by Mimi Strong
The driver pulls away from the sidewalk, and that’s it. I’m going back home. Already.
My phone vibrates, so I pull it out and try to ignore the cab driver, who keeps looking back at me in the rear view mirror.
There are a dozen text messages from my roommate, Amanda. I guess she did try to text me a bunch before she phoned.
Her messages are strange.
Amanda: OMG Riley’s back right now and we’re in your room. She’s freaking out.
Amanda: Come home right now.
Amanda: Riley has something she needs to tell you. In person.
Amanda: Jess! When are you coming home? Answer me. Are you dead? I’m getting worried! And Riley’s still freaking out.
As I read the messages, the tenderness between my legs starts to feel like cramps. Now that Dylan isn’t around to distract my body, it’s giving me grief.
I frown at my phone. This roommate drama sucks. I want nothing more than to get home and curl up in bed with a cup of tea.
I look up to the front and catch the driver’s eyes in the mirror, looking at me.
“You should get a dog,” he says.
WTF? Is this guy for real? I pretend to not hear him, and keep my focus on my phone.
He hums along with the radio for a minute, then says, “My dog had puppies. Here, look at these nice puppies.”
He hands back a printed-out photo of a Yorkshire Terrier, and a litter of small puppies.
“Very cheap,” he says. “You want one, right? Four… no, three hundred dollars. You pick. You get first pick.”
“A dog,” I say, letting out a laugh. “I don’t know if my boyfriend would like that.”
“Just a little one. Or not. That’s okay. I understand.” He looks away from me, shifting back into solitude.
I’m sure he can tell I was lying about having a boyfriend. He saw that Dylan didn’t kiss me goodbye. Boyfriends always give you a kiss goodbye.
I wonder where I stand with him.
When I got to Dylan’s place, he seemed happy to see me. He kissed me and said I was beautiful.
I wish I could take those few seconds and keep them playing over and over in my brain. Instead, I have this image of his back. He’s turned away from me, running off to go play some gig that I’m not allowed to come along to. Every time I blink my eyes, he gets further away.
My feelings about Dylan run to the extremes. This last week has been a roller coaster of highs and lows.
Dylan came in through my bedroom window last night, and he was so charming. I hoped we’d start dating and do normal things. I should have guessed by the fact he put a ladder against my house and climbed in my window that things weren’t going to settle down and be normal. Not even for a minute.
Still…
I wouldn’t trade the last twenty-four hours away for anything. I might be careening between the highest highs and the lowest lows of my life, but I’m alive. I’m feeling all these great and powerful emotions.
What I love about music is how it makes you feel. There’s something exquisite about a sad song that rips your heart out. And I like the songs that lift you up and make you believe in miracles.
The way Dylan makes me feel…
He must truly be a musician, because he’s turning my life into music—the kind you get addicted to, and keep playing over and over because it feels so good.
The cab lurches through a turn, bringing me back to reality. We’re running a red light, but the driver seems calm.
He glances back and says, “Are you going to answer that?”
My phone is ringing again. Right in my hands and I didn’t even notice.
“Stupid Amanda,” I grumble.
Only it isn’t Amanda calling, but Nan.
I answer the phone, trying to keep my voice light so she won’t worry.
“Sorry, Jess. Did I wake you up?”
I chuckle and tell her no. She keeps forgetting about the time difference, no matter how many times I’ve reminded her this past week.
“Do you know where I can get cardboard boxes?” she asks.
Her voice is so sweet to my ears, but her words are getting me worried.
“Why do you need boxes?” I ask.
She coughs. “There’s no need for you to worry. I’m fine. The doctor says it’s just a sprain. He gave me a prescription, but I’m not going to take those pills. You start taking one thing, and then you have to take another thing. Pretty soon you’re taking a whole medicine cabinet and nobody knows what’s what and then it’s a whole mess, isn’t it? Are you sure I didn’t wake you up?”
“Slow down, Nan. You’ve got a sprain?”
“That’s what I said.”
I cup my hand around my mouth and the phone, so the driver will have to strain to overhear.
“What did you sprain, exactly?” I ask.
“The part between my hand and my arm.”
“Your wrist? What happened? What does it have to do with cardboard boxes?”
She sighs noisily. This is just like Nan. She always acts like having to explain what happened is the worst part of anything happening.
“Mr. Johnson is worried about liability,” she says. “He thinks I’m going to sue him. Can you imagine? I took a tumble down my own stairs, in my own house, and he think I’m going to hire a fancy lawyer and sue him. The man is ridiculous.”
I groan to myself. The stairs and house aren’t hers anymore. Mr. Johnson is the owner of the company that bought Nan’s farm from the bank. They’ve been letting her live in the farmhouse, since they weren’t using it for anything, but it sounds like that’s ending sooner than anyone expected.
Nan keeps talking, going off on Mr. Johnson. Now she’s complaining about a new fence they put up, and how they didn’t use the local lumber yard. To hear Nan talk about the new owners, you’d think they were trying to destroy the whole town.
