“Well, Ava? Are you?”
“I’ll be fine.” I wave my hand dismissively. I can’t talk to Wyatt about how I am. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“You’ve always been tough,” he answers. “I just was thinking—well, I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. To lose her.” His throat sounds raw, and as I look at those beautiful brown eyes of his, I realize he’s been crying recently, and may resume doing so shortly. He’s grieving. I’m suddenly, savagely jealous. He has spent the day weeping over my sister, missing her, imagining a life without her. Irrationally, unforgivably, I want him to still think only and always of me.
“Will you be okay? You seem rather distraught,” I snipe.
“Jesus, of course I’m distraught! I’ve known that girl most of my life. She was there during—everything. Christ, I thought we’d maybe be family someday.” He shakes his head as though he can’t really believe me. I don’t like being judged by Wyatt. Not having him on my side.
“And of course, you were sleeping with her for a while there.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ava! How many times do I have to say it? We didn’t want each other that way. It was just…a mistake,” he finishes weakly, as though he physically can’t keep trying to convince me. He seems so heavy, so sad. I want to comfort him, but also to punish him. Once upon a time, if I had seen him in this much pain, I would have wrapped my arms around his ribs, kissed his temple, said anything to make him smile. Now I do nothing, unable to go toward him.
“You should leave that here,” I manage, pointing at the high school track sweatshirt. Wyatt ran the thousand meters at Watkins Glen High, and I know the back of the shirt will say “Darling” in white letters, and the front will have “Senecas,” the name of the team, scrawled across it. There is a racist drawing of a Native American in a headdress beneath the letters. This sweatshirt reminds me, of course, of our first time together.
—
It was a chilly day in early, early spring. We were in twelfth grade. Wyatt had pulled a muscle at track practice and was staying home from school, sprawled on the couch watching movies. I texted him during the midmorning break to see how he was, and he responded, Lonely. Come visit me? I nearly wrote back with my usual deflection, something sarcastic or insincere, but as Zelda and I milled around the hallway before the third-period bell rang, I paused.
“I’m going to go over to Wyatt’s,” I said, almost testing the idea out.
“Oh?” Zelda responded archly. “To take his temperature and tend to his wounds?”
“Something like that.” I texted him back: Ok, will dodge the rest of my classes. Be there in a bit. Zelda stared at me, trying to determine whether I was joking. “I’m serious. I’m going to go check on him.”
“The Ice Princess caves at last!” she cooed. “I sincerely thought Wyatt Darling would expire from blue balls before you ever allowed him to even hope.”
I couldn’t help smiling. True, I had been keeping Wyatt pretty solidly in the friend zone for years now, redirecting his amorous intentions just enough to prevent him from abandoning all optimism. But suddenly, I was tired of it. Tired of just being wanted. I wanted to want.
“Go, skedaddle, ye wee harlot!” Zelda shrieked.
“What about my classes?” I paused, already talking myself out of it.
“I’ll figure it out. Just scram, before you change your mind. God bless, that boy can finally wipe that hungry look off his face and we can all have a minute of peace.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely! Go!” Zelda shoved me toward the parking lot, thrusting her recently acquired truck keys into my hands. “I’ll cover for you.” I broke into a silly grin and legged it out the front door of the high school.
I let myself in through the front door of the Darlings’ and climbed the stairs to his room. We had spent hours in that room, listening to music, talking, watching movies. Sometimes with Zelda, sometimes just the two of us. Wyatt was propped up on pillows in his bed, his bum leg elevated. He wore only his pajama bottoms, and I couldn’t help staring at his hard abdomen.
“Hi,” I said, lacking inspiration.
“Hi,” he answered softly. I went and stood next to the bed. I reached out and put my hand on his chest, and Wyatt closed his eyes and swallowed noticeably. I pulled my T-shirt over my head and unhooked my bra, so that I stood there in just my jeans.
“Oh, God. Ava,” Wyatt managed, and reached for me.
“No, you’re unwell. You’d better let me do the work,” I said, pushing him back and then unbuttoning my jeans.
Afterward, I lay on his chest, absently flicking his nipple with my fingernail.
“Careful, girl, or you’ll start something up again,” Wyatt said into my snarled hair.
“Maybe that’s what I have in mind.”
“Lord, you have to give me a minute to recover.” He laughed. “I’m a poor, sick man! I need sustenance.”
“Very well. I’m here to care for you, after all. Florence Nightingale, that’s me.” I rolled across his naked torso, slowly, and stood stark naked in his bedroom. I fished his sweatshirt off the floor and pulled it over my head. It came down nearly to my knees.
“You’re so beautiful,” Wyatt whispered. I twirled around and skipped out of the room to go forage for something downstairs, returning with some sort of homemade cheese (compliments of Dora, Wyatt’s mom) and cold beers. We spent the rest of the day in Wyatt’s bed, watching from beneath his blanket as the March sleet splattered the windows. Cozy, warm. And whole.
—
“I’ll put it back,” I say, pointing to the sweatshirt. “The cops said they were going to come back and search the trailer again. It might look weird if you remove, you know, evidence.”
Wyatt looks surprised. “Do they think there might be foul play?”
“Isn’t there always foul play, with Zelda?” I say wearily. He smiles his old lopsided smile, and it hurts me. I need him to leave. He hands me the sweatshirt wordlessly and bounds down the trailer steps. He unthinkingly skips the last step, which is too close to the ground and always makes for an awkward dismount if you don’t expect it. He’s climbed these stairs a few times before. Zelda fucked up the measurements and never went back to fix it. I’m the perfectionist, not Zelda. I hold the sweatshirt in my arms as Wyatt walks back toward his truck, parked next to Zelda’s. The trucks look like twins.
“Ava, you call me, okay? We’re not done talking.” It sounds almost like an order, chiding. That new note of judgment. I nod. I manage to wait until he has turned the truck around and driven off before I burst into frenzied, racking tears.