Sarah Dessen - This Lullaby

I dialed Jess’s number and bit my pinky nail, awaiting the inevitable wrath.

“Mmmpht.”

“Jess?”

“Remy Starr. I am so going to kick your fucking ass.”

“Hey, okay, but listen-”

“Where the hell are you?” She was wide awake now, managing to sound totally pissed and keep her voice down at the same time. Jess was multitalented. “Do you know that Chloe has been on me for the entire night about you? She said she dropped you at Bendo for one beer at eight-thirty, for God’s sake.”

“Well, see, I ended up staying a little bit longer.”

“Clearly. And I ended up driving there to look for you, hearing that you were not only drunk but also in a fight and, to top it off, had left with some guy and completely disappeared. What the hell are you thinking, Remy?”

“I understand that you’re mad, okay? But right now I just need to-”

“Do you think I enjoy repeated phone calls from Chloe telling how if you’re dead or something it’s my fault because, obviously, I was supposed to have some kind of psychic connection that would enable me to know I was supposed to pick you up without the benefit of a phone call?”

This time, I was quiet.

“Well?” she snapped.

“Look,” I said, whispering. “I screwed up. Big time. But right now I’m at this guy’s house and I need out and please can you just help me?”

“Tell me where you are.”

I did. “Jess, I really-”

Click. Okay, well, now we could both be pissed at me. But at least I was getting home.

I walked to the door and leaned against it. The guitar music was still going, and I could hear Dexter singing that line about the potato and kumquat, again and again, as if waiting for inspiration to strike. I inched the door open a little more, then peered through the crack. I could see right into the house’s kitchen, where there was a beat-up Formica table with a bunch of mismatched chairs, a fridge covered with pictures, and a brown-and-green-striped couch pulled up against the back window. Dexter and the guy I recognized as Ted, the guitarist, were sitting at the table, a couple of cans of beer between them. The dog I’d met earlier, Monkey, was asleep on the couch.

“Maybe kumquat isn’t the right word,” Dexter said, leaning back in his chair-a wooden one painted yellow-exactly the way your teachers in school always told you not to, balancing on the back legs. “Maybe we need another kind of fruit.”

Ted picked at the guitar’s strings. “Such as?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Dexter sighed, pulling both hands through his hair. It was so curly this just added volume, springing loose as he let his arms drop. “What about pomegranate?”

“Too long.”

“Nectarines?”

Ted cocked his head to the side, then strummed another chord. “You gave me potato but I wanted a nectarine…”

They looked at each other. “Terrible,” Dexter decided.

“Yup.”

I shut the door back, wincing as it made a tiny click. It would have been bad enough to face Dexter after what had-or hadn’t-happened. But the thought of there being someone else there was enough to make a full-on window escape necessary.

I crawled up on the bed and pushed the snow globes-God, who over the age of ten collected snow globes?-aside, then undid the latch. It stuck at first, but I put some shoulder in it and up it went, rattling slightly. Not much space, but enough.

One arm through, about to start wriggling, I had a small but noticeable pang of guilt. I mean, he had gotten me to a safe place. And, judging by the taste in my mouth and past experience, it was highly likely that I had puked at some point. Since I didn’t remember getting there, he must have had to drag me. Or carry me. Oh, the shame.

I dropped back down on the bed. I had to do something decent here. But Jess was on her way and I didn’t have many options. I looked around me: not enough time to straighten up the room, even though my fast cleaning skills were legendary. If I left a note, that was an open invitation to get back in touch with me, and honestly I wasn’t sure I wanted that. There was nothing else to do but make the bed. Which I did, quickly and thoroughly, with hospital corners and the pillow trick that was my trade secret. Even at the Four Seasons they couldn’t do better.

So it was with a less heavy conscience that I pushed myself through the (small) window, trying to be stealthy, and pretty much succeeding until I kicked the back of the house on my dismount, leaving a scuff mark by the electric meter. No biggie. Then I cut through the side yard to find Jess.

There was a time when I’d been famous for my window escapes. It was my preferred way to exit, always, even if I had a mostly clear path to the door. Maybe it was a shame thing, a punishment I chose to inflict upon myself because I knew, in my heart, that what I had done was bad. It was my penance.

Two streets over, on Caldwell, I stepped off the curb by the stop sign and held up my hand, squinting in Jess’s headlights as she came closer. She reached over, pushed open the passenger door, and then stared straight ahead, impassive, as I got in.

“Just like old times,” she said flatly. “How was it?”

I sighed. It was too late to go into details, even with her. “Old,” I said.

She turned up the radio and we cut through a side street, then passed Dexter’s house on our way out of the neighborhood. The front door was open, the porch dark, but from the light inside I could see Monkey sitting there, his nose pressed against the screen. Dexter probably didn’t even know I was gone yet. But just in case, I slid down, dropping out of sight, although I knew in the dark, and at this speed, he couldn’t have found me if he tried.

This time, I awoke to tapping.

Not normal tapping: tapping in a rhythm that I recognized. A song. It sounded, in fact, like “Oh, Tannenbaum.”

I opened one eye, then looked around me. I was in my room, my bed. Everything in place, the floor clean, my universe just as I liked it. Except for the tapping.

I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, assuming it was one of my mother’s cats, which were all having minor breakdowns in her absence, attacking my door in an effort to get me to feed them more Fancy Feast, which they devoured by the case.

“Go away,” I mumbled into my pillow. “I mean it.”

And then, just then, the window right over my bed suddenly opened. Slid up, smooth as silk, scaring me to death, but not quite as much as Dexter shooting through it, head first, limbs flailing. One of his feet hit my bedside table, sending my clock flying across the room to crash into a closet door with a bang, while his elbow clocked me right in the gut. The only thing slightly redeeming about any of this was that he had so much momentum behind him he missed the bed entirely, instead landing with a thunk, belly-flop style, on the throw rug by my bureau. The whole commotion, while seemingly complicated, was over in a matter of seconds.

Then it was very quiet.

Dexter lifted up his head, glanced around, then put it back on the carpet. He still seemed a little stunned by the impact. I knew how he felt: I had a second-floor window, and climbing in off the trellis, as I had many times, was a bitch. “You could at least,” he said, eyes closed, “have said good-bye.”

I sat up, pulling my blanket up to my chest. It was so surreal, him splayed out on my carpet like he was. I wasn’t even sure how he’d found my house. In fact, the entire trajectory of our relationship, all the way back to the day we’d met, was like one long dream, bumpy and strange, full of things that should have made sense but didn’t. What had he said to me that first day? Something about natural chemistry. He claimed he’d noticed it right from the start, and maybe it was an explanation, of sorts, of why we kept coming together, again and again. Or maybe he was just too fucking persistent. Either way, I felt that we were at a cross-roads. A choice had to be made.