I roll my eyes. “No you aren’t, Daddy. You’re probably just as happy as Sasha is.”
Right after it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. Instead, I do this weird backpedaling thing, and the half-eaten Pop-Tart crumbles in my fingertips. “I mean, you know, she never liked him. So she’s probably psyched that we’re over, I mean, if she was here, you know? Like, maybe in heaven, she’s happy about it.”
“I get it,” Dad says, taking another sip of his beer. “Honestly, I don’t think any of us liked that boy very much. You’re better off without him, but I don’t think you should be sad about it.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “I’m fine with it. Seriously.”
Dad’s tanned skin crinkles between his eyes. “Then what is it? I go back to work in the morning and I hate leaving knowing you’re upset.”
Once again I’ve been asked a question I can’t answer. The concert is tomorrow night and I still haven’t heard a word from Elijah. That’s what’s bothering me.
Lies fall out of my mouth so easily these days. “I want to go to this movie marathon tomorrow night,” I say, making my face all insecure and angelic, like the lying daughter that I am. “It’ll be like five hours and I’m afraid to ask Mom if I can go … because, well, Sasha …”
“What about Sasha?” Dad asks.
“I guess I just feel bad about going out with new friends when Sasha hasn’t been gone very long. I’m afraid it might disappoint Mom.”
I feel so dirty saying all of these lies. But I know exactly what Dad’s going to say in reply, and if it works, then I’ll have permission to go to the concert.
“Oh, honey.” He reaches over and puts a hand on my arm. “Sasha was your best friend and that means she wanted what was best for you. You should definitely go to the movies. I’ll talk to your mom for you.”
All of this shame will mean nothing if Elijah doesn’t show up. I plaster on a sad smile and run a hand through my hair. “Thanks, Dad.”
***
Izzy takes my wrists and rubs some essential oils on them before I’ve even had time to put my purse and car keys under the front counter. “Your aura is troubled, kiddo.” She caps the oil bottle, sets it on the counter and then presses my wrists together, rubbing them until the oils are absorbed in my skin. “I know I’m just an old lady, but you can always talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” I say, even as I heave a massive sigh. Wordlessly, I move to the back table and survey the order slips for the day. Since it’s October, we have a few fall harvest baskets of flowers and two Halloween-themed spooky vases that come with black roses and plastic vampire teeth, along with one birthday bouquet for a woman turning ninety-nine.
I get to work, well aware of the fact that Izzy is watching me, probably wanting me to spill my guts to her. But I won’t. I can’t. This secret is mine, Sasha’s and Elijah’s. And neither of them are talking to me right now.
It’s less than twenty-four hours until the show, and Elijah hasn’t confirmed if he can go or not. Deep down, there’s a tiny little voice that tells me maybe he doesn’t have internet access right now. Maybe I should chill out. It’s possible, right?
But the larger voice, the one that consumes me wholly, knows that’s not the case. He works at a place where he can use the computer and he’s currently in the middle of the adventure of a lifetime from his dead sister. There’s no way he hasn’t checked his email.
He’s avoiding me.
He knows. He totally knows that I am falling for him. That my heart is so freaking stupid it can’t simply be friends with a guy like Elijah; it wants more.
And clearly Elijah doesn’t want that, or he’d be replying. He’d be seeking me out.
Tears cloud my vision as I work, taking another rose as black as my heart. Sasha gave us the best gift ever and I went and ruined it by falling for her brother like some kind of lovesick idiot. Of course he wouldn’t feel the same way. Why would he? Sasha trusted me, and I let her down.
A sob rises in my chest and I force it down. Unfortunately, the only thing that does go down is the black glass vase in my hand. It hits the concrete floor and shatters, large pieces of black skittering all over the place.
I curse and start crying all at the same time. Izzy calls my name but I turn my back to her, blinking away tears as I reach for the broom and dustpan that’s propped against the wall.
“I’ll do that for you,” Izzy says, reaching for the broom.
