Die for You

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  A boom suddenly cracks through the sky, making the earth rock with violent shudders. Behind her, shelves of pottery crash and shatter. She and Marcus both grab the counter as screams wail throughout the market.

  “It is Jupiter!” someone shouts. “His fury will destroy us all!”

  In the sky above the green slope of the mountain, a cloud of black shoots into the heavens. Anna is struck mute as it rises like the angry breath of all the gods and then balloons out in the shape of an enormous tree.

  “Run!” cries Treyvus, who works beside her. “I have said this place is cursed!”

  And he has—all summer when fish turned up dead in the lakes. When the olives died on the branches and the crops withered in the fields.

  The stone road is already choked with merchants and customers, slaves and patricians alike, each rushing toward the gates.

  Anna hesitates, looking to Treyvus and then to Marcus.

  “We will be safe in my father’s villa,” he says.

  Anna’s heart pounds as Treyvus shakes his head, his dark eyes a warning.

  Marcus holds out a hand and she only hesitates a second as her fingers squeeze the hidden ring. Then she slips her hand into his.

  “Be safe!” Treyvus shouts one last time as he disappears into the crowd.

  Anna’s breath shudders like the ground. Shattered pottery surrounds her. The marble counter has cracked and the ground is writhing beneath her feet. Marcus will keep her safe.

  There’s a Chinese legend called the Red String of Fate. Dad told me about it one Sunday when Mom was showing houses and Lauren and I had to go with him to his office at ASU. Lauren hated going there. She said his whole building smelled like a bologna sandwich. Lauren didn’t see the point of collecting old stuff when they were making newer things so much better.

  Dad would give her his iPad loaded with a movie and a dollar for the vending machine, and I’d settle down in front of his bookcases and search for anything new. He taught archaeological studies and supervised field expeditions—most of them in the Southwest, which was his area of expertise. But Dad’s students would travel to sites all over the world and they always gave him things, thank-you gifts and tokens from the places they’d visited. I could travel around the world and never leave his office.

  One day, I discovered a beautiful box carved out of wood with symbols across the lid that I didn’t understand. I held my breath as I opened it, imagining I’d find a bright red ruby or maybe an ancient white opal.

  Instead, I looked up at Dad, disappointed. “It’s empty!”

  “No,” he said. “There’s something there. Something that can’t be seen, only felt.” As a shiver ran down my spine, he told me the legend of the Red String of Fate.

  In ancient times, it was said that the gods would tie a red string around the ankles of two people who were meant to meet. The two people, connected by the red thread, were destined to be lovers, to find each other no matter the time, place, or circumstances. The red string could be twisted or knotted but never broken so that the two people, upon meeting, would feel the connection.

  That’s the best way to describe what it was like when I met Dillon. That first time on the trails even before I could see into his eyes. I felt something. A tug. Like a slack fishing line that’s suddenly jerked taut with its catch.

  It was a year ago in February and icy cold, the way it can get on clear, cloudless days. I was spending the weekend with Dad in a rental house full of someone else’s furniture and a refrigerator full of Styrofoam takeout containers. A shoelace broke on my trail runners and I actually cried over it—that was how great I was feeling about everything that Saturday morning.

  I had found a system of running trails next to the neighborhood park and was two miles in, wondering where the dirt path led, when I heard them behind me. Pounding feet. Breathless laughter. They were coming up on me fast—too fast. I veered off the trail and under the branches of a spindly tree as two guys came sprinting around the corner. A taller, lankier guy was in back, but that was about all I noticed of him. My eyes were drawn to the boy in front, dark hair ruffling in the wind created by his own speed. He’d pulled away by at least four strides, but he still threw his arms back and his chest forward as if a finish line stretched across the trail. And he was smiling. Laughing really. There was such freedom in that smile. So much joy. My chest felt warm, my own heart pounding in response—to what I wasn’t sure.

  Just past the tree they slowed to a stop, dust kicking up around them. They both bent over, their backs to me, drinking air. “You crowded me out,” the tall one said.

