“Shut up, man. That’s not it.” Mark thought for a moment. He took another sip of beer and scratched the stubble on his cheek. “She doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t even know what the hell that means,” Dylan mumbled.
“Yeah, you do,” Mark replied, looking his friend in the face.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably and nodded.
“She’s this beautiful little thing. And I want it.”
“You can’t use her like that,” Dylan said.
“I’m not!” Mark snapped. “It’s not like that. I don’t wanna use her. I’m attracted to her. I’m attracted to her smile and her laugh and her hair and the way she talks—”
“Stop,” Dylan ordered. “You’re making me sick.”
Mark laughed. “I really like her. And I know it’s unwise, okay? I know all this. But you don’t understand. She’s just there, all the time, shining.”
“‘Shining’? God, you’re a fruitcake,” Dylan said. His words were laced with light contempt. “English majors . . .”
Mark chuckled and gulped more.
“Okay, so what do you plan to do with the shining girl?” Dylan asked. He watched the smile spread across his friend’s face.
“Love her.”
“Yeah, and then the shining girl puts you behind some shiny metal bars. Mark, you’re a smart guy. Use your head. And I mean this one,” he said, pointing to his temple.
Mark chuckled. “You haven’t met her.”
“I’m sure she’s like every other teenage girl,” Dylan replied. “And I’m not saying I wouldn’t wanna hit that, but society kinda has a problem with it, in case you didn’t know. You wanna look like some child predator?”
Mark grimaced.
“Exactly. I don’t care how fucking shiny she is. Some things you don’t touch.”
“She’s not a child.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t. I think she’s eighteen.”
“Dude. Step AWAY from the shiny object.”
Mark laughed. “I don’t think so, Dylan. I don’t think I can.”
Dylan shook his head. “You know I’m here for you. Any way this goes.”
“You think I’m messed up, don’t you?” Mark asked.
“No. I think she mesmerized you. I think you’re lonely and jaded and looking for anything out there that’s the opposite of all the shit you’ve been through—”
“Dylan . . .”
“No, man. We gotta be able to talk about it. It’s been two years, Mark. You’re not the only one who still hurts over what happened to Andy.”
The chime of the doorbell broke the intensity of the moment. Mark listened, detached, as a group of teenagers shuffled into the store, chattering. Dylan shot up from his chair, immediately on guard.
“Fucking kids,” he muttered.
Mark grinned. “They haven’t done anything. Chill out.”
The men watched as the teens wove in and out of aisles, laughing and punching one another’s arms. Mark heard one of them say “sweet ass” and instantly thought of Cadence.
“Oh God,” he whispered, running his hands roughly over his face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dylan asked, eyeing a boy who was rifling through a stack of classic rock albums.
“Nothing.”
“Hey! What can I help you boys find?” Dylan yelled.
They turned in his direction, catching sight of the six-pack on the counter.
One exclaimed, “Dude! You drink at work?”
“My store. My rules,” Dylan replied.
They all nodded, impressed.
“That’s cool, man,” another boy replied. “Need anyone to work part time?”
“Not one,” Dylan said. “Need help finding a record?”
“Not one,” someone else replied.
The boys snickered.
Dylan cracked a smile. “Then why don’t you get the hell outta my store.”
The teens froze before shuffling out, spitting timid insults at Dylan as they went.
“You’re a freaking asshole,” Mark said.
“No, I’m not. Those shits stole from me before. It took me a minute to remember. But I remember. That little blond shit . . .”
“Why didn’t you report them?” Mark asked. “And why don’t you get your cameras fixed?”
“Unimportant,” Dylan said. “We’re not talking about stolen records. We’re talking about Andy.”
Mark took a deep breath.
“She was my friend, too, Mark,” Dylan said softly.
Silence.
Mark opened another beer. “I know she was.”
***
Present day
Mark’s eyes flew open. He lay frozen in bed, engulfed in darkness, completely unaware of the girl lying next to him, breathing heavy and even. That sweet sound of contented sleep. He could think of nothing but that afternoon at Dylan’s store, sitting on the counter drinking too much beer, talking openly for the first time about the girl who disappeared under a white sheet stained red. The girl who promised him forever, then bled it out on an operating table. The girl he loved.
Forever.
He turned his head to look at the living girl beside him. The girl who lay naked under his sheets, golden hair draped over her neck, acting as a scarf against the chill of the bedroom. He reached out to touch her hair, smoothing it through his fingers.
She nodded in her sleep, then opened her eyes. She’d done this before, and he knew she wasn’t awake.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “Why do you have bad dreams?”
He froze.