Chapter Fourteen

August 24

I don’t remember exactly when I last went to the Falls. It was just something I did with Michael, regularly, until it wasn’t. I don’t even remember if

we spent any time there that last week before I left for boarding school.

I remember the last time I tried to go to the Falls. It was the first warm day after I got back from boarding school. I told my mom I was going to take a

walk in Krape Park, which was a lie, but I knew she wouldn’t let me borrow her car if I told her I was going to climb up the

old steps to the top of the Falls. She didn’t think the steps were safe. Which they weren’t. They’d been roped off, with a

firm no entry sign, for as long as I could remember.

But Michael and I climbed them all the time anyway. And we weren’t the only ones—at least on weekend nights or prom or homecoming.

The Falls was a prime romantic make-out spot. Honestly, the fact that the steps were roped off just made it more alluring

to everyone under the age of twenty-five.

The Falls are, I assume, what Oak Falls was named for, although I never bothered to actually try to find out if that was true.

They’re all the way at one edge of Krape Park and (since Krape Park is at one edge of Oak Falls) all the way at the edge of

Oak Falls. On one side of Huron Road is Krape Park, and on the other side is unincorporated farmland. Literal cornfields.

The side of Krape Park that’s closer to the rest of Oak Falls—the side that’s right across the street from my mom’s new condo—has a playground, a band shell, an antique carousel, and even an old fire truck for kids to play on. There’s a gazebo with an outdoor grill and a ton of picnic tables. But past all that, there are trails that wind away through grassy lawns, a wildflower meadow, and a forest—which is where the Falls are.

It wasn’t really that warm, the day I tried to go back to the Falls. It was what counted as warm when you’d just been through

winter in Illinois. It was probably, like, fifty degrees. Half the people in town were in T-shirts.

I don’t know exactly why I wanted to go back to the Falls. Maybe I just wanted something else besides the bookstore that hadn’t

changed. Maybe I wanted to claim it as mine, just by existing in it. Maybe I wanted to torture myself a little bit. Who knows.

But I drove out in my mom’s Jeep, pulled the Jeep off to the side of the road, and started down the paved path toward the

Falls.

I only made it halfway. Then I saw Michael’s bike, leaning against a tree.

And it hit me, with all the subtlety of a brick, that the Falls didn’t belong to me. I couldn’t claim them as mine, because

Michael had already done that by being here the whole time I was gone. Of course he’d been hanging out at the Falls while I was away at boarding school.

In the back of my mind, I’d told myself he’d been avoiding the Falls. I’d told myself he didn’t want to go back there without

me.

But clearly, I was wrong. Just like I’d been wrong about everything else. Michael was probably up on the rock at the top of

the Falls with Liz, since she’d replaced me in every other way possible.

So I turned around and went back to the Jeep. I sat in the driver’s seat and cried. And selfishly, I wished Michael and Liz

would come out of the park while I was there, so Michael would see me crying and feel bad. And then I cried harder because

knowing I was selfishly wishing for that just made me feel worse.

I cried until my head hurt and my eyes felt puffy. Until my mouth tasted like salt. Until I ran out of energy to cry, and

then I drove back home.

I didn’t go back to the Falls for the rest of high school. I sat on the tire swing in the backyard instead and tried to pretend

it felt as private and magical as the Falls had.

The long, drawn-out buzz of a cicada is the only sound when I step out of the Jeep, except for a very faint rushing sound, like white noise—water plunging down the bluffs. I parked off the side of Huron Road, across from an overgrown sign that simply says falls , with an arrow pointing down the wooded trail. The rest of the road is deserted, which isn’t all that surprising. The actual

parking lot for Krape Park is all the way on the other side, near the merry-go-round and the playground and the parts of the

park most people spend time in.

I cross the road, the paperback copy of The Lightning Thief in one hand. The temperature drops a good five degrees once I get into the trees. The path is dappled in sunlight and everything

smells damp. The rushing sound grows louder, and then the trees clear away and there’s the waterfall.

It’s not really all that impressive as far as waterfalls go. It’s not something you’d see a picture of online and go, Wow , who needs to see Niagara Falls when I could see this! It just looks like... a waterfall in the middle of a bunch of trees.

