16
Before
Sawyer pretty much disappeared the summer after Allie died, lying so low as to go practically subterranean, skulking around bars on the seedier side of Broward and getting into loud, rowdy fights. In June he got arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge. In July he wound up with a broken hand. In August he finally mentioned to his parents that, by the way, he had no intention whatsoever of shipping off to college like he was supposed to, which, while not exactly a revelation to anybody following along at home, had Roger and Lydia practically apoplectic and turned the restaurant into a backdrop for all kinds of huge LeGrande family drama.
“His dad flipped the hell out,” Cade told me on the ride home one night, the rain a steady patter on the windshield, the wipers a rhythmic swoosh. It’s a myth that boys don’t like to gossip: Cade in particular couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. “Said he had to move out of the house if he didn’t go to school. They dropped a lot of money on his tuition deposit.”
“That’s what I figured.” The LeGrandes were richer than us, I knew, but not rich enough that things like college deposits didn’t matter. Still, I suspected Lydia would probably be more upset than anyone else: Sawyer was, after all, the one living soul she never had a critical word for. Even if she’d never admit it to anyone, I could only imagine how much his apparent commitment to complete and total self-immolation got under her skin.
It got under mine, too, obviously, but it wasn’t like I was going to say that out loud.
The college thing sort of made sense to me, though. Even before everything happened, I remember thinking how odd it was that he was headed to FSU, Go Seminoles, just like every other senior in the state—how pedestrian, as if somebody like Sawyer should be headed for pastures way greener than keg parties or freshman seminars on the history of Western civilization. He should have been haunting cafés in New York or playing open mics in California, slouching around looking beautiful and waiting to get discovered.
Or, you know, traveling the world with some girl who was into that kind of thing.
Whatever.
“So,” I said, affecting a carefully honed poker face and glancing at Cade out of the corner of my eye. “Where’s he going to live?”
Cade shrugged. “With some friends in Dania, I think. There’s a bunch of them living in some split-level off the highway. Roger was all pissed off about that, too, because apparently you can, like, smell the meth cooking all up and down the street.”
“Sounds very attractive.” I slipped my shoes off, put my bare feet up on the dash. “Did he say why he’s not going?”
“I dunno. He’s pretty screwed up, I guess.” Here my brother hesitated, glancing at me sort of nervously. We didn’t talk very much about Allie in my house. It felt like everyone was a little bit afraid of what I might do if they brought her up—go off like an improvised explosive, maybe, glass and shrapnel everywhere you looked. Three months in the ground and it was almost like she’d never existed in the first place, like maybe she’d only ever been my imaginary friend. “Because of everything that happened.”
“Right.” I swallowed the sudden thickness in my throat. “Well,” I said brightly, “State is filled with screwups. He’d have fit right in.”
*
One thing Sawyer definitely wasn’t doing was showing up for his shifts at the restaurant, which is why I was so surprised when I came in to work the dinner shift one Friday in September and found him mixing a mojito at the bar. “Hey,” he said, grabbing a rag and wiping a spill from the glossy surface, barely looking up. “Your dad said to come find him when you got in.”
“Do you still work here?” I blurted, my backpack slipping from my shoulder. I was used to not seeing him by this point, used to the notion that we were never going to talk about anything: that I was going to spend the next twelve months in a sinkhole of guilt and confusion and sadness, and then I was going to leave. For a second I thought of that night in the parking lot, the taste of chocolate ice cream and the feeling of his fingers on my neck.
You kissed me, I thought as I looked at him. You kissed me and then Allie died. For a second it felt like she was sitting at the bar in front of me, sharp chin cradled in one skinny hand—both of us watching Sawyer just like we used to, back when watching Sawyer never felt like something that hurt.
Now he tilted his head, lips barely quirking. “It’s nice to see you, too,” he told me, snapping me back to the present. Just like that, Allie was gone.
“That’s not what I meant.” I blushed. “It’s just … you know. Been a while.”
“I guess so.” He rattled the shaker a couple of times, poured its contents over ice and added a couple of mint leaves for garnish. Sawyer had been tending the bar at Antonia’s practically since puberty; he could have mixed drinks in his sleep. “You miss me?”
“No,” I said immediately. I glanced around, skittish—it was early yet, three or four people nursing drinks at the bar. The Best of Ella Fitzgerald pumped in through the speakers, afternoon music. “I don’t know.”
I picked up my bag again, ready to go find my father, but Sawyer wasn’t finished. “I saw you the other day,” he told me. “In your car, by the flea market.”
I blinked. “What were you doing at the flea market?”
“I wasn’t at the flea ma—I had band practice,” he said, as if perusing antiques and collectibles was any more ridiculous than the rest of the James Dean/James Franco crap he’d been doing. “Our drummer lives over near there.”
“How do you play piano with a broken hand?” I asked him, and Sawyer grinned wryly.
“It’s not broken anymore, princess.” He nodded for me to sit down on an empty stool and, once I did, slid some pretzels down in my direction. I glanced at the clock above the bar—I had a couple of minutes before I needed to punch in.
“Is that what you’ve been doing instead of coming to work?” I asked, cautious. “Playing with your band?”
“You mean as opposed to pursuing higher education?”
I shrugged. “As opposed to … whatever.”
“I guess,” Sawyer said. “I don’t know. We play at the Prime Meridian sometimes.” He raised his eyebrows like a dare. “You should come.”
The Prime Meridian was a seedy little club off the highway in Dania, Bud Light and bouncers who didn’t bother to card. People got stabbed at the Prime Meridian. “Why don’t you ever play here?” I asked, without comment.
Sawyer snorted like that was hilarious. “My father would love that, I’m sure.”
“Why?” I shot back. “Do you suck that bad?”
“Hey, now.” He laughed again. “We’re freaking awesome, Serena.”
“Well,” I said, fidgeting. “I’m sure you are.”
A guy at the end of the bar ordered a scotch and soda; Sawyer stood up and reached for a bottle on the top shelf, shirt riding up his rib cage to reveal a small tattoo winding above the waistband of his jeans, a curling green infinity that I recognized from my calc book. “Did that hurt?” I asked as he scooped ice into a rocks glass.
“Did what hurt?”
I gestured vaguely. “On your back.”
“Oh. Nah.” Sawyer handed the guy his drink and leaned over the bar like he was going to tell me a secret. I smelled polished wood and limes. “I’m really manly.”
“Right,” I said, leaning in a little bit myself without meaning to. “Obviously.”
He tapped the bar twice, like a rhythm, and straightened up. “What about you, princess?” he asked me, in a voice like maybe he was kidding and maybe he wasn’t. “You got tattoos nobody knows about?”
I was opening my mouth to answer when my father came through the swinging doors at the far end of the restaurant. He stopped when he caught us at the bar. “Reena,” he said sharply—and I think he was more surprised than anything else, but still we’d never talked about what I’d been doing with Sawyer that night at the hospital, and one look at his face said he didn’t like what he saw. “You know I don’t want you sitting up there when we have customers. Come on.”
“Sorry,” I said, scrambling down from the barstool. My skin felt tight and hot. I didn’t look at Sawyer as I headed back to the office, two minutes late to punch in.