by Sandra Block
When I park and walk from the ramp to my apartment, I understand how Ramona felt. Maybe for the first time, I get it completely. The deepest sadness. Sadness that hurts your bones and your heart.
I get to my apartment, flick on the light, and looking around the gray-lit room realize fully how awful this is going to be. How totally, awfully lonely. It would have been better to never have met her. So I wouldn’t feel like this right now. A text tone rings from Dahlia.
Call me. Please.
I type her back a message.
Please don’t call me anymore. Don’t text. I can’t do this. It’s over. I’m sorry.
Chapter Ninety-Five
Dahlia
After his text last night, my fingers were on the phone to call Eli. I got halfway through his number, when I realized that I couldn’t call him. And I couldn’t call Shoshana or my parents, since I haven’t even told them about James. So I called Daisy, who recommended “giving him time to come around.”
Since I’ve been at work, it’s been about an hour. One hour that I’ve given him to come around. I orange highlight Tabitha’s newest railroad case.
“Did I tell you about the song?” Sylvia asks.
“No,” I say, my hand getting tired from highlighting. “What song?”
“For the rehearsal dinner. They’re putting together a song for me and Beau. Like a parody. Doesn’t that sound hilarious?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, thinking that it sounds dreadful.
We get back to work and another hour drags by. “Beau’s friend from Hawaii is coming,” Sylvia says as though we were still talking about the wedding.
“That’s nice,” I say and text James. Daisy said give it some time. Maybe two hours would do. Break room?
“I have a friend coming from Jackson Hole, which is far away too. But Hawaii. That’s, like, eight hours.”
I wait an unbearably long time for no answer. “Fuck it,” I say without meaning to and stand up.
“What?” Sylvia asks.
“Nothing. It’s…not about you. Sorry. It’s something else.” I grab my phone and start walking. “Give him time.” Daisy means well, but that’s not how Dahlia works. Or James, for that matter. I walk down two flights of stairs and over to his cubicle. His chubby friend, I forget his name, glances up at me with a look of shock that’s almost comical.
“Hi,” I say.
James turns to me and blushes. “Hi,” he mumbles.
“I need help with my computer,” I announce. His boss glances over at us and tugs on his ridiculous mustache.
James doesn’t look up from his computer. “Cooper, can you help her?”
“Sure, dude.”
“No,” I say. “I need you. You already know what’s going on.”
He refuses to look at me. “I’m sure I can fill Cooper in.”
“James,” his boss barks. “Go help her.”
“Oh. Okay.” He stands up with clear reluctance and we start walking off together.
“Let’s take the stairs,” I say, loud enough for them to hear, and we go into the stairwell. I stop and lean against the wall. “Don’t do this.”
He bites his lower lip, staring at the glossy cement floor. “I don’t know any other way.”
“I don’t leave until August,” I say. “We’ve got five months together in the meantime.”
He moves a step away from me, shaking his head.
“Maybe you’re not ready to move, okay. Maybe we’re not ready for that anyway. Let’s see where we are in a few months. Let’s just see how it goes.”
“Dahlia.” His face is pained.
“Or let’s just stay friends at least. If you don’t want to keep dating, that’s fine. But don’t stop talking to me. Let’s just be friends, like we were.”
He stares down at his black shoes, then puts his hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It hurts too much.” He turns the knob with a click. “Don’t do this again, okay? I just… I can’t. That’s all.”
As he walks away, I don’t call after him. It would be useless anyway. Obviously, it’s over.
And I’m not going to beg.
Chapter Ninety-Six
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Desiforever: Did you guys hear?
Joe25: Hear what?
Desiforever: Blake, he’s in the ICU.
PorscheD: Seriously?
Desiforever: Seriously. Some guys beat him up really bad
Creoletransplant: Wow, that’s terrible
Mollysdad: Yeah, is he okay?
Desiforever: He’s in the fucking ICU. How okay could he be?
Mollysdad: No, I mean, is he going to die or something?
Desiforever: I talked to his wife. It was touch and go for a while. But they think he’ll come out.
Joe25: That’s too bad, man
Desiforever: Yeah, she said they had to reconstruct his face
Taxman: Shit. That’s fucked up
Desiforever: Yeah, I know.
Mollysdad: Anyone know how the others are doing? Cary? Holts?
Desiforever: Still in prison, as far as I know. And Drew took the fuck off to Mexico.
PorscheD: Maybe we should all be thinking about that.
Desiforever: Maybe. Stevie-O said he wouldn’t sweat it. But he also said we should stop talking to each other. Online anyway.
Mollysdad: For real?
Joe25: He’s probably right
Creoletransplant: Drew kept this thing together anyway.
Desiforever: Yeah, so I wanted to let everyone know. I’m shutting down the server.
PorscheD: Okay, see you guys in jail, I guess.
Taxman: That isn’t even funny, dude
PorscheD: Sorry, poor attempt at humor. I can’t deal with goodbyes. *sob sob*
Joe25: Catch you at the next reunion
Creoletransplant: Yup.