I shake my head. “I’ve got it.”
She watches me sweep up the mess, her hands on her hips. “I’m really sorry,” I say, dumping the glass in the trash can. “I’ll pay for it.”
She waves a hand. “No need. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? I could help.”
With a heavy breath, I reach for another vase and look over at her, wishing she wouldn’t waste all of her kindness on me. “It’s nothing. I’m just … I miss Sasha.” And I made the mistake of liking someone who doesn’t like me back. And now I might have ruined my best friend’s dying wish.
“Would you like to go home early?” Izzy pulls a hair tie off her wrist and wrangles her long curly hair into a low ponytail. “You could take home some flowers to cheer you up.”
“I’d rather stay, if that’s okay.” I’m just grateful that no customers are in here. “I don’t want to be home right now.”
“Fine with me,” Izzy says. “You’re always nice to have around. And I’m always here if you need to talk.”
I almost tell her everything right there. It would be so easy to bleed my heart out in front of all of these beautiful flowers. I wonder if she has an essential oil for someone as screwed up as I am.
But I can’t break my promise to Sasha, no matter how much I might want to, so I just get back to work.
At midnight, I stare at my computer screen, the glow the only light in my bedroom. My inbox has zero new messages.
I start a new email to Elijah, leave the subject blank and stare at the blinking cursor for half an hour. I should tell him I’m sorry if I made him feel weird, tell him I’m totally not into him, so he shouldn’t let worries of my stupid and nonexistent crush stop him from seeing Zombie Radio in Sasha’s honor.
In the end, I send him one final email that doesn’t say any of that. I’m not sure if it matters. All I do know is that I won’t break my promise to Sasha, even if Elijah does.
Elijah,
I have Sasha’s shirt for you if you do end up going to the show. I’ll print out both tickets in case you don’t have access to a printer. If you want the shirt or the ticket, you can come find me. There’s usually a long line before a show at The Engine Room. Hope you’re okay.
Raquel
Chapter Eighteen
A burst of chilly air hits me in the face, sending a tingle down the back of my shirt. It probably wasn’t a good idea to wear the Zombie Radio shirt that has a holey skeleton back, courtesy of Sasha’s scissors. I have other, non-sliced-up shirts, but this one makes me look older, sexier and unafraid.
Which is another reason I shouldn’t have worn it. What am I trying to do? Will Elijah appear because of some magical cleavage and off-the-shoulder skin action? He doesn’t even like me.
All of my efforts will no doubt be for nothing, since I don’t see his black motorcycle anywhere. Zombie Radio fans walk through the streets of downtown, toward The Engine Room, grouped in twos or threes or more. Everyone has someone, except for me. I keep my head down, my bag weighing heavily on my shoulder as I make my way toward the growing line outside the entrance. Sasha’s T-shirt doesn’t weigh that much, but to me, it’s like a ton of bricks.
I search the crowd, hoping for a familiar face. But the Mohawks, tattoos and brightly dyed hair all belong to people who aren’t my friends. I wish Sasha was here.
I move forward in line, checking the time on my phone. Doors opened three minutes ago, so we’r
e all steadily trickling into the darkened club. Once we’re inside, it will be nearly impossible to find anyone. I stare at a black splotch of old gum on the dirty concrete as I slowly move forward in line. I’m sorry, Sasha. I should have stuck to your plan.
“ID?” I look up to find a portly hipster guy staring at me, eyebrow raised. He’s holding a permanent marker with the cap off.
“Oh,” I say, realizing I’m now just a few feet away from the doors. “No, sorry.” I hold up my hands and he crosses a big black X over the tops of them. As much as I love Zombie Radio, I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through this show. I should turn around, go home and forget this day ever happened.
“Hey.” The sound is coming from behind me. Footsteps thump to a stop right next to me, and Elijah drops his hands to his knees, panting for a few seconds. “Damn, I haven’t run that far in a long time.”
