Jay Asher - What Light

“I still don’t understand why,” I say.

“I think I wanted to scare her,” he says. “But that’s all. And it did. It scared me. It scared my mom.”

Neither of us says anything. My hands are folded tight between my knees. My entire body clenches.

“So Abby went to live with my dad, and I’m here living with the fallout and all the rumors.”

All the breath has escaped me. I don’t know how to reconcile the Caleb I’ve known and adored hanging out with and this broken person in front of me. “Do you still see her? Your sister?”

“When I visit my dad, or when she visits us here.” He looks at my plate, and he must see that I haven’t taken a bite in several minutes. “For almost two years, whenever she came home, we went to a family counselor. She says she understands and has forgiven me, and I think she’s being honest. She’s a great person. You’d love her.”

Finally, I take a bite. I’m not hungry anymore, but I also don’t know what to say.

“Part of me keeps hoping she’ll change her mind and move back, but I could never ask for that,” he says. “That has to be something she wants. And she likes Nevada. She has a new life there now and new friends. I suppose if there is a silver lining, I’m glad my dad has her around.”

“You don’t always need to find a silver lining,” I say, “but I’m glad you found one.”

“Still, it’s had a huge impact on my mom. Because of me—without a doubt this time—one of her kids moved away,” he says. “My mom’s missed years of watching her daughter grow up, and that is my fault. I’ll live with that forever.”

The way his jaw tenses, I know he’s cried over this many times. I consider everything he’s told me. How hard all of this has been for his mom and sister, as well as for him. I know this should scare me a little, but somehow it doesn’t, because I do believe he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Everything about him makes me believe that.

“Why did your parents split?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know, but my mom once told me she always held her breath around him, waiting for him to tell her what she was doing wrong. When they were together, I think she spent a lot of time feeling bad about herself.”

“What about your sister?” I ask. “Does your dad treat her the same way?”

“No way,” Caleb says, and finally he laughs. “Abby would give it right back. If he says anything about how she’s dressed, she’ll go on and on about double standards and he’ll end up taking it all back and apologizing.”

Now I laugh. “That’s my kind of girl.”

The waitress comes by to refill our coffee, and I see the worried creases return to Caleb’s forehead.

He looks up at the waitress. “Thanks.”

When she leaves, I ask, “How does Jeremiah fit into this?”

“He had the bad luck of being at my house when it happened,” he says. He stares out the window again. “And he was just as freaked out as we were. He ended up going home and telling his family about it, which was fine. But that’s when his mom said we couldn’t be friends anymore.”

“And she still won’t let you see each other?”

His fingertips barely touch the lip of the table. “I’d be wrong to blame her,” he says. “I know I’m not dangerous, but she’s just protecting her son.”

“She thinks she’s protecting him,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

He shifts his gaze from the window to the table between us, his eyes narrowed. “I do blame her for how she told other parents about it,” he says. “She made me into this thing to avoid. You’re only hearing about it years later because of his family. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt… a lot.”

“It should never have ever gotten to me,” I say.

“And she exaggerated, too,” he says. “Probably to make sure other parents didn’t think she was overreacting. That’s why I’m still a knife-wielding maniac to people like Andrew.”

For the first time, I can see the anger he still holds over this.

Caleb closes his eyes and holds up a hand. “I need to take that back. I don’t want you judging Jeremiah’s family. I don’t know for sure that she exaggerated anything. It could have changed as the story moved around.”

I think about Heather’s warning, and how Rachel and Elizabeth dropped their mouths in disbelief when I told them. Everyone reacted so fast. Everyone had an opinion without ever hearing from Caleb.

“Even if it was her, it doesn’t matter,” Caleb says. “She had a reason for saying what she did. Everyone had a reason. That doesn’t change what I did to cause it.”

“But it’s still not fair,” I say.

“For so long, whenever I walk through the halls or I walk downtown, and anyone I know looks at me but doesn’t say anything—even if their look means nothing—I’ve wondered what they’ve heard or what they’re thinking.”

I shake my head. “I am so sorry, Caleb.”

