"We survived the summer," Andy declares. "This calls for margaritas."
It's the night before I head back to Indiana, and to go out with a bang, we've returned to our favorite dive bar, the Prickly Cactus. The bouncer doesn't even bat an eye at our fakes, but he does make everyone unzip their jackets and open their bags because apparently there was a "firearms incident" the month before. Oops.
Ronan sits across from me in the same booth where Rachel once told us that there's always a price to pay. He squeezes a lime into his Corona and winks at me when I catch his eye. I grin back, ignoring the knowing look that passes between Andy and Talia. So what if I'm being obvious? This is our last night together, and I'm going to enjoy it while I can.
"A round of lemon margaritas for the table," Becca calls to the waiter. Oliver raises his eyebrows at her, and she amends, "Make those frozen lemon margaritas, please."
Oliver gives her an approving nod and signs, We have standards at this table.
The waiter rolls his eyes at our obviously underage group and heads over to the bar, where a trio of motorcyclists fresh off the highway are throwing back pitchers of Bud Light as if the meaning of life might be found in the dregs. Sitting with them is a blonde lady who has apparently mastered the art of balancing a beer bottle and a lit cigarette in the same hand. She gives Ronan a weird look, as if she recognizes him from somewhere, and then tips her drink at me with a grin.
As if I'm supposed to know whatever the hell that means. Mystified, I turn back to my friends. Ronan and Oliver are messing around with the cribbage board, undeterred by the fact that it's missing most of its pegs, and the girls are scratching their initials into the soft varnish of the table. We laugh and joke around until the drinks arrive, at which point Andy insists that we do a toast and share something we're proud of from this summer: "Because we're only seventeen once."
"I remember seventeen," Becca says. "It feels like a distant memory."
"Thanks for the reminder that you're eighteen and therefore older and wiser than us all," says Ronan. "You know, you're basically a relic now. They should put you in a museum."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment, Lockwood."
I glance across the table at Ronan, who's usually opposed to all displays of "sappy friendship bonding shit" (I'm paraphrasing here), but he seems to be enjoying himself. Or at least his lemon margarita. I smile to myself and take a sip of my own drink. Last summer, if you told me that Ronan and Becca would be sharing drinks at jokes at the same table, I'd probably laugh and ask who was holding them at gunpoint.
Oliver holds up his margarita. I can go first, he signs, speaking at the same time so everyone can understand. It's about time I broke the news. This summer, I got accepted into Emberly's College for the Deaf. He finger-spells the name, E-M-B-E-R-L-Y, but I still don't recognize it. Fancy school on the east coast. Anyway, I was undecided for a while because of the cost, but I just found out I qualify for a full ride, so... He pauses to take another sip of his drink. I'll be going there this fall.
The entire table looks stunned, including Andy. "Wow. Oliver, that's... I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner," she says. She fidgets with one of the cribbage pins, the red washed-out glow of the jalapeno string lights making it difficult to tell if she's excited or upset. "This is a big deal. I mean, Joyce just got that check in the mail to pay off the mortgage, and now you qualify for scholarship... I just really can't believe it."
I only found out this morning, Oliver signs back, his expression a bit defensive.
"I know. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm proud of you, I really am. You deserve this." Andy reaches over and squeezes Oliver's hand. He wrinkles his nose at the gesture, as any younger sibling would, but I can see his face brighten at her words. "It's about time the Hill family had a stroke of good luck."
Are you calling us unlucky? Oliver asks with a wry grin.
"Well, I wouldn't go that far. But I also wouldn't go breaking any mirrors."
They start bickering back and forth good-naturedly, and I let out a breath. There's been a weird tension between the Hill siblings for the past few weeks -- I get the feeling that Oliver used to have a crush on Talia -- so it's good to see them finally getting along. I've known Andy and Oliver for so long that they feel like family to me, but I've also seen how insignificant conflicts can simmer over the years until they blow up and tear apart families at the seams. At least the Hills have found a resolution for now.
