Free Never Eighteen by Megan Bostic Page A

want this from you, or for you. I came to see you because I missed you and hoped to help you, not as a favor. Helping you wasn't my only reason for visiting. I was being selfish. I'm searching for meaning, Allie, even if it's just a shred, before it's too late. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind right now, even with Kaylee."
    "Really?" She looks at me achingly, but thoughtfully. "Meaning, huh? Maybe it's time I found some meaning too? Before it's too late?"
    "I think that's a good idea," I say.
    She heads to the front door; I follow. She stops, reaches up, touches my face, then smiles and says, "You know you're cute, right?"
    I smile back. "Really?"
    "Yes, really. I just thought you should know."
    "Thank you." I grab her hand from my face, kiss her palm, and hold her hand as she heads out the door. I watch as she walks down the sidewalk. Suddenly I see something very different about her, something positive, something like confidence. I start to feel better about my visit with her. I think she'll be okay.

Chapter Twelve
     
    I gather my stuff and head out, thinking the fresh air will relieve what's left of my hangover. The sky's a strange shade of gray this morning, almost a gray yellow, as if the sun is there just beyond the clouds, desperately trying to break through. I automatically move in the direction of Kaylee's house. It's where I need to be anyway. I ring the bell, wait. Ring the bell again. Kaylee finally answers, looking really pissed, I might add.
    "What are you supposed to be? The Brawny paper towel guy?" she says eyeballing my outfit. "I didn't figure you'd be up yet." Her delivery stings. I flinch.
    "You busy?" I ask, hoping she says no. Once again, she's a big part of my plans for the day.
    "I'm getting ready for work, duh," she answers, gesturing to her coffee shop black. Her tone cuts to my very core.
    "Call in sick," I say.
    "No," she says, thrusting the blade deeper.
    "Please," I plead. Something in my voice or perhaps my manner causes her to soften. Her attitude changes instantly from anger to compassion, yet she doesn't budge.
    "I can't, Austin. I need the money."
    "I'll pay your wages today if you call in sick," I offer.
    "Austin, I'm not for sale," she says, though I see she's starting to waver. Her eyes move, roll around. She's thinking.
    "I'll buy you breakfast." She doesn't budge.
    I fold my hands as in prayer, get down on my knees, put on my best puppy-dog face, and repeat, "Please."
    She shakes her head. I bow down, as if to a goddess, and say, "I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy." I give her a sideways glance. She tries not to laugh.
    She gives me a stern glare behind the smirk. "Fine, but no more keggers."
    "Deal," I say, happily relieved.
    Kaylee calls in sick. "I'll go change," she says.
    "Dress warm. Oh, and you'll need your hiking boots," I tell her.
    "Great," she says.
    As I wait, Mrs. Davis enters from the kitchen. "Are you corrupting my daughter, Austin? I thought she was just getting ready for work," she says.
    "Sorry, Mrs. Davis. I really need her to drive me around again today. You're not mad, are you?"
    "How could anyone get mad at you? She said you guys went to Seattle yesterday?" When she says this she gets a sad look on her face.
    I mentioned that two bad things happened in sixth grade. The first was when Kaylee's dad died. It was a horrible car crash. I remember Kaylee not showing up for school. In second period, our teacher told us that her dad had died. I tried to call her all afternoon, but no one answered the phone. She called me back the next day, wanted to go for a walk, to get out of the house, to get away from the tears, the pain.
    She seemed so fragile—trembling, crying, not sure what to do with herself. I didn't know what to do either. I put an arm around her awkwardly as we walked. I listened, gave her a shoulder. It was hard to see her like that, but man, did I want to kiss her. I was mad at myself for thinking that right then, when she was so sad.
    Mrs. Davis was