Read Online Back When You Were Easier to Love by Wing Smith Emily - Free Book Online
Authors: Wing Smith Emily
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humiliated. Like honestly humiliated. Because Mr. Haven High Homecoming Court, who doesn’t need a girlfriend or even a best friend for that matter, might actually have some depth after all.
And he knows. He definitely knows, because my face has gone red or pale or blank or whatever it’s done. He knows what I’m feeling. So he does something far more gracious than anything I’ve done tonight: he changes the subject.
THE ART OF HOMEMAKING
“So what gives with the books?” Noah says. “I’ve been wondering all night.” He tips back on his chair for a second, but only a second, before remembering.
I forgot about the books. I always forget about the books when someone new comes over because to me, the books have always been there, as much a part of the house as the sofa or the knife block. We have books on shelves, of course: our kitchen flows into our dining room which flows into our family room and every available inch of wall space has bookcases. But we also have books in stacks. Well, not just books—old periodicals, too. It’s like we have a dozen almost-finished games of Jenga on our floor.
“It’s my mom’s job,” I say, relieved to be talking about someone other than Noah or Zan. “She sells books.”
With his mouth, Noah says, “Oh, cool.” But with every other part of his body, Noah says that this space looks less like a Barnes & Noble and more like a garage that needs to be cleaned.
“It’s an eBay store,” I explain, before biting into my pizza. “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Diana. She sells vintage cookbooks, like the 1952 edition of Betty Crocker. And other stuff that’s hard to find.”
“Oh, cool,” says Noah, and this time I know he really means it. He picks up a copy of a World War II–era cooking magazine in not-bad condition. “So how does your mom manage to find these?”
“Thrift shops, garage sales, used-book stores, the usual suspects. She has an eye for the good stuff.” As I’m saying it, I already know this puts an end to the conversation. What is there to say after that?
Since I’m expecting the silence, the pause seems much longer than it really is. Noah flips through Fun Theme Parties circa 1967 and I consider grabbing another slice of pizza, just to have something to chew on, just to have something to do besides look up or look down. Something to do besides think about the person I’m really thinking about. The person I’m going to be thinking about for the rest of my life.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” I say, finally.
“I do,” he says. “It’s because you don’t want to talk to me about Zan.”
I laugh, but it’s a miserable laugh. “If I talk to you about Zan, I’ll never stop.”
ZAN
I want to hold on to Zan the way a junkie resists rehab, or a dieter rationalizes a chocolate éclair; the way forbidden lovers run from inevitable consequence. The instant gratification of one last time makes me shake with satisfaction. But when his memory is gone I feel the aching return like a bruise that won’t heal.
HOME LEAVING
“I can’t talk about him to anyone else.” It’s just occurred to me that although Noah will never be a friend, maybe in some ways he’s better than a friend. “My friends won’t even let me mention him. To them, he’s just some ex-boyfriend that we’re never to speak of again.” I start tapping my pink highlighter against my biology book. Do I say it? Do I want to? Do I dare?
“I miss him, too,” Noah says.
That’s all I need. “Then let’s go find him!”
“What do you mean?” Fun Theme Parties is open to a picture of a football cake, with green glass bowls of M&M’s next to it. “We already know where he is. His parents already know where he is. He doesn’t need to be found.”
“He doesn’t want to be found. There’s a difference.”
Noah looks at me, confused, before turning back to his book. “If he doesn’t want to be found, than why would we want to go find him?
And he knows. He definitely knows, because my face has gone red or pale or blank or whatever it’s done. He knows what I’m feeling. So he does something far more gracious than anything I’ve done tonight: he changes the subject.
THE ART OF HOMEMAKING
“So what gives with the books?” Noah says. “I’ve been wondering all night.” He tips back on his chair for a second, but only a second, before remembering.
I forgot about the books. I always forget about the books when someone new comes over because to me, the books have always been there, as much a part of the house as the sofa or the knife block. We have books on shelves, of course: our kitchen flows into our dining room which flows into our family room and every available inch of wall space has bookcases. But we also have books in stacks. Well, not just books—old periodicals, too. It’s like we have a dozen almost-finished games of Jenga on our floor.
“It’s my mom’s job,” I say, relieved to be talking about someone other than Noah or Zan. “She sells books.”
With his mouth, Noah says, “Oh, cool.” But with every other part of his body, Noah says that this space looks less like a Barnes & Noble and more like a garage that needs to be cleaned.
“It’s an eBay store,” I explain, before biting into my pizza. “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Diana. She sells vintage cookbooks, like the 1952 edition of Betty Crocker. And other stuff that’s hard to find.”
“Oh, cool,” says Noah, and this time I know he really means it. He picks up a copy of a World War II–era cooking magazine in not-bad condition. “So how does your mom manage to find these?”
“Thrift shops, garage sales, used-book stores, the usual suspects. She has an eye for the good stuff.” As I’m saying it, I already know this puts an end to the conversation. What is there to say after that?
Since I’m expecting the silence, the pause seems much longer than it really is. Noah flips through Fun Theme Parties circa 1967 and I consider grabbing another slice of pizza, just to have something to chew on, just to have something to do besides look up or look down. Something to do besides think about the person I’m really thinking about. The person I’m going to be thinking about for the rest of my life.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” I say, finally.
“I do,” he says. “It’s because you don’t want to talk to me about Zan.”
I laugh, but it’s a miserable laugh. “If I talk to you about Zan, I’ll never stop.”
ZAN
I want to hold on to Zan the way a junkie resists rehab, or a dieter rationalizes a chocolate éclair; the way forbidden lovers run from inevitable consequence. The instant gratification of one last time makes me shake with satisfaction. But when his memory is gone I feel the aching return like a bruise that won’t heal.
HOME LEAVING
“I can’t talk about him to anyone else.” It’s just occurred to me that although Noah will never be a friend, maybe in some ways he’s better than a friend. “My friends won’t even let me mention him. To them, he’s just some ex-boyfriend that we’re never to speak of again.” I start tapping my pink highlighter against my biology book. Do I say it? Do I want to? Do I dare?
“I miss him, too,” Noah says.
That’s all I need. “Then let’s go find him!”
“What do you mean?” Fun Theme Parties is open to a picture of a football cake, with green glass bowls of M&M’s next to it. “We already know where he is. His parents already know where he is. He doesn’t need to be found.”
“He doesn’t want to be found. There’s a difference.”
Noah looks at me, confused, before turning back to his book. “If he doesn’t want to be found, than why would we want to go find him?
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