"Congratulations, Oliver," Becca says, signing the words only a bit clumsily. "It sounds like the school was really impressed by your application."
He grins at her. Does this mean that you'll buy me shots?
"Actually, I was just --"
Andy elbows her brother in the side. "Absolutely not. Consider yourself lucky that I didn't order you a Shirley Temple."
"I can go next," Talia offers, before Oliver can persuade anyone to buy a round of tequila shots for the table. She twirls a gold ring that I haven't seen her wear before thoughtfully around her finger, her other hand resting on Andy's shoulder with an ease that makes my chest ache. The two fit together so perfectly, it's hard to remember a time when they weren't together. "I'll spare you all the sappy speech about how I came to Dusty Valley to look for lost gold, and ended up finding a different treasure along the way... why are you giving me that look, Andy? I said I'd spare you the speech!"
"I don't feel like I'm being spared," Andy says.
"Do you want me to wax poetically about the day we met, and how the first thing you said to me was, do you prefer parmesan or mozzarella?" Talia smacks the back of her hand against her forehead, pretending to swoon. "Was that supposed to be a euphemism for something? Because I'd love to know what you were trying to imply."
"I was genuinely curious about the cheese!"
"Wow, sooo romantic."
"As if you're any better at smooth-talking! The first time you tried to flirt with me, you said you liked me like a best friend."
"I think we're getting off topic," Talia says quickly. She brushes a kiss across Andy's knuckles, the gesture just subtle enough to fly under the radar, and asks her, "So, what are you proud of from this summer?"
Andy grins at her. "Not messing this up, I guess."
"Ugh, enough of this romantic shit," Ronan groans. "Go make out in the bathroom if you're gonna flirt with each other the entire night."
Talia raises an eyebrow at him. "You're one to --"
"Your turn!" Ronan exclaims, and tosses a cribbage pin at Becca's forehead.
She pleasantly flips him the bird. "Nice aim. Jackass."
"I think we're supposed to be talking about the things we're proud of, Fisher."
"Fine. I was going to leave y'all hanging for a while longer, but I might as well tell you now." Becca sips her margarita through a straw, clearly relishing the suspense. "I'm going to the University of Arizona in the fall. They gave me a work-study scholarship."
Andy shrieks so loudly that a few of the bar's tattooed regulars swivel around on their stools to glare at us. "Holy shit!" she shouts. "That's fucking fantastic!" She throws her arms around Becca's shoulders, pulling her in for a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you. Do you know what you're going to major in yet?"
"My grandma said I might be interested in med school, but I'm not sure."
"What about sports? Are you gonna try out for the running team?"
"I don't know. I'm kind of enjoying the idea of reinventing myself. My cousin said that I might like judo. What do you think?"
Andy lets out a surprised laugh. "Hell yeah. I think you'd kick major ass."
"I can always support kicking ass," Ronan says. Talia gives him a fist-bump.
"Thanks, you guys. I really appreciate it." Becca brushes a stray curl out of her face, her cheeks flushed pink with more than just alcohol. It occurs to me that I've never seen her look so... hopeful before. The stress lines on her forehead have faded away, and her blue and hazel eyes seem brighter than they did at the start of the summer. "I'll write postcards to let you all know how it's going."
"You better," Andy warns. "Arizona isn't that far away from Dusty Valley."
"I'll keep that in mind..." With a casual twist, Becca looks over at me and catches me staring. She raises her eyebrows, daring me to speak up. "Yeah?"
There's a lot of things I could say to Becca. Hell, if this was happening three months ago, I probably would have written an entire essay for her on unrequited yearning. But I think I left most of those feelings behind in the desert when she admitted that she didn't know how to trust me. "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say that I think you'll do great at ASU."
Her expression lightens. "Now, who's the psychic around here?"
I laugh, and it's a relief when she cracks up, too. It feels like moving on.
The rest of the table bombards Becca with questions about college until our second round of margaritas shows up, at which point she throws the cribbage pin back at Ronan, ignoring his look of mock outrage. "Now it's your turn, dude."
