Die for You

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  The words dig in to me exactly the way I’m sure she wants them to. Tired, I let out a loud breath. “And I don’t, is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you meant it.” I hang the dress carefully, not wanting to take out my frustration on the delicate fabric. I’m pretty good at avoiding conflict, and part of me knows that there’s nothing to be gained by arguing with Hannah. But right now I don’t really care. I tug on my black tee and turn to face her. “Why don’t we just get it all out there. All the bullshit at lunch the other day, the little comments you’ve been making. You don’t think I’m good enough for Dillon, and you never have.”

  She blinks, surprised, but then she puckers her lips and folds her arms across her chest. “It’s not a question of whether you’re good enough for him. It’s whether you’re good enough to him. Do you have any idea what this prom means to Dillon?”

  “It means a lot to me, too.” I flip my hair loose of the neckline, heat rising along with my pulse.

  “He’s already asked me ten different questions about things you might like,” she says. “He’s made lists—lists!”

  Someone taps on our door. “You almost done in there?”

  “No,” Hannah snaps. “Go away.”

  “Jeez,” the girl mutters.

  She waits for the footsteps to fade and then says in a softer voice, “I can’t believe you’d take this internship without even considering what it means to him.”

  “Yeah, you made that pretty clear the other day at lunch,” I say. “But I have considered him—I am. He’ll be fine with the separation if you don’t try to sabotage things.”

  She gives me a funny look. “You tell him you’re leaving for a year and you really want him to be fine with it?”

  “Not fine,” I say. “But he can miss me and still be supportive. This internship is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

  “And Dillon isn’t?”

  “Of course he is!”

  “Well, it might not seem like that, is all I’m saying. To Dillon, I mean.” She lifts a dress off the floor and pulls one of her flip-flops free.

  “Or you,” I counter. “It’s not exactly a mystery how you feel. How you think Dillon should feel.”

  “I don’t have to tell him how to feel.”

  “That’s what you were doing at lunch.”

  “Oh, please,” she says. She slaps at the trailing hems of more dresses, searching for her other shoe. “Everyone at that table knows Dillon doesn’t do well with goodbyes.”

  “It’s not goodbye when you’re coming back.”

  “It’s goodbye when you’re putting an ocean between you.” She drags the other shoe free of a discarded blue dress and slides them on. “I know that if I had a guy like Dillon, I’d think long and hard before I left.”

  “But you don’t.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Hannah’s cheeks flush a purple-red but she doesn’t lower her gaze. “He’s my friend, Emma. One of my best friends, and I’m worried about him.” She practically hisses the words at me. The din of the dressing room fades until it feels like just the two of us in this stupid square room—mirrors on two walls to reflect both of our flashing glares. “I know he seems strong, but he’s not. You weren’t here three years ago when his dad died. You don’t know how it was. There’s a lot”—her eyes dip down and then rise to lock on my gaze—“you don’t know.”

  Anger burns in the back of my throat. I hate these hints that she knows him so much better than I do. That she’s been there when I haven’t. She wants me to ask, but I won’t. I don’t need her to tell me about the feelings of my boyfriend. And before I can stop myself, I say, “Are you in love with him, Hannah?” My jaw is so tight I can barely get the words out. “Because it sounds like maybe you are.”

  She looks away, her ponytail falling over her shoulder so I’m looking at the stiffness of her back, the tight muscles running down her arm. I see her shoulders lift with a breath and then she turns back to face me. Though her cheeks are still flushed, her gaze holds mine, unapologetic. “Yeah, I was…but it was a long time ago. And he’s never felt the same way about me. Not even close.” She draws in a ragged breath, and for once there’s no drama. Just her expression, stark and vulnerable. “But he’s still my friend. One of my best friends, and I care about him. I want him to be happy.” She sighs. “And he is. With you. As happy as I’ve ever seen him, and if I give you a hard time, then that’s why.” Her voice turns fierce. “Because I don’t want you to screw it up and break his heart.”

