“Where do you think?” He sounds exhausted. His eyes are downcast as he runs his hand over his short, dark hair.
I want to throw myself at him. I need to touch him. Shock and disappointment have me frozen like a tranq dart. My voice quavers. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard a word from you.”
From the second Dash left in his Elvis U-Haul, I wrote him all the time, every other day at first, and then twice a week. At first, I figured he was busy and he’d call or write back soon. When September turned into October and no one had heard from him—at least not Alexia or me—I started writing more instead of less, pouring little pieces of my soul into the words I wrote him.
In November, about a week before Thanksgiving, I got a package with no return address. Inside it: a pointy maple leaf, suspended between two thick sheets of glass, flawless and furiously red.
I took it as a sign he would be home, so when he wasn’t, my entire body felt leaden with disappointment. Who could I complain to? Lexie? She was as confused as I was, and, by that point in the school year, distracted by the Adderall she was snorting.
I wrote him more letters, and mailed fewer. In early December, every single letter I had written was returned, bound in a thick blue rubber band. Stamped on the front of each: “Undeliverable.”
Panic clawed me.
What did it mean?
In mid-January, I got an emailed photo of Dash posing with a gorgeous painting of a Mourning Dove. I devoured every pixel, noting his soft grey beanie; worn, plaid button-up with a t-shirt peeking out under the collar; the brand new scruff on his jaw and the slightly dreamy tilt of his lips. That was Dash’s smile: the sweet smile I remembered from the first day I met him and Alexia.
I replied: Oh God, there you are. It’s beautiful. Where have you been?
Crickets.
I emailed him again in late February. Missing you, D. Saw it’s snowing up your way. Hope you’re drinking coffee with your dog and hope the dog is wearing a sweater.
Crickets—and the sound of my poor heart, starting to crumble.
In March, Alexia told me she’d asked her parents about Dash. She was surprised to find he’d been intermittently texting their mother.
“He seems okay?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “Mom said he’s having fun.”
In May I got another unmarked package: a vivid, nighttime photo featuring a blazing milky way, and in the middle, a bright orb that had to be the international space station.
Alexia told me Dash was traveling this summer. I would have asked her more questions, but now I only see her once or twice a week, usually out at parties where she’s drunk or high.
Dash has become my neurosis. At least one or two nights per week, I sit out on my own roof, staring at the stars, with one eye turned toward the Frasiers’ driveway. How is it possible that he wouldn’t come home? What was wrong? I knew something was. I could feel it.
“So…where were you?” I repeat. Sweat is gathering between my breasts and tickling my hairline. My chest is so tight, I feel like I might pass out. “Where were you, Dash?” It’s rasped.
He shrugs, and it’s clear he’s holding up a wall between us. His eyes and face are distant, as if we haven’t known each other our whole lives.
“Around,” he finally says. The word is slow and soft, deceptive in its nonchalance. For a long second, his eyes hold mine; I know him well enough to see he’s trying to act normal. “Did some traveling.” Another shrug. “Worked a little here and there to get some money. Painted.”
“Did you finish this year? Are you a sophomore now?”
“Of course.” He folds his arms in front of his chest.
“Why didn’t you call? I sent these letters, and they all came back…”
“Maybe you had the wrong address.” But I can hear it in his voice: the rush. As if he had the words already earmarked and he forced them out, quick as he could.
“You didn’t call.” The words are breathy, just the faintest protest as my heart hammers and sweat rolls down my scalp.
The look Dash gives me hits me like an anvil. It’s skeptical, as if to say why would I call you?
For a too-long heartbeat, I can’t get my breath. I hope the stinging in my eyes will stop before it turns to tears. I hope that in this last year, Dash forgot me as much as it seems like he did, so he won’t see that as the seconds tick by, I feel more and more like I’m going to throw up the Blue Moon churning in my stomach.
Why is he acting this way? Like he doesn’t know me. Like he doesn’t care at all.
I can see him read my mind: the way his eyes widen fractionally before his whole face locks down, and I get the apathetic look again. The one he used to use on his parents, the pervy gardener who gawked at Alexia and I in our swimsuits, a guy at our school who picked on Hollis Smith.
He saw the dismay on my face just now, and his reaction—the one he wants to give me, anyway—is fuck you.
I stare into his eyes for just a moment longer. Then I release the breath I’ve been holding. “You know, never mind, Dash. Just forget this.”
I whirl toward the bedroom door with tears falling. “I’ve got a date,” I mutter as I push out it.
Four
Amelia
As soon as I’m out of Dash’s sight, I can’t keep my frantic body still. The hallway is crowded, but I push my way past shoulders and elbows, bumping into a guy who curses as he spills his drink.
I pause briefly in the doorway of the sunroom, noting the absence of live music about the time Joe Cotton—the Gin Rangers’ front-man—steps in from the poolside, and the crowd inside the sunroom surges toward him.
There’s a door to my left, partially hidden by a massive fern. I try the handle and fling myself out onto the side lawn, where the beetles’ high-pitched hum is drowned out by the throbbing of my heart.
I need to calm down—cry or scream, so I can clear my head. Ultimately, I’m going to need to find my friend for a ride home, but right now my cheeks are burning and my eyes are leaking, so I dart into the shadows of the pine forest that rushes up against the neat, green grass, and then I start to jog.
I jog almost every morning, even when it’s hotter than a frying pan and humid enough to make my hair frizzy. In a summer where Manda is always glaring at me from behind a magazine, and Dad seems more withdrawn than ever, the routine and repetition of my running is a bright spot. After a few bouncing strides, I feel more in control. I set off in earnest, cutting toward the stately, red-brick drive that halves the lawn.
Dogwoods line the driveway. Beneath one, I kick my sandals off. Running barefoot kind of hurts my feet, but I like it. Gives my mind a new focus. Overhead, stars wobble in the sky between treetops.
I focus on my breathing.
Eee-eee-ooo, Eee-eee-ooo, Eee-eee-ooo…
Thoughts rise up like bubbles in a cauldron.
He’s here!
Who’s his girl? Is he with someone local?
Doesn’t matter!
He doesn’t give a shit about you, Amelia. Clearly!