"That's easy. I'm proud of teaching this loser how to drive." Ronan grins at me, and I stick my tongue out at him. "Clutch, no less. And he only hit the curb five times."
"Four times," I correct him.
"I'm fairly sure it was five."
"You're one to talk, Lockwood," Becca says. She reaches over and steals the lime from his Corona. "Didn't you get your license revoked?"
"Only in the state of New York," he replies sweetly.
"God, you're a public menace. Whoever ends up judging Sabrina's court case is going to be sorry they ever met you. Okay, Fish, you're the last one. What are you proud of?"
"I don't know if I'm proud of anything in particular," I admit. As I glance around the table at my friends, a warm, tingly feeling spreads through my ribcage. It's simple to put it into words. "I'm just happy. That's all."
My friends. My family. What else could I possibly be prouder of?
Ronan snorts, smacking his beer bottle down on the coaster. "No offense, Fish, but if I were you, I'd be proud of climbing that fence at Jackson's party. I thought you were gonna break your face."
"If I'm remembering correctly, you're the one who broke their face."
"Me?" He drags his thumb over the scar on his lower lip, fighting back a smile. "'Tis but a flesh wound."
"I'm going to miss you idiots," Becca blurts out. She raises her margarita. "Cheers. To surviving the summer, and all that good shit."
We clink our glasses together, laughing as neon-yellow margarita sludge splashes onto the table and one of the limes ends up in Oliver's lap. I'm smiling so hard that my face is starting to hurt. Shit, I think this might be one of the happiest days of my life. I hope my friends know how much I love them.
I also hope I don't regret ordering this extra fuerte margarita tomorrow...
Talia gets up to stick a quarter in the jukebox, and a moment later, the song from the final dance of Pretty In Pink starts playing, the synth intro replacing the background sounds of drunk truckers playing pool and poker. She and Andy start shouting out the lyrics:
If you leave, don't leave now
Please don't take my heart away
Laughing, I look over at Ronan. He's absorbed by the music, mouthing the lyrics under his breath. Promise me just one more night, then we'll go our separate ways... "Oh my fucking god," I exclaim, catching him by surprise. "I knew it. You liar! You said you haven't seen this movie because you 'don't watch stupid romcoms', but you totally do!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You," I say, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "are a romcom fan."
"I'm definitely not."
"You so are! Just admit it."
Ronan's gaze darts around the table, making sure our friends are distracted by the music before he leans in and says, in a hushed voice, "Fine. Here's the truth. I did see Pretty In Pink in theaters. Twice. You can tell the others if you want. They'll never believe you."
"You're incorrigible."
He tips his glass at me. "Now that's a good SAT word. Who'd you learn it from?"
I roll my eyes at him and drain the rest of my margarita. Not a second later, an older man in desperate need of a shave -- not the bouncer, but maybe the owner? -- stalks over to our table and demands, "Are you the kids responsible for that shit in the parking lot?"
We all stare at him. Andy cups a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.
"I should've known. Kids these days -- you're nothing but trouble." The owner gives us a scathing once-over, folding his beefy arms over a stained chambray shirt. "If you're all twenty-one, then I'm the king of bloody England. How the hell did you even get in here?"
Ronan holds up his fake I.D, somehow managing to keep a straight face. I can only hope it's not the one that says he was born in the nineteenth century.
"Let me see that," the owner snaps, snatching the I.D away. A second later he flings it back onto the table. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
"No, sir," says Ronan. "I take underage drinking very seriously."
"I bet you do," the older man scoffs. He points at the door. "Now get the fuck out of my bar before I call the cops."
That's pretty much all it takes. We scramble out of the booth, laughing hysterically and tripping over each other in our mad dash for the door. Ronan snatches a half-full bottle of whiskey off an unattended table and pauses to salute a group of confused regulars before we escape into the parking lot. "Goodnight, gentleman," he says, ducking under the owner's arm as the furious man makes a grab for the handle. "Drink responsibly!"