Desiforever: Okay, pulling the plug guys
Mollysdad: One more thing. About reunion, did you guys ever—
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Chapter Ninety-Seven
James
Five Months Later
September
I thought about her today, because it’s her anniversary next week.
That’s a lie, really, because I think about her every day, anniversary or not. But I thought about her more today, if possible. Jamal said it’s natural, being hurt and upset after a breakup. But I haven’t told him the whole truth, that Dahlia didn’t even want to break up. When she got to Stanford, she texted me. Not a pleading text, more matter-of-fact, here’s my address, etc. Just opening the line of communication. But I never texted back.
Jezebel, my SPCA cat, leaps on my lap. Stroking her, I notice my arms are sore. I’ve been swimming a ton lately to feel better. It’s not working.
Jezzie looks up at me with her adorable alien eyes, when the phone rings. I have this weird hope that it will be Dahlia, but it isn’t. It’s my mom. We haven’t spoken in a while, just a brief, weird conversation on the Fourth of July. Usually, I automatically let it go to voicemail. But maybe because I’m feeling so down, I answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, I am so happy you answer the phone.” Her words rush together. “It’s about your father.”
“What? Is he okay?” Jezebel must hear the worry in my voice because she jumps off me.
“Here, wait a second,” she says.
There is a bit of a clamor on the other end, then my father’s stern voice. “James?”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Yeah?”
“I wanted to tell you something.” He sounds serious, like he’s announcing that he’s ill. “You were right,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to say.” He clears
his throat. “She wasn’t null. At all. She wasn’t.”
I swallow. “Okay?”
“They both had a value.” He pauses, and I hear his breathing. “It’s just hard, James…because I miss them.”
My grip lightens. “Yeah, I know.”
“It’s worse than null, they’re not being here.”
“I know,” I say. “More like a negative value.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he answers.
I pause for a second. “I miss them too.”
We don’t say anything for a bit, then he starts again. “It’s hard, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I love you, son, more than you will ever even know. So, that’s all I wanted to say. That I’m sorry.”
I swallow again and my throat is tight. “Thanks, Dad. I’m sorry too.”
He lets out a breath. “You say hi to that nice girl of yours, okay?” He sounds relieved, happy to be finished with his task. He doesn’t like to talk on the phone either, just like me.
“Yeah, um. Could you put Mom back on? Just for a second?”
He calls out her name, and I hear a scramble again as she gets on. “You guys make up?”
“Yeah. We’re good.”
“Good,” she says. “Oh, I am so happy.”
“I had one more question though…about Dahlia.”
“Oh, Dahlia.” Her voice brightens with the name. “Very nice girl.”
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter. “I kind of screwed things up…maybe.”
“What happened?” She asks warily, like when I told her there was a little problem with the car when I was learning to park and took off the side mirror.
“It’s kind of a long story.” I lean my elbows on the desk and tell her the long story. I tell her everything, including the last time I saw her in the stairwell. After a while, she says, “Hmm.” The m sound goes on for a long time. My mom always “hmms” when she’s thinking.
“Do you love her?” she asks finally.
“Yes,” I answer. “No doubt.”
“Then you tell her.” She waits another beat. “But you write her a real letter. No email.”
“Email’s fine, Mom.”
“A letter, James. You write her a letter.”
So I agree to do it, figuring she’s probably right. She knows more about this kind of thing. After we hang up, I pull out my desk drawer and find the box of fancy stationery, a college graduation present that I never even opened. I pick out my favorite black pen that has just the right roller and dispenses just the right amount of ink. But then I’m stuck.
“Dear Dahlia” is easy enough. But then there are so many possibilities, an almost infinite number after that, and a very bright, white piece of stationery. Just saying I love you sounds too easy. Fake almost. I stare out the window for a bit at the leaves turning red down the block, and then I think of what I can say.
What I should have said in the first place, before she even left.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Dahlia
Another year, another anniversary.
This one wasn’t too bad, all things considered. No seizures at least. It’s amazing how much has changed in a year. Last September, I was going to S.O.S. with Eli.
Last year I met James.
Turning that thought off, I move on to the next page. The text on Civil Law is so dry, I can barely keep my eyes open. But, dry or not, I still have a test in two weeks. So, onward I plow.
I called Rae-Ann this morning, for some bolstering, and it helped. I told her everything going on in my life. The good and the bad.
The good: After the summer program, I got into Stanford Law School. And I don’t have to worry about paying for it, because Connor is settling the case for nine million dollars.
The bad: Eli turned himself in and got six months. Six months’ probation, that is, not jail. “Because he showed such remarkable remorse for the act,” as per the judge. I think his remarkable remorse was more for being caught, but I wouldn’t know for sure. Maybe he’s with Brandon. Maybe he’s still bartending. I couldn’t say for sure, as I don’t talk to him. And I don’t plan on talking to him ever again.
