but the Macy and Wyatt I know are high school kids. She liked drinking fruity booze, wearing bell-bottoms, and playing violin. He loved few things more than to get a roomful of people laughing. The Macy and Wyatt who live here are college students who pay bills and grocery shop and maybe even have a linen closet. They’re living happily ever after.

It’s the sort of fantasy I used to spin about Beck and me.

Music filters through the door: Haim, Macy’s favorite.

Nostalgia hits hard.

Isaiah clears his throat. “Should we ring the bell?”

“Yes,” I say, making no move to do so.

He gives me a consoling smile, then pushes the button.

The music cuts out.

Footsteps approach.

My heart hammers my ribs.

Junior year, I went back to school two weeks after Thanksgiving. Sixteen days after we lost Beck. My parents wanted me to stay home until after Christmas. They practically begged me to take more time. But it didn’t matter if I went back in December or January or May, or decades into the future. School would be terrible.

I survived the first half of that first day without incident. There were a lot of piteous looks. A few brave souls shared condolences. Each of my teachers let me know that I shouldn’t stress about catching up. All of that was tolerable because I’d expected it.

What I hadn’t expected was the memorial that had been created in the foyer of Rosebell High’s gym. Someone—an administrator or counselor, probably—had blown up Beck’s senior portrait. It sat on an easel, ringed by flowers and stuffed animals and track and field paraphernalia. Battery-powered candles flickered, and stacks of cards and letters extended to the locker rooms, where I’d been headed when I happened on the display.

The lobby cleared out while I stood there, staring at my boyfriend’s face: his army-green eyes, his vivacious smile, his copper-penny hair. The bell rang. I was late to PE, and I didn’t care. As my gaze traveled the mementos that’d been left, I knelt in the foyer, alone in my grief—

—until a voice called my name.

Macy.

We hadn’t spoken since the funeral. She’d texted and she’d called. She’d stopped by the week before, the day after I smuggled Beck’s nudie magazines out of his house. I’d told my mom I couldn’t handle company, but she’d tried to convince me otherwise, until I sat up in bed and screamed at her to leave me alone. Her eyes filled with tears. She sent Macy away, then did as I’d asked. I’d burrowed under my covers for the remainder of the afternoon.

I must’ve looked as broken as I felt because Macy rushed forward, stooping down beside me. She gestured at the memorial. “People have been bringing things since we heard. Wyatt and I should’ve warned you.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t want her to be sorry.

I wanted her to make me laugh.

I wanted her to give me shit.

I wanted her to bring Beck back, to restore life as I’d known it.

Her pity made me feel worse.

I pulled away, rising to my feet. “Mace, I can’t do this.”

Her expression twisted with confusion.

I didn’t want to hear about Wyatt. I couldn’t bear the reminder of what she had and what I’d lost. My jealousy was unreasonable and unfair, but it burned hot. “Being around you,” I said. “It’s too hard. Too much like before. It makes me want to believe that everything’s fine. That any second my phone will ring, and it’ll be him and I just…I can’t.”

“Lia, I’m trying to help.”

“You can’t, though. There’s nothing you can do to fix this—fix me.”

“I don’t want to fix you.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re trying too hard.”

She nodded, but I could see that she didn’t understand. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll give you space. Text me tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever. I’m here for you. Wyatt is too. We always will be.”

We.

My stomach somersaulted, my mouth filling with resentment.

“No,” I said firmly. “I need you out of my life. You and Wyatt.”

She startled with disbelief. “Lia—”

I turned away.

I walked away.

She lost Beck too, but instead of being a comfort, a friend , I cast her out of my life.

I feel feverish now, the way I did that day in the gym foyer. Isaiah must notice how my cheeks burn scarlet because he reaches for my hand. He gives a quick, supportive squeeze. He lets go as the door swings open.

Macy.

She’s let her hair grow past her shoulders, and she’s sporting a tiny silver hoop in her nose, but she’s still rocking her thick-framed glasses and her gap-toothed grin.

“Mace, hey.”

She springs forward to hug me, laughing as she says, “Long time no see!” She hugs Isaiah too, and if she’s surprised that the friend I mentioned is a boy, she doesn’t let on. Leading us into the apartment, she says, “Wyatt will be home soon.”

She shows us around an eclectically furnished living room, a tiny kitchen with a table for two, and the main bedroom, with mismatched nightstands and throw pillows slipcovered in faux fur. The guest room is tiny, housing only a futon, but still—I can’t believe these friends of mine have a guest room. Isaiah and I drop our bags in the corner, then return to the living room where Macy, a most charming hostess, serves a charcuterie board.

I grin as she sets cheddar and pepper jack, a wedge of Brie, a variety of crackers, and bunches of grapes on the coffee table. “Mace, you didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

“Sure, I did. That’s a long-ass drive you just finished. Now, have some cheese.”

Isaiah doesn’t have to be told twice. While Macy fills me in on her classes—she’s majoring in Communications—he builds cheese and cracker sandwiches, passing one over every so often. I devour them, trying not to sprinkle crumbs onto the sofa.

It’s not long before Wyatt comes in with a joyful shout, embracing me like not a day has passed since he last saw me. He helps Isaiah polish off the food, launching a conversation about DC’s sports teams. I don’t know why I’m surprised by the way they’re hitting it off; Wyatt’s lively and Isaiah’s affable, so of course they’ll become friends. I smile, listening to them deep-dive into the talents and weaknesses of the Washington Wizards versus the Memphis Grizzlies.

Macy catches my eye, and nods toward the kitchen.

I follow her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she tells me after we’ve rounded the corner. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

I come right out and say it, the apology I should’ve offered before I moved away. “I’m sorry, Macy. For everything. The way I treated you…the things I said that day at school. It was bullshit. All of it. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you never wanted to see me again.”

“You were grieving. We all were.”

“Yeah. But I left you to manage on your own.”

“There’s no right way to heal,” she says graciously. “Trust me—I screwed up plenty along the way. Wyatt really struggled. He still does, sometimes. Beck was incomparable. A shining freaking star. Losing him…if it’s been awful for me, I can’t imagine how soul sucking it’s been for you.”

I nod, grasping her hand. “If I had to do it over, though, I’d be a better friend to you.”

“I know,” she says, and then she grins. “How about you make it up to me by sharing every single detail of the time we’ve been apart? Starting with how you came to know that hottie sitting in my living room.”