We don't stop running until we reach Talia's pick-up truck. The owner shakes his fist at us from the porch, like an honest-to-god Simpson's villain. "And don't even think about coming back!" he shouts, as we swerve out of the parking lot, clipping the curb and a "No loitering" sign on the way.
Talia and Andy commandeer the front seat, arguing over which cassette tape to play while Becca hollers at them to keep their eyes on the road. I'm not sure who's driving -- Talia or Andy -- and at this point, I don't really want to know. I just pray to the god of poor teenage decision making that there's nobody else on the roads.
"I want to hear the Pixies!" Andy shouts over the roar of the wind. "I want to hear Kim Deal's sweet, sweet voice serenading me! Put 'Gigantic' on!"
Talia sticks her middle finger out the window at a sign setting the speed limit at 65. "I'm not listening to your sad surfer rock! Also, why don't you have any Bruce Springsteen? How can you call yourself a true fan of punk rock if you don't listen to the Boss?"
"Ugh, you're as bad as your brother. Look in the glove-box, I'm pretty sure Born in the U.S.A. is around there somewhere."
Seconds later, 'Dancing in the Dark' blasts into the night. Talia whoops with joy. "You can't start a fire without a spark!" Meanwhile, the rest of us hang on for dear life in the truck bed, wind blasting through our hair until we all look like backup singers for AC/DC, the orange glow of the street lights blurring drunkenly around us. Ronan passes the whiskey to Oliver, who makes a face as he drinks it directly from the bottle. Becca is laughing so hard I think she's crying. I just smile and tilt my head up to look at the stars.
Then Andy sticks her head out the window and shouts, "Who wants fries?"
Ten minutes later, we arrive -- miraculously in one piece -- at a 24/7 fast food place on the side of the highway. The poor night-shift waitress looks horrified as we stagger into the restaurant, digging through our pockets for spare change and shouting at Ronan to put the whiskey away, or in Becca's words: "Do you want to get the cops called on us again?"
We shove into line to order. "More malt," Ronan yells over the counter, "I said more malt in my shake, I want to taste the grains!"
"That's disgusting," Andy says, still laughing. "More malt for me too, please!"
We wind up taking over the picnic benches outside, passing around greasy baskets of french fries and milkshakes already dripping with condensation in the summer heat. I introduce Ronan to the great Midwestern tradition of dipping fries into your shake, and he shakes his head at me like I'm crazy, but agrees to give it a try if I admit that Dairy Queen is better than Culver's. I swear that I'll defend my Indiana ice-cream to the death, and eventually he gives up and resorts to sneaking fries into the shake when I'm not looking.
It's the perfect night. The breeze is cool, the grasshoppers are chirping in the grass, and I can hear Run-D.M.C playing on the kitchen radio. The girls are trying to see if Oliver's hair is long enough to braid into pig-tails. There's the sound of a door slamming shut, and a line cook steps outside for a cigarette, the acrid smoke mixing with the smell of fried food and rain clouds on the horizon.
I turn to look at Ronan. "I can't believe you're going back to New York tomorrow."
I don't know what I expect him to say back. Joke's on you, I'm never going back! Take me to your Indiana amber waves of grain! Of course he doesn't. Instead, he replies, "Yeah, me either. I've been in the desert for so long, I think I've forgotten what life is like in the big city." He nabs the milkshake straw from me. "Yeehaw."
"Yeehaw? You'd make a terrible cowboy."
"Are you kidding me? I'd make a great cowboy. I know all the words to 'Desperado'. I can stare off into the sunset and say shit like, 'the winds bear strange tidings from the west', then sadly play my harmonica."
"Have you ever seen a Western before?"
"Don't be pedantic." Ronan passes me the fries. "Want the last one?"
I drag the fry across the basket to scrape up the rest of the salt. He crinkles his nose at me, his disgusted expression all too familiar from our time at camp. "Hey," I say, my mouth still full of fries, "Do you remember the day we met at Lightlake?"
"Oh, are we taking a stroll down memory lane? Of course I remember. You managed to sneak in a Walkman, and I thought you were gonna get us both kicked out of camp."
