I rub my fleecy pajama bottoms, tracing the spot Dash’s finger had touched. “When’s your first class at college?”
“Tuesday and Thursday, ten. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, twelve.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“I thought so.” He smiles.
“What did you do tonight?”
“Not much. Just said bye to everybody. Drank too much.” He rubs his head, and even though he’s right beside me, I feel like he’s gone already. It’s been that way this last year: heady moments where I feel like Dash and I are really friends, and then small instants when he seems like he’s outgrown this place—and me—completely.
“I can’t believe you’re driving to Rhode Island by yourself.”
He shrugs. “I’m kinda looking forward to it. Gonna listen to my music.” He winks. I cringe at the memory of the classical music that filled his car too often on the drive to school.
“Better you than me.”
“One day. I’ll win you over.”
I snort. “With what? Not Mozart, that’s for sure.”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Your bad taste,” he smiles. “It’s just so…flagrant.”
“Oooh, five-dollar word. Aren’t you special?”
“I am special,” he says.
“A special snowflake.”
“A snowflake who likes good music.”
“A snowflake who likes noise.”
Dash sits up, knees spread, forearms atop them. He grins at me. “Ammy, Ammy, Ammy. What am I going to do with you?”
“I think the question is, what are you going to do without me? Cry while listening to a piano concerto?”
“Cry while listening to a fugue.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You get those fugues and take them all to Rhode Island.”
Dash puts his hand over his heart, still giving me a crooked smile. “Are you telling me to just be gone?”
“Be gone.” I push him, teasingly.
He wraps his hand around my wrist, his thumb and middle finger meeting loosely. “I’m hurt.”
“Hi, Hurt. I’m Amelia.”
“Hi, Amelia.” He laces his fingers through mine, squeezing lightly as I almost die of joy. I try to arm-wrestle him, needing to do something so the closeness of our contact doesn’t make me loopy.
“You’re very mean,” he says.
I giggle. “No I’m not. I’m the nicest person in Atlanta.”
“You are,” he murmurs.
“Who else watches all your favorite shows with you? And actually likes them?”
“Touché.” His fingers tighten their grip on mine. “Are you saying my shows aren’t likeable?”
I squeeze his hand. “Far from. I’m saying only the coolest people like them.”
“How did you get so cool, Amelia?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it was my influence,” he says.
“I think the opposite.”
“You think you were a good influence on me?” His eyes on mine are hot, as if he sees right through me, to my poor, racing heart.
I nod.
“Do you now?”
I keep on nodding. “I introduced you to our favorite gum.”
“Oh, that’s right. Trident—”
“Minty Sweet Twist,” we say at the same time. Dash’s brows are raised. I’m grinning.
“I’m chewing it right now,” I whisper.
“I need some.”
His hand in mine is way too hot, so I let go of it to dig around in my pajama bottoms pocket.
“Here.” I hold a piece out to him.
Dash sinks back down onto the roof, lying on his back again as he chews.
“Best part of this year,” he teases, giving me a funny, sort-of smile.
“Being out here with me? Why thank you. Wait—the gum?” I stick my tongue out at him. “How much longer now?”
He looks at his phone. Silence swims between us for a moment.
“Jerk, don’t check your texts.”
He gives a guilty smirk. “Eleven minutes.”
I want to make a snarky comment while he lies there texting someone, but my heart is beating so hard, I’m not sure I can find words. Dash and I have always teased, but lately it feels different. Every word between us has this…echo. Like there’s more to what we’re saying than what we’re saying. Hard to explain…
I lie on my back beside him and look up at the stars. I can see the big and little dippers, but not a whole lot else. Purple clouds cover one swatch of the sky. The giant trees between the Frasiers’ home and mine block some of the rest.
Dash puts his phone away. “You have my undivided attention, Ammy. Are you happy?”
“Couldn’t be happier.”
“I’m glad to know I make you happy.” He smiles warmly.
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
“Well in that case, you make me sad.”
He blinks, and I take the plunge. “Savannah has a school of art and design, you know. Right here in Georgia.”
My eyes fill with tears, even as I try to fight them back. I see the moment Dash notices them. His own eyes widen and his mouth goes soft.
“Aw, Dove.” He reaches out to swipe a tear from my cheek. “Damn. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying. This is hate sweat. It comes out the eyes.”
He smiles a little. “So you hate me now?”
“I hate me.” I wipe my eyes, inhaling deeply. “I don’t need you here. I’ll sit out on the roof with somebody else.”
Dash sits up, then takes my hands and pulls me up to sit facing him. His fingers squeeze mine. “C’mon, Ammy Dove. I can’t have you crying.”
The tears sliding down my cheeks and off my chin won’t stop. Especially not now that Dash’s hands are on mine, and he’s rubbing my knuckles. Oh, what it must feel like to be one of his girlfriends. To have these hazel eyes trained on you all the time.
“I’m not crying,” I whisper.
“But you are.”
I look down at my lap, because I can’t bear to look him in the face, not with his hands around mine.
“Ammy—look at me.”
“There’s something interesting down here,” I murmur. My voice sounds dumb and thick, making me feel more childish than I always do around Dash.
“Am…” He sighs. “I couldn’t stay.”
I glance up. “Why?” I try to sound casual. Like the answer to it isn’t everything and then some.
His hands in mine feel hot. He wraps them more tightly around mine. “It’s…hard to explain.” His eyes shut, just for a moment. Then he lets go of my hands. His palms are on his knees, his shoulders rising as he inhales slowly.
“Just trust me. I’ve got my reasons for not staying close. It’s not that I didn’t think about it, that I didn’t—you know…want to.”
“You wanted to stay close but you decided to go? Don’t tell me that.” I swat at him. “That just makes me want to scream.”
“I know,” he says. “I know.” He hangs his head.
“It’s going to suck without you here.”
He smirks, glancing up at me before the corners of his mouth tug downward and he shifts his gaze back to his lap. “That’s what they tell me.”
“Your many admirers,” I tease.
“No…”
“You know it’s true. You like to be a player. That’s just how you roll.”
“No. I don’t. I’m just…” He shrugs, and for a moment, he looks terribly uncomfortable. “How do you do this, Amelia?”
“Do what?”