Meet Me Here - Bryan Bliss Page 0,1

companion? A person who knows everything about you, no matter how big or small? As she disappears out the door, I wish I still believed that fundamental parts of your life couldn’t change in a moment.

When I finally get outside, she’s halfway across the yard, cussing loudly and pulling off her shoes. I jog to catch up, calling her name. When she sees me, I expect her to tell me to get lost. Call me an asshole or worse. She reaches down, barely stopping to rub her heel.

“These shoes suck,” she says, hopping once before starting back down the driveway.

Sounds of the party fill the night, bouncing off trees and car windows as I follow her toward the dark road. Mallory tiptoes around a broken bottle, detouring into the grass. I tiptoe around our history, everything else.

“I wasn’t trying to be a prick,” I say. “You surprised me.”

“Well, isn’t that the story of the night? Everybody’s surprised. Listen, all I need is a ride home. If you can do that for me, great. If you can’t, then fine. I’ll walk.”

She bends over to rub her heel again, cussing even louder. When she stands up, she faces me. “Thomas, I’m sorry. I just—I can give you gas money if you want.”

“It’s like five miles. I don’t need gas money.”

What else can I say? I’ve seen her at school, of course. We were even assigned a group project during junior year. But Wayne was in the group, and he’s loud enough that I could sit there, not saying a word, listening and laughing as he flirted and carried on with every girl in the group, Mallory included. When we finally gave the presentation and I was back sitting in my seat, I swear it was the first time I took a breath in two weeks. Things went back to normal, both of us pretending the other didn’t exist.

Behind us, a voice calls Mallory’s name. Will is still wearing his graduation hat, the shirt and tie. All of it askew. One of his buddies follows him, stumbling down the driveway, a laughing shadow. Mallory starts walking. “Go back to the party, Will.”

He brushes past me and tries to grab Mallory’s hand. “Talk to me.”

“I did; you didn’t listen.”

“All I want is for you to explain it to me. Please.”

He sounds desperate, almost scared. The way my mom sounded a year ago, when she learned Jake’s unit had been attacked. Like there was nothing she could do, least of all understand what the army officer was telling her about her son. Injured in action. A hospital in Germany. Lucky to be alive.

The first day I saw Jake after he was wounded, he didn’t look much different. Skinnier maybe. He’d been shot in the shoulder, but there were no missing limbs, no visible scars. When he walked into our house—the way he had thousands of times before—I was so damn happy. But he was messed up worse than any of us could have ever imagined. We just didn’t see it yet.

“Let’s go,” Mallory says.

At first I don’t realize she’s talking to me, that we can see my truck now, the same one she rode in as a kid. My dad was still driving it then. We’d hop in the back any chance we got, even if it meant suffering through a trip to the hardware store and my dad’s constant looks in the rearview mirror.

She grabs my arm and pulls me across the road, Will following.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” I say, but Mallory ignores both of us, only letting go of my arm when we’re next to the truck. She climbs up into the passenger seat, ignoring Will, who starts beating on the window and calling Mallory’s name. When I walk around to the driver’s side, Will meets me at the door. There’s a shadow of a bruise on his face, but it’s the way he scrambles toward me that really makes him look broken.

All he says is “Thomas, c’mon. I’ll talk to Mallory. You can go back to the party.”

That’s the smartest option. Get Mallory out of my truck and go back to the party, back to pretending that this is the best night of my life and in fact my brother—my entire future—hasn’t gone up in flames. But how long does that last? An hour? Maybe two? I still have to go home, still have to see Jake sitting there cold and empty. I still