It’s hot and I’m wearing cutoffs and a thin black tank top. My hair is a little tangled, and I only have eyeliner and mascara on, which is melting from the heat. “I’m not dressed to go anywhere,” I protest, as she swings open the front gate.
She glances over her shoulder and inspects my outfit and hair. “You look great. You always do.” She stops when we arrive at her single-cab truck parked in front of the garage. She lets go of my hand and positions herself in front of me. “Look, when I first met you, you were seriously so sad, and I was kind of terrified of you. But then I got to know you, and you know what? My opinion changed.”
“Only because Ms. Kenzingly forced us to work on that final project together.” I smile at the memory of our first awkward introduction. She was the pretty, outgoing girl who sometimes got into trouble, and I was the depressed, weird girl who used to date Landon. It had been four weeks since I’d found him in his room, and I was still the one everyone was afraid of, because I saw things no one wants to admit exists. “God, I can only image how hard it was trying to get me to even talk to you.”
She smiles, too, but it’s shadowed by a stern look. “Yeah, and to this day I’m so glad I managed to get you to say something, even though it was ‘Yes, I think so,’ because it opened the door for our friendship.” She pauses, rubbing her lips together as she shields her eyes from the sunlight with her hand. “But it was hard, you know, being your friend, because you never told me the truth about what was going on in that head of yours, but at college you seemed a little better. Not great, but better.” She waves her hand in front of me and blows out an exasperated breath. “But we’ve been back for over a couple of weeks now and you’re getting sadder, if that’s even possible.”
“It’s possible,” I say, leaning back against the truck door. “It really is.”
She’s quiet for a while and then she takes my hands in hers. “Can we just go somewhere for a while? Escape or something. Do something crazy and unexpected. We could go hang out at Dylan’s tonight and just relax.”
Crazy and unexpected? I start counting the rocks under my feet but there are too many. “Are we just escaping from my sadness? Or from your mom?”
“Both,” she says simply, giving the top of my hand a pat.
I keep trying to count the rocks, but more and more appear in my vision, and finally it becomes overwhelming and I give up. Throwing my hands in the air, I decide to try and not be sad for the day. Try to survive. “Okay,”
She jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “Thank you, Nova.”
“You’re welcome.” I open the truck door and hop into the seat, feeling as though I’ve failed because the rocks remain uncounted. “But you really don’t need to be thanking me. I didn’t do anything, you crazy woman.” I shut the door and she skips around to the other side.
“Yes, you did.” She smiles as she climbs into the driver’s seat, then turns on the ignition. “You decided to be happy.”
I keep quiet and let myself drown in my thoughts, knowing that’s not what I’m doing. I’ll probably never truly be happy again, no matter how much I want to, because no matter what, Landon will always be gone and I’ll still be here.
Alone.
We end up stopping at the local ice cream parlor, because Delilah says that some sugar in my system will cheer me up. It was what my dad used to say all the time: Eat some candy and you’ll feel better. My mom hated it and would always put something healthy in my hand, like an apple or a carrot, then when she’d turn away, my dad would steal it and wink at me as he handed me a sucker or a candy bar.
I miss him so bad. His life ended way too soon, but unlike Landon’s, I couldn’t have prevented it. He had a heart condition he didn’t know about until it was too late, and there was nothing I could have done to help him. Still, it had been horrible to watch… him lying on the ground helpless and afraid, and there was nothing I could do but watch his life leave him. I never thought I’d be the same again, and then Landon came along and it felt like he understood me and he gave me a reason to smile again. But then he left me, too, out of choice, something I still can’t figure out, even after a goddamn year. And now I’m here, walking around, half the time feeling like a zombie with no real direction, lost and lonely, and everything I felt when my dad died has multiplied.
God, what the fuck? Why did you do it? Why did you leave me here? You can’t leave me here.
I’m sitting in one of the booths, watching a wind chime outside twirl in the light summer breeze as I stir the bowl of cookie dough ice cream in front of me. The chime is made of thin clear strings and shimmering pieces of aqua and teal sea glass that magically reflect the sunlight every time it hits them. There’s some cheesy ’90s music playing, and I’m totally zoning in my thoughts while Delilah tries to get the cashier guy to give her more maraschino cherries.
I hear the door’s bell ding as someone walks inside, and my gaze instinctively drifts from the chime to my barely touched bowl of ice cream, which is now melted and liquefied. Then I hear Delilah say something really loud, and I reel around in the booth and look toward the front counter. Dylan, Tristan, and Quinton are standing beside her, and she already has her arms and lips fastened on Dylan, who’s cupping her ass as he lifts her up. The cashier guy seems really uncomfortable by their public display of affection and walks back to the stocking room.
