“Who’s the feature?”
“Some hot new writer. I have to read his book over the weekend. It’s a novella, which is kind of neat. I can’t remember the last time I read one.”
“A novella? You should be able to finish it in no time. C’mon, Audrey! Freddy and Duck are both free tonight. The four of us haven’t gone out together in ages. Plus, now we have a reason to celebrate!”
“Okay. I suppose I can start the book tomorrow.”
Later that night, we met up with Freddy and Duck at Spag Bowl. It was someone’s (probably drunken) idea to attach a small Italian joint to a bowling alley. The food was awful, but it had a great atmosphere and the Bolognese was passable as long as you drowned it with Parmesan.
Lucy and I were sitting at one of the tables draped in red-and-white gingham and decorated with a small vase of fake red roses. The place was buzzing with people talking over the offbeat notes of a piano sonata, occasionally interrupted by the smack of bowling balls into pins. “Should we get a snack before joining the boys?” I asked.
“I’m starving! Let’s have dinner. Besides, Freddy gets so competitive when he plays against me. He’s such a bad loser.” She rolled her eyes.
I smiled. When it came to bowling, Lucy was formidable.
“Hi, gorgeous,” said Freddy, sneaking up behind Lucy and planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Gross, you’re all sweaty,” she said pushing his face away.
“Hey,” said Duck.
“Hi,” Lucy and I said in unison.
“Are you two going to join us?” asked Freddy, picking up Lucy’s beer and taking a swig.
“Maybe later,” said Lucy. “We’re going to have dinner.”
“Okay. I’m kicking Duck’s butt. Three strikes in a row.” He made a bowling motion for emphasis.
“You’re amazing, babe,” said Lucy dryly. He grinned at her proudly, pounding his chest, Tarzan style. He took another swig of Lucy’s beer before turning to Duck.
“Ready for round two?”
“God, he’s so embarrassing,” groaned Lucy. “I can’t take him anywhere.”
“He’s got a sweet side to him, though,” I said. “Like the other day when you stepped in dog poo and he spent the afternoon scrubbing your sneaker in the courtyard.”
“That was really nice of him,” she agreed.
“Anyway, the two of you are disgustingly cute.”
“I know. We even make ourselves sick sometimes.”
I laughed.
“I’ll have the puttanesca.” Lucy shut her menu and put it down on the table.
“Pepperoni pizza for me.”
“Are you going to have some wine?”
I shook my head. “No, I want to stay off the alcohol tonight.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“Says the girl in the T-shirt with a math pun on it.”
Lucy grinned.
We heard a shout of glee and turned our heads to see that Freddy had just scored another strike. He gave us the thumbs-up sign as Duck grinned at us and shrugged his shoulders.
“Duck looks happy,” said Lucy.
“He is. Things have been really great between us.” Duck’s mood had improved dramatically once Rad was out of the picture. For him, it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t that simple for me, but that was something I kept to myself.
“Well, he deserves it; he’s a great guy.”
“I know. I’m lucky to have him.”
Later, the boys joined us at our table, and Freddy helped himself to some of my pizza.
“Did Audrey tell you? She got her first feature story.”
“No kidding?” Duck said. He put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. “Way to go!”
“Congrats, Audrey,” said Freddy. “We should celebrate!” He flagged the waiter down for a new round of drinks.
“I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Why not?” Freddy asked.
“She wants to stay sharp,” said Lucy, her eyes brimming with laughter.
“So who’s the feature on?” asked Duck.
“Some up-and-coming writer. I have to interview him about his new book on Monday.”
“Well, you have the entire weekend ahead of you,” said Freddy. “A drink’s not going to kill you.”
“I suppose not,” I said, caving in. “Maybe just one, then.”
Later that night, I found myself lying wide awake in bed. Duck was fast asleep. I always envied how he could do that. Sleep was like clockwork for him.
I crept out of bed and went in search of my brown leather satchel. I found it lying on the kitchen table, reached into the front pocket, and pulled out the copy of A Snowflake in a Snowfield. I made a cup of tea and settled myself on the loveseat with the book on my lap.
It was a chilly night, and I drew my favorite woolen throw up to my chin and curled my legs under my body. I breathed a sigh of contentment and reached for my tea. After taking a sip, I flicked open the book and turned to the first page.
An unnerving feeling settled over me as I began reading. It grew in intensity as I progressed further. The book was set in 1920s Wisconsin, a story about a woodcutter’s daughter that read almost like a fairy tale. There was a dark undercurrent of abuse and neglect I found deeply disturbing. In the closing scene, Emily, the protagonist, trudges across the snow toward her favorite ironwood tree, a length of rope clutched tightly in her hands. In the last few moments of her life, Emily’s thoughts play out on the final page in a series of flashbacks that felt strangely familiar to me.
I snapped the book shut and realized my hands were shaking. I got up to get myself a glass of water. I barely made it to the kitchen sink when my legs gave out under me and I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. For the first time in a while, I reached for my rubber band, but I didn’t have it on. I pinched as hard as I could at the skin above my thighs. The pain was excruciating and I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out. Tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
After a few agonizing moments, the tension in my body began to ease and I clutched my knees tightly to my chest, rocking back and forth.
I had no idea why the book had been so triggering. Somehow, it was written in a way that mirrored many of the feelings I had kept buried since Ana’s death—the sorrow, the regret, the overwhelming guilt. It was as though this writer had understood me in the most intimate way.
Taking a deep breath, I picked myself up and walked to the kitchen table. I withdrew my laptop from my satchel and flipped up the screen. With trembling fingers, I typed “Colorado Clark” in the search box. It was such an unusual name that I had no trouble finding a photo of the author. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as image after image flooded the screen. Colorado was the boy I had met the night of Ana’s funeral who was still on my mind all these months later. “Rad,” I whispered.