  Emotion clogs my throat. I feel unsteady with surprise—and embarrassed that I misjudged her.

  “I want him to be happy, too,” I choke out.

  “Well, good,” Hannah says. She rolls her eyes, a dramatic gesture that doesn’t quite hide the shininess of tears. “Then I don’t know why you’re picking a fight.”

  A laugh hiccups from my still-tight throat. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  There’s another tap on the door. “You almost done in there?”

  “No!” we both shout at the same time.

  I smile and reach for the hanger of my dress. “Come on,” I say. “I’ll pay for this and then let’s try the boutique.”

  “I thought you had research to do?”

  “I do,” I say. “But I can’t let my friend show up to prom looking like something barfed up by the Cookie Monster.”

  “How’s it coming?” Dad asks later that evening as he flips on the office lights.

  I look up from his computer and then rub my eyes. When did it get dark? My head is swimming in facts about the ancient art of jewelry making. “Huh?”

  “You get too close to the screen. You always have.”

  I yawn and swivel the desk chair to look out the shutters, angling them up a little as I crane my neck to see the sky. It’sdark, which means I’ve been working since I got back from shopping four hours ago. My stomach gurgles, checking in and confirming that, yes, it’s past dinnertime. “I got a lot done,” I tell him. “I’ve pulled together all the facts for the catalog entries. And I really like how the essay turned out.”

  “That’s on the serpent ring?” Dad clears papers off the other chair and sits. Our fight the other night is forgotten, and he’s more like his old self lately. I know it’s because of the book that’s resting on the corner of his desk. The memory book. The key to unlocking Mom’s heart. He hasn’t seen Mom since parents’ weekend at U of A last September, but he’s started hinting that maybe her birthday this coming Saturday might be a good time to see her again.

  I still haven’t told him that she’s living with Henry. Lauren will kill me, but I’m not sure I want to. Dad is happy—why ruin that? And I think I’ve figured out a way to handle Mom’s birthday without the two of them seeing each other. Eventually he’ll find out the truth, but what good comes from telling him now? He’d just fall to pieces and I’d have to put him back together again. I don’t think I can. Since Dillon stormed off yesterday, I’m having a hard enough time just dealing with my own love life.

  “From what I’ve read,” I say, “whoever owned the serpent ring must have been very rich and of the highest status. The filigree work and the detail in the serpent’s head would have been very expensive.”

  Dad nods. “It would have likely been a woman’s ring. Men’s rings were most often functional—signet rings that displayed the seals of their families.”

  “Dad!” I lean forward.

  “What?”

  “Don’t help me!”

  He grins. “Can I at least help with your application for the university?”

  “It’s all done. I submitted the online app and sent in all the test scores they requested. I’m just waiting to find out what happens with the internship before I send in the essays and letters of recommendation.”

  “Well, you don’t leave much for your dad to do. At least I can feed you.”

 
; My stomach rumbles again, and now I can smell the onion and garlic. “Mmm, you made pasta?”

  “With mushroom sauce.”

  “Let me finish this up.”

  He nods, and though I expect him to leave, he doesn’t. He reaches for the memory book and pulls it onto his lap. “So have you spoken with your mom lately?”

  “Dad.” I angle my head toward the screen so my hair covers my face. “Can we not do this?”

  “Her birthday is in less than a week. Plus, your prom is coming up. I know she’d like to be here for all the girl stuff.”

  I click save on my research and close the screen. “She’s the one who chose where she wants to be—and it wasn’t with us.” I say it gently, but once the words are out, I find myself waiting, hoping.

  “Choice isn’t always that simple,” he says. “We make choices not because of what we want but because of what we think we need.”

  I nod, though I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

  He smooths a hand over the cover of the album. “I’ve been thinking more about it, and I’d like to go on Saturday and give this to her myself.”

