Tommy, What the Hell?

Kelly

After school, I park my old Escort as far to the left on the driveway as possible. With Dan's voice echoing in my head and giving me a sick stomach, I check to make sure the tires haven't slipped off the cement onto the grass, but that they're right on the lip. Then I head inside through the immaculate garage, to the door where I stand on a rug to take off my shoes and place them, heels out, in the shoe cubby on the wall. Scanning from the car to the shoes, I nod and reassure myself that there's nothing for Dan to get upset about.

Is there?

Upstairs, I dump my stuff in my room before turning on my ancient laptop, then head down to the kitchen to grab a snack while it boots up.

The laptops at school are years old and even they get running in about ten seconds. Mine takes minutes, and it whines the whole time. I'm terrified it'll die before I can afford to replace it. I guess it would give me an excuse to stay late at school, though. So there's that.

At 4:05 on the dot, as it does every day, my phone rings. I answer without looking at it.

"Kelly speaking," I say, just like he told me to.

"You home?" His voice is deep, and gruff. But at least he sounds distracted, rather than pissed off.

"Yes, Dan."

"Good. Chicken for dinner."

"Okay. Which kind did you—?" But he's already hung up. Spit on a stick. Now I have to decide whether to call him at work and piss him off to find out which one he wants me to make, or risk getting it wrong and maybe making him even madder.

My thumb's hovering over my phone when the doorbell rings. The last delivery guy dropped a dusty box next to the mat that left a brown square on the cement, infuriating Dan, so I abandon my phone and duck downstairs.

But the silhouette on the other side of the screen door isn't the UPS guy.

Hands shoved deep in the pockets of jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Black hair falling to his shoulders. Green eyes that watch me warily.

Holy shark tank.

"Hi," Tommy says carefully. "Look, I know this is unexpected." He flips his hair back over his shoulder, hands opening and closing at his sides so I only get glimpses of the chipped black polish on his nails. "But can I come in?"

I blink, but he's still there. Tommy. At my door. Looking scared. Has something happened to Crash?

"W-what are you doing here?" My voice sounds like a pinched balloon.

The deep lines bracketing his mouth twitch, and I follow them up to find dark smudges under his eyes. He clears his throat and leans on the door frame. "Look, Kel, I know it's been bad—"

"You know nothing. You haven't spoken to me in a year." The burn of anger crowds out my shock. Tommy's here. Part of me wants to fall into his much-broader-than-I-remember chest. The other part of me wants to show him the business end of Dan's gun.

"Crash lied to me," Tommy says. "I need to talk to you. To apologize."

A pebble scritches across the sidewalk behind Tommy and we both freeze. I look over his shoulder—is Crash here too?—only to find Lacie Gerhausen's younger brother, Tate, staring at Tommy, jaw slack, the skateboard in his hand completely forgotten.

Crap in a sack.

"Hey, Tommy," the seventh-grader says, his voice cracking on Tommy's name.

"Shit," Tommy mutters. "Uh, hi, Tate." Then he fixes me with a pleading gaze.

He doesn't get to just come to my house!

But even as I want to shake my head, I already know the battle is lost. I've never been able to resist Tommy's puppy-dog eyes. And besides, Lacie's a grade-A gossip. If Tommy doesn't get out of sight, he's screwed.

Shoving the screen door open, I grab his arm and haul him inside, bothered by how much wider his upper arm is than it used to be, and how heavy he feels when I try to pull him in. But he comes willingly, and a few seconds later, I have the door closed and locked.

Tommy's in my house.

He continues to watch me. He's always been more action than words. When I don't move away he lifts his arm and I realize he's going to hug me. And I want him to. I want to hug my oldest, dearest friend so badly.

As his hands move closer, I dodge around him and hurry over to the couch to pull the curtains so no one else will see that he's here. When I turn back, I'm so busy avoiding meeting his gaze, I land on the TV Guide next to Dan's chair.

Dan. Shoot. If he realizes there was a guy here, he'll have kittens. "We'll wait for Tate to get down the road, then you can leave. Dan can't find you here."

Tommy nods and scratches the back of his neck. He's filled out in the year since I last saw him in person. I'd noticed in Crash Happy's videos. But here, with his arm cocked up, his bicep is bigger than I expected. And the sliver of stomach that's revealed above his jeans is giving away secrets that on anyone else would make me blush.

But it's Tommy.

I should tell him to leave. He ghosted me. He's not forgiven. And more immediately, if Dan finds out he was here when I was alone I'll pay. But I have two holes in my heart. One shaped like Crash, the edges torn and bloodied. The other—the one that echoes more with sadness than anger—only fills up for Tommy. And right now that hole is pulsing, aching to hug him.

"Kelly, please."

"Did you drive?"

A shadow passes behind his eyes. "Yeah. But I left the car around the corner like I used to."

I pause. "That's good."

The heavy silence smells like sweat.

Tommy shifts his weight. "Still looks the same," he says, flapping a hand at the room.

You don't. Even though he's still in jeans and a t-shirt, the air of quality wafting off everything he wears, every piercing, is undeniable.

Tommy was my closest friend from the fourth grade until he bailed on me the day Crash broke up with me. While they got to sit on a tour bus together, Crash never contacted me again, and Tommy ignored all my calls and texts. Then a few days later, he blocked my phone number—through the phone service so I'd get the message when I tried to call.

So, I'm taking a running leap of logic that my sweet, thoughtful, humble friend—who was bullied in middle school and had a pet turtle named Harriet—has changed.

Tommy puts his hands up. "Please, just hear me out for a few minutes, and then I'll leave." I can't help noticing the subtle shift in him—how, despite his shame, he stands with his shoulders further back than he used to. He meets my gaze levelly.

It's so hard to stare at Tommy and not throw my arms around his waist that I step away to the couch and sit down, gesturing for him to join me. He sinks into the other corner of the three-seater, one ankle on the opposite knee. He doesn't look away.

"I'm sorry, Kel. He lied. He said you broke up with him because we went on tour. He was screwed up. I was mad at you—I thought you broke him—so I listened when he asked me not to talk to you at all, that he wanted to be able to tell me anything and not worry about it getting back to you. And I just—"

I raise a hand of warning. Between the shock and my fear of Dan discovering him, my ribs have locked down again. Any words I attempt will come out in a wheeze.

"Kelly, if I'd known, I never would have bailed. I thought you dumped him. And he was a mess. And I knew you'd know what that would do to him right when everything else was happening, and I couldn't believe you'd done it like that."

I shake my head. "Wait." He leans toward me to speak again, but my hand stays up. "Tommy, wait. That makes no sense. I had no reason to . . ."

Tommy runs a hand through his hair and sits forward, elbows on his knees. I realize he hasn't just filled out, he's grown a couple inches too. "I know, I found your video. That song. And when I showed it to him it was obvious he knew it was about him. You should have seen his face go gray—"

"You showed the song to Crash?!"

Crash saw the song. Heard the song. Heard me say I wrote it.

Crash knows how much I'm still hurting.