“The stupid thing is, I know Jeremiah and I could’ve stayed friends. He was there. He saw everything. I’m sure he was scared, but he knew me well enough to know I would never hurt Abby,” he says. “It’s just gone on too long. I was younger than she is now when it happened.”

“His mom can’t still be worried about her grown son hanging out with you,” I say. “No offense, but he’s got a few inches on you.”

He laughs once. “But she is. And so is his sister. Cassandra’s almost like his shadow. Even when he has been friendly, she’s right there to pull him away.”

“And you’re okay letting this continue?”

He looks at me, his eyes numb. “People think what they want. That’s what I’ve had to accept,” he says. “I can fight it, but that’s exhausting. I can feel hurt about it, but that’s torture. Or I can decide it’s their loss.”

No matter how he chooses to think about it, it’s clear that it does still exhaust and torture him.

“It is their loss,” I say. I reach out and place my fingers over his. “And I’m sure you would expect more impressive words from me, but you’re a pretty cool guy, Caleb.”

He smiles. “You’re pretty cool, too, Sierra. Not that many girls would be this understanding.”

I try to lighten things up. “How many girls do you need?”

“That’s the other problem.” His smile is lost again. “Not only would I have to explain to a girl about my past—if she hasn’t already heard—I’d have to explain it to her parents. If they live here, eventually they’re going to hear the rumors.”

“Have you had to explain a lot?”

“No,” he says, “because I haven’t been with anyone long enough to find out if they’re worth it.”

My breath escapes me. Am I worth it? Is that what he’s admitting?

I pull back my hands. “Is that why you’re interested in me? Because I’m leaving?”

His shoulders fall and he leans back. “You want the truth?”

“I believe that’s what tonight’s about.”

“Yes, at first, I thought maybe we could sidestep the drama and just hang out.”

“But I heard the rumors,” I say. “You knew that, yet you kept coming around anyway.”

I can see he’s holding back a smile. “Maybe it was the way you used peruse in a sentence.” He puts his hands in the middle of the table, palms up.

“I’m sure that was it,” I say. I place my hands into his. A weight has lifted for both of us tonight.

“Don’t forget,” he says with a childlike grin, “you also give great discounts on trees.”

“Oh, that’s why you come around,” I say. “And if I decide you need to start paying full price?”

He sits back, and I know he’s debating how much to keep teasing. “I guess I’d have to start paying full price.”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “Then I guess it really is just me.”

He runs his thumbs along my knuckles. “It’s just you.”

After I buckle in, Caleb starts the truck. We pull out of the diner’s parking lot and he says, “Now it’s your turn. I’d love to hear about a time you completely lost it.”

“Me?” I say. “Oh, I’m always in control.”

The way he smiles, I’m glad he knows I’m joking.

We drive onto the highway in silence. I look from the oncoming car lights to the impressive silhouette of Cardinals Peak just outside the city. I look back to him, and his profile flickers from silhouette to a happy expression, and then from silhouette to worry. Does he wonder whether I feel differently about him now?

“I gave you a lot of ammunition back there,” he says.

“To use against you?” I ask.

When he doesn’t answer, I’m a little upset he thinks I would possibly do that. Maybe neither of us has known the other long enough to be sure of anything.

“I would never do that,” I say. It is entirely up to him now whether he believes me.

We drive over a mile before he finally responds with a simple “Thank you.”

“I get the feeling enough people have already done that,” I say.

“It’s why I stopped telling most people the truth,” he says. “They’re going to believe what they believe, and I’m tired of explaining. The only people I owe anything to are Abby and my mom.”

“You didn’t have to tell me either,” I say. “You could have decided to—”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to tell you.”

We drive the rest of the way back to the lot in silence, and I hope he feels less burdened now. Whenever I get painfully honest with any of my friends, I always feel a sense of lightness. That occurs only because I trust them. And he can trust me. If his sister says she forgives him, why should I hold anything against him? Especially knowing how much he regrets it.

We pull into the parking area of the tree lot. The snowflake lights around the perimeter are turned off, but the lampposts are still on for security. The lights inside the trailer are off and all the curtains are shut.