“Slow down,” I say again. “Back it up. Have they given you an eviction notice?”
She sniffs.
I know she’s trying to hold herself together, but that one sniff tells me more than any of her rambling words.
Nan is crying, and I’m not there.
My heart breaks for her.
I’m about to start crying myself, but I hold onto one thing: I still have the plane ticket. I can be home in a day, if she really needs me.
Gently, I ask her, “Have you told Uncle Danny?”
“He’s got me an apartment all lined up.” She sniffs again. “Jess, he wants to send movers over to pack everything. I don’t want movers touching all my things. They’re insured, but they don’t care about what they break. I want to pack the photo albums myself, which is why I need cardboard boxes.”
“We’ve got some boxes folded up in the garage, next to Uncle Danny’s car. He’d better get that car out of there.”
“He knows.”
She’s quiet for a minute. My uncle is her youngest child, and the most responsible one, which isn’t saying much for the others. Uncle Danny doesn’t do much to help Nan, but at least he hasn’t been sucking her dry for money. Now that my other uncle has left town to get away from the failed car dealership, Danny’s all we’ve got.
“Are you still there?” she asks.
“I’m right here.”
“You sound like you’re a million miles away.” She laughs. “You’re thinking about a boy, aren’t you?”
I have to smile at that. If only she knew the truth.
For the last few minutes, I’ve been thinking only about her. In fact, this is the first time in a week that I haven’t been thinking about a boy.
“Mind your own beeswax,” I say with a laugh, using one of her sayings.
“You are old enough to fall in love,” she says.
My cheeks flush hot. There’s no way the taxi driver heard her say that, but I’m still embarrassed.
“Jess, love is good,” she says. “Don’t let any of the things you’ve seen make you afraid. Love is good.”
&nbs
p; I whisper into the phone, “I love you, Nan.”
“I love you, too. Now go back to sleep.”
Smiling, I say goodbye and put my phone away. We didn’t talk about money, but when I get the two thousand dollar bonus from work, I’ll send it to my grandmother. The decision makes me feel good.
The cab driver calls back to say we’ve arrived. I hadn’t noticed we weren’t moving.
I step out into the darkness and shiver.
Now for the roommate drama.
What is this big surprise that’s waiting for me at home?
I race up the steps and yank open the door.
I hear two girls talking in the living room, chatting over the sound of the TV.
I walk down the hallway and stop in shock at the doorway.
A familiar face looks up at me from the couch.
“Hey, little sister,” she says.
Chapter 4
“Arielle?”
I’m so shocked to see my half-sister that I slump against the doorway.
“It’s been a long time,” she says.
Bracing myself against the doorway, I say, “I thought you were dead.”
Arielle sweeps her hand through her long, dark hair. She’s got brown eyes that look so much like mine. Those familiar eyes blink back at me. We both got our father’s eyes.
With her arm raised, the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing pulls back enough to show the marks on her wrists. I feel like I’m seeing a ghost.
“You wish I was dead,” she says.
Amanda jumps up and claps her hands. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Amanda’s excited about potential drama.
How did Amanda sit on the secret this long? I’ve been living here for a week, and didn’t have a clue. My mysterious other roommate, Riley, has been away on a business trip. I never imagined that Riley was short for Arielle.
I never thought I’d see my half-sister again.
Now I’m living with her.
Amanda’s talking a mile a minute. “I didn’t know you guys were related when I said you could come here, Jess. But, duh. I mean, I know Riley from home, and so it makes sense that you guys know each other, too, but I never thought.”
“You didn’t know?” I ask.
“Oh, Jess.” Amanda’s practically jumping up and down with excitement. “It was so funny. You would die. Riley got home and we went into your room so I could show her your teddy bear and your ghetto laptop with the duct tape on it. Okay, I was making fun of you. Whatever. Get over it. That’s what roommates do. Anyway, we were just talking and she asked what your last name is, and I told her, and she looked like she was going to fall over. So funny.”
I look over at my half-sister, who’s still sitting quietly on the couch. She’s gained some weight, and she actually looks healthy. She even got her chipped tooth fixed. But I’m sure that even with the new nickname and all the nice clothes, she’s still the same person.
“We should drink,” Amanda says, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. “Let’s play Truth or Dare. Hey, can you guys adopt me? Like, can I be the third sister? That would be amazing.”
I hold my hands by my sides and resist the urge to strangle Amanda. She doesn’t know about the history between us. Not yet.
Amanda walks past me in a cloud of her sweet body spray perfume. I hear her going through the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to drink.
Now the two of us are alone.
“Since when did you change your name to Riley?” I ask.
Her dark eyes flash at me. “I never changed my name,” she says coldly. “It’s a nickname. Riley is short for Arielle. Please don’t call me Arielle. That’s not me anymore.”
I snort. “Right. Like I believe that.”
“Believe what you want, little brat.”
Behind me, Amanda is jabbering away about our lack of booze. She wouldn’t be so excited if she could pick up on hints. Neither of us are in a partying mood.