Tristan starts laughing at something on the order board and then he playfully slaps Quinton in the stomach. Quinton gives him a shove, a smile forming at his lips, but his eyes are still hued with sorrow. Tristan stumbles to the side, nearly crashing into an oblivious Dylan and Delilah, then he regains his balance and leans in to say something to Quinton. When he catches sight of me, he gives me a little smile and wave.
I return the wave and then my hand falls to the table as Quinton looks over at me. Biting his bottom lip, he seems uneasy as he raises his hand and waves at me. I return the wave with a tight smile, then sighing I turn back to my sad little melted bowl of ice cream.
Quinton starts to head over, even though he looks like it’s the last thing he wants to be doing. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans, and there’s a small hole in the bottom of his black T-shirt. It looks like there’s dirt or some kind of shavings in his hair, and he’s got black smudges tracking up his arms. The closer he gets, the quicker I count, until the numbers in my head are blurred together and suddenly I can’t see a path. My adrenaline surges, and I feel overwhelmed. I need to find a path again, something to concentrate on, something I can control and keep track of.
“Hey,” he says when he arrives at my table, and the sound of his voice immediately begins to slow down my pulse.
“Hey,” I reply, stirring my melted ice cream as I tip my chin up, my gaze gradually scrolling up his body.
Silence builds between us, but a real, comfortable silence, just like when I spent time with Landon. But he’s not Landon.
“So rumor has it that you’re a music junkie,” he finally says, scooting into the seat across from mine. “And that you play the piano and the drums.”
I nod, internally cringing at the mention of drums, the instrument I loved most, but can longer even contemplate playing without it hurting every inch of my mind and soul. “Who told you that? Tristan?”
His glances at Tristan, who’s up at the counter, rambling off an order to the cashier guy. “Yeah, he did the other day, after you left our house.”
I notice the smell of his cologne, laced with a hint of smoke, and I hate to admit it, but I kind of like it, even though it doesn’t remind me of Landon in any way. His eyes are glossy like caramel, and he keeps looking at my melted bowl of gooey ice cream like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Okay… why were you guys talking about me?”
He glances up from the ice cream, blinking his bloodshot eyes. “Because I asked him about you.” He bites his lip after he says it, like he wants to retract his statement.
“Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” I say, trying to keep the conversation effortless. “I don’t know anything about you.”
He flops back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head with his elbows sticking out as he gazes through the window. “There’s not much to know.”
I shut my eyes, telling myself to get up and walk away, because it feels wrong. But when I open them again, he’s looking directly at me, and I can’t help myself. I need to understand him, because in a weird, distorted way I feel like understanding him might help me understand Landon a little better, if I can get deep enough.
“You’re an artist,” I say straightforwardly as I set the spoon down on the table.
His arms drift to his lap and he looks so mystified that it momentarily eliminates the pain in his eyes. “How did you know?”
I inch my hand across the table, trying to keep my fingers steady as I touch a splotch of charcoal on his forearm. “Because of these.”
He glances down at my fingers on his arm, unnerved. “Yeah, but most people would think it was grease or something.”
I wonder if he knows—if Tristan told him about Landon. “I’m just that good.” I sink back in the booth, fold my arms, and chew on my bottom lip, fighting back a smile.
Curiosity crosses his face. “Well, I guess so.” He waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t. I’m kind of enjoying mystifying him.
I fiddle with the leather band bracelets on my wrists. “Where did you move from?”
His expression sinks as he looks back to the window. “Seattle.”
“Seattle… how far is that from here?”
“The plane ride was a little over an hour.” He thrums his fingers on the table, his shoulders stiffening as he grows more uncomfortable. “So Dylan said Delilah mentioned a concert, and I guess they want to go.” He changes the subject, just like Landon used to do when he’d get uncomfortable with a topic.
“Yeah, she was saying something to me about it earlier,” I say, picking up the spoon. I want to ask him more about why he came here, but I can’t seem to work up the nerve to press for information. I don’t know him, and generally when people don’t want to talk about something it’s hard to get it out of them. That was always the problem with Landon. He never wanted to talk. And I always let him get away with it. “I’m not a fan of concerts anymore, though.”
His head slants to the side as he studies me. “You’re a fan of music, you play the drums and piano, but you don’t like concerts?”
“I used to,” I clarify as I start to stir the ice cream again. “But now… I don’t know, they’re too noisy.” Chaotic, disorganized, sporadic.
“Music in general is noisy.” He’s amused by me, and for a moment the craziness inside my head is worth it.
“Yeah, but at concerts the crowd is, too.” I know I sound insane, but I can’t explain further without explaining all of me. I bring the spoon to my mouth and slurp the ice cream off it, pulling a face when I realize how warm it is.
