Perfectly Good White Boy by Carrie Mesrobian Read Free Book Online

I didn’t think I would. But I do. Love you. And we had so much fun this summer, you know? It was more than I expected. But I’m glad it was.”
    Was.
    She kept kissing me. Around my face, on the cheeks. My forehead.
    I kind of wanted to shake her. Ask her what she was talking about. But really, I just wanted to leave. I pictured her, standing in the dry creekbed, in her underwear. And me driving away, driving fast, her standing there yelling after me. The image rushed so close to the surface, right under my skin. Right under where she was kissing. So I didn’t move. Couldn’t. She kissed my shoulder, and I thought, now I have to hate you.
    Finally, she stopped kissing me and sat back. No matter how half-cocked she was sounding now, Hallie wasn’t dumb.
    â€œDid we . . . you just broke up with me,” I said. “Right? Hallie?”
    â€œI don’t want to call it that, Sean.” She picked up her bra and put it on.
    I turned away from her.
    â€œWell, what do you want to call it?”
    â€œCan’t you just appreciate it for what it was?” She ran her hands over my arms a bunch. I pictured her again, screaming after me, the Buick kicking up dust as I sped away.
    â€œI don’t really get what you’re saying here,” I said.
    â€œSean, come on. I will always feel good about it. Because it’s, like, love, you know? It’s good. Love is always good.”
    â€œOkay.”
    I wondered if she’d cry, if I really left her here. What she’d do. Would she walk the whole way home? Hitchhike? A girl couldn’t hitchhike in her underwear. No. Maybe I’d toss her phone out the window at her?
    â€œPlus you never know where we’ll end up. There’s so much possibility in life, you know?”
    Nope: no phone. Just her clothes, then. She could walk. She might not always act like it, but at the end of the day, she was strong. Physically at least. She might cry the whole way, but it wouldn’t matter. I’d be gone, no matter how much she cried.
    â€œSean? Do you get what I mean?”
    I got what she meant. I got that she had dumped me and seemed to think it was something pretty great, from the smile on her face and the glowing sound of her voice and the way she was squeezing my shoulders now like a python and when you couldn’t love someone anymore you had to hate them. So, I hated her now. I had to. I had to, because I was in love with her and she was doing this. Whatever this was. Why was she doing this?
    â€œOkay,” I said. It was a strain to keep this still, but I didn’t trust myself. The image of her in my rearview mirror as I sped off was so clear—what the hell was wrong with me? But it wouldn’t go away. Almost clinically, I kept walking through it. Like it was a math problem or something. Wondered how I’d get her out of the car. Would I trick her? Carry her out? Would she fight me? Would she be surprised? What would she say? She’d probably yell. And there’d be no tricking her. I’d have to remove her physically, which I could do, but not easily. She wasn’t as tall as me, but I was skinnier. She was like a woman, Hallie. Built. While I was tall, a lot of me still looked like a boy. Skinny little weasel, my dad used to tease me, Brad laughing. Dad and Brad, being built and stocky and football-player-like. I started feeling around for my shirt.
    â€œSo, we’re, what?” I asked. “Friends?”
    â€œWe’re more than friends,” she said. “We always will be. But we have to accept . . .”
    Her voice got all choked-sounding. She wouldn’t look at me. Then she wiped her eyes. We stared at each other, then, and I felt a little sorry. For imagining ditching her in the dirt. For the fact that we’d never again talk like this, have sex like this. For hating her, too.
    â€œWe have to accept that our lives are changing,” she said, clearing her throat.