"I thought you were going to kill me in my sleep."
"I might've considered it. Once or twice."
I snatch the straw back, savoring the taste of our strawberry milkshake. "Do you ever miss it? Alaska? The lake, the mountains?"
Ronan glances over at me. It's too dark to tell if he's smiling or not. "No. Do you?"
"Sometimes. A little."
"Tequila makes you sentimental."
"Pass me the whiskey, then."
He laughs and tosses me the half-empty handle. Unsurprisingly, the whiskey burns going down. After I take a pull, I pass the bottle back to him, trying not to think too hard about his mouth being exactly where mine was a few moments ago.
"Actually," Ronan says, his voice a bit raspy from the alcohol, "I do think about it. Alaska's hard to forget. But I think I liked the company more than the place."
I bump my knee against his. "Aren't you glad you didn't smother me in my sleep?"
"Perhaps. Count your blessings, Fish."
Eventually, all of us end up in a heap on the same picnic table, pointing out shooting stars ("That was a firefly, Oliver!") and passing around the whiskey as we play all the drinking games we can think of, including a few of our own invention.
Talia ends up beating Ronan by one point at Never Have I Ever. "You were objectively wrong about the last question," she claims, yanking the bottle out of his hands, "and frankly, I'm concerned for your brain cells."
"Weed isn't a drug," Ronan protests, causing Becca to practically cackle with laughter. "What? I'm being serious! It's like alcohol or smoking, they're not really drugs, that's just what the government wants you to think..."
Andy wheezes. "You're out of your mind."
"Next you're going to tell me that mushrooms are a drug. They're literally a plant!"
"First of all, mushrooms aren't plants, and second of all, why are you doing shrooms? You're weird enough already."
"I'm not doing shrooms!" Ronan exclaims. "Okay, fine, I might've done them once at a party, but that was just one time, so it doesn't count!"
"Might've?"
"I'm not explaining myself to you!"
When the game ends, nobody wants to get up, so we rest our backs against the splintery table top and let Oliver point out all the constellations overhead. I reach for the whiskey, but the bottle is empty. (Which is probably the universe telling me to switch to water.) There's an elbow digging into my ribcage -- I think it's Andy's. Ronan's face is so close to mine, I can smell the minty stuff he puts in his hair. He can never sit still. Right now, his fingers are tapping out what sounds like a well-known drum solo, a counterpoint to the hip-hop still blasting from the kitchen radio.
Then, out of the blue, Ronan announces, "I want a Coke." He points a finger at Talia. "Do not make a drug joke about that. Low hanging fruit. Who's coming with me?"
"I'm scared to stand up," whispers Andy, still loud enough for the whole table to hear. "That's when you realize how drunk you are. It's like breaking the seal, but in your brain."
"You're definitely not driving us home," Talia whispers back. She starts to giggle.
"And you are? I bet you couldn't even walk in a straight line right now."
"Don't tempt me with a good time, officer."
"Threaten, not tempt, it's don't threaten me with a good time! Jeez, how many margaritas did you have?"
"We were supposed to keep count?"
"That's it," Andy groans. "We're going to be stranded on the side of the highway until one of us sobers up."
I peel my back off the picnic table and blink a few times to clear my vision. "I can call Sarah to pick us up. There's a payphone inside, right?"
"There's an ice-cold soda calling my name inside," Ronan says impatiently. "Let's go."
I manage to hop off the table and follow him into the restaurant. The waitress looks like she wants to slap us with her mop, but lets out a sigh of relief when all Ronan does is order a drink. I meander over to the payphone and use my last quarter to call the ranch. Sarah isn't pleased about being woken up at two in the morning, but she promises she'll drive over and pick up our "sorry drunk asses" (her words, not mine) on the condition that I owe her a favor to be called in at a later date. Also Henry is going with her. Tragic.
