The Natural History of Us Page 10

  Strangely enough, I was content with our secret friendship. Oh, sure, I daydreamed about him grabbing me up in the cafeteria, unable to deny his feelings anymore, and kissing me senseless in front of God and everyone. But it’s what would come after the kiss that kept me from truly wanting that to play out. The constant stares, the endless questions, the confrontation with Lauren… that, I wanted no part of. I was still getting my feet wet with not being homeschooled, and shooting to instant fame was not on my to-do list.

  Besides, other than simple flirting, Justin gave no signs he even wanted to kiss me. Some days, he barely acknowledged we were friends, letting two, three days go by without a single text, and I’d wonder if he’d had his fill with me. But then, out of the blue, he’d reach out again. Mostly at night, a few texts even during school hours, and they always sucked me back in. They also hinted at a hidden loneliness, a need for connection, something I understood perhaps better than anyone. I wanted to be the one who gave that to him.

  Also, let’s be real—I had a mad crush on the guy. There was no use in denying it. I was falling for him. Hard.

  The hallway opened into a sunken living room with a huge television, plush sofa, and lots of baubles that looked über expensive and breakable. Other than a soft blanket sitting in a heap on the sofa, the rest of the room actually felt extremely… cold. Desolate. I frowned and glanced at the enormous kitchen visible just beyond.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I said, because, really, it was. Uncomfortable, yes, but it was like HGTV had exploded and dropped all things posh and overpriced in the Carter house. Justin shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable.

  “Thirsty?” He lifted his chin toward the kitchen and I nodded, not really thirsty, but not really knowing what else to do with myself. I followed him through the arched entry and butted my hip against the granite countertop. “Okay, we got water, OJ, Sprite—”

  “Sprite would be perfect,” I said, noting the tense line of his shoulders.

  He made a noise of agreement and snagged two cans from inside the door. The fridge, like the rest of the room, was gleaming silver and flawless, but when he closed it, I noticed a crude drawing tacked in the center. Justin handed me the soda and caught me staring.

  “Nice work,” I said, smiling at the picture. “Artist as well as a writer?”

  The frown he shot me said he wasn’t impressed with my memory. “That’s my little brother Chase. He’s obsessed with baseball right now.”

  “Easy to see why,” I murmured.

  The picture was clearly one of Justin. He was drawn in his uniform with a roughly sketched (and hugely disproportionate) catcher’s mitt on his hand. A bright green diamond was in the background, the yellow sun shone bright, and he wore a larger than life cheesy smile. The obvious idol worship was completely charming. From the sudden tender look in Justin’s eyes, the affection went both ways. “Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

  The soft look hardened and his grin fell away. “Nope.”

  Hmm. That was strange. Even stranger, the longer I stood in his house, gawking at this beautiful, flawless kitchen, the more sure I became that something was… off. Missing, somehow, which seemed impossible since the Carter family manor had every upgrade known to man. I just couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong.

  Interest piqued, I looked around again and realized at least one thing that was weird—no one else was here. The house was like a tomb, creepy quiet… well, other than Sports Center, that is.

  “Where is everyone?”

  I lifted my can and took a long, syrupy sip while Justin shrugged. He dropped his gaze to the floor and his shoulders deflated on an exhale. When he spoke, his voice was so low I wasn’t sure he even meant for me to hear him. “My family’s not like yours, Peyton.”

  Pain and longing filled his voice and I had a sudden and intense urge to hug him. But, before I could, he pushed away from the fridge and nudged my elbow. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. With a final glance at his brother’s sketch, I followed in his wake.

  Everywhere my gaze touched as I followed Justin down the hall screamed money, sophistication, and “hands off.” I tried to take it all in without appearing as if I was scoping the place, but for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine a little kid living here. Or a teenage boy, for that matter.

  At the end of the hall, Justin nudged a door open, and I quickened my stride to catch up. With my mind still back with the secrets of the kitchen, I distractedly glanced at the open door on my left, and came to an abrupt stop two steps later when I realized what I’d seen.

