“It’s not going well.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“You are such a liar. I thought we were past lying.”
“We are,” I say.
“So what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
She sighs. “I understand. I’m sorry, Dash. You want me to hop on a plane? I could be there today. We could go dancing.”
“That sounds irresistible.”
“You jerk. It does. I’m great at dancing.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You sound unhappy, D.”
“That’s life, though, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not supposed to be unhappy,” she says.
“Hm.”
“I’m coming down. We can do Graceland. I’ll make those cinnamon rolls from scratch? The ones with the really whipped type icing?”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead, then realize I’ve stopped painting and start back as I talk. “I’m okay, Lex.”
“I love you. You know that, right? And you’re my favorite brother.”
That makes me snicker. “Thanks.”
“I know, right? I’m the nicest. Am I your favorite sister?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Good. I want to be your number one.” Her voice is teasing.
“It’s okay. I swear.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“She asked, though, didn’t she?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I hear ya,” Lexie murmurs. “You’re okay, though. You’re my brother, and you’re good, okay? You’re good and kind and even if she doesn’t know that…it’s still true. It wasn’t your fault, all that shit. Tell yourself until you believe it.”
I swallow. “Thanks, Lex.” I pull my shit together, so she can get off the phone and quit worrying about me. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m pretty good. Just about to head to Iceland for that six-day shoot—the one for sweaters. That is, if you’re sure you don’t want me to visit.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You know I think—”
“I know,” I snap.
“I think she would—”
“I know, Lex. This isn’t news to me.”
“I know it’s not,” she whispers.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“No. But it’s not yours either. Get out, all right? Do something fun. You promise?”
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve got a good idea. Go rollerblading.”
I chuckle at that.
“I’m serious. You know it would be fun, and you’d look trendy af.”
“Ha. I’ll think about it.”
“Really—do.”
“Call me later?”
“Yep. I’ll call you soon.”
I spend Thursday on the couch, thinking about what I’d tell Ammy if I could and playing out her reactions. I don’t resort to any of my older vices, so that’s something. Friday morning, I go out and buy some roller blades. I buy two pairs and tell myself that one pair is for Lexie. Not Amelia. Lex.
I skate around downtown and send my sister a picture with a phony smile.
I’m sure she can tell it’s phony, but she texts back a thumbs up anyway.
I brace myself for Monday. I can feel how things will go. And I can’t blame her. I tell myself when this is over—this summer—I’ll be okay. Once I don’t have to look at her anymore…or hear her voice. When there’s no chance I can touch her.
For lack of something better to do, I fly to Burbank Saturday and get the painting for her. It flies first class beside me, my arm around it as the plane begins to tilt for landing.
Amelia
More than a week after I left Dash’s apartment, feeling freaked out and upset, I stand at his door, tanned and wearing white shorts and a pale blue tank top, clutching a cardboard drink carrier stocked with six bottled drinks.
I lift my hand slowly and knock.
Dash answers a minute or so later, shirtless in gray sweatpants, with a notch of confusion in between his dark, thick brows.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself.” His lips curve slightly in one corner—a reluctant, cautious smile. “You have a good trip?”
“I did.” I hold the drinks up. “Got you something.”
Dash takes the drinks, and I explain.
“There’s this burger place up there called Pollywog’s. They do burgers, but they’re also known for having a bunch of different carbonated drinks, in a bunch of different flavors. I know how you feel about flavored cola, so…”
He smiles: the lopsided one that’s really good and genuine, reminding me of the boy who used to bring my towel to the pool’s edge and hold it open for me when it was windy on a summer day.
“Thanks. This is great.”
“You’re welcome. So what about you? How was your week?”
“Not bad.” He looks me up and down. “You want to step inside? I got you something.”
“Sure.” I follow him inside and there in his living room, leaning against an arm of the couch, is the dove painting.
“Wow.” I can’t help gaping at it. “Dash, it’s gorgeous, even more stunning in person. Where’d it come from?”
“Burbank.”
“How did it get here?”
“I went and got it.”
“Seriously?”
He nods. “Would you like me to help you carry it up?”
“Yes. It looks heavy. Are you trying to get rid of me?”
I see surprise on his face. “No. You want to sit down? Sit down.” He waves his arm toward his couch. When I don’t move—because I’m still in awe of his painting—he grabs me by my legs and throws me over his shoulder.
He sits on the couch and lowers me so my head is in his lap. I hear him inhale as I try to situate myself.
“You smell good, Am. Same sunscreen after all this time? I mean—Amelia.”
“You can call me Am.” I look up at him. His handsome face is upside down from my angle. I notice that his beard seems shorter, almost more shadow, and reach up to cup his chin with my hand. “You shaved some.”
“Summer and all.”
“I like it. I liked it before, too, though.”
Dash runs his hand down my bare arm. “You look a little sunburned here.”
“My elbows,” I laugh. “I forgot to put sunscreen on them the first day.”
“That’s sad.”
“Red-headed and freckled.” I make a face.
“Beautiful.” Dash strokes my arms and sifts through my hair, and I shut my eyes and let him.
I had a week to think about this thing with him. The first two days, I really thought I’d break it off, but then I went to Pollywog’s… I thought about the way his eyes looked the day before I left, when he kept asking me to come closer. The pain in them. And I still don’t know why. I don’t get it, but…I’d like to. I don’t know how long I can do this, but I think today I can.
Pretty soon his hands are underneath my clothes. They’re deft and hungry, careful but focused. Pretty soon he’s crouching over me with his mouth on my breast and his hand torturing my pussy. I’m raising my knee, trying to rub between his legs. Over the roar of traffic through the half-open balcony door, the only sounds are moans and gasps.