  “I wanted to but you were too far behind.”

  There was shoving and more laughing.

  “Let’s go again.”

  “I’m ready.” They straightened, turned, and that was when they saw me.

  “Oh. Hey,” the tall one said. He had friendly eyes and dimples that suggested he was the kind of guy who smiled a lot. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “I was trying to stay out of the way.”

  “Did we run you off the trail?” I looked at his friend, his eyes hidden by reflective sunglasses, his smile nothing but polite. Still, my heart raced. In my head, I could see him crossing the imaginary finish line. I wondered what it would be like to have him smile at me like that.

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I was going to turn around anyway. I wasn’t sure how far the loop runs.”

  “Four miles around if you don’t veer off,” the tall one said. “If you like hills, we can show you a great turnoff up ahead.”

  “Oh.” I flushed. “That’s okay.”

  His friend gave him a look. “She’s not going to go off with us on a trail. She doesn’t know who we are.”

  “We’re nice guys. I’m Jace. This is Dillon.” He paused, his eyebrows raised.

  “Emma,” I finally said.

  “Nice to meet you, Emma. We’re very trustworthy. Scout’s honor.” He held up four fingers.

  I tried not to laugh. “I think that’s the Vulcan thing from Star Trek.”

  He looked at his fingers as if he were disappointed in them. “Oh, right.”

  “But we are trustworthy,” Dillon said. “Don’t let his shoes scare you.”

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?” Jace asked.

  “I wouldn’t trust a guy wearing shoes like that.”

  I studied the neon green runners and another laugh bubbled up. “They are a little bright,” I said.

  “A little?” Dillon repeated.

  “They’d look good with a crossing guard vest.”

  Dillon grinned and I grinned back.

  “You live around here?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “My dad’s living in the neighborhood for a while, so I’ve been coming here on the weekends.”

  “Well”—he ruffled his hair—“if you’re looking for a good cup of coffee, there’s a place called Cupz just across from the high school.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Maybe we’ll see you there,” Jace added.

  I smiled. “Maybe so.” It was Jace I answered but Dillon I couldn’t take my eyes off.

  I found myself thinking about him all week—about his smile as he sprinted past, about what his eyes might look like behind those sunglasses. Even when I scolded myself for being ridiculous, something drew my mind back to the trails, back to him.

  I didn’t know it yet, but it was the Red String.

  The next two days of spring break feel more like two weeks. I’ve filled my time by going through the application for the university in Rome. Dad insisted on paying the initial fee—Think positive!—and I submitted the online registration form. I have to write a personal statement and I’ve already started on my essay about “What All Roads Lead to Rome Means to Me.”

  Then Hannah got back today and texted to see if I wanted to meet for a coffee. We don’t usually hang out, just the two of us, so I’m especially glad she suggested it. We’ve arranged to meet here, at Cu
pz. I’m early, but it’s nice to get out of the house.

  I sip a vanilla cappuccino as I settle deeper into one of the leather chairs. The table beside me is sticky with something that looks like grape jelly. I don’t even care; I’m just glad not to be at home. Dad has also been off this week for ASU’s spring break, and I need to be where he isn’t. The album has kept him busy, but it’s hard to watch him working on it as if it’ll change everything. The one good thing is that he’s been helping me brush up on my knowledge of Rome. He pulled together a pile of books on the city, including some articles from his professional journals. But I don’t want to get my hopes up—I haven’t even seen the assignment yet.

  Still. I keep wondering what Rome will really be like—all the things pictures can’t tell you. When I run, will the dirt be light tan and dry like it is here, or will it be a damp reddish brown? Will the air smell like baking bread? Is the Pantheon really that big inside? There are so many questions swirling around in my head, and Dillon is the question mark hovering over them all. I want to share this with him. Will we be able to talk about it when he’s back tomorrow? I’m so anxious to see him, especially since his call on Thursday. I knew we’d be okay—how could we not? I look over at the condiments counter, the stacks of napkins and straws, the tubs of sugar and artificial sweeteners, and I can see back to the first time we stood there, talking.