After I hang up, I wander outside to find Ronan, pulling my Letterman jacket tighter around me to fend off the night chill. It only takes a minute. He's standing alone in the parking lot, leaning against Talia's truck as he sips his Coke, making an admirable effort to appear sober.
"Loitering's a crime, you know," I say, striding over to his side.
He shrugs, devil-may-care as usual. "Add it to my record."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Trying not to think about how badly I need a cigarette."
"Ah." I lean against the car, the metal still warm from yesterday's sunlight. If I wanted to -- if I dared to -- I could reach over and put my hand in his back pocket, the way guys do in the movies. But I don't. I'm not that drunk. "How's cold turkey treating you?"
"Like a bitch. But you see, I have this friend that hates it when I smoke. So."
"Sounds like a very sensible friend."
"He has his moments. I let him stick around." Ronan glances over at me, and I get the nonsensical urge to fidget with the pins on my jacket. I forgot how intense his gaze can be when it's not obscured by sunglasses. His eyes are so dark, you can barely make out his pupils. Curiously, he says, "Were you gonna ask me something?"
"What?"
"You have that look on your face." He gestures aimlessly at me with his Coke, as if that answers everything. "You do this scrunchy thing with your eyebrows. So were you gonna ask me a question or not?"
"I guess... I was wondering if I could kiss you."
I'm a little taken aback by my own bluntness. Maybe I am that drunk. But I'm pretty sure that even if I hadn't started tonight off with an extra fuerte margarita, I'd still be asking him the same question. I've wanted to for a while.
"You were wondering?" Ronan echoes softly. His dark eyes roam over my face, taking my measure. I can't tell if I've made the biggest mistake of my life or finally gotten this right -- whatever this is. (I'll let the whiskey figure that one out.) After a moment that feels longer than a summer in Alaska, I open my mouth to apologize, but I don't get very far before Ronan wraps a hand around my neck and pulls me down to kiss him.
And, well. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but I think my heart skips a beat.
He kisses me and all I can think is: I can't believe I waited an entire summer for this. Three months! I spent three months working up the confidence to say eight words! It's so ridiculous that it almost makes me laugh, and then that thought slips away and all I can think is: nobody has ever kissed me like this before. As if the world might end if we're not as close as possible. It's as thrilling as breaking eighty on the highway, as breathtaking as rolling all the windows down on a cold desert night.
The touch of Ronan's fingers on my neck makes my pulse leap. I don't know where to put my own hands, so I just let them settle on his waist and draw him in towards me. He makes a small, surprised sound (that I'll probably be shamelessly thinking about for the next three months), which must mean that I'm doing something right.
Right?
I draw my head back an inch. "Is this --"
"I'm gonna need you not to talk for a few minutes," Ronan says. Is it just me, or does he sound out of breath? Then he pushes me up against the truck, his leg moving into the space between my own. I feel his t-shirt twist in my fingers. "If that's alright with you?"
"It's alright," I say, also a bit breathless. It's more than alright. My heart is pounding faster than it does when I'm racing the eight-hundred. How am I supposed to kiss anyone else after this, knowing it can be like this?
I don't want to forget anything about this moment, so I close my eyes and try to memorize all of it: the taste of whiskey in Ronan's mouth; the way his touch, usually so reserved, is anything but gentle; the heat of his skin under my palms; his t-shirt tangled in my palms. The way it feels when his body moves against mine. I try not to think about how this might be our last night together, but it's easy to forget about that when Ronan puts his hands on my shoulders and pulls me in closer.
There's nothing I can say that won't ruin this moment, so I stay quiet and let him kiss me. And I let myself kiss him back.
I'm starting to wonder about all the things we could do if we were alone -- my mind starts to get very creative -- when car headlights flash across the parking lot, dragging me back to the present. Ronan mutters something under his breath and pushes away from the truck. I immediately feel a rush of cold air fill the space where he used to be, and wrap my arms around my chest, teeth chattering.
"Do you think that's your sister?" Ronan asks, carelessly running a hand down his shirt to smooth out some of the creases. His voice is steady, but even in the dim glow of the streetlights, I can see two pink spots burning high on his cheekbones. I bite back a grin at the realization that he's flustered. It's a new look on him.