“Where’d you come from?” Elation pours into every cell of my body, and I step out of line, walking with Elijah over to the club’s brick wall. I try to act cool.
“That Exxon three blocks north,” he says, his chest rising and falling with heavy breathing. “I saw people walking inside so I ran to find you before I missed you.” Those crystal-blue eyes slice into me, reaching into my soul and touching all the parts of me I try to keep hidden from the world.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I blink a few times and focus on a red Volkswagen Bug in the distance. “Sasha … she’d be glad.”
“I’m sorry I missed your emails,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I only just got a chance to check them, since I can’t really be on the computer at work and I have to wait until my boss leaves. I saw what time it was and hauled ass. I swear, Sasha was watching over me to make sure I didn’t get pulled over or die.” He says it with a laugh, but I narrow my eyes.
“You shouldn’t drive recklessly. It’s not worth it.”
“I couldn’t miss this show,” he says, shaking his head. “Indie punk rock is totally not my thing, but I couldn’t leave you hanging.”
I shiver. He must realize it, too, because he quickly adds, “And I couldn’t screw up Sasha’s last wish. So I’m here.” His lips stretch into a smile that feels a little bit forced. “Do you have that shirt?”
Only now do I take the time to realize what he’s wearing. Oil-stained jeans even more worn out than his usual pair and a light blue button-up shirt with dark blue pinstripes and a bright red name patch sewn on. Elijah Delgado is embroidered under a Monterrey’s Auto Body Shop logo.
“Yeah,” I say, digging into my bag and retrieving the shirt. “I have your ticket, too.”
“Awesome,” he says, our eyes meeting as he begins to unbutton his work shirt. Heat rises in my stomach and my toes get all fluttery. I should probably look away. But he slips his shirt off and then playfully tosses it right over my face. I catch it, the scent of boyish body wash and motor oil filling the air before I pull the shirt down and fold it into my arms. Elijah’s bare chest awakens parts of me that should be embarrassed, but I can’t stop staring as he slides his arms into Sasha’s shirt and pulls it over his head, finally tugging down the bottom until his perfect abs are covered. Damn.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod dumbly, shove his work shirt into my bag and then hand him his ticket. As we make our way to the back of the line, there are so many things I want to say, from personal feelings that should definitely be kept to myself to fun stories about Sasha that I’d normally tell him on one of these adventures. But I can’t bring myself to talk, to break this easy silence between us as we have our tickets scanned and venture inside.
They don’t even ask to see Elijah’s ID. His stubble and the crease between his eyes must make him look old enough to drink. We step through a metal detector and into the club.
House music pumps through the speakers and a cool rush of air blasts us as we enter the darkness. Elijah reaches back for my hand and I let him take it, even knowing how much it’ll screw up my heart.
“Where’s the best place to watch?” Elijah asks once we’re inside. We’re standing near the back of the crowd. In front of us is the stage, over to the right is the bar and to the left is a little raised area with tables where the drunks usually congregate.
“Sasha and I usually push our way to the front,” I say, yelling over the music. “But we’re also always the first in line so it’s a little easier. We should probably just hang back there. There’s no way we’ll get through a crowd that big.”
“Challenge accepted,” Elijah says. He grabs my hand again and begins walking toward the mass of Zombie Radio fans right up front.
“Oh my God, you can’t do this,” I shout, grabbing his elbow to lean in closer to his ear. “We’ll piss everyone off!”
“Nah, we’ll be fine.” His breath is minty in my ear, but I don’t have time to let his nearness affect me because he tugs me along, into the crowd, saying things like “Excuse me, sir” along the way. We inch and slide and move past people until at last I can see the metal railing that separates the audience from the stage.
Elijah’s hand slides up my arm. He moves me in front of him, stepping back behind me. “Here you go,” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
I grip the railing with both hands like I’ve done so many times with Sasha, and although she isn’t here, I can practically feel her right next to me. The opening band is a small-town indie rock group from Corpus. I don’t know any of their songs, but I enjoy their performance. It might be because every time the crowd bobs and sways to the music, Elijah gets pressed against me, his hand on my shoulder, his chest against my back.