  It was a museum. Not a museum like the rest of the house in that it felt untouchable, it was, like, an actual museum. Glass cases lined the walls, filled with black and white team photos, various memorabilia and pennants, and stands displaying signed balls. A dozen at least.

  Above the cases, framed baseball cards and action shots hung beside plaques and complete uniforms. A signed bat held pride of place in a protective case all its own. I took a step closer to try and read the signature and a hand on my arm halted my progress.

  “This is my dad’s room.” Justin’s eyes were guarded as he gruffly added, “No one comes in here.”

  “Oh.” I looked around, confused. Why have all this stuff if no one else could see it? It made no sense, but it was clear Justin meant it. He glanced behind him, like he was worried we’d get caught. “Sorry, I didn’t...”

  I trailed off, not really sure what I was apologizing for, and he shrugged. He took my hand, message received, and walked back out. Not wanting to push, I took one final glance around the room and followed.

  Justin’s bedroom, however, was a different story. Here, I unabashedly stared. The purpose of today’s visit was to learn more about him, to discover what made the boy tick, and this was the place to do it. His inner sanctum.

  Seeming to finally relax, Justin left me to my snooping and dropped to the bed with a small bounce. Soft, I thought, wondering if I had the guts to join him. His dark eyes lit with an unspoken challenge and I quickly looked away.

  “Impressive collection.” I trailed a finger along his bookshelf, noting his worn copy of Moneyball, along with a few biographies of players. The expected classics from English class. Trophies from sports. A framed photo of the team. What I didn’t see were pictures of him with any girls. That made me stupid happy.

  “Told you I wasn’t a dumb jock,” he teased.

  “I stand corrected,” I replied with a backwards wink. Next to the bookshelf was his desk, holding a laptop, fancy printer, a yellow legal pad, and a spiral-bound pocket-sized notebook. The notebook was closed, but the pad had distinctive writing—what appeared to be two lists.

  Biting my lip, I glanced at him and caught the ticking muscle below his eye.

  Jackpot!

  We both bolted forward. Even though I was standing right there, he miraculously beat me to them, snatching both the pad and notebook up before I could process he’d even moved, and holding them high above my head with a burst of laughter.

  “No way.” Eyes sparkling, he peered down at me and said, “Not on your life, Sunshine.”

  His free arm wrapped around my waist, pinning me tight to keep me from reaching the paper. My struggles were only halfhearted. While I desperately wanted to read what he’d wrote, I wanted to move even less. A side benefit of our current position was my head being pressed solidly against Justin’s chest. His very nice, smells-like-manly-soap, chest.

  Yeah, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Your writing notebooks, I take it?”

  “Possibly.” His voice held evidence of his smile and I lifted my eyes. I was addicted to Justin Carter’s grins. This was one I’d yet to see before—this one was happy, free, and almost embarrassed. “Guess you’ll never know.”

  With us standing this close, Justin towered over me. His chin, if he chose to do so, would tuck perfectly on the top of my head, my nose fitting the center s
eam of his chest where I imagined his heart racing as fast as my own.

  Just like that, I forgot about today’s mission. I forgot about being fine with our secret friendship. And I forgot that right before I came here, I’d chowed down on a thick slice of pizza, heavy on the onions.

  Grasping his hips, I gripped the soft cotton of his shirt with my trembling hands. Usually, it was a reminder of my weakness, my body’s lingering failure. Right now, it was a sign of my excitement. “Justin…?”

  My voice sounded breathless and Justin’s eyes darkened. I’d read about that phenomenon in my books, imagined what it looked like in real life, but had no real clue. Now I did. And I liked it. A lot. As anticipation, anxiety, and wonder roiled in my gut, only one thought rushed through my head: Is this it?

