Everything That Makes You(47)

"You're my best friend," she said.

Trent leaned closer-and closer and closer-until his chest pushed Fi onto  her back again. He propped on his elbows, hovering just above her. "I  think it's time we expand my role."

Then he closed the small bit of distance left between them and kissed her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.





FIONA


Fiona stood at the coffee bar, staring across the room toward her  parents. They sat side by side at a small, far-off table, her dad's arm  draped around her mom's shoulder. Surrounded as they were by tattoos and  piercings, Bruce and Caroline Doyle looked surprisingly unflustered.

"My worlds are colliding," Fiona muttered.

Beside her, Ryan nodded and laughed. "So I want to say something-before everyone else gets here."

"Okay," she said, swallowing her coffee too fast.

"Remember when you walked home from the coffee shop, and I freaked  out-before the surgery? When I told you I felt lost in your story."

Fiona fought the urge to check the date square on her watch. It was  mid-July! They weren't due for this conversation for seven more months.  She nodded cautiously.

"I don't think I explained it right. It's more like . . . I felt responsible for your story."

"Responsible?"

"That day? The zoo? Your face-that was my fault."

"What?"

"I know you don't remember. But I do. The snack bar was my idea. We were  running around in there like crazy. And we ran into each other,  and-God, this is the horrible part-I pushed you. Like away from me and  into the popcorn cart. I fell on my butt while you fell into the oil."

"Ryan, no-"

He held up a hand. "For a long time, I felt that all the scarred parts of you-I felt like I made them."

First her mom, now Ryan-she had no idea that this much guilt ran in the family.

"But I didn't make you at all, Ona," he said. "All this time, you've  made me. I'm better because of you. And whatever pieces of yourself you  want to share up there-that'll make everyone here a little bit better,  too."

Her instinct was to argue her way out of compliments. But she was sick  of her instincts, frankly. "Ryan, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't  anybody's fault. Some things just are."

He nodded, letting out a huge breath. He looked . . . satisfied. Lighter. How crazy that he had carried this unnecessary burden.

Gwen entered from the back door and made her way to them. From behind  him, she looped her hands around Ryan's waist and, on tiptoes, kissed  his neck. Looking at Fiona, she said, "David's outside."

And then the door swung open again.

They caught eyes immediately-and so obviously that neither could pretend  not to have noticed the other. Fiona watched David's shoulders rise and  fall, as if he were gearing himself for some kind of battle. He walked  over to Fiona, Gwen, and Ryan at the counter.

"I heard you were playing," he said.

Fiona resisted the urge to rub fiercely at her temples. Parents in the  coffee shop, confessions from her brother, the ex-boyfriend, an  impending public performance-it was too much at once.

Instead, she pointed to the performers' list scrawled on the blackboard,  with her name at the bottom. "I'm hoping to avoid emergency  laryngitis."                       
       
           



       

David smiled. "Want something?"

Fiona shook her head. Rescuing her lukewarm coffee from the counter, she  drained it and handed it over for a refill. Gwen and Ryan said they'd  find a table, leaving Fiona and David to this awkward semi-conversation.  As they waited for drinks, they talked about finals, what they'd been  doing over the summer, plans for next year. Fiona didn't know what  they'd do once the coffee excuse was gone.

The guy behind the counter called her name. Claiming her mug, she turned and nearly dropped it.

Good Lord, could this evening get any more awkward?

Just inside the door stood Jackson King, scanning the crowd. It had only  been a month and half since she'd seen him. Still, he looked  different-straighter in his bones and more relaxed in his skin. He wore  the same soft, worn jeans as always and a plain navy T-shirt. He was all  olive skin, black hair, and green eyes.

Eventually his wandering eyes found Fiona. He smiled-smirked-as he made  his way over. Smelling just the slightest bit of cantaloupe, he stood  beside her and leaned close. "This is pretty public for our second time,  don't you think?"

David pivoted around on the spot. He and Jackson shared a look that  seemed equally surprised, annoyed, and uncomfortable. Fiona fought the  Caroline Doyle impulse to make sure everyone knew each other-David, you  remember Jackson? You found us holding hands in the common room. And  Jackson, David's the one I was dating the whole time we were  inappropriately flirting.

More than anything, Fiona wanted to hug Jackson, hold his hand, take a  deeper breath of him. Anything to ground her the slightest bit for what  she was about to do. But as David stood beside her, all the things they  still hadn't said floated around her like a vapor-something intangible  but present nonetheless. It felt so suddenly real, Fiona worried it  might follow her onstage like a muggy, stifling cloud.

"Um, Jackson, could I catch up with you after?"

Jackson's eyes flitted off David to Fiona. He slowly nodded and walked away.

Fighting a primal instinct to follow him, instead Fiona turned to David,  who regarded her skeptically. She had no idea what to do. But as much  as she did not want this conversation, she owed it to him.

David cleared his throat. "So, you two are . . ."

Fiona shrugged, biting her lip. "I'm not sure."

"And at school?"

"Nothing happened at school." She felt a strong need to set the record  straight here. It was the one bit that didn't reflect horribly on her.  "Nothing's happened at all. It's just been, um, talk up to this point."

"Right. I got a good look at the talking bit."

Okay, maybe a little horrible. "David, I'm so sorry."

David sipped from his mug, studying her over the rim of it. "Yeah, I know."

Fiona wasn't sure where to go from here. She knew David wanted more, but  she hadn't been able to give it to him the two years they'd dated. With  open mic night starting in five minutes, she certainly wasn't going to  be capable of it now.

Pointing to her guitar, he said, "Don't you need to get in tune or something?"

Letting out a grateful breath, she nodded. She gestured over her shoulder to Ryan and Gwen's table. "I should sit."

They hesitated a moment before sharing an awkward hug. David picked up  his mug and headed to a table on the other end of the coffee shop. Fiona  plunked herself by Ryan. "That looked painful," he said.

She groaned, letting her head loll on the table as the Otherlands guy  walked up to the open mic corner, thumped the microphone a few times,  reminded the audience to be polite, and told the performers they had  eight minutes.

Fiona looked up when the second performer tried to clog dance while  playing the harmonica. At least the bar's being set nice and low.

It felt too soon when the guy announced, "Okay, looks like next we've got . . . Fiona Doyle."

Taking a deep breath, Fiona stood up. Ryan held out her guitar. She took  it with a stretched smile and walked to the front of the coffee shop. A  few strangers gave polite applause while Ryan and Gwen whooped.

She smiled at her parents as she passed their table. Scanning the crowd  she spotted Jackson leaning against the coffee bar, one elbow propped on  the counter. From the distance, she couldn't gauge his expression.

Once on the stool, she retuned her guitar. She was taking too long but  any change in her very deliberate pace might send her screaming for the  door.

The perspective up here was different from what she expected. She didn't  feel much higher than the people in chairs. The plants felt like  curtains, blocking her from a full view. "Thanks," she said, adjusting  the microphone. "This is a song I wrote."                       
       
           



       

She started with her eyes closed, feeling the strings against her  fingers. Concentrating on her voice and her words, hearing how the amp  inflated everything about them.



Turn me inside out / You'll see a heart beating.

Turn me upside down / There's my head aching.



Her voice rolled out of her, traveling away until it bounced off the  concrete walls on the room's other side. The song returned a little  mellower from the journey.



But turn me right side up

And you get what you see.



When she opened her eyes, it seemed like the audience had morphed from  the individual to the communal-a single, organic mass held together by  her song.