But for Oak Falls, it’s exciting. I mean, the Falls are practically the only altitude change in the entire county. The landscape

here is flat—so flat that for a science project in middle school, Michael and I once actually tried to figure out if Oak Falls

was flatter than a pancake. (Result: inconclusive.)

But in this one spot in Krape Park, there’s a bluff face that rears a good forty feet high, and water plunges down it, splashing

over jagged rocks overgrown with moss, into a creek that winds away from the Falls and snakes off through the rest of the

park. The steps are literally cut into the bluff face next to the waterfall. I have no idea how long they’ve been there, but

they’re worn and rounded now, leading up to the large flat rock at the top that Michael and I called the Lookout. A metal

railing is bolted to the stone next to the steps—it looks like it’s more rust than not-rust at this point.

I could sit by the edge of the creek. There’s nobody here. It’s private. Quiet. I might see a turtle.

But I’m overwhelmed and weirded out by everything and I feel like doing something a bit reckless.

So I tuck the paperback book into the waistband of my jeans and follow the edge of the creek to the base of the steps. I grab the rusted railing and give it a tug. It doesn’t budge. Seems sturdy enough. I crane my head back and look up the steps to the top of the bluff, but I can’t really see anything besides leaves. The Lookout is hidden behind all the tree branches.

Well. Here goes.

The steps are slippery under my sneakers. Mist washes over me, leaving droplets on my glasses. The roar of the waterfall fills

my ears, and my hands feel damp and grimy by the time I finally reach the top. There’s a dicey moment where the railing ends

and I have to sort of scramble to pull myself onto the Lookout, but I make it.

And there, sitting on the rock in front of me, wearing running shoes and shorts and a ragged T-shirt, is Michael. Because

apparently the universe is having a great time fucking with me.

We stare at each other.

How is he here?

Why is he here?

“Um.” My heart thuds and I gasp for breath. That climb was definitely harder than I remember. “Hi.”

He pulls out a pair of wireless earbuds. “Hi.”

It’s jarring to see him here after I was just in the bookstore, trying to ask questions about him. I feel guilty, like I was

gossiping about him behind his back. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were up here.”

“No, it’s fine...” He looks ruefully at his earbuds. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Well, I can go.” I think. I lean forward, looking back down the steps. They look a lot steeper from up here. Clearly it’s

possible to get back down—Michael probably wouldn’t have come up here if it wasn’t, and obviously we used to go up and down all the

time. But in this moment, I can’t exactly remember how.

“No, don’t,” Michael says. He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I was just taking a break from my run. You’re...

you don’t have to go.”

I look back at him, taking in the muddy running shoes and the T-shirt and shorts again. “You run ?”

He blinks at me, and then he cracks a smile. “Well... it’s more like jogging.”

“Okay. You jog ?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. But I actually kind of like it now. It’s a nice way to... think.” He glances up, eyes

meeting mine, and I’m pretty sure we’re both remembering that the Michael I knew hated running. He had to jog around the football

field in band camp, and he always complained about it.

“Do you still play trombone too?” I ask.

He pulls a face. “God, no. I quit as soon as I got to college.”

I smile, but it feels a little tight. Seeing him here at the Falls, even this filled-out, grown-up version of him... I

momentarily forgot we were anything except two people who’d known each other for ages and used to hang out up here and goof

off. But now last night is creeping back into the space between us, hovering in the air like the mist rising off the Falls.

“Listen, Michael...” I shift awkwardly; the paperback book rubs against my back, and I pull it out of my waistband. “I’m

sorry about... what I said. Yesterday. It was really nice of you to invite me over and introduce me to your friends, and

I ruined it. We don’t have to talk about it or anything, I’m just... sorry.”

He looks at me, and his face is guarded, carefully blank, but something goes through his gray eyes. That same unreadable thing.

“It’s okay.” He looks away, down at the earbuds he’s fiddling with, rolling them around on his palm. “And... I’m sorry

too. I kind of deserted you.”

I try to shrug. Try to deflect. “I had my ginger ale.”

