Read Online Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel by Holly Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Holly Brown
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he’s interested in me. I don’t think they find me very interesting, and they wouldn’t understand how anyone else could either.
So, the funny thing is that in one of the lulls, I asked him about Wyatt. It was kind of a risky thing to do, since I used to have a thing for Wyatt, but that was before B. We were there at dinner, trapped in the lull, and I grabbed for something I knew we had in common. Wyatt was my life raft.
B. got this look on his face like he’d never heard of Wyatt before.
“Wyatt,” I repeated. “From Facebook?”
“Oh, right,” he said slowly, like dawn breaking. “Wyatt and I are pretty much only Facebook friends. I don’t know what’s up with him. I can find out, if it’s important to you.” Then he shoveled in a mouthful of pasta.
It makes sense, what he said. I mean, it’s not like B. thinks about Wyatt every day. They met on vacation one time. The point is, B. knows Wyatt, and through Wyatt, he met me, and voilà. Here I am, in my new life, with my first boyfriend. Serendipity or kismet or one of those other words they use in the old romantic comedies that my mom and I used to watch together when I stayed home from school sick.
Enough about my mom already.
“No,” I tell B. “It’s not important.”
Part of what scares me is that I’m really attracted to B., just like I expected, and the feeling might not be mutual. The whole time we were talking, I felt this volcano inside me. I wanted him that bad; it was like I was going to erupt. It must have been because I’d waited so long to see him, and now he was making me wait even longer. Why was he doing that? Didn’t he have a volcano inside him, too?
He asked me if I wanted him to sleep on the futon—oh, great, more space—and I said no. He took a shower while I got into bed. I wasn’t sure what he’d think of my body or if I’d know how to make him happy. I was imagining all the things he might know that I don’t, what it would feel like for him to teach me . . .
He came to bed in a T-shirt and his boxers. He climbed in on the far side, curling away from me. Then he cast a smile over his shoulder. “Glad you’re here,” he said, for the second time that day, and I so wanted to believe him.
I thought about rolling over to him or reaching my hand out to touch his shoulder. I wanted to send him the signal that he should touch me, that it was okay. I don’t need space.
Instead, I stared up at the ceiling—it must have been thirty feet high, like being in a gymnasium—and I tried not to cry.
Now he’s at school, and I’m here by myself. I’m writing in my journal because I can’t write to anyone I know. I can’t go on Facebook or Tumblr.
I’m in exile.
I didn’t think B. would go to class this morning. Yeah, it’s Monday, but I assumed he’d take the day off to be with me. But he got up and made me pancakes, which was such a momlike thing to do. He didn’t even ask if I wanted pancakes and I felt like I had to eat them, even though he didn’t have real maple syrup. Instead, it was that gross fake syrup in the plastic bottle shaped like an old woman. Then he reminded me not to go anywhere, because no one can see me, and he left.
I’m hiding out like a fugitive. I guess that makes sense, since I’mon the run, a runaway. Is that breaking the law? If I show back up, or if I’m found, can they put me in juvenile hall? I did so much planning, but there were a lot of things that didn’t occur to me. Like B. not being into me or spending all day every day inside, by myself, stuck with my thoughts.
But we’ll go on Disappeared.com soon, and I’ll have a whole new identity. I could start right now, except that B. took his laptop to school with him.
B. always jokes that I’m one of those people who wishes life was a book so you could peek at the next chapter, or even jump to the end. He’s right. I just want to know how it’ll all turn out.
Day 5
PAUL’S WORDS FILTER UP to me as he talks on the
So, the funny thing is that in one of the lulls, I asked him about Wyatt. It was kind of a risky thing to do, since I used to have a thing for Wyatt, but that was before B. We were there at dinner, trapped in the lull, and I grabbed for something I knew we had in common. Wyatt was my life raft.
B. got this look on his face like he’d never heard of Wyatt before.
“Wyatt,” I repeated. “From Facebook?”
“Oh, right,” he said slowly, like dawn breaking. “Wyatt and I are pretty much only Facebook friends. I don’t know what’s up with him. I can find out, if it’s important to you.” Then he shoveled in a mouthful of pasta.
It makes sense, what he said. I mean, it’s not like B. thinks about Wyatt every day. They met on vacation one time. The point is, B. knows Wyatt, and through Wyatt, he met me, and voilà. Here I am, in my new life, with my first boyfriend. Serendipity or kismet or one of those other words they use in the old romantic comedies that my mom and I used to watch together when I stayed home from school sick.
Enough about my mom already.
“No,” I tell B. “It’s not important.”
Part of what scares me is that I’m really attracted to B., just like I expected, and the feeling might not be mutual. The whole time we were talking, I felt this volcano inside me. I wanted him that bad; it was like I was going to erupt. It must have been because I’d waited so long to see him, and now he was making me wait even longer. Why was he doing that? Didn’t he have a volcano inside him, too?
He asked me if I wanted him to sleep on the futon—oh, great, more space—and I said no. He took a shower while I got into bed. I wasn’t sure what he’d think of my body or if I’d know how to make him happy. I was imagining all the things he might know that I don’t, what it would feel like for him to teach me . . .
He came to bed in a T-shirt and his boxers. He climbed in on the far side, curling away from me. Then he cast a smile over his shoulder. “Glad you’re here,” he said, for the second time that day, and I so wanted to believe him.
I thought about rolling over to him or reaching my hand out to touch his shoulder. I wanted to send him the signal that he should touch me, that it was okay. I don’t need space.
Instead, I stared up at the ceiling—it must have been thirty feet high, like being in a gymnasium—and I tried not to cry.
Now he’s at school, and I’m here by myself. I’m writing in my journal because I can’t write to anyone I know. I can’t go on Facebook or Tumblr.
I’m in exile.
I didn’t think B. would go to class this morning. Yeah, it’s Monday, but I assumed he’d take the day off to be with me. But he got up and made me pancakes, which was such a momlike thing to do. He didn’t even ask if I wanted pancakes and I felt like I had to eat them, even though he didn’t have real maple syrup. Instead, it was that gross fake syrup in the plastic bottle shaped like an old woman. Then he reminded me not to go anywhere, because no one can see me, and he left.
I’m hiding out like a fugitive. I guess that makes sense, since I’mon the run, a runaway. Is that breaking the law? If I show back up, or if I’m found, can they put me in juvenile hall? I did so much planning, but there were a lot of things that didn’t occur to me. Like B. not being into me or spending all day every day inside, by myself, stuck with my thoughts.
But we’ll go on Disappeared.com soon, and I’ll have a whole new identity. I could start right now, except that B. took his laptop to school with him.
B. always jokes that I’m one of those people who wishes life was a book so you could peek at the next chapter, or even jump to the end. He’s right. I just want to know how it’ll all turn out.
Day 5
PAUL’S WORDS FILTER UP to me as he talks on the
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