But I do miss him, which is the deepest cut of all. He not only hurt me, he took away my best friend. I miss him, almost like a brother. Maybe the way James misses Ramona, but it’s not the same. Because I can’t think about Eli and smile anymore. All the good memories are tinged with bad now. And that will never change.
So I gave Rae-Ann the update, and she gave me kind words in return and sent me on my way. I haven’t found a new therapist yet, though I’m going to need one eventually.
Most days I’m fine. More than fine even.
Classes are invigorating, fertilizer to my brain, which has been stultifying for the last five years. My study group is enlivening and accepting. It’s California, I’m not the only one with tattoos and nose rings.
My phone signals a text, and a few annoyed stares fly my way. I mouth Sorry and check the phone.
Dinner later? Pizza? Sadie misses Aunt Dada.
It’s Shoshana. I chuckle, picturing Sadie with her blond, curly, Shirley Temple hair who can’t pronounce Dahlia yet. I answer yes with a pizza emoji. We are moving toward something, she and I. Now that I’ve gotten my own act together, I don’t resent her so much. Maybe we’ll be better friends someday, or at least better sisters.
Besides, it was never her fault anyway. It was never anyone’s fault. Except the boys from the Hawk Club, including Steve from Miller and Stein, who was outed on one of the tapes and who fell precipitously from partnership track to defendant. Daisy told me the case was on the Globe front page for like a month. I even saw it on CNN right before we settled. And they are definitely closing up shop. That was part of the settlement. So there will be no more rape parties ever again.
My eyes droop at the next page. I decide it’s time for a change of scene and shut the book. Packing up my things, I leave the library to a sunny but breezy day.
A bird loops from one tree to a next, chirping away, and I zip my windbreaker. The weather is a touch cool for September in Stanford, so I’m told. High sixties and breezy. It feels altogether different from Boston, where it’s freezing one day and muggy the next this time of year. I’m starting to get used to it though. The first month, I felt unmoored, like when you walk outside and forget what season it is for a minute. I kept feeling like I’d been shuttled off to the wrong place.
But now I realize it’s the right place.
And as I open the door to my apartment, that unfamiliar feeling weaves its way through me again: happiness. Simply put, I feel happy. Even on my anniversary, I can still feel this sensation.
And I’m beginning to understand that this could be a normal feeling, not such a surprising one. I’ve been living on high alert for so long, almost afraid of happiness. Because happiness is transient and can be snatched away too easily. Only fools would believe in that fairy-tale nonsense. Pretty girls.
But Pretty Girl is gone. And Dahlia is in law school, and she’s doing just fine.
Opening the mail slot, I see the usual mess of bright-colored, attention-grabbing flyers. Neon green for the Stanford Environmental Law Club, pale blue for the Stanford Law Chess Club, and deep purple for the fourth year Domestic Violence Clinic. It seems I have traded support groups for clubs, which, all in all, seems like a healthy change.
Standing out from the mix is a bright-white envelope, printed with my address in boxy letters with a fireworks Forever Stamp, which is perfectly, squarely placed in the corner. No return address.
I carry the stack of mail upstairs, wave hello to my nice-but-boring married classmates/neighbors, and head into my apartment, undoing only one lock.
Simone slips through my legs, nearly tripping me, as I deposit the mail on the little kitchen table. She’s still not quite used to her new abode and de
viously lets me know by trying to kill me every once in a while. Sitting down at the table, I tear the envelope open to reveal a white stock card. On it is a carefully printed poem.
I love you.
I love everything about you.
I love your black eyebrows. I love the notch in your clavicle.
I love the way your voice is soft and brave at the same time.
I love the way you made me breathe differently, when we were together.
The way you made me scared and brave at the same time.
I’m sorry if I hurt you, because I would never want to hurt you.
I miss you.
James
Unexpectedly, tears are streaming down my face. Simone jumps on my lap and starts nosing the card, so I pull it away. Then she rubs her velvety, little head against my neck, trying her best to comfort me. I pet between her ears the way she likes, before wiping my eyes and putting down the card.
Then I pick up my phone, and I call him.
Reading Group Guide
1. Do you think Dahlia was right to take revenge on her attackers? Did you feel bad for any of them? Do you think it helped her in the end?
2. Why do you think Dahlia’s relationship with her sister was troubled? Her parents? Were you upset with her parents’ reactions to what happened to her?
3. What was the impact of Dahlia’s rape, not just on her, but on others? Do you think it had long-ranging effects?
4. Dahlia describes her depression during college in detail. Did you get a feel for what she was going through? Is this something you’ve had any personal experience with?
5. Could you relate to James and his view on the world? Did his voice ring true to you? Do you have any personal experience with autism?
6. Were you surprised by James’s secret? Did it explain his motivation for helping Dahlia?
7. Did you empathize with James and his struggles? Could you see why he did not feel he could follow Dahlia to California?
8. Do you think Dahlia and James will end up together? Why or why not?