it.”
Zen people are infuriating. No answers, just more questions.
When I get to Castaways, Ben takes one look at me and turns toward the huge vat of coffee behind him. It’s interesting to me that the name of this place is how I feel: like a castaway, a survivor of an ocean catastrophe, who has washed up on this strange shore—this new life that looks nothing like my old one. I don’t know if I’m waiting to be rescued, or if I already have been, and I just don’t know it. Sometimes it feels like I’m shooting up flares, and Ben is the one who sees them.
He fills a cup with steaming coffee, then slides the mug across the counter toward me. Our fingers touch, and it’s the first time I’ve felt warm all day.
How do I keep Ben from turning me into a hungry ghost? I don’t want to be like Hannah, shredded to pieces by these boys. And if something happens to Ben, or we break up, I don’t want to feel hollow after. I don’t want to kid myself into thinking he can make me feel whole.
I pull my skin away from his, from those fingers that are trying to intertwine with mine as he hands me my cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” I say.
A look of confusion crosses his face, but he leans across the counter anyway and kisses my forehead. “I missed you.”
It’s been days since we’ve seen each other. I can’t leave the house all the time and go off with my boyfriend while my sister’s holed up in her room, hurting.
“I missed you, too. I can’t stay long.”
The coffee tastes bitter today. Too strong. Or maybe I’m just getting weak.
“I’m off in a couple hours. We could—”
I shake my head. “I have to get home.”
“Okay.” I can hear disappointment, frustration, worry. Fear. Love.
I think about what River said, how nothing is for keeps, but that we also have to ride the ride and be all in with life. But this is cognitive dissonance: She’s telling me I have to both hold on and let go at the same time. Impossible.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really out of my element here. I’m a better lab partner than girlfriend.”
Ben runs a finger across the counter’s scarred wood, watching me. Those three words I haven’t said hover in the air between us. Ten days since my birthday, since that night he climbed through my window.
“I get that you’re worried about Hannah,” he finally says. “And you should be. It’s really scary, what’s going on with her. And you’re a great sister. I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”
“Thank you.” I rest my hand on his arm, and it feels so good to touch him. I think the social scientists are correct about the need for human contact. “I know I’m not being fair—trying to be with you and sort this out all at the same time.”
I did warn him. But then he brought in Heisenberg and wormholes.
“I told you: I’m patient. And you did say you needed space. But.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself. Mae, you need to have a life. It’s not healthy—”
I think we are about to have our first fight.
“Ben, my sister is very sick. I’m all she has.” I look around, but no one seems to be paying attention to us. It’s finals week—everyone has better things to do than eavesdrop on the barista and his girlfriend. “You’re an only child, and both your parents are alive. Nobody in your family has a serious disease. I don’t think you understand what I’m dealing with! I can’t just frolic around with you all the time.”
I’ve hurt him, I can tell. I am SO BAD WITH WORDS.
“I wish I could explain with numbers,” I say. “I don’t mean to be rude about it—”
“I wasn’t talking about me when I said you need to have a life. I know where I rank on your list of priorities. And I’m right where I should be, all things considered.” Ben clears his throat. “I want you to go, Mae.”
I freeze. Is he breaking up with me? I stare at him, and he must know what I’m thinking, because he reaches over and takes the mug out of my hands and then takes my hands, kisses the palm of the one that’s shaking the most. Because I hold him. He’d said that before. I hold him in the