  I met Dillon on the trails, but Cupz is where we got to know each other.

  I didn’t go that first Saturday, but when I stopped in the following weekend, they were both there—Jace and Dillon. I discovered that Jace had his own reusable coffee mug because he was worried about landfills and that they both played baseball for Ridgeway High. And that Dillon’s eyes were a deep sapphire blue. I saw them again the following week and the week after that.

  Then one Saturday in March, Jace was sick and it was just Dillon and me. It was only a few days after the police had found Dad passed out on Henry’s lawn. We were standing at the condiments counter and Dillon asked how things were and I started to cry. He paled, immediately saying he was sorry, and I said no, I was sorry, and some guy behind us asked if we could be sorry somewhere else because he needed creamer before his coffee got cold.

  Dillon and I sat at a table—the one by the front window that gets too much sun, but it felt just right that morning. I told him my mom had asked my dad for a divorce and that my dad wasn’t moving home, and they weren’t going to work things out. “It’s for the best,” I said, because that was what I’d been saying to Marissa and Lauren and to my dad when he was sober enough to hear me.

  “You really think that?” Dillon asked.

  I completely broke down then because of course I didn’t. My usual polite responses, the ones meant to make other people feel okay, dried up. Dillon told me about his dad dying and how he was always looking for silver linings that didn’t exist. It felt like finally someone understood.

  I told him I couldn’t stay with my mom and that I was going to move in with my dad when school ended. He leaned in and his fingers curved around his cup. “Maybe there is a silver lining after all,” he said.

  And when I smiled, he looked at me like it mattered—my smile. Like my happiness mattered.

  That Saturday turned into more Saturdays through the end of March, April, and then May. Some mornings I’d see them on the trails first and sometimes I’d find Dillon and Jace already at Cupz arguing over designated hitters or whether hens really cared about laying eggs in cages or not. I got acquainted with Jace’s bizarre collection of running shoes and I met Hannah and Spence and Lydia. Weekends spent taking care of my dad became weekends when I might see Dillon. But I was never sure if he liked me or if he was just being nice. Because he was. Nice. Until everything changed that day at the community center.

  —

  The bell dings over the glass door as it opens. Automatically, I look up at the sound. I wave when I see Hannah.

  “Hey!” She walks over in flip-flops and a red T-shirt dress.

  “You look great!” And she does. Her tan makes her hair seem blonder and her teeth sparkle like she’s just had them whitened. “Cute dress,” I say.

  “Thanks.” She does a quick shimmy that sends the skirt fluttering as she sets down her purse. She fishes out her wallet. “Hang on, I’ll get a drink.”

  A few minutes later she settles beside me with a large iced tea. “Oh Lord, it’s good to be back in civilization.” She sighs dramatically and I can’t help laughing.

  “You didn’t have a great time?”

  She rolls her eyes. “My dad had this brilliant idea of renting a beach bungalow. Apparently bungalow is code for portable toilets with blue water and kitchen cabinets with roaches.”

  “Eww,” I say.

  “Exactly.” She takes a long drink of her tea. “But the beach was nice.”

  “And your tan is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure Spence will be unable to resist my beauty—if he ever sees it.” She shoots me an irritated look. “He’s going bowling tonight with Ty and Derrick and a few of the other guys.”

  “Well, good,” I say, “then we can hang out. Maybe go to a movie?”

  She stirs the ice with her straw. “Missing Dillon, huh?”

  “Completely.” I smile. “He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Just be ready,” she says. “He’ll be tired when he gets home. He never sleeps good on vacations.”

  I force a slight nod as I lower my eyes so she can’t see my annoyance. This is what makes me crazy about Hannah. She always has to tell me things about Dillon as if she’s the expert. As if she knows him better than I ever will. Dillon says I’m overanalyzing. Maybe, but it doesn’t feel like I am.

  “So will you see Spence tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Only if he begs for forgiveness.” She stabs the straw through the ice. “Bowling? Really? On Saturday night? And I just got home.”

