by Lily Summers
I like him. A lot. Too much.
He blinks up at a street sign. “Are we close to your place?”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly realizing that I’ve been standing rooted to the spot, staring at him like a total weirdo. I glance around, trying to get my bearings. “Yeah, I’m right around the next corner.”
“Do you want me to —” he starts, but I cut him off.
“No, I’m good from here. Thanks for inviting me to your fancy party and walking me home when I wasn’t cool enough to hang.” I mean for the last part to come out as a joke, but once I say it out loud, it makes me sound pathetic. Good job, self.
I tuck a curl behind my ear and before he can respond, add, “Um. Right. Bye.”
Smooth as sandpaper. I should get out before I make an even bigger ass of myself.
As I turn to leave, he catches my elbow.
He’s so close. Close enough that I can see the mist on his eyelashes.
He has such nice eyelashes.
“I’m really glad I got the chance to hang out with you tonight,” he says. “It’s nice to be around someone so honest, someone who really understands art.”
I swallow. “That’s me. Art-understander.”
His smile is soft as he leans in even closer. The night feels like it’s closing in around us, like the cars and the pedestrians and ever-looming rain clouds have melted away, so it’s just me and Ezra, suspended in perfect privacy, with no audience but the stars. I should move. I should leave. I don’t. My eyes lower to his mouth, which is parted and inviting.
“By the way, you are definitely cool enough to hang,” he says, his breath warming my lips.
He closes the distance between us, and then he’s kissing me, and it’s good. His lips are soft, but demanding. He tastes like rain and peppermint. His hand is on my jaw and he moves his thumb with gentle brushstrokes. My blood’s thrumming beneath my skin and making every touch more sensitive than the last. Something inside me opens up, the rusty hinges of my heart creaking as its shutters unfold.
I slam them shut and break away.
Ezra looks slightly stunned at the space between us. I lower my eyes.
“I have to get home,” I say. Weakly. Pathetically.
Before he can react, I turn away and move as quickly as I can without running. I need to get to my apartment right now. A panicky feeling rises in my chest.
When I finally get home, I lock the front door behind me, pressing my back against it and sinking down to the floor. A thousand birds are beating their wings against my ribcage and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my pounding heart calm. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here.
I’m not supposed to let anyone in.
Audrey doesn’t come home until hours later. She doesn’t realize I’m still awake. I can hear her sneaking across the foyer from my room.
A new drawing of Iris lies on the floor next to my bed. Her eyes are full of regret.
6
Before
Iris would hate this funeral.
She would be sitting beside me clicking her tongue, snarking under her breath about fake friends who say empty words about how much the dearly departed will be missed when they haven’t even liked one of her Facebook posts in three years. The flowers are terrible. Who decided white lilies were the funeral flower? Bored, bored, bored, she’d say. Bring me purple peonies.
And I would. I would have brought her any flower she asked for. All she had to do was stay alive.
My eyes are dry as I let my gaze linger on the white casket. The pastor is droning on about the Kingdom of Heaven and all I can think about is the way they dressed her like a little girl going to Sunday school. She’d never stand to be caught in that white eyelet lace dress with the matching headband, and now it’s the last thing she’ll ever wear.
I peer down the pew at Mom and Dad. They picked the dress, the casket, the flowers. So much white. In their eyes, she’s still their baby girl, innocent as the day she was born. If only they knew about our late-night Skype sessions, giggling under our covers about things that would have made them blush.
Dad looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, which is probably pretty close to true. Mom looks like a shop mannequin. The light’s left her eyes.
I wonder what I look like.
I wonder if I look hollow.
My mind wanders back to the moments before we filed into these pews to listen to this meaningless sermon. They left the coffin open for a final viewing. Who started that tradition, anyway? As far as I’m concerned, open-casket funerals are a special brand of torture, salt rubbed in the wounds of the grieving. The mortician had done the best he could, but I could still see the bruising along her temple and the way her jaw didn’t look quite right under all the makeup. Her skin was wrong, all waxen and still with no breath or blood beneath it. She looked like a doll. It shouldn’t be my last memory of her.
Instead, I focus on a different memory. One of the last times I’d come home from school to visit. Not the most recent visit, but the one before. The one where we’d stayed up watching cheesy 90s rom-coms and throwing popcorn at each other. Her curls were loose around her shoulders and she threw her head back laughing.
That’ll be what I remember.
The service is over and the pallbearers walk the casket down the aisle toward the doors. I watch her go, numb. She’s inside that box, hands folded across her stomach like Snow White waiting for her prince to come.
She’ll never kiss anyone again.
My knuckles are white as I grip the pew in front of me. The world tilts and I really think I might be sick.
When I open my eyes, most of the crowd has filed out already. I wait and breathe. In, out. Feet on the ground, Mia.
Someone sits down next to me and I feel my back stiffen. I look and see my Aunt Jillian giving me the most pitying look.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she says.
I’m awesome, Aunt Jill. My sister just died.
“I’m okay,” I lie. I’ve been lying a lot over the last few days.
She shakes her head. “Such a tragic accident. Do they have any more information?”