At the close of the fifth song, the singer wraps his hand around the mic and thanks Houston for coming out to the show. Then he launches into a passionate rant about the country’s political climate but I don’t really hear any of it. I’m keenly aware of Elijah’s hand on my lower back, keeping contact with me as many people around us shift and move. The band begins to take apart its set.
A short woman with bright blue hair and two beers in her hands moves past me, stopping when she sees Elijah. “You’re hot,” she says in a low voice, winking.
I take out my phone, pretending to check for messages. Elijah’s lips press against my ear as the house music pumps back up to fill the space between acts. “Please tell me Zombie Radio isn’t as bad as this first band.”
I turn around to face him, ignoring the goose bumps on my neck. “Sasha didn’t make you listen to them?”
Though the crowd has lessened, we’re still jam-packed near the railing. Die-hard ZR fans want the best view and won’t budge for a fifteen-minute set change. This forces Elijah to stand insanely close to me, and I hate myself for how much I like it. This entire adventure is supposed to be about Sasha and Elijah, not my fucking hormones.
He has to tilt his head down to look at me, his eyes like sparkling snow globes under the bright disco ball above us. “She sent me some YouTube videos, but I could never listen to them. No speakers on the work computer, and at the library you have to bring your own headphones, which I don’t have.”
“You might be the only person in the country without constant internet access,” I say, trying to sound like I’m teasing him, but it comes out accusatory. Guess I’m still bitter that he didn’t reply to me. “Or a cell phone for that matter.”
Something odd flashes in his eyes, then he blinks and it’s gone. “There were two computers at the group home, but I didn’t see the appeal unless I was researching Sasha. Putting pictures of yourself online is kinda creepy, don’t you think? I hated when Sasha made me send her one of myself. I made her swear not to post it on social media.”
Someone bumps into us on their mad dash to the front, knocking Elijah into me. I wince as my back presses against the cold metal railing. Elijah stumbles, his hands grabbing the railing on either side of me.
“Sorr
y!” a guy calls out, his hands wrapped around his very drunk girlfriend’s shoulders.
“It’s cool,” Elijah says back. Then he turns to face me, and he doesn’t straighten up, doesn’t take his hands off the railing. He’s so close it would only take a tilt of my chin to kiss him. People crowd around us, returning from the bar or the bathroom or whatever they did after the opening band finished. We’re pressed in, covered on all sides except for the railing behind me.
Elijah’s eyes meet mine and I swear the whole world stops. Then he says, “What were we talking about?”
“The internet,” I choke out. A wave of light-headedness makes me lean on the railing harder.
“Ah, yeah.” His tongue flits across his bottom lip. “I’m not really a fan.”
“We wouldn’t be here if it didn’t exist,” I say. He laughs, his skin vibrating next to mine.
“True. Very true. I guess I have to like it a little bit.”
“Only a little?” I say, pouting. “The internet brought you Sasha.”
“And you.”
The way he gazes at me makes my heart stop. The air goes cold, the only warmth coming from his hand as he slides it around my waist, tugging me off the railing and against his body. On stage, the curtains whoosh open behind me, the sound of JJ’s drums and the roar of the crowd drowning out the silence between Elijah and me.
“The band is starting,” I whisper. Somehow he hears me, because he nods.
“I see that.”
“We should probably watch it.”
He nods, his other hand sliding around my waist until he’s holding me so tightly not even the crowd could knock me over.
I swear I’m not breathing.
“Just one more thing,” he says, his eyes dropping to my lips. I breathe in, my entire body ablaze, and then he does it. With just a tilt of his head, he closes that tiny space between our lips.
My hands slide up his chest, up Sasha’s shirt, and they grab his face and hold it tightly as he kisses me, his lips moving like he’s always done this, like kissing me is as natural as breathing.
The Last Wish of Sasha Cade Page 13