Jay Asher - What Light

After a good minute of eating in silence, his mom starts asking questions about what it’s like to live on a Christmas tree farm. Abby is in awe of how much land we own when I try to describe what it looks like. I almost tell her she should come visit, but I’m sure either answer would lead to more awkward silence. The whole family looks shocked when I tell them about Uncle Bruce’s helicopter and how I hook trees to it while it’s flying.

Caleb’s mom looks between him and Abby. “I cannot imagine letting either of you do that.”

Caleb finally appears to be relaxing. We share stories about the trees we’ve delivered together, and he tells about some he did on his own. Whenever Caleb speaks, I notice his mom looks at Abby. Does she wonder, while Abby listens to the stories, what it would be like for them to still grow up together? When I tell them it was my idea to bring the families homemade cookies, I catch Caleb’s mom winking at him and my heart speeds up a little. When we’re done eating, no one makes a move to leave the table.

But then Abby talks about getting a tree with her dad. Their mom goes around collecting plates, and Abby starts talking directly to me. I hold her gaze, but I can see Caleb looking down at his hands on the table while his mom puts things in the dishwasher.

Their mom stays away from the table until Abby’s story is done. She then brings over a plate full of Rice Krispies treats with baked-in red and green sprinkles. Abby asks me if it’s hard to be away from home and all my friends for an entire month every year. We all grab a treat and I consider her question.

“I do miss my friends,” I say, “but it’s been like this since I was born. I guess when you’ve grown up one way, it’s hard to miss how things could be different, you know?”

“Unfortunately,” Caleb says, “in Abby’s case, we know how things could be different.”

I hold on to his arm. “That is not what I meant.”

Caleb sets down his dessert. “You know what, I’m exhausted.” He looks at me, a flash of pain in his eyes. “We shouldn’t make your parents worry.”

It’s like a bucket of ice water drops over me.

Caleb stands up, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and then pushes in his chair. I numbly stand up from mine. I thank his mom and Abby for the nice dinner, and his mom looks down at her plate. Abby shakes her head at Caleb, but no words need to be said. He walks toward the front door and I follow.

We walk out into the cool night. Halfway to his truck, I grab Caleb’s arm and stop him. “I was having a nice time in there.”

He won’t look me in the eyes. “I saw where things were going.”

I want him to look at me, but he can’t. He stands there, eyes closed, rubbing his hand through his hair. Then he walks to his truck and lets himself in. I get in on my side and shut the door. He has the key in the ignition but hasn’t turned it yet, his gaze locked on the steering wheel.

“It feels like everything’s okay with Abby,” I say. “Your mom misses her, obviously, but the person who seemed the most uncomfortable in there was you.”

He starts the truck. “Abby’s forgiven me, and that helps. But I cannot forgive myself for everything I took from my mom. That was lost because of me, which is hard to forget with Abby sitting right there and you talking about home.”

He puts his truck in drive, turns us in the opposite direction, and we both stay silent the entire way to the lot. The lot is still open as we pull into the parking area. I see several customers browsing and Dad carrying a newly flocked tree to the Bigtop. If this night had gone like I had hoped, we would be returning with this place closed for the night. We would sit in his truck, parked, and talk about what a beautiful evening this was, and maybe then we would finally kiss.

Instead, he pulls into a dimly lit spot of the parking area and I let myself out. Caleb stays in the driver’s seat, his hands not leaving the wheel. I stand outside my open door, staring at him.

He still can’t face me. “I’m sorry, Sierra. You don’t deserve this. When I see you here, we’ve got Andrew. And you saw what my house is like. We can’t even go to a grocery store without drama. That’s not going to change in the time we have left.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying. He couldn’t even look at me to say it. “And yet, I’m still here,” I say.

“It’s too much.” He looks me in the eyes now. “I hate having you see it all.”

My body feels weak, and I touch the door for balance. “You said I was worth it. I believed you.”

He doesn’t answer.

“What hurts me most,” I say, “is that you’re worth it, too. Until you realize that’s all that matters, it will always be too much.”

He stares at his steering wheel. “I can’t do it anymore,” he says softly.

I wait for him to take that back. He doesn’t know all I’ve done to stand up for him. With Heather. My parents. Jeremiah. I even angered my friends back home so I could be with him. If he knew any of that, though, it would only hurt him more.

I leave without shutting the door and walk to the trailer without looking back. I keep the lights off inside, drop onto my bed, and muffle my cries into the pillow. I want to talk to someone, but Heather is out with Devon. And for the first time, I can’t call Rachel or Elizabeth back home.

I pull aside the curtain above my bed and look out. His truck hasn’t left. The passenger door is still open. Enough light makes it into the cab to tell that his head is down, his shoulders shuddering hard.

I desperately want to run outside and close myself in the truck beside him. But for the first time since I met him, I don’t trust my instincts. When I hear his truck drive off, I replay everything that happened leading up to this moment.

Then I pull myself together and get up. I head out to the lot, forcing myself to be anywhere but stuck in my mind. I help several families, and I know my happiness comes across as an act, but I’m trying. Eventually, though, I can’t try any longer and I go back to the trailer.

On my phone are two voice mail messages. The first is from Heather.

“Devon gave me my perfect day!” she says, almost too cheerful to handle right now. “And it isn’t even Christmas! He took me to the top of Cardinals Peak for dinner, can you believe it? He was listening!”