"No, she said she was going to borrow Floyd's Dodge." It feels kind of weird to be talking about something so normal after what just happened, but I should've known that Ronan wouldn't want a heart-to-heart. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if rivers run backward before he ever decides to bring up something as trivial as his feelings.
Ronan nods and leans back against the truck. I don't know what else to do except follow his lead. I'm still feeling the effects of that margarita, and I'm pretty sure that if I try to start a conversation right now, I'll end up saying something I regret.
Fortunately, Ronan breaks the silence for me. "In the grand scheme of things," he muses, "that was probably worth almost selling my soul for."
"Don't joke about that."
"Why not? It's my soul, and I think it's funny."
"It makes you sound like you have some sort of death wish."
"Shockingly enough, I don't. So you can rest assured that I'm not going to bargain my soul away to an evil real estate agent anytime soon."
"I'd prefer if you didn't bargain your soul away to anyone!"
"You can stop worrying about my soul, Finn. It's still in one piece." Ronan grins at me, and some of the night's chill fades away. "For now."
"Oh, shut up," I say, putting my hand on the small of his back and pulling him in for one last kiss.
***
The summer ends as it began: in an airport terminal, with me checking my watch. I frown at a slight crack running through the glass watch-face. I don't know how I didn't notice it before. I must've broken it falling over the fence at Jackson's party -- or maybe I'm just destined to never make it through the summer with an intact watch.
Three months have passed since the last time I was in an airport, waiting for Sarah to arrive from England and wondering if I was living my life in a circle. It felt like I was looping back to the start of the past summer -- back to when I boarded a flight to Alaska with little more than a suitcase and a desperate hope that all the damage I'd done would be gone by the time I returned. I had no idea what I was getting myself into or what to expect. It felt like that nerve-racking moment before you try to dive under a big wave to avoid getting pummeled.
Sometimes I still feel like I'm waiting for that big wave to hit. But at least now I'm not waiting alone. Ronan stands by my side, holding the duffel bag I loaned him and tapping his foot anxiously as he checks the list of flight departures.
"Where the hell is JFK?" he demands.
"I'm assuming you mean the airport," I say, glancing over the list. A desperate part of me hopes that his flight has been canceled and he'll be forced to drive back to Indiana with me and my family in the newly-repaired Winnebago. (Yes, you heard me right -- I'm doomed to spend another three days trapped in the RV with the Twins. I'm not sure if any of us are going to make it out alive.)
"No, I'm talking about our dearly beloved late president. Where the hell is my flight to New York? I don't see it anywhere."
A stranger shoulders past me to get a better look at the list of departures. They don't bother to say "excuse me" or even a proper Midwesterner "oop" before jabbing their finger at a flight at the top of the list -- San Bernardino to JFK, leaving in about an hour.
The stranger takes another drag on their cigarette before speed-walking away, their suitcase wheels nearly taking off my big toe. As I wince and hop up and down on one foot, Ronan sighs almost wistfully and says, "That was so rude. God, I miss the city."
"What is wrong with New Yorkers?" I ask, as we start walking in the direction of the gate. "Seriously, is it that hard to remember your manners?"
"New Yorkers aren't big on manners. Although, I have to say that we are very good at ignoring all the weird shit that happens around us. One night when I was taking the metro home from a party, I saw a rat run across the train with a bottle of Sambuca in its mouth... and I swear, nobody even looked up, because there was already some guy doing a striptease on one of the poles..."
I let Ronan serenade me with stories about New York until we get to the gate, where travelers are lining up at the kiosk to get their tickets checked. Ronan starts to dig through his duffel bag, muttering and cursing about his "goddamn ticket... I swear I just saw it", and suddenly the reality of the situation sinks in. This is actually happening. Ronan is getting on the plane, and I can't go with him.
He's getting on the plane, and I don't know when I'll ever see him again.