  I close Bodies from the Ash a little more forcefully than I mean to. “We already talked about this, Dad. I said I would go.” The last thing I want to do is spend the day with Mom, but if I go, then Dad won’t insist on going himself. “You know it’s better if I bring her the book. She’ll be weird if you’re there.”

  “But once she sees this…” He smiles. “How can she look through this and not open her heart to me again?”

  He thumbs through the pages. I’ve always hurt for him—for the way Mom treated him. He’s been the victim in all of this, and I never understood how she could turn away when he wanted to work things out—when he was willing to do anything to keep our family together.

  But now, for the first time, I look at him with his needy eyes and his mouth hanging open and the nervous flutter of his fingers on the page…and I think of Mom. This book means everything to him, but how will it make her feel? Guilty? Trapped?

  My phone chimes. Startled, I look for it.

  “Dillon?” Dad asks as he closes the book. The name drips with disapproval. It has ever since the night Dillon slammed an elbow into his truck. Dad’s never come out and said he saw what happened, but he knows something isn’t right.

  I lift some papers and check behind the computer monitor. “This isn’t easy for him,” I say.

  “Is it easy for you?”

  I sigh because Dad isn’t going to understand no matter what I say. The phone chimes again and I spot the blue-swirl cover against the gray carpet. It’s good that Dillon is texting. Maybe it was the talk with Hannah or maybe it’s just the break this weekend and the fact that I’ve gotten a lot done on my project. I’m eager to make up with him and shift the focus back to prom. There’s still a huge chance I won’t get the internship and next year will happen exactly as Dillon and I planned.

  But when I flip the phone to see the screen, the text isn’t from Dillon.

  “It’s Jace,” I tell Dad. “He’s helping me with my catalog entries.”

  “I can help you with that.”

  “I know your kind of help. You’ll tell me to do it the way you do it and Dr. Abella will think my famous father did the work. Then someone else gets the internship.”

  I haven’t told Dad about the idea of deferment yet. So many things I’m not saying to so many people. Dad. Lauren. Marissa. Crap! I still haven’t called her back. Tonight—I’ll call tonight.

  “It’s fine to get a little help,” he says. “You’re only a high school senior. You can’t be expected to know all of this.”

  “Which is why I’m going to get help—from Mrs. Lyght.” I quickly text a reply and hit send. “Jace is going to meet me there in the morning. He’s got a coin catalog I want to ask her about.” And deferment. Though…I’m hesitating about it now. Does it make sense to bring it up tomorrow? Wouldn’t I be in a stronger position once Dr. Abella has seen my completed application? Assuming I do an amazing job and he’s impressed. Which is my plan.

  Something snaps. I turn toward the window. “Did you hear that?”

  Dad shrugs. “A wild rabbit, maybe? The cat from next door?”

  I slide closer to the shutters. It’s completely dark outside now and I can’t see much except plants outlined in the landscape lights. Still, a shiver of unease runs down my spine. I reach for the rod that controls the angle of the wooden slats and snap them shut all the way. Then I turn back to Dad. “Let’s have dinner.”

  I startle awake. My body jackknifes to a sitting position before I know what I’m doing. My heart is racing. Why? It’s dark in my room—a thick black soup my eyes can’t see through.

  My breath catches, cold in my throat, while I listen. For what? I don’t know what woke me. I strain against the darkness. A tiny click sounds to my left and I look down. The clock. The numbers have flipped to 2:00.

  That’s it—no other sound. My eyes adjust enough that I can see the room is empty. My heart slows and my breath quiets. I wish I had my cat, Cleo, now. I wish it was her jumping on my bed that had woken me. Her warmth settling beside me.

  It must have been a dream.

  I force myself to lie back, though I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. I glance at the clock again, and that’s when I see it. At first it’s just a shape—something there that shouldn’t be. Then the shape comes into focus—a dark curve resting on a small square sheet of paper. A dark curve with a bow. My heart trips over itself as I flip on the small lamp. A circle of yellow glows over the nightstand.