I want to be excited for her. She deserves that. Instead, I feel jealous for how easy things can be for them.

“By the way,” she says, “your trees are doing great up there. We checked.”

I send her a text: I’m glad you’re keeping Devon a while longer.

She texts back: He earned his way to New Year’s. But he has to stop the fantasy football talk if he wants to make it to Super Bowl Sunday. How was dinner?

I don’t respond.

When I start playing a voice mail from Caleb, there’s a long pause before anything is spoken. “I’m sorry,” he says. There’s an even longer pause, and the silence is full of pain. He’s been hurting a long time. “Please forgive me. I screwed that up in a way I never expected. You are worth it, Sierra. Will you allow me to stop by on my way to church tomorrow?” I hold the phone tight to my ear, listening through another pause. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

There are so many reasons the next week won’t be easy for us. It’s likely to feel worse each day we get closer to Christmas—to me leaving.

I send him a text: No need to call. Just come by.

There’s a knock on our trailer door the next morning. I open it as Caleb’s about to knock again; his other hand holds out a to-go coffee cup with a lid to me. It’s a sweet gesture from a guy whose eyes look so sad and whose hair isn’t combed.

Instead of hello, he says, “I was awful.”

I step down to his level and accept the drink. “You weren’t awful,” I say. “Maybe a little rude to Abby and your mom…”

“I know,” he says. “And when I got home, Abby and I had a long talk. You were right. She’s more okay with everything than I am. We talked about our mom and how we might be able to make this easier for her, too.”

I take a first sip of the peppermint mocha.

He steps closer. “After she and I spoke, I stayed up the rest of the night thinking. My problem isn’t about working things out with Abby anymore, or with my mom.”

“It’s about you,” I say.

“I got no sleep last night thinking about that,” he says.

“Judging by the look of your hair, I believe you,” I say.

“At least I changed my shirt.”

I look him up and down. The jeans are wrinkled but the maroon long-sleeve button-down is working for me. “I can’t take the whole morning off,” I say, “but can I walk with you to church?”

His church isn’t far, but it’s a gentle rise most of the way. The remaining heaviness from last night dissolves further with each corner we turn. We hold hands the entire time to keep us close while we talk. Every so often he rubs his thumb up and down over mine, and I do it right back.

“We went to church a few times when I was little,” I say. “Mostly with my grandparents for the holidays. But my mom went all the time growing up.”

“I try to make it every week,” he says. “Slowly, my mom’s been coming back, too.”

“So you’ll sometimes go by yourself?” I ask. “Were you offended when I said I don’t?”

He laughs. “Maybe if you said you went all the time because you thought it made you look good. I might consider that offensive.”

I’ve never had a conversation about church with my friends. It feels like it should be uncomfortable with someone I like so much, and who I want to like me, but it’s not.

“So you’re a believer,” I say. “Have you always been?”

“I guess so. I’ve always had a lot of questions, though, which some people are afraid to admit. But it gives me something to think about at night. Something other than this girl I’m hung up on.”

I smile at him. “That’s a very honest answer.”

We turn up a side street and that’s when I see the white-steepled church. The sight of it feels like I’m being allowed to glimpse such a personal side of him. This guy I met a few weeks ago comes here every Sunday, and now I’m walking there with him, holding his hand.

We stop to let a car pull into the parking lot, which is filling up fast. A few middle-aged men in orange reflective vests guide cars to the remaining open spaces. Caleb and I walk toward two etched glass doors with a large wooden cross above them. A line of several men and women, young and old, stand outside the doors greeting people as they enter the lobby. Standing to the side, probably waiting for Caleb to arrive, are his mom and Abby.

“Sierra!” Abby bounces over. “I am so relieved to see you. I was afraid my bone-headed brother scared you away last night.”

Caleb throws her a sarcastic grin.

“He brought me a peppermint mocha,” I say. “It’s hard to say no to that.”

One of the greeters behind them checks his phone and soon they’re heading in, closing the glass doors behind them.

“Looks like it’s time to go in,” Caleb’s mom says.

“Actually,” Caleb says, “Sierra has to head back.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” I say. “But Sundays get busy, especially the week before Christmas.”

Caleb’s mom points a finger at him. “Something I almost forgot. Do you think you can disappear this afternoon?”

Caleb looks at me, confused, and then back to his mom.

“I’m getting a delivery and I’m trying to keep it a secret from you. And this year, I’m determined to not let you spoil it.” She turns to me. “When he was little I had to keep his presents at work because he sniffed out every hiding place at home.”

“That’s horrible!” I say. “My parents could keep mine in their bedroom and I’d do everything to not go in there. Why would I want to accidentally see what I’m getting?”

Caleb ignores my innocence and challenges his mom. “You really don’t think I can sniff out this delivery?”

“Honey…” She pats his arm. “That’s why I said it in front of Sierra. I’m hoping she can teach you to value anticipation.”

Oh, I’ve been anticipating a lot with this boy. “I’m watching you,” I say to Caleb.

“Figure out something to do until dinner,” his mom says.

Caleb looks at his sister. “Apparently I’m supposed to disappear this afternoon. What should we do, Abby-girl?”

“Figure it out now or later,” their mom says, “but I’m going inside. I don’t want to sit in the balcony like last time.” She gives me a hug and then walks inside the church.