His mouth quirks up, but he looks self-conscious. His eyes land on the book in my hands. “Did you come up here to read?”

I look down at the copy of The Lightning Thief . It’s hazy through my glasses—the water itself has mostly evaporated, but it definitely left spots. “Oh. Um. I don’t know.

I just picked this up from In Between on a whim and... felt like coming up here.”

He frowns at the book. “Wait, that’s... Is that Percy Jackson?”

My eyebrows jump in surprise. “Yeah. You remember?”

He glances up at me, and his face doesn’t seem quite so guarded now. “Percy Jackson? Of course I remember.” He holds out a hand, almost tentatively. I hand him the book, and immediately realize the receipt is still tucked in the pages—the brand-new, crisp receipt with a 2009 date on the bottom.

But Michael doesn’t seem to notice. He just flips slowly and gently through the pages. A smile creeps across his face. “Man,

I haven’t thought about this in ages. You finished the series, right? I think I remember you recapping the last book.”

Something twists in my chest—tender and painful at the same time. “Yeah. I read the last book the summer before... I left.”

He pauses. Chews his lip and then closes the book. “Right.”

He holds the book out to me, and I take it. I can feel us getting close again to whatever was off-limits last night. Whatever

it is he doesn’t want to talk about.

I swallow. “So... what about you? You still read Marvel comics?”

He snorts, and the tension seems to dissipate again. “I have absolutely no idea what is happening in the Marvel universe these

days.” He leans back on his hands. “Honestly, I think my students know more than I do. I’m officially old.”

“What about Pokémon?”

He opens his mouth and hesitates.

I raise my eyebrows. “You still know stuff about Pokémon, don’t you.”

“Okay.” He points one of his earbuds at me. “Yes, but only because that stuff sticks with you. Although...” He lets his

breath out. “I might still have some of my action figures.”

“And a plushie, apparently.”

His ears redden. “And a plushie.”

“That’s practically a Pokéshrine.”

It makes him laugh—a real laugh, deep and easy, and everything inside me lifts. “I mean, I was gonna go with... mementos,

but sure.”

“Mementos? Next you’ll be calling them heirlooms.”

He shrugs. “They could be valuable one day. I keep meaning to bring one to school—win some cool points with my students.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pokémon is cool now?”

He sticks out his lower lip. “Pokémon was always cool.”

That makes me laugh. He’s pouting. For a second, I could almost believe the two of us are sixteen again.

And then I kind of run out of laughs, and he seems to realize he’s pouting at me and sucks his lip in. We both turn and stare

out over the Falls.

“You still come up here a lot?” I ask.

He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. “I guess. I mean, not every day, but I still like to come up sometimes.”

“You think your students ever come up here?”

He grimaces. “I made a decision never to consider that a long time ago.”

I grin. “Fair enough.” My grin fades and I know I probably shouldn’t ask the question that’s in my head, but I can’t help

it. “You ever come up here with anyone else?”

I’m asking about Liz. And I’m asking about back then —senior year.

He looks at me, and once again I can’t read his face. I can’t tell if he knows what I’m really asking—or trying to ask.

He shakes his head. “No.” He looks back out over the Falls. “Just by myself.”

I nod. That answer doesn’t make me feel better the way I thought it would.

“Did you ever come back here?” he asks.

It feels like a jab—poking at me. But I guess it’s fair. I just poked at him. “What do you mean?”

I know what he means, and I don’t even know why I’m trying to pretend I don’t, so I’m not surprised when he says, “Did you

ever come back here when you got back from boarding school?”

“No. I guess I forgot about it.” I say this still staring into the mist rising above the Falls, because I can’t bring myself

to look at him and lie. But I also can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. It feels too vulnerable to admit that I had a

complete meltdown just because I found his bike. Maybe I’m worried he’ll think I was childish, crying for that long in my

mom’s Jeep. Or maybe I’m worried if I tell him, I’ll feel childish.

All he says is “Oh.”

Does he sound disappointed? Am I just trying to tell myself he does?

We’re quiet for a while, the white noise of the Falls filling the air.

Then he leans on his hands again and tips his head back, looking up at the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. “How’s the packing going?”

