a criminal. He stares at me without speaking, eye to eye like he’s looking for an eyelash. A piece of glass. I don’t look away. I try to channel everything Jake has ever been about, the fierce certainty he had with every decision.
He shakes his head, finally letting go of my shirt like it’s covered in stains. Like he’s going to get his hands dirty. Dad lets me off the hood and stares at me for a long time before he shakes his head and goes into the house. He doesn’t slam the door, just closes it. The way he has a thousand other times in his life.
Mom runs over to me, but I don’t know what to say to her. Everything I’ve wanted and planned for in the last few months is here, and I can’t move.
“Honey, he doesn’t mean it. He just wants you to be happy,” Mom says. I’m too tired to argue with her, to clarify the definition of happy. Jake comes up beside her and stares at me, like he wants me to say something. Instead, I hobble past both of them and walk into the kitchen, where he sits, drinking coffee and staring at the newspaper. He doesn’t say a word as I go to my room, as I reappear back in the kitchen with my duffel bag. I pause at the door, giving Mom a quick kiss. She tries to hold me back, to connect me to this place—this person—one last time, but I pull away.
Before I can get in the truck, Jake catches up to me. He closes the truck door and leans against it, crossing his arms.
“So?” he says.
“I’m still not going to the army.”
“And what is that going to prove? That you’re exactly what he thinks you are?”
“Maybe. But I can’t stay here.”
He nods and opens the door. “That may be true. But that doesn’t mean you have to do something stupid to spite him.” He motions for me to get in. When I’m in the driver’s seat, the ignition cranked, he closes the door and leans into the window.
“Thomas, you might be scared, but you’re not a coward,” he says. “If you don’t want to go, fine. Don’t go. But you need to let them know. You need to stand up to it.”
I only want to escape the responsibility. To drive away, pretending that he never went to war and that I never signed up. Play Lost Boy until the army or my father tracks me down. How many months could I grab before that happened? One? Five? But even as I think it, it feels wrong. A piece that doesn’t quite fit in my puzzle. And as much as I want to deny it, I can’t.
Jake reaches across me and works the stick shift into first gear. “Can you get it into second? You can drive it in second as long as the engine is running smooth.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask. Jake looks at the gearshift, still in first. “Not the truck. Do you think I’m not a coward?”
He looks surprised, almost offended, as he stands straight and looks from me back to the house. When he leans back into the truck, he stares into my eyes for a good ten seconds before he says anything.
“I think courage is somewhere between doing what you want to do and what you need to do,” he says. “And that’s on you, man.”
He nods and clears his throat, pointing down to my leg. “Can you work the gas and brake?”
I test the pedal with my foot. Even though the pain forces my eyes closed, I nod. When I open them, Jake is still staring at me. I try to think of something to say to him, some kind of validation for the decision I’ve made. He smiles, slapping the roof of the truck once before turning around and walking back down the driveway.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I park at the top of the bridge, carefully lower myself out of the truck, and listen for Mallory’s voice—for cussing or crying, I can’t be sure. When I don’t hear anything, all of the adrenaline disappears, and I crash. I slide down the embankment, not sure what I’ll find, if she’ll still be waiting. But like so many times before, when I duck underneath that crumbling concrete, there’s Mallory.
“Shouldn’t you be gone?” she says, monotone. Barely even looks at me.
As always, I have no idea what to say to her. I try to force a