The In Between

Chapter 42

Tara

In some ways I feel like I'm back to before Justin and I had ever gotten together. I don't know what he's thinking. I don't know if I know him at all.

I can't sleep so, I leaf through the Justin tribute paper. It's filled with stories that remind me how much more time he spent more with the Awesome-Nots than he did with me. There's a picture of him at the top of a rollercoaster, arms up, Amanda at his side. He was a different Justin then. He belonged to them.

I fold the paper up and tuck it under my bed, resisting the urge to burn it. The windowpane rattles in the wind. I shut my eyes, desperate for sleep. Even just a few hours of forgetting would be such a welcome relief from this aching desire for Justin to return and the fear that he won't, the minute-by-minute wavering between grief and hope that's left me crazed, sleepless and exhausted.

The window rattles again. The frame is loose. My mom said she was going to have it fixed months ago. For all of her organization and vigilance, she's not great about household stuff—the stairs creak, the bathroom door sticks, the light in the refrigerator has been out for months. I think it depresses her in some way, a reminder of the whole 'no man around the house' thing. I'm pretty sure we still have the red metal toolbox that my father left behind when he decided he was done with us, but it definitely hasn't been used since. My mom can't bring herself to throw it out—'it might come in handy some day'—but she is totally clueless about how to actually use the various wrenches and drills inside. So nothing ever gets done.

I look at my clock. 12:14am.

I shut my eyes.

I have to stop my mind from racing around in circles this way.

It's torture.

I have to get some sleep.

But a minute later, the window rattles again, more violently this time. I sit up and turn my bedside lamp on. Someone is throwing pebbles at my window.

Luke. It has to be Luke.

I pry my fingers under the frame and manage to raise the window a few inches. I'm chilled by the cold air that rushes—I'm only wearing the oversized Kickers T-shirt—and I wrap my arms around my chest. The brightness of the moon makes our small backyard look like some sort of lunar landscape. It's hard to make anything out.  

Then I see it: a dark silhouette of a man. A shadow in a shadowy night. I can't quite be sure, but whoever it is, he's taller than Luke. 

My pulse races with fear. I think about getting my mom up, or calling 9-1-1. Then I think maybe it's Frank, coming to say goodbye or whatever. I raise the window a bit more and lean out to get a better look.

And then I hear his voice.

"Tara?" It's weak, a hoarse whisper, but I would recognize his voice anywhere, across any distance.   

 "Wait there," I whisper-scream.

I race down the stairs, tripping over my own bare feet, and out the back door. He's back. He's really back.

Justin is standing alone by the birch tree. In the darkness, I can't read his expression. But as I get closer, I realize that's because there is no expression on his face. It's completely and utterly blank.

Something's wrong. I know it the way I know everything about Justin. As I get closer, his eyes skid off of mine, unable to hold my gaze. Something's happened to him.

I remember how he was taken from me that afternoon at the quarry, the weakness that overcame him, the fading, the helplessness. Alarm replaces joy—Justin is hurt. I'm sure of it.