Everything That Makes You(41)

"It's a Moleskine. Which is just a fancy name for a notebook, I guess."

"And I need this because?"

"Read the first page."

She opened it. "‘Never May the Fruit Be Plucked'?"

Underneath the title, a poem was written in the blocky handwriting she  knew well. For a few moments, as she stared at the words Marcus's living  hand had formed, she forgot to breathe.

"It's the poem I was telling you about," he said.

She looked up at him and he looked away, rubbing his neck. "I wasn't  totally honest about how I remembered it. I've had this since he died."

Fi stared at the words a long time before, quietly, reading them.  "Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough / And gathered  into barrels. / He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs-"

"Stop," he said. "Please."

She ran her fingers over the page, feeling the bumps from where Marcus had pressed too hard. "Why are you giving me this?"

"Because it was for you-or probably for you. Marcus didn't say specifically . . ."

"I don't understand."

"He had a few of these-journals where he wrote down quotes he liked.  After I read that poem, he asked me to get him a fresh one. Then I had  to read it, really slowly, while he copied it down. I offered to do it  for him, but he wouldn't let me."                       
       
           



       

"And you've had it this whole time?"

"Yeah."

"So-why now?" she asked, too overwhelmed to be angry.

"Because he would have wanted it," he said. "Plus, I've been thinking  about what you said in the park, all those questions you had. I felt  bad. I didn't handle it well. Since I'm not the best moral support, I  thought a journal might work instead."

She nodded. Tears splattered onto Marcus's words, so she quickly closed the book, to protect the pages. "Thank you."

He gestured between the two of them. "Hanging out with you-it's weird that it doesn't feel weird anymore. Like, we're friends."

Fi remembered how Trent looked, glaring at her, saying he didn't want to  be her friend anymore. And then, it felt like her heart actually  twisted around itself-because she'd thought of Trent before she thought  of Marcus. "Marcus would be happy," she said.

Jackson made a sad smile and took another apple.

"Do you think he'd want us to-" She put the Moleskine on the table, like  it should be farther away when she asked the question. "Move on?"

"Move on how?"

"Dating." She hoped it came across as casual. "He'd be happy if you had a girlfriend, don't you think?"

"Not interested," he snapped.

"In dating or girls?"

Much to Fi's relief-why was he getting snippy?-he laughed. "I like girls."

"I've never seen you look twice at a girl."

He rolled his eyes. "That first day? When we first met you, in the  coffee shop? I had these competing emotions-be a jerk or flirt with the  cute girl." He picked up a cracker, breaking it apart with his fingers  instead of eating it. "Jerk obviously won."

"I can't picture you flirting." She also couldn't imagine Jackson thinking of her as cute.

"It's not pretty." He laughed to himself. "And your cast! It was like  kryptonite. I mean, I've got a serious soft spot for the fragile."

"Soft spot for the fragile?"

"Dying brother." He shrugged. "While you sat at our table looking  awkward, Marcus reached a decision about what do with you before I did,  thereby leaving the asshole path free and clear for me."

"And now?"

"Oh, I'm still an asshole." His voice had regained that snippy quality.

Even so, Fi pressed the conversation onward. "No, I mean, are you still resolutely anti-relationship-or dating or whatever."

"Like I said, not interested."

Fi picked up her own cracker, snapping it into bits, too. "Do you wonder  what would have happened if you decided to be nice? If you talked to me  first?"

"I wonder about lots of things. Why didn't I eat that piece of chicken?  What if we diagnosed it earlier? What if he didn't meet you at all, and I  got his last year all to myself."

"You're right," Fi said. "You are still an asshole."

They were quiet a minute or so. "What's with all the dating questions?" Jackson asked.

"It's been nine months. I've just been thinking about it."

His eyes got hard. She shuddered, remembering how he would stand in the  King doorway, looking down at her with that same disapproving look.

"You're Marcus's girlfriend," he said.

She sighed, looking at the Moleskine. Then she picked it up and put in the kitchen drawer, just for now. "Marcus is dead."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Why was she talking to him about this? "It's crazy. I need to forget it."

"Crazy why?" he asked slowly.

Fi closed her eyes, wondering how she and Jackson King wound up in this  unlikely relationship. "I've known him forever. He's my best friend."

Jackson exhaled a loud "Oh, thank God!" and collapsed back against his  chair. It almost fell backward, and he had to lunge forward to grab the  table before toppling.

Fi gaped at him. "What the heck's wrong with you?"

All four legs of his chair on the ground, he placed a hand over his  heart, looking like a man just rescued from drowning. "I thought you  meant me."

"You?" Fi recoiled. "Oh . . . that's . . ."

"I know! Gross, right?"

Fi frowned. "Well, I wouldn't say gross."

He waved her off. "You're not gross. But the idea of kissing you is-it's plain wrong."

"I don't want to kiss you, Jackson."                       
       
           



       

"Right. Good thing." He sat up, his mood visibly better. Taking a happy  bite of an apple he said, "So I was giving out relationship advice."

"Very badly."

"That's because I was fending off your advances. So, the guy? He's the  one who always hit on you in front of Marcus? Trevor or something?"

"Trent wasn't hitting on me! Did Marcus say that?"

Jackson grimaced, shaking his head. "No, he said that y'all were best  friends. Weird best friends if you ask me. Little bit dysfunctional."

"And you would be the expert in functional relationships." Fi scowled at  him. "You're supposed to be making me feel better. And giving me good  advice."

"Can't do both. You want to feel better, or you want the good advice?"

Fi sighed. "Good advice."

"Don't get involved. It'll totally mess up your friendship."

This was not what she wanted to hear.

Why was this not what she wanted to hear?

Fi shook her head. "I changed my mind. I want to feel better."

"Don't get involved. It'll totally mess up your friendship," he said. "The feel better part won't kick in till later."

"When?"

"When you don't lose your best friend," he said. "Because losing your best friend sucks."





MARCH


FIONA


Fiona sat at the foot of the bed, tying her shoes and staring at her  guitar in the corner. It wasn't tragically out of tune or anything-she'd  played it plenty over the past few weeks. It was the Moleskines, or  what she had left of them, that were neglected.

At least she'd met the performance requirement for music. To make up for  that horrid Individual Performance grade, she'd thrown everything she  had into the composition work after. She had to start from scratch,  since she'd tossed her best notebooks. But at least here on out,  everything in Weitz's class was on paper.

Beside her, David yawned and stretched, dragging his fingers down the cement wall at the head of the bed.

"Where are you going?" His voice was still thick from sleep. He pulled  his wrist toward his face, holding the watch close since his contacts  were out. "It's already ten?"

Fiona pulled on a sweatshirt. "I'm going to grab some coffee. I'll bring you some."

"'Kay," he said, stretching again.

"Don't sleep too late." She nudged his leg with her knee. "You've got to catch the ‘L' by noon."

He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "I know" and pulled the covers over his face, muttering, "God, it's so cold."

In the cafeteria, she lingered over her bagel and the school paper. It'd  been a nice few days with David. They'd both spent too much  money-eating out, going to museums, a band last night. As usual, they  talked about nothing in particular. At least she hadn't needed to broach  the awkward Jackson subject. She'd barely spoken to him since the  beach-and the literal run-in in the dorm lobby, after her critique. The  few times their paths crossed, he'd disappeared as quickly as he could.