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” I say to Riley. “You can’t push me around and manipulate me.” I turn and start to walk to my bedroom.
She doesn’t say anything. If she was a decent human being, right about now she’d apologize. But she doesn’t.
I stop and turn back. “Stay out of my room,” I say, my voice as cold as hers. “Never mind. I can’t trust you. I’ll start locking my door from now on.”
“Jess,” she says.
I shake my head and go into my bedroom. I thought I wanted an apology, but anything she has to offer would be too little, too late. I don’t want anything from her.
I shut the door and sit on my bed in the dark.
I clench and unclench my hands angrily. This is just like her to show up when my life is going well and ruin everything.
Tonight, with Dylan, was magical. There’s no way I’m going to let Arielle, or Riley as she’s calling herself, wreck it. I’m not even going to think about all her bullshit tonight.
My roommates are talking now, but I can’t hear their words through my door.
I turn on some music, and they’re drowned out completely. Forget them.
In a moment, I’m drifting away on the memories of being in Dylan’s bed this evening.
His kisses are on my lips, as light as a feather, but still there.
He’s probably on stage right now, singing. A shiver passes over me as I think of his voice, and his expression when he sings.
I wonder if he’s thinking about me right now.
I’m definitely thinking about him.
Chapter 5
I wake up to the sound of tapping. At first, I think it’s my bedroom door. I open the door and find the hallway empty.
The house is quiet. Both of my roommates seem to be asleep in their rooms down the hall.
The tapping comes again, so I cross the room and pull open the curtains.
I should have guessed.
Dylan’s standing on the lawn below my window, a clump of dirt in his hand.
I push open the window just as he launches the dirt. The clump hits the edge of the window and partially sprays my face with dirt and bits of grass.
“Nice.” I spit out the dirt and brush myself off.
“What are you wearing?” he calls up. “You look beautiful.”
I take a step back from the window, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I’m wearing a camisole shirt and panties, because I was too warm for pajamas when I went to bed.
Why am I being shy? Dylan has seen me naked. I step closer to the window.
“How was your gig?” I call down.
He waves his hands emphatically. “Terrifying. There were guys dressed up like girls, and girls… wait, I don’t think there were any girls.”
His words are slurring together, and he’s more animated than I’ve seen him before. He’s definitely had a few drinks.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask.
“Sure. I’ll get the ladder.”
He turns around and nearly face-plants on the lawn.
“Dylan,” I whisper-yell. “You can come in the front door. I’ll go around and let you in.”
He mumbles about that being a good idea, and disappears along the side of the house.
I creep carefully through the hallway. The floor has a few squeaks, but not enough to wake my roommates, I hope.
After I got home, I spent the rest of the evening ignoring them, either in my room or in the tub with the bathroom door locked. The last thing I want is one of them poking her nose into whatever’s happening between me and Dylan.
When I open the front door, Dylan is posed with his elbow against the door frame. He looks dark and brooding, backlit by the street lamp. This would be another great shot for a music video.
“Where was this gig?” I ask. “You’ve got body glitter on your cheek.”
He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Long story. But I can tell you this glitter wasn’t from a girl.”
“Get in here, Mr. Glitter. Tell me all about your nig
ht.”
He comes in and follows me down the hall to my bedroom. We’re in my room already when I realize I could have taken him somewhere else, like the living room.
The room is dark. I run over to my bedside lamp and flick it on to its brightest setting.
“Not much to tell,” he says, sitting on my wooden swivel chair to take off his boots. “Except that I am a total fraud.”
“Sounds serious.” My bed is the only other option for sitting, so I take a seat in the middle. I cross my legs and pull one of my pillows onto my lap for modesty.
His dark brown eyes look black tonight. Bottomless. When he looks at me, I feel myself drifting. Falling. Losing myself.
“I’m an impostor,” he says.
“Is this about your name change?”
He stands, swivels the chair so the back is facing me, and sits again, straddling the chair’s wooden back. He’s wearing jeans and the same short-sleeved shirt as when I left his place. My mouth waters, seeing him posed so casually on the chair. He’s so sexy, everything he does looks like a magazine ad.
He crosses his bare forearms across the chair’s back and rests his chin on his arm.
“I can’t write,” he says. “Q wants me to write ten songs so he can choose the best, and I can’t even finish one.”
“What have you got so far?”
He exhales, blowing his breath up his forehead to move some dark hairs that have fallen forward. Seeing his hair move makes me want to run my fingers through his dark locks. I wish he was sitting on the bed with me, instead of on the chair. I wish he was smiling.
He mutters, “What have I got?” He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper. He tosses the square onto the bed in front of me.
I unfold the square, nervous and excited about seeing what he’s working on.
What I find is a swirl of dark ink. Nothing but scrawled words, crossed out. I can’t even make out one word, let alone a single line of lyrics.
“This doesn’t look good,” I say. “What’s your usual process for writing songs? Do you figure out the melody, and then the words, or vice versa?”
“I don’t know,” he says, looking bewildered. “When I was at the cabin, it all came rushing out of me so fast, I could barely write it down.”