  It’s hair. A short, thick piece of hair tied in a red velvet ribbon. It’s Dillon’s hair.

  Oh God.

  And mine!

  Jerkily, I drop it, my fingers like sticks. My eyes shoot to the window. The shutters are closed—or are they? Are they closed but not latched?

  My fingers are shaky as I weave them through my hair. My cut hair. He was here. In my room.

  He cut my hair while I was sleeping.

  I fold my knees to my chest and wrap my arms tight around them. He means this to be romantic. A grand gesture. That’s what this is. We watched a movie once, one of those old black-and-whites that we found flipping through the channels late at night. The woman gave a lock of her hair to her lover and he carried it with him in a book. I remember telling Dillon, “How romantic.”

  But this?

  Panic beats inside my chest. Acid fills my throat.

  He loves me. I know he loves me. Oh God, how can love make my skin crawl?

  I open the tiny drawer in my nightstand and sweep the hair inside. Away. As the paper flutters, I see that it’s a note with four words written in red marker.

  “Well, if it isn’t two of my favorite students.” Mrs. Lyght smiles at us as she rocks back in her desk chair.

  “You’re only saying that because we brought you coffee,” Jace says. He holds up the Styrofoam cup.

  She straightens. “That’s for me?”

  The bribe was all his idea, but when Mrs. Lyght’s smile turns into a surprised grin, I nod as if I ground the beans myself. Not that the coffee is still hot.

  Jace was waiting by the flagpole when I drove up, ten minutes late. The parking lot was mostly empty, though there was a steady stream of moms in SUVs dropping off kids by the front gate. I nearly ran down one of them cutting through a spot. Jace watched me jog over, his head bent against the sun, one hand shading his eyes. When he kept staring even after I reached him, I flushed, wondering if my worries were clear on my face—or if it was just the puffy eyes from my sleepless night.

  “What?” I snapped, more defensively than I meant.

  “Just…catch your breath,” he said. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the first warning bell rings.”

  What a stupid expression…catch your breath. As if it had run off somewhere. As if it were playing hide-and-seek. As if it weren’t trapped inside the little drawer of my bedsi
de table along with a ribbon of hair.

  “You have no idea how much I need a decent cup of coffee this morning,” Mrs. Lyght is saying. “Mondays,” she adds, staring at the clutter on her desk.

  There are piles of papers, and I’m guessing one of them is my quiz on turning points of the Civil War. As distracted as I’ve been these past weeks, I don’t think I’m going to want that one back.

  She takes the cup from Jace and gestures for him to pull up another chair. “I got Emma’s email about having some questions, but she didn’t say you’d be here, too.”

  “I’ve been helping a little with the research.”

  “I hope that’s okay,” I say nervously.

  “Of course.” She smiles softly at Jace. “I think it’s a very nice thing.”

  Her voice rings odd to me—the words, maybe. Or the tone. But Jace is already shrugging that off as he pulls out his coin catalog and sets it on the desk facing Mrs. Lyght.

  She takes a sip of coffee and runs her hand over the cover. “Did you go out and buy this?” She looks from Jace to me.

  “No, I’ve had it for years.”

  “A catalog of ancient coins?”

  “It’s a pirate thing,” Jace says.

  “Don’t ask,” I add, and Mrs. Lyght laughs.

  He opens the book to the page he’s marked and I ask Mrs. Lyght about the similarity in the coins. “I think it’s Fortuna,” I say, “but the back is so worn down that I don’t have enough evidence to be certain.”

  She adjusts her glasses as she studies the entry. “It happens all the time,” she says. “Rarely is there complete certainty. Just present your evidence and your best guess based on the available information.”

  We spend another five minutes talking about how to format my catalog entries, and then the warning bell rings. My head is crammed with all the new information, but my heart feels a million pounds lighter. I can have the whole thing finished before the start of today’s baseball game.

  “Anything else?” she asks as we gather our packs.