Take Me On

We’re silent for a few moments. I crossed a line with her by throwing Aires into a fight. I pick at my thumbnail. We’ve been best friends since birth and we never stay mad for long, but I don’t want to get off the phone with her angry at me. At least not tonight.

“Hotel, motel or tent?” I slur the last word as a curse. More silence, then a rustle of sheets. Please, please, please play along, Echo. I need my best friend.

“Motel. We slept in the tent for the past few nights,” she says in a light tone that causes me to smile. Yeah, I hate happy people, but Echo deserves happy. “Noah’s in the shower.”

“So...” I draw out the word. “Have you had sex?”

“No.” She chokes. Hand to God, she chokes. I giggle as she coughs.

“Well, if you do,” I say when she recovers from her hacking fit, “don’t let your first time be in a tent. That would be awful.”

“I think a tent could be romantic.”

“Traitor,” I say. Echo used to be in the only-if-there-is-room-service camp, like me, but then she permitted the hot and mysterious Noah to sway her to the dark side. “Dirt and bugs and snakes, Echo. Just saying.”

In the background, I hear Hot and Mysterious’s deep voice. Echo fumbles with the phone while she answers him. I check out the clock on my nightstand. Midnight. My mouth dries out as I smooth back my hair. Another night by myself.

No moon tonight, so the entire world beyond my window is pitch-black. I don’t want Echo to let me go because then I’ll be alone again in this big, empty house.

Part of me hates Noah. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be in Iowa or Kansas or where the hell ever and would instead be staying the night with me. She wouldn’t be spending all of her time with him and his friends: that scary guy with all the tattoos and Biker Chick Beth. Tattoo Boy and Biker Chick Beth also live with Noah’s foster parents, and they were a year behind me and Echo at school. Echo says they aren’t a couple, but I’d bet the new heels I received for graduation they are.

If it wasn’t for Noah, she would need me more...she would still be insecure, she would still be obsessing over the scars on her arms. She possibly wouldn’t have recovered her memory of the night she got them. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be moving on with her life. Damn him for being a great guy.

“Guess I should let you go.” Yep, I said it in a way that indicated that is so not what I want to do.

“I’ll stay on,” she says. “We could keep our phones on all night. Just like we did in elementary school.” Only then it was landlines. She would, because that’s what best friends do.

I swear I hear Noah groan in agony. Guess he doesn’t like BFF breaking in on make-out time.

“No. I’ll be fine.” It’s a lie. I stare at the scrapbook page that I lugged back to my room earlier and wonder where Lincoln’s sleeping tonight. I should think I could sleep tonight, but the exhaustion only increases my terror...and deepens my sadness over Lincoln. I should have heard him out. Why didn’t I listen?

“I think you should talk to Lincoln,” Echo says, reading my mind like always. “Maybe wait until you’ll know he’s back home, like tomorrow evening, and DM him again.”

My thumbnail clicks as I mess with it. “I thought you wanted me to stay away from him.”

“Yeah, well, you already fell for him. Now I don’t want you to have regrets.”

Regrets. The moment I slammed the door on him, I sort of regretted it, and then I fully regretted it when I heard his engine accelerate down the road.

I hate that he won’t be in Florida in the fall. I hate that I’ll be alone at a strange college, in a strange state, and not know a soul. I’ll be a complete and utter outsider. But what I really hate is that I’ll never get to figure out if Lincoln and I would ever have been more than just friends.

Even with the lie, what I don’t hate is Lincoln.

Echo remains on the phone with me as I lock every single window and every single door. It’s only when I reach the front door and peek out onto the porch that I finally let her go.

My heart does this funny little tumble. Lincoln left the roses and an envelope.

I should have kept Echo on the line, and I almost press Send to reconnect, but curse myself. If I can’t open a door and grab flowers and a letter then I should kiss Florida goodbye.

I undo the lock with an audible click. Thoughts of every urban legend and horror movie I’ve ever heard or seen flood my brain. My hand hesitates over the doorknob and adrenaline pumps into my blood. Oh, my God, I’m such a wuss.

With disgust I wrench the door open and step out into the humid night. It’s not an envelope but a piece of paper with the words: I’m sorry. I haven’t given up on Florida. I swear. Lincoln. He listed his cell phone number under his name.

I drop to the top step and caress the roses. Even in the heat, the petals are silky and cool. Lincoln is the only guy who has ever bought me purple roses. Sure, guys have bought me plenty of red ones, but not purple. Not my favorite.