I let some poison leak into my gaze. She’s pumping me for gossip, the absolute bitch.
“No,” I lie again. “The car crashed. That’s all I know.”
“I’m so sorry. Please let me know if you hear anything, or if there’s anything I can do to help.” She pats my knee and I want to kick her.
“Sure,” I say.
I’m the last one left in the pews. I know Mom and Dad are waiting outside and that I’m holding everyone up, but I don’t care. I need a minute.
My breaths are shallow and panicky. I urge them to slow, forcing myself to hold air in my lungs for a few seconds before letting it out. When the unbearable pain starts to creep back into the space where my heart used to be, I know it’s time to go. As long as I stay occupied, the pain recedes.
The graveyard is drenched in sunlight, which seems like such a cruel joke. There’s more talking, more crying. Then they’re lowering her into the earth and I track the casket with my eyes until it disappears from my view. My stomach feels full of acid and I can’t remember the last time I ate. I haven’t been hungry.
It’s time. Everyone’s walking by the casket, saying their final goodbye and dropping a handful of dirt on top of her. I’m up and moving along with the line. I take some dirt in my fingers and pause with my hand over the grave.
This is the last time I’ll speak to her before she’s buried. I should have something profound to say.
I can’t think of anything. “I’m sorry” isn’t adequate. Neither is “love you” or “miss you.” And “God damn it, Iris, why did you get in that fucking car?” wouldn’t be appropriate for this crowd.
My hand drops to my side and I release the dirt back onto the ground.
I walk away without saying goodbye, brushing past my parents. If they notice, they’re not saying anything. We’ve been ghosts around each ot
her.
People keep stopping me to offer condolences and ask if there’s anything they can do to help. Nothing, I say over and over. There’s nothing. Nothing you can do, nothing I would accept. I’m not letting anyone else in. It hurts too much. My heart is covered in scar tissue, keeping anything from getting through. That’s fine by me.
I’m halfway to our car when my phone buzzes in my purse. Out of habit, I pull it out and check it, even though I have no plans to respond. It’s another friend from school, asking if I’m okay and when I’m coming back.
The phone vibrates in protest as I shut it off.
I’ve already decided I’m not going back.
7
Unbelievably, Ezra doesn’t completely bail on me, even after I completely bailed on him.
He’s been leaving messages and texting for the last week. Audrey told me he’d caught up with her back at the party and asked for my number. Of course, she’d given it, totally oblivious to my freak out.
This morning, his text reads, “The sun just touched the morning; the morning, happy thing.”
I run a thumb over the screen fondly. It’s an Emily Dickinson quote. They’re all like that. Short, sweet, using citing poetry or song lyrics. He’s being so genuinely kind and adorable. Were he anyone else, I might be annoyed, but every text he sends is so earnest, a reference that always manages to make me smile. I look forward to them every time. Sometimes I answer him, sometimes I don’t, and either way he takes it in stride.
Why he keeps bothering with me is anyone’s guess.
This morning, I decide to answer. I text back, “Work beckons, so my happiness level is yet to be determined.”
He takes the opening. My phone buzzes and the new text reads, “Let me help with that. You’ll be free for lunch around noon?”
My mouth threatens to twist up into a smile and I bite my lip to quell it. He’s been sneaking in not-so-subtle hints that he wants to see me again, and I keep putting him off. He’s accepted it every time. I don’t know how he has the stamina to keep trying, though I’m weirdly grateful that he hasn’t given up.
I’m starting to feel really guilty about refusing his invitations, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t let him in. I’ve been close to people before, and it only ended in me getting hurt. Whether they die or screw you over, the end result’s the same. Audrey’s probably the best friend I have these days, and she barely knows me at all. It’s better that way.
I’ve apparently gone too long without responding, because my phone chimes again with a new text that reads, “No pressure. Lunch with a friend.”
“Uh huh,” I tease under my breath, my smile returning. I don’t know what we are, exactly, but I know we’re not in the “just friends” category. Even so, I appreciate that he’s giving me the out.
I respond, “Can’t. Break’s too short and you ought to enjoy your lunch.”
“OK,” his message says. “Hope to catch you soon, Autumn.”
He’s been calling me Autumn lately as a callback to my favorite Mucha print. I don’t want to admit to myself how much I like it.
I put my phone down and try to work off some of my nervous energy by picking my supplies up off the floor. Oil pastels are murder to get out of carpet if you step on them, and I want my half of the security deposit back. I collect my most recently filled sketchbooks and stack them in a pile to shove beneath my bed, then make my way around the room to pull my drawings off the walls. Audrey’s been acting extra-friendly lately, and I’m worried that she’ll make it past the threshold of my door one of these days.
When I’m done, the walls are bare and white. I stand in the center of it all with my hands on my hips, deflated. I thought tidying up would make the room seem fresher and brighter, but it only reminds me how empty my life is right now. No family photos, no smiling friends. Just blankness.
I thought that’s what I wanted. It is, isn’t it?
I’m not so sure anymore.
When I get to the drawings of Iris beside my headboard, I pause. Maybe these should stay a little longer.
