Page 18 of The Lucky One
Jon downed the final bite of his takeout taco. His favorite, I’d learned. He’d inhaled at least five, while I had moved on to cookie dough ice cream after my second. He threw the wrapping paper to the back of the car and turned to face me. “Did you read my book?”
“If I read it?” I licked ice cream off my spoon and put it down in the cup holder to reach for Jon’s black book in my bag. “I annotated it. But if you don’t like it don’t worry. I used an erasable pencil and—”
“You did what?” Jon’s face flashed surprise and panic.
“I love your poems. And guess what?” I pulled out a second black notebook, the one I bought with Danielle before Christmas. It was almost full by now. “I read yours, so now you can read mine! This is for you.” I wanted to open up to him the way he did to me, to let him into my deepest thoughts and secrets, no matter how ugly they were.
“Shit,” Jon exclaimed, grabbing the notebook. “I had no idea you were into writing too, Little German.” He scanned through the pages in disbelief. I watched him immerse himself in my words. The night sky wasn’t even nearly as beautiful as him.
“I used to write all the time in Germany, but I stopped when I came here. Seeing you scribbling, it made me want to pick it up again... Plus, it made me feel so much closer to you, reading yours. I wanted you to have something like that from me too.”
But Jon’s attention was captured by the words. My words. My heart raced as he stopped at a random page and frowned at it. It wasn’t my best work by any means. “But it’s not like yours,” I added quickly. “It has poems and regular diary entries, but also—”
“Differences between America and Germany—pros and cons.” Jon snickered, showing me the page. “Oh, here’s a to-do list: ‘clean up room, read assignment, text Danielle, shower.’” He raised his eyebrows, amused. “You plan when to shower?”
“I plan when to wash my hair!” I tugged at the ends in defense. “If I wash it too often it gets greasy too fast, and if I wash it too little I look like a slimy fish.”
“A cute fish, though.”
“Okay, you’re done!” I reached for the notebook.
“No way, I want to read it all. Even your meal planner.” He lifted an arm and invited me to snuggle into his embrace. I melted like butter.
“‘The waves return,’” he read aloud. “‘I feel them pulling.’”
I put my head in his lap and closed my eyes, listening to his voice say my words.
“‘Got to stay strong, stay strong, stay strong.’”
“‘Surge after surge, they would wash away my soul to the sea.’”
“‘They can’t understand, understand, understand.’”
“‘It’s my heart, my choice, my fight.’”
“‘I’m in control, control, control.’”
“‘I swim.’”
“‘The waves fall back again... A calm before the pull.’”
A silence.
Jon’s gaze stayed fixed on the poem, reading it once more.
“You hate it?” I asked from below. Not afraid of his opinion, but curious what he truly thought of it.
He sighed, closed the book and set it on the dashboard. “I like the writing, but I hate what I put you through, Little German.”
I sat up. “You did nothing wrong.” But that wasn’t entirely true.
He crossed his arms around his shoulders. “This is about addiction, isn’t it?” he asked with a careful look in my direction.
It suddenly dawned on me that my words were a trigger for him. My own experience with pills had been short-lived, only a few weeks, while Jon’s battle stretched back years. It wasn’t mere waves he confronted, but the full force of a tsunami.
“I’m sorry, Jon. I shouldn’t have given you this, I didn’t think—” I reached for the notebook but he gently caught my wrist.
“This is the best gift anyone has ever made me,” he said. “I’m sorry, but even the key chain you gave me for Christmas can’t compete. By the way, I’d love to have it back if you didn’t burn it.”