The Collide. Kimberly McCreight

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СКАЧАТЬ promised Rachel that I’d tell Gideon about our mom. But now that he’s here on the other side of the parking lot, I wish I had refused. Because I know just how bad it feels to find out she lied. I’ve been mad at Gideon a lot lately, but I would never wish that pain on him. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

      Gideon takes a couple steps toward me and waves again. As I start across the parking lot to him, a white van whooshes past in front of me. So close that it sends me rocking back on my heels. I watch as the van pulls to a hard stop at the detention facility gates. A second later, they swing open and it speeds inside. That guard was right, what am I waiting for? Terrible things happen in wasted time.

      “Hey,” Gideon says when I finally reach him. He motions to my bag. “You need help?”

      It’s sweet. But sweet Gideon makes the world feel unsteady and upside down.

      Even not-sweet Gideon isn’t my first choice right now. I would have preferred Jasper. Then I could have finally wrapped my arms around him like I’ve been wanting to every day for the past two weeks. But getting out happened so fast. They told me only yesterday after Jasper had left the visitors’ room that my bail had been posted. And when I tried Jasper’s cell today, I got a the customer you are trying to reach is not available message. I’ve tried not to worry. Jasper probably forgot to pay the bill, I tell myself. But each time I believe it a little less.

      “I’m good,” I say to Gideon as I head around to the far side of our father’s car. “But thanks,” I add, hoping it will make him stop looking at me like I am the only thing that can keep him from drowning.

      “Where to?” Gideon asks once we’re in the car, trying to sound cheerful, casual. “Want to grab breakfast or something? The food must be terrible in there.”

      “Um, maybe later,” I say. I should tell Gideon about our mom right now. Get it over with. Instead, I just look away out the window. “Let’s get going. As far from here as possible.”

      I just can’t tell him. Not yet.

      GIDEON JUST GOT his license. Turns out, he’s a terrible driver. Nervous and slow, but then suddenly fast. Not that I should judge. Gideon has gotten himself behind the wheel, which is more than I can say. But when he finally lurches out of the detention facility parking lot, I’m thrown back against the seat, nauseous already.

      “Sorry,” he says, pumping hard on the brakes. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

      I nod and turn again toward the window, watching the worn-out strip malls and boarded-up fast-food restaurants pass. The area around the detention facility is an ugly, desperate place. I should feel better leaving it behind. But instead, my dread is on the rise. Like I already know that what lies ahead is worse than what lies behind. Because this feeling isn’t just anxiety. On a good day, I’ve learned to tell the difference.

      Gideon and I drive on for another twenty minutes, exchanging harmless chitchat between long pockets of silence. How was your cellmate? Very nice. What’s the food like? Very bad. Did anyone try to beat you up? No. Every time I open my mouth and don’t tell him our mom is alive, I feel even more like a liar.

      I’m relieved when we’re finally pulling into downtown Newton. It looks exactly as it did when I left but feels weirdly unfamiliar. It isn’t until we’ve made the next right that I realize we’ve turned down Cassie’s street. And, up ahead, there it is: Cassie’s house, with its gingerbread peaked roof and ivy-covered facade, picture-perfect as ever. I feel the moment Gideon realizes his mistake. He may not be an Outlier, but he’s not an idiot.

      “Oh, um, I— Crap.” He slams on the brakes so hard, I brace myself against the dashboard to avoid bashing my face. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I can just turn around if you—”

      “No.” And even I’m surprised by how forcefully it comes out. I don’t really know why. “I haven’t, um, been here since her funeral. I don’t know . . . I kind of want to see her house.”

      Want is the wrong word. Need would be more accurate. Like obsessively must. It feels as though some kind of essential truth is buried in the past—Cassie’s past, our past. Like we will only break free of this terrible loop of heartbreak and loss after we force ourselves back to the start.

      “Pull over there, just for a minute?” I point toward a nearby curb.

      “Seriously?” Gideon asks, gripping the steering wheel even tighter, hunched over it now like an old man. He feels way out of his depth with the driving, not to mention managing me. “Are you sure?”

      “Yeah, I’m sure,” I lie. Luckily, Gideon has no way of knowing that. “Please, just for a minute.”

      Finally, Gideon lurches to a stop at the side of the road. The house looks exactly the same. It’s only been two months since Cassie’s funeral; still I expected more decomposition. Maybe this is why I needed to stop here: to be reminded that the world rages on no matter how many of us are cut down by its wake.

      No, it’s not that. That sounds good, but that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else. Something more specific. Cassie’s house. Cassie’s house. Why?

      Cassie’s journal, maybe? It could be. Jasper and I never did figure out who mailed him those pages.

      “WHO CARES WHO sent them?” Jasper asked.

      We were sitting across the table from each other in the detention facility visiting room. Day thirteen of my incarceration, day thirteen of Jasper faithfully coming to see me. He sat, as he always did, with his hands tucked under his legs against the hard plastic chair. So he’d remember not to try to hold my hand. He’d forgotten once and had almost been permanently banned. No touching. No exchanging of objects. Shirt and shoes required. There weren’t many rules. But they were enforced like nobody’s business.

      “I care who sent them,” I said. “It makes me nervous not to know. It should make you nervous, too.”

      “Nervous?” Jasper asked. I looked for an edge in his voice. Everything always makes you nervous. But he didn’t mean it that way. Jasper wasn’t about subtext. It was one of the things I loved about him.

      Yeah, loved. I hadn’t said it to him yet. It was more like an idea I was trying on for size. But so far it fit. Much better than I would have thought. And I kept waiting for that to make me feel stupid, like I’d been tricked into something. But instead it felt like I’d trusted my way there.

      “We should at least investigate,” I said.

      “It was Maia. We already decided that.”

      “You decided,” I said. “I want confirmation.”

      “Wait, you’re not jealous, are you?” Jasper teased. I shot him a look, and he held up his hands. “Sorry, bad joke.”

      And then he blushed, like actual red cheeks, which was kind of old-fashioned. But then our whole two-week-long detention facility courtship had been all chaste conversation and hands to ourselves, in twenty-six-minute, guard-supervised increments. The truth was—despite what we’d been through—Jasper and I didn’t know each other that well. But as we unfolded slowly in front of each other, we slid more tightly into place.

      Turned out, Jasper was goofy. Much more so than I realized. And СКАЧАТЬ