Why Can't I Be You Read Online Free PDF

would tell me stories about his childhood. His mother always baked oatmeal raisin cookies for after-school snacks. When his father took him fly-fishing in hip waders, he was amazed by the way the cold water rushed past without getting him wet and the feel of the stones at the bottom of the river through the rubber soles. His grandmother taught him how to waltz in the kitchen to Irving Berlin songs when she came to visit for Christmas. The scar on his chin was from falling off his bike, and his mother washed the blood off his face with a wet washcloth. He and his little brother built forts in the living room and bombed each other with throw pillows. When he graduated from college, his dad had his initials engraved into his grandfather’s watch and cried as he fastened it around Deagan’s wrist. He’d tell me these stories, the things he remembered, and just the fact that they were real made me feel better. Deagan’s stories made me believe I could have the things I’d always wanted, that we were going to be a “happily ever after” couple, that when we had kids, one of us would know what a childhood was supposed to be. I needed that to be true.
    I threw myself down on the bed, in the Myra-shaped imprint, burying my head into the comforter. It smelled like Chanel Chance—the perfume Luanne wore. She practically walked around in a cloud of it. It was comforting. Familiar. Like getting a hug when I needed one.
    The idea of taking the shuttle and shopping by myself in a city I’d never been to was completely overwhelming. I felt like quitting everything. I could lie in that spot on the bed and do nothing until the cleaning crew came in and had to move me. They could bundle me up with the sheets and whisk me away.
    I rolled over on my side. Something stuck me in the face. It was an earring. A tiny filigree teardrop, hanging from a thin gold post. It looked old. The nooks and crannies of the gold were darkened with years of tarnish, even though the rest of it was polished clean. I searched around until I found the earring back, on the floor by the nightstand. I couldn’t just leave it there or pretend I hadn’t found it. I had to return it to Myra. It reminded me of a pair of earrings Deagan’s grandmother had. It was probably an heirloom.
    I thought about just leaving it at the front desk with a note for Myra. They probably don’t have stationery in here, I thought. Hotels don’t really do that anymore, right? But when I searched around, I found a folder with a few pieces of paper and some envelopes in the desk drawer. The discovery disappointed me. I wanted to see Myra again. I wanted to go shopping with a friend and be someone new and forget about Deagan for a while. “I wouldn’t want to risk them losing this,” I said to myself, out loud, like my lame excuse would somehow make the idea of pretending to be someone I wasn’t less crazy or ridiculous.

I stood in the lobby, holding the earring gently in my palm, trying not to crush it, while I looked around for Myra. Blue dress. Dark hair. Thick bangs. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I walked into a banquet room to look for her.
    I’m just going to give her the earring and go, I thought. Without the mess of mascara on my face, she’ll realize I’m not really her long-lost friend. No one looks that much like another person.
    The room was empty. Across the back wall a big banner read, “Welcome Home Wildcats! Mount Si Class of 1999 Reunion,” and posters that looked like blown-up pages of a yearbook hung on every other wall. I’d graduated a year after them, but my class reunion was two years ago. Who has a thirteen-year reunion?
    Someone had gone through with thick, bright markers, like the ones that are supposed to smell like berries, but really just smell like toilet cleaner, and drawn doodles on all the posters. Hearts, stars, unicorns, and big red
W
s that I supposed were for “Wildcats” littered the pages, and the reunion status of each student was