Anything Less Than Everything Read Online Free PDF Page B

never tell
my sister or girls I taught with; on the other, there was so much more I wanted
to know about him and to share with him about me. 
    The early
summer sun had long since given way to darkness, and we drifted into silence
magnified the sound of crickets, a frog jumping into the pond, cars on the
nearby street. After a couple of minutes of swinging in silence, I looked up
and found Aaron looking at me. His gaze was hard to read: it was soft, but
serious. He moved toward me, and without thinking, without hesitating, I moved
toward him. He was just inches from me, our lips so close. And then we heard
the back door swing open and slam shut. We both jumped and sat upright. The
swing stopped. My heart was pounding, though from the near kiss or from almost
being caught, I wasn't sure. I could hear the trill of Jill's voice, calling
for me.
    "Well,"
he said, "I guess maybe that's my cue to leave." Neither of us moved,
though. It had been a great night, and even though the day had been
humiliatingly horrible, I even had pleasant memories to take away from it. I
knew the end was inevitable, but I hated to see it come anyway. It felt the same
as when my best friend moved away in third grade. I stood in her driveway
crying and waving until her family's car was out of sight. We exchanged
addresses, promised to write, and did so for a few months. Eventually, though,
we stopped writing as we each started spending time with other friends and
moved on.
    And here was
Aaron, someone who had been kinder to me, whom I had more in common with, who
seemed to get me more than anyone else I had ever known, and he was leaving.
Except now, as an adult, I didn't feel like I had any friends to move on to.
Acquaintances I called friends? Dozens. People I hung out with? Many. But not
any real friends. Spencer didn't really encourage any of my friendships, and
they died from lack of nurturing. And so now, when I needed friends most, I was
without any, yet another casualty of our dysfunctional relationship.
    Jill started
walking toward us, at which point we stood and made our way back to the
driveway. "I was wondering where you two went," she said.
"Didn't you like the movie?"
    "It was
just feeling a little crowded in there," I replied. I could see Aaron out
of the corner of my eye stifling a smile. Jill looked confused, obviously not
getting it. "I'm just going to take Aaron back to his hotel."
    "It was
nice to meet you, Jill. Dave," he said, nodding at him.
    Jill and Dave
said their goodbyes to us and we walked to my car. We didn't talk much on the
way, letting the radio fill the silence between us. I pulled into the same
parking spot as before and shifted the car into park. I turned to look at him
and found he was already looking at me. I tried to smile back, but found my
attempt to be a little feeble. When he finally spoke, it was not at all what I
expected. "Where's your phone?" he asked.
    I pulled it
out and handed it to him, confused. "Why do you need--?"
    "Text me
when you get home, so I'll know you made it safely," he said while keying
in numbers. Oh my goodness , I thought. His complete kindness was not
making me feel any better about him leaving. He thanked me again for the
weekend, promised to tell Brad I'd said goodbye, and then got out of the car. I
waited for him to get to his room and unlock the door, turning to wave to me as
he did, before pulling out and heading home. Once I arrived I sat in the car
and added a message to the number already lit on the screen of my phone: Home
safely :) .
    A reply came
almost immediately: I'm glad. :) Sweet dreams .
    And for the
first time in recent memory, they were.

Chapter 4
     
    A t some point during the night I had
made a decision. I wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee and found
the real estate section of the Sunday paper scattered on the table.
    "Moving?"
my dad asked over the sports section.
     "Yep,"
I replied. He dropped the paper down to look at me and gauge my seriousness.