I slip the other sketches into an accordion folder and slide them underneath my bed with the rest.
All my tidying made me late, so when I roll into Pages & Stages, I’m running five minutes over and my hair’s up in a messy bun.
“I should probably fire you,” Sampson calls from the back.
“You won’t, though,” I retort as I put away my things and slip my badge around my neck.
“True. No one can reorganize the books by color like you can.” He comes around from behind a display and gives me the once over. “You look like you got dressed by rolling around on your floor and going with whatever stuck.”
I roll my eyes. “Great, the redhead who insists on wearing red plaid every other day is giving me fashion advice.”
Sampson wags his pen at me. “Okay, first, it is tartan, and it is the print of my people. Second, redheads can absolutely rock red and it looks amazing on me. Third, Kenneth loves it, and his say outweighs yours.”
I raise my hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, if your boyfriend’s into it, I’ll rescind my insult.”
“Yeah you will,” he says with a smirk. “Now go clean yourself up. One of the seasonal hires left a drapey shawl-scarf thing in the back and you can probably cover most of that wrinkled mess with it.”
“I’m not going to use some random person’s —”
“Wear the scarf, Mia. So says your manager. I’m only thinking of the customers and their delicate sensibilities. No one wants to buy books from a certified ragamuffin.”
I sigh and slouch back to the break room. I briefly consider replacing Sampson’s herbal tea with a highly caffeinated blend just to watch him vibrate through the store, but decide it’s probably not worth the aggravation. I need something to take my mind off of things. Ezra’s texts are lingering at the forefront of my memory and part of me is wishing I’d accepted his lunch invitation. Another part of me keeps telling that part to cut it out.
As I slip into the employee bathroom to fix my hair and figure out the weird scarf, I remind myself that I’d probably act like a dork and he’d run for the hills, anyway.
I’ve almost got myself completely convinced lunch would be a bust when I reenter the front of the shop. I stop dead next to the calendars when I see who’s waiting at the checkout counter.
It’s Ezra, and seeing him sends a shock wave from my head down to my toes. I all but stumble toward him. It feels like he’s tied a string around my breastbone and is tugging it.
Not good. I mentally cut the string.
When I get my wits about me again, I hurry forward and slip behind the desk. He smiles at me.
“I told you I couldn’t have lunch today,” I say, not meeting his eye. “And besides, it’s only 10:30.”
He picks up a tin labeled ShakeSpearmints and examines it before rattling it at me. “I know. I’m not here for lunch. I stopped by to get these mints. They’re my favorite.”
That gets a smile out of me. He looks very pleased with himself as I start ringing him up. As he fumbles in his wallet to pay, he bites his lip, clearly working himself up to something. I raise my eyebrows. Nobody in their right mind would pay $5.99 for novelty mints when they could get a pack of gum on any corner. I may be an awkward shut-in, but I’m not totally clueless.
“I know a but when I see one too, you know,” I say, controlling my smirk.
Ezra barks a laugh. He may as well actually be Mucha’s Summer, for all he shines now. “But,” he says, inclining his head toward me, “I have a project planned, and I could use another artist’s eye, if you’re up for it.”
Damn him. He has to know that I can’t resist another look at his art. Sure enough, I feel intrigue and excitement bubbling up in my chest, which is a foreign feeling these days. I miss the sensation.
I swallow it down. “I’m working all day today,” I say.
“Good thing I don’t need your help until tonight, then.” He
hands over some cash to pay for the mints, brushing my hand with his fingers. I suppress a shiver.
When I give him his change back, I arch my brow in question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leans in and I find myself responding in kind. I can smell the peppermint on his breath, and it’s all I can do to stop from reaching out to run a hand along his strong jaw. The voice in the back of my head yells at me not to get too close. I ignore it.
“Come tagging with me tonight,” he says, voice low. “It’s like nothing else in the world. I think you’ll like it.”
I hesitate. My first inclination is to say no, like I’ve done every other time this week, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to spend time with him again. Especially if it means watching him work. His art comes alive, and if the new piece is anything like the woman on this building, I would love to be there when it’s born.
I shouldn’t agree to this. I don’t trust myself to be alone with him. My curiosity and my logic are fighting, sending arguments back and forth faster than I can think.
“I’m interested,” I admit.
Guess my curiosity won out.
“Awesome.” He drums his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll swing by your building around ten. Meet me out front?”
“Okay,” I hear myself say. Am I actually agreeing to this?
Oh my god, I am agreeing to this.
Before I can change my mind, he nods his head at my anorak and says, “Wear that thing.” Then he winks and is out the door.
My heart suddenly catches up to speed and jolts into high gear.
I’m going tagging tonight.
8
At ten o’clock, I’m stand in front of my building with my hood up, wondering what the hell’s gotten into me.
Even though it’s not that cold, the constant damp chill of the air still seeps into whatever opening it can find and makes me shiver. At least I’m telling myself that’s why I’m shaking a little. It’s got nothing to do with nerves. Nope. Nothing at all.
I came to Portland to disappear, to leave attachments and memories behind. Yet here I am, about to forge new ones and do something that will make me become visible again.