  “Maybe he’d already made plans?”

  “Or maybe we’ve been friends for so long, he forgets I’m his girlfriend now.”

  “He’s comfortable with you—enough to be himself. In a way that’s a compliment.”

  She fake laughs. “Nice try, Emma.”

  I settle back into the chair with a shrug. “Okay, then he’s a complete ass.”

  “Yes,” she says, pointing a finger at me as if I’m on a game show and just came up with the correct answer. Then she tilts her head in thought. “But it is a very nice ass. Does that make me shallow?”

  “Women are biologically predisposed to asses.”

  “Oh, good,” she says. “That’s a relief.” She sets down her tea. “So what movie should we see?”

  “You want to?” I pull out my phone. “I’ll check the listings.”

  “Just nothing with Channing. Or either of the Hemsworths.”

  I slant her a look. “Um. Okay?”

  “They’ll be gorgeous and sweet and sensitive and I’ll be pissed at Spence all over again. I hope you know how lucky you are with Dillon.”

  “I know.”

  “Bowling,” she mutters under her breath. “What happened to romance? Is it so wrong to want to be wooed?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “And personally I think you’re very wooable.” I sweep a hand over my heart and raise the other hand to the sky, as if I’m Romeo standing beneath Juliet’s window. “O dearest Hannah, your beauty and graceful form doth stir passion in my manly breast.”

  She groans. “Forget it. I’ve changed my mind about wooing.”

  We’re both grinning as I check my phone for a movie. Hannah is right about one thing. I am lucky to have Dillon, and tomorrow I’m going to make sure he knows it. I refocus on the listings. But I already feel like I have my happy ending.

  I open the door on Sunday afternoon before he’s even had time to knock. It feels as if my chest is vibrating with the pounding of my heart. “Hi,” I say, breathless. “I heard the truck.”

  Dillon is standing on the we
lcome mat, the Sunday-afternoon sun painting a prism in his inky hair. I’m almost dizzy for a second. I’ve missed him this whole week, but it hits me harder somehow, now that he’s here. He holds out his arms, and with a sob of relief I’m pressing myself into his chest, twining my arms around his solid middle. Dillon is like the Palo Verde tree in the back of our old house. Even when monsoon winds whip through the valley strong enough to bring down fences and tear out other trees from the roots, the Palo Verde never bends. Dillon is like that. Steady. Grounded.

  Now he smells like sweat and sun and he groans as he wraps his arms tightly around my back.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve showered after seven hours in the car, but I needed to see you. I dropped off my mom and came right over.”

  His head tilts and I feel him rub his cheek over the top of my hair the way he likes to do, pulling me so close I can hardly breathe. Dillon has a thing about being clean. He showers every morning and every night, even if he just showered after baseball practice. I tease him that that’s why his skin is so smooth. He’s part seal. “It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll shower together.”

  He pulls back, his eyes widening. His lashes are short and spiky, as black and fine as his hair. “Where’s your dad?”

  “He drove to Tucson to have lunch with Lauren.” I can picture them at the Blue Willow restaurant, sitting on the back patio right now. I just don’t know what they’re talking about. Lauren promised not to tell him about Mom moving in with Henry—I hope she keeps her word. But I don’t want to think about that now.

  “That might be the best news I’ve ever heard,” Dillon says.

  He backs me inside, his lips already on mine. We have a lot to talk about, but it can all wait. There’s urgency in his mouth, in the weight of his hands as his warm fingers raise my shirt and skim my waist. I feel it, too—an urgency to reconnect. To be close again before words can slip in between us.

  I break away long enough to close the door and turn the lock. Then I shriek when Dillon lifts me. He isn’t tall—five nine to my five five—but he’s built like a wrestler rather than a baseball player. Or maybe it’s all the hours crouched behind the plate that’s made his thighs as strong as Roman columns. He carries me now as if I weigh nothing, laughing at my reaction as I grab on to his neck. The sound of his laugh is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever heard.