  In the hospital, I’d convinced myself I’d die a kiss-less virgin. Before I got sick, I’d never had a boyfriend, and during my worse days, I imagined I never would. Back then, there was no way I would’ve believed I’d one day be here. In Justin Carter’s bedroom. In his arms. Being stared at like I was beautiful.

  A tingling sensation zinged across my scalp as the rough pad of his thumb ghosted across my cheek. He flicked his gaze between my eyes, slowly bent his head, and a swarm of butterflies began the cha-cha in my gut. Yep, this was it.

  Clenching my fists, I closed my eyes, waiting for the moment when our lips would touch. The moment that would change me, take my kissing V-card. It never came.

  His hands left my skin, cool air rushed in, and I pried my eyes open. Justin watched me, his hands clutching the legal pad and notebook and his expression torn. Over what? Had I done something wrong?

  Nodding his head as if he’d come to a decision, he took a step back. He turned his back, placed the notebooks high on top of his bookshelf, and I battled an overwhelming wave of disappointment. Silly girl.

  Not wanting him to know how much the near-kiss affected me, I forced a smile. “I’ll read them one day, you know. Every writer deserves an audience.”

  Justin didn’t react. Instead, he twisted back around and pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Can I ask…?” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight. “I mean, if it won’t upset you or anything… could you tell me about your illness?”

  Like a magic pill, any trace of sexual tension in the room evaporated.

  GBS, the instant mood killer.

  This was why I hadn’t said anything before. Now it was all he saw when he looked at me. Not a girl to flirt with, or ask out, or kiss passionately next to his bookshelf, but someone who was sick once.

  “What do you want to know?”

  I settled on the edge of his bed with a plop and Justin walked over to his desk across from me. Away from me. He pushed up to sit on the surface and ducked his head, lifting a shoulder as if he were embarrassed.

  “I looked it up online,” he admitted to the carpet. “I watched a few videos on YouTube, too. But I guess I wanted to know what your experience was like.” He raised his head. “I can’t imagine what you went through, how terrifying that must have been… but I’d like to know. If you want to tell me.”

  It didn’t come across as pity or even mild curiosity. Justin appeared genuinely interested and concerned. Caring. The warmth of that feeling spread through me like wildfire.

  Smiling gently, I told him, “I don’t mind talking about it. I mean, I hate it when people hear and assume I’m weak or a charity case, but I don’t mind sharing my experience.”

  He scooted back until his back reached the wall, and I blew out a breath, preparing for story time.

  “I never really thought about things before I got sick. I took it for granted when I could tell someone how I was feeling, what was wrong. The ability to write a friend a letter or send a text. Heck, to brush my own dang teeth. But those were the things that kept circling my mind in the hospital. How I wished I could do something so simple, you know?”

  He nodded, letting me know he was listening, and I shifted to lay belly down on his mattress. I’d been right before; it was soft.

  “It started with a weakness in my legs,” I told him. “I thought I’d overdone it riding that day. But by that night, it was so much more than that. My parents took me to the ER, but no one seemed to know what was wrong—other than it looked like I was dying. That’s what Mama kept whispering over and over: That her baby was dying.”

  I swallowed past the painful memory lodged in my throat. Those words still haunted me at night.

  “Within hours, I couldn’t breathe on my own. I couldn’t swallow, so they had to put in a feeding tube. I was lying there, in excruciating pain, and I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t even point to one of those stupid rating charts with the round faces. You know what I’m talking about?” Justin nodded again.

  “People talked and moved around me for days, no answers, no nothing. Just fear and pain. I couldn’t even lift a hand to wipe away my own tears. My entire world boiled down to the constant swoosh of the respirator. The beeps of the alarms on the machines. Lights flashing when it was time to draw more blood. It was like a thin curtain blocked me from the rest of the world. The worst part was that anyone could’ve come into my room at any time, and I wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it. Not scream, or even flinch.”

  Justin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. I lowered my gaze and noticed his hands clenched around the desktop. His knuckles were blanched white.

  “Things got a little better once we had a diagnosis,” I quickly assured him, hating that he was in distress. Which was odd since we were talking about me. But it meant everything that he cared.

