Meet Me Here - Bryan Bliss Page 0,4

arm. “Do you remember when your brother came down here and we threw rocks at him?”

I nod. There hasn’t been a worse beating in my life, first from my dad and then from my brother the next day. “God. What were we thinking?”

“He wanted to build a skateboard ramp down here—him and his friend. What was his name?”

“Tony,” I say.

They haven’t talked since Jake went off to basic training and Tony became a bagger at SuperMart. The few times I saw him, he never asked about Jake—still doesn’t. Every friend Jake ever had acts like he’s a ghost.

“I heard Jake came home at Christmas.” She looks at her lap as she says it, and I know what comes next: “How’s he doing?”

It’s a question I’ve answered a thousand times since he came back. “Good,” I always say. “Never been better,” I tell them. Not because it’s true; because it’s easier. Nobody wants their war heroes broken. They want simple answers, ones that don’t involve an emptiness so present in Jake that it’s like he never existed any other way. They don’t want to know how much he’s changed, only to wish him the best, God bless America.

But even if I were going to be honest, how would I answer Mallory? How can I possibly explain what’s wrong with Jake now? He isn’t the guy who chased us out from under this bridge, yelling as we ran laughing into the summer sun. He isn’t anything lately.

“Yeah. At Christmas.” I hesitate. “He’s okay.”

“Will you tell him I said hello?”

“Yep.”

And then the crickets again. A firecracker—or maybe a gunshot—somewhere in the distance. And Jake, of course, hanging over everything like a cloud.

When he came home, they paraded him up and down the streets of our small town like a beauty queen, riding in the back of a shockingly red convertible on loan from Hickory Chevrolet. All I’d ever wanted to be was like him, and no more so than in those first days he was back. It didn’t take long to figure out there was something wrong. I could see it in his face, so tight and forced. The way he’d get whenever Kelly Simpson would come by the house his freshman year. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

“Thomas.” Mallory turns around in the seat, both knees tucked underneath her. There’s a spot of mud on her nose, her chin. “Do you ever think about, you know, us? Back then?”

“Sometimes. Sure.”

The truth is, it comes in waves, like a jet crossing over my house at night. But just like a passing plane, those deafening seconds, when I forget what it’s like to hear, it ultimately passes. And then I don’t think about Mallory Carlson for months, longer.

“We had some good times,” Mallory says, her voice turning as generic as a yearbook inscription. One step removed from her punching me in the shoulder and making me promise we’ll “Keep in touch” because “We finally graduated,” double exclamation point.

Mallory stretches her legs out and yawns. “We should probably get going. I don’t want them to try and find us.”

I don’t start the truck, don’t reach for the keys. How many times did I hope for a nearly identical situation? For her to come back and demand an apology? Even in my daydreams I didn’t have the courage to walk up to her and finally say: “I am sorry.” And now that the opportunity has finally presented itself, as Mallory lazily picks dried pieces of mud from her arm, I can’t escape the feeling that maybe I’m the only one who’s been carrying this around for the past seven years.

The heat starts in the back of my neck, and soon my entire body is flush with embarrassment.

“All right, then. Let’s get you home.”

I swallow anything else I could say to her. Apologies, jokes: I zip everything up inside and present her the same face I give everyone. Happy, confident Thomas. I start the truck and slowly back away from the bridge. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word as we drive to her house—still painted white, still chipped and worn—and she opens the door of my truck and runs up her driveway without looking back.

CHAPTER THREE

When I pull into our driveway, Mom and Dad are framed in the window, sitting at the table with Jake. It looks so normal, like Sunday dinner. Mom smiling and upbeat. Dad acting as if nothing’s wrong. And Jake, void as usual. I almost throw the truck into reverse and