Right. Topic change. We’re getting too close to That Subject again. “Uh...” I try to pull my thoughts together. “Well,

I discovered my mom kept all the embarrassing mugs I ever made.”

He glances at me with a hint of a grin. “She kept the birthday mugs?”

“Every single one.”

“Just be glad you don’t live closer.” He sighs. “My parents have been gradually unloading all my old crap onto me for years.

They can’t decide what to do with it, so now I have to.”

“And... have you?”

“Not at all. Now it’s sitting in my basement.”

“Let me guess... band uniforms?”

He grunts. “So many band uniforms.”

My mind drifts back to the banner I saw through the bookstore window, strung up over Main Street Video. “I still can’t believe

how many football games I sat through just to watch that shit band play halftime.”

“Hey!” He shoots me an offended look. And then he shrugs. “Actually, yeah, we were totally shit. So was the football team,

though.”

“Yeah. You complemented each other nicely.”

“Ouch.” But he’s smiling. “Actually, speaking of football... the season opener is this Friday. You should come.”

For a second, I just stare at him. “What?”

“Plainview season opener,” he says. “High school football? Friday night?”

“Yeah, I...” But I actually have no idea if I knew what he meant. Michael inviting me to a football game wasn’t exactly

something I expected to happen. Mostly because neither of us are in high school anymore. “You’re going?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m a teacher, so... yes, I generally go. Anyway, it’s kind of fun. You know, now that I’m not actually

on the field trying to play trombone.”

I feel like my mind is trying to catch up, bumping over Michael teaching at our old high school, Michael going to football

games as a teacher, Michael inviting me to go with him...

“Just a thought,” he says.

Just a thought isn’t something you say when you’re extending a pity invite, right?

Just a thought feels like he’s really asking—like he’s letting last night go and trying again. Like maybe I didn’t ruin everything after

all.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, if you’re going...”

“Give me your phone number.” He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his shorts. “I can text you the details.”

He holds his phone out to me, unlocked. It feels weirdly intimate to take it. Like even though I’m obviously not going to look through Michael’s text messages or his photos or this random app called AccuWeather (why isn’t the regular

weather app good enough for him?), I could. It’s all there. Little bits of who he is, on a phone in my hands.

I enter my name and phone number into his contacts and hand the phone back.

“I’ll text you,” he says again.

I nod. Try to be casual around the fluttery feeling in my chest. “Great. Thanks.”

Silence hovers between us, and then he slaps his hands on his knees—another Midwestern gesture for time to go —and pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably finish this run and get home.”

“Yeah. Sure.” I inch backward on the rock so he can get past me.

“See you,” he says.

“See you.”

And then he tucks his earbuds in and carefully swings his legs over the edge of the rock, turning around and going down the

steps like a ladder, one hand on the railing. He disappears from view pretty quickly behind the bluff face because the steps

are steep . But I catch a glimpse of him through the trees once he’s on the ground—jogging off down the same trail I walked in on.

So, he really does run.

I let my breath out, picking up the paperback copy of The Lightning Thief. I flip through the pages the way Michael did, slowly enough to catch familiar names as they pass by.

I should probably go too. Head back to the house and help my mom pack. I don’t even know what time it is since my phone is

dead.

Maybe I need to get an actual watch if I’m going to keep going back to the bookstore. Of course, then again, would a watch work any better than my phone? Maybe its battery would also die.

I groan, rubbing my eyes under my glasses. This is clearly not going to be a break. Even the white noise of the Falls can’t

shut out all the questions banging around my brain.

But I can’t quite make myself leave. I climbed all the way up here. I want a minute to just be here . On the Lookout. Like I’m reclaiming it, as shallow and petty as that sounds.

I lie down on my back and squint up at the leaves overhead. It’s not comfortable. The rock is hard and uneven under my back.

I’m suddenly way too aware of my shoulder blades.

I close my eyes anyway, trying to unearth memories of being up here with Michael. Even trying to conjure up images of Michael

up here by himself.

Like maybe between those two things, I’ll be able to overwrite all the times I pictured him up here with Liz, that last year

of high school, like recording over a videotape.