Finally, Ronan manages to find his ticket, holding it up in the air like Bender in the final scene of The Breakfast Club. His triumphant grin fades when he turns to face me.
"Ronan, I --" Words are useless in a moment like this, so instead, I pull him into a tight hug. I feel his arms stiffen awkwardly at his sides. Then he hugs me back.
I close my eyes, not really caring if we're holding up traffic, and try to memorize how it feels to clasp my hand on the back of his neck, so that I can remember when he's gone.
So that I can remember this moment. For the first time all summer, when it finally felt like everything was okay.
"I gotta go," Ronan says, his words slightly muffled by my shoulder, "or I'll miss my flight. And then I don't think I'll ever leave."
"Miss your flight," I tell him. "You don't need to leave."
"I can't stay here."
"You could."
"I can't promise that I'll stay," Ronan says, as gently as he can. "But I can promise that I'll come back. I just have to take care of a few things first."
"What's gonna happen to us in a year? When we go to different colleges?"
"Who said anything about going to college?"
We break apart, and Ronan gives me a sad sort of smile. I wish he would miss his flight and every flight after that. I wish he didn't have to testify at the trial, even though I know it's the right thing to do.
"You haven't started applying to schools yet?" I ask him, even though I already know the answer. Ronan has made it clear that his life and college are located on vastly different trajectories that will likely never intersect. I can't blame him -- sometimes, the thought of enduring four more years of school makes me dizzy. I could barely handle three years of high school. What the hell is going to happen in college?"
"Nah. But nothing's impossible, right?"
"Tell that to your guidance counselor."
Ronan just grins at me. Briefly, I let myself entertain the idea of attending the same school together, though I know there's a slim chance of that ever happening. Even if I could convince him to go to college, I doubt he'd enjoy it, and that would be even worse than not seeing each other for a year. Our trajectories are veering apart, too.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual, and not like I'm on the verge of a full-on airport breakdown. "Don't be a stranger."
"I'll visit. New York isn't too far away."
"Only a few hundred miles."
"Practically nothing."
"You know where to find me."
Ronan tries to smooth out his hair, but only succeeds in making it look spikier than before. "I know. Indiana. America's heartland. The great Midwest. How could I ever forget?"
"C'mon, leave my state alone. You know that midwesterners are too polite to defend themselves."
"I could drive to Indiana. See the sights. Did you know that I own a Ferrari?"
I can't tell if he's kidding or not. "Don't take I-70. There's awful traffic."
"I don't really care about the traffic, Finn."
"I... I know. That's not what I meant." I still can't believe we're saying goodbye. That I might not see Ronan for months, or even longer if the trial drags on. It's too much. I don't give a shit if I'm causing a scene -- I pull him into another hug, blinking away the flood of tears that threatens to spill down my face. "I'm gonna miss you so much. Every day."
"It's only temporary," Ronan says, but his voice is rough.
"I don't think I can deal with temporary."
"We've made it through a lot worse." He digs through the pockets of his army jacket -- no longer covered in blood stains, thanks to Andy's stepmom and her no-questions-asked laundry policy -- and hands me a cassette tape. Reluctantly, I let go of him to get a better look. "Consider this my apology for stealing your Walkman. You can give it a listen when you're watching inspirational basketball movies or harvesting corn or doing whatever it is you Indianans do for fun."
It's a mixtape, labeled simply in Ronan's messy handwriting: Summer 1989. I flip it over, checking out the list of songs on Side A and B. There are tiny pink dolphins doodled on the label. A grin spreads across my face.
"It's not just Metallica," Ronan assures me. "Though I did include a few songs."
"Couldn't help yourself?"
"It's called taste, Fish. Enlighten yourself."
"I'll listen to it every day. Until I wear out the tape." I force myself to take a step back. I know that I have to let Ronan go now. He said he would come back. He promised, and that has to count for something. "Then you'll have to make me a new mixtape. Okay?"
"Okay," Ronan says. He smiles at me. "See you around, Fish."
"See you around," I say. And I mean it. I mean it all and so much more.
The End... For Now :)