  “Doctors and therapists started coming in around the clock. They taught me how to communicate again. I couldn’t talk right away, though, so they had me blow into a straw whenever I needed the nurse. Slowly, I learned how to roll over and sit, how to feed myself and go to the bathroom.” I paused there and shuddered. “You have no idea how humiliating it is to be a teenager and need someone to wipe your own ass.”

  Justin opened his eyes. “No, I don’t.” His voice was scratchy and he shook his head. His mouth curved into a smile as he said, “I don’t know how you did it. You’re incredible, Sunshine.”

  Justin Carter knew how to rock a smile. Flirty grins, mischievous smirks, even vulnerable pouts. The smile on his face now, though, was filled with wonder, respect, and true affection. It was easily my favorite of them all.

  “Not incredible,” I replied. “Just a survivor. A stubborn one. Once I started making headway, I was determined to be the best patient ever, to kick the thing’s ass, you know? It wasn’t easy. At first, I didn’t have any muscle tone. Within days of being admitted, I could see all the bones in my hands. But I never gave up, I kept pushing, and I did everything my therapists told me. Sometimes I pushed too hard too fast and set my recovery back.” I sighed in frustration. “I’m not one hundred percent yet, but I will be. One day.”

  I fell silent and rested my head on my arms. As I lay there, quiet, simply staring back at Justin, a peculiar sensation crept over my skin. I was no mind reader, and my knowledge of boys was limited to my older brothers and my string of book boyfriends, but I could’ve sworn pride shone in Justin’s eyes.

  Being from an athletic family, it sucked having everyone waiting for me to relapse and telling me to slow down. Second guessing every move I made. The doctors said they’d never heard of patients having a relapse; sometimes people suffered residual weaknesses, but they were generally older, and I was expected to make a full recovery. But no one ever knew for sure. Too much was still unknown, and it made me feel out of control and helpless.

  But through Justin’s eyes, I didn’t feel weak. He looked at me and saw someone who could accomplish anything. Do anything. I liked that feeling. A lot.

  Outside, a dog barked, and suddenly, as if waking from a stupor, Justin blinked his eyes. He cleared his throat and he pushed off the desktop, onto his feet.

  The spel
l was broken. Story time was over.

  Confused by the abrupt change, I clamored to sit up as well. Had I said something wrong? I rolled off the mattress, found my balance, and then stood awkwardly in front of him. He wouldn’t even look at me. The comfort and ease of the last few minutes was gone, erased, replaced with restless feet and darting eyes.

  I frantically glanced around the room, desperate for something to talk about, and that’s when I saw the ball.

  A level lower than I’d looked before, it was on a stand on his bookshelf. I walked up to it and recognized Larry Dierker’s signature. “Ah, nice one.”

  Justin moved in behind me. Taking the ball off its stand, he stared at it, palmed it, and admitted almost to himself, “It’s my only decent memory from childhood.”

  This was huge. Out of everything I’d discovered from my hours of Justin research, I knew one thing without a shadow of a doubt: The boy was Private with a capital P. Worried he’d remember that, too, and stop talking, I clamped my mouth shut.

  “The only thing Dad loves more than money is baseball,” he said, this time with a definite edge. “Not his own family, not even this stupid house. This place is more like a hotel.”

  He scoffed, playing the tough-guy role he probably thought he’d perfected, but I heard the loneliness behind it. I wanted to turn around and hug him, tell him I was sorry, but I knew he wouldn’t want that. So, I stayed where I was, clenching and unclenching my hands.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “when I was a kid, one of Dad’s vendors had tickets to the game where they retired Dierker’s jersey. I never really knew why, but for some reason, Dad let me tag along.”

  “2002,” I murmured without thinking.

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  I blew out a breath, cursing my stupid mouth for interrupting. Turning around, I found Justin gaping at me and I shrugged. “Sports fanatic for a father, remember?”