Part 7 (1/2)

You love me, don't you? See? That wasn't so bad.

It had been years since I'd heard that voice in daylight hours, but here I was, and here it was, and I felt fourteen and vulnerable and scared and alone all over again. My stomach was turning; I wanted to vomit. It had been a long time since I'd felt that way. A very long time. See ... the thing is, I had no one to go to. No one to ask for help. No shoulder to cry on, no one to tell me it was going to be all right. It's not like my sisters were going to be of any help. After all, Carrie was only nine years old back then. And I could hardly go to my parents. When they did learn about it, it was only secondhand, and I still hadn't lived down the consequences.

I didn't bring my daughter up to be a s.l.u.t, she told me, contempt in her voice.

When I thought of that little girl ... me ... barely speaking the language, lost and bleeding in the cold back streets of Beijing because she had no one to help her, it filled me with rage. It made me want to hurt someone, to break something. It made me want to scream, to stand in the center of the Quad and howl until my voice broke down.

Instead, I went through my life, smiling at everyone, going to the college my parents expected, dressing like I was already thirty years old, working hard, having friends, almost as if I were a whole person.

I came to a stop on the edge of Harvard Square. A guitarist stood near the corner, relaxed looking in corduroy pants and sitting on a milk crate. His greying hair and beard tumbled down his chest, and without the guitar, I would have guessed he was homeless. As it was, I stood there listening. He was playing an immaculate Guild acoustic 12-string with beautiful harmonics. I closed my eyes, swaying a little, taking in the music and letting it wash away the dark thoughts and emotions that tormented me. Music had always been my refuge, my pa.s.sion.

A few feet away, Mitch Roark was also listening. He nodded to me, a gentle smile on his face. Mitch and I dated a few times soph.o.m.ore year, but I'd quickly backed off. He was a great guy from a very unconventional background, and we'd clicked from the start. His dad, Allen Roark, was one of the most successful alternative rock stars out there. Mitch had grown up on the road, home schooling, and finally attending an exclusive New England prep school for his last three years of high school. We had too much in common: not someone I could date.

The song ended all too soon. The guitarist eyed me and then said, ”Hope you liked it, Miss. I got another for ya.” Then he started to strum, and within two chords I recognized the music and smiled-”Ghost Riders in the Sky”. I'd always been partial to The Outlaws version, but this ... hearing a raw edged song about cowboys and the Old West here in Harvard Square? It was sublime.

I closed my eyes, swaying to the music, swinging around in circles. For just a fraction of a second, I could imagine the freedom the old cowboys felt, what it must have been like to see the horizon, to know and understand the boundaries of your life, to be able to get up in the morning and breathe clean air and not face a thousand stated and unstated expectations.

When the music ended, I stopped and opened my eyes. And flushed furiously, because a small crowd of Harvard undergraduates was watching. And clapping. Including Willard, who stood there, very slowly clapping in a half-contemptuous manner. As always, he wore Dockers, a polo s.h.i.+rt and a nice pair of brown leather shoes.

Mitch threw a couple dollars in the open guitar case, gave me a wave, and said, ”See you around, Julia.”

Whatever. I reached in my purse, took out two twenty-dollar bills and dropped them in the guitar case. As I leaned close to drop the money in, I whispered, ”Thank you.”

As I stood and turned around, Willard approached, and his eyes bugged out when he saw how much money I'd put in the guitar case. ”Julia. That was some performance.” As he finished his sentence, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

Willard never, ever hesitated to be condescending, to anyone. I felt myself tense, straining not to snap at him. ”You know me, I love music.”

He shrugged. He'd never been that interested in what I loved. ”Didn't see you around this weekend.”

”I was out of town.”

”Oh?”

I didn't volunteer any more information. The peaceful, beautiful mood the song had put me in was withering away. Willard never inspired much emotion of any kind, but at the moment he'd managed annoyance. Score for him.

He tried to engage me again. ”It's been a while since we've hung out. Have you had dinner? Care to join me?”

Not really, I thought. I hadn't expected that. ”Willard, I don't think that's a good idea.”

”Hey ... relax, Julia. We can be friends, you know. Just a friendly dinner, I'm not asking you out on a date.”

Why did he have to be reasonable? If I said no now, then I was being a b.i.t.c.h. I set in place my mechanical smile and did what I always did ... not what I wanted, but what was expected. ”Well, all right. As friends.”

Willard, as always, led the way to where he wanted to eat: in this case, across Ma.s.s Ave to a pizza place. The food here wasn't so bad, so I guess I was okay with it. The place was about half full when we walked in, a low murmur of conversation layered over music from the jukebox, ”Where is the Love?” The music in here tended to stay Top 40 most of the time. I didn't hate it. Willard led me to a booth in the back, of course, and sat with his back to the wall, of course, which left me unable to see anything but him. This was all in character.

”So ... how have you been?” he asked.

I kept my smile plastered across my face. ”I've been good. Still trying to decide about grad school, but otherwise, things are going well.”

”I still think you should consider Stanford,” he said. Willard was planning on attending there.

”I don't know. That's a little too close to my parents for my comfort.”

He shook his head. ”Are they all that bad? They seemed nice enough to me when we met.”

Of course they did. That's because he was just like them.

”They're not that bad,” I said. ”But that doesn't mean I want to live next door to them either.”

”Seriously? It's like an hour drive.”

I blinked. Why was he pus.h.i.+ng this so hard? ”I'll settle for a five day drive and stay on the East Coast, thanks. Why are you pus.h.i.+ng so hard on this, anyway?”

He looked away from me a moment, then back, meeting my eyes. ”I was hoping maybe you'd forgiven me.”

Forgiven him? There was nothing to forgive-I was the one who broke up with him. ”You've done nothing wrong, Willard. There's nothing to forgive you for.”

”Except asking you to marry me.”

I sighed. ”That wasn't wrong. It just ... clarified things.”

”Clarified what things? I still don't understand. One day everything's fine, we're in love. The next, I ask you to marry me. And then ... you break up with me.”

Oh, G.o.d. He was going to make me do this to him.

”I knew this was a bad idea,” I muttered.

”Why? Because you'd have to tell me how you feel?”

Yes. Exactly.

I was going to have to cut to the chase. There was no easing him down, no making him feel better. I won't lie ... I felt awful about it. But at this point? Not much choice.

”How I feel ... is that I don't love you. We were never in love, Willard. Maybe you were in love with the idea of who you think I am ... I don't know. But there is no we. There never will be.”

He froze. Actually, his eyes bulged out a little, and it immediately brought to mind some of those very unpleasant moments of s.e.x with him. Which was never much fun for me. Honestly, it felt like a ch.o.r.e, which should have been my first clue that this was the wrong relations.h.i.+p. But what do I know about right relations.h.i.+p? Nothing. Nothing at all. I just knew this was an unfortunate reminder of him huffing and puffing on top of me, and me feeling ... like a blow-up doll. Like I wasn't really expected to partic.i.p.ate, other than to just lie there. And that made me feel ill, just thinking about it. I looked away, because for a second I couldn't stand to see his face. Last fall, he accused me of being frigid. I don't know ... maybe I am. Maybe Harry ruined that for me too, like he did everything else.

”It wasn't all that bad, was it?” he asked, his tone desperate.

Come on, Jules. You know you want to. Harry's voice.

I shuddered at the voice in my mind and tried to stay in the present.

”Of course not,” I said. ”We had a lot of fun together, Will. Please ... let this go. Let me go.”

I'm not ready, I'd said to him.

Of course you're ready. You love me, don't you?

Yes.