Die for You

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  “The point I’m trying to make,” she’s saying, “is that I’m no longer worried. What you’ve done for my son means so much.” The fine lines around her eyes deepen with her smile. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made him. And me.”

  I swallow, my throat still raw from last night. I have to look away from the approval shining in her eyes. “Actually, that’s what I’m here to talk about,” I begin. “Dillon isn’t…happy. He’s not really okay.”

  Fabric rustles and she leans forward on the chair. “Did something happen today?”

  “No,” I admit. In fact, it was almost surreal. Dillon handled all the ribbing about his hand, laughed louder than anyone when Spence brought him an apple at lunch. It was as if he believed his own story. The only real tension came from Jace, and Dillon didn’t seem to notice.

  Jace. He looked awful—his bruises brighter against the unnatural paleness of his face. His lip still cracked and swollen, so it was painful to watch him try to eat. His text inviting me to run was waiting when I woke up, but I could barely get ready for school, much less manage a run. Instead, when I got to history, he was waiting by the door, relief in his eyes when he saw me. “You okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “Did you…” He didn’t need to finish the question for me to know.

  “I didn’t break up with him,” I said. “I couldn’t. But it’s going to be okay.”

  “Emma—”

  I squeezed his wrist. “I’m going to take care of it.”

  By lunch, everything seemed oddly normal. Our only problem was where we should all meet up for prom pictures a week from Saturday.

  I realize Mrs. Hobbs is still waiting for an answer. “He’s been acting strangely the past few weeks,” I say. “Not like himself at all.”

  “In what way?” Mrs. Hobbs asks.

  “He gets angry. But not…normal angry…He…” She’s staring so intently I look down at my feet. At my beige sandals on the beige carpet. “He punched his elbow into his truck. He got into that fight with Jace.” I look up at her again. “You were there. You saw.”

  “It was a game. It was the heat of the moment.”

  “But it was Jace. His best friend.”

  “Friends get into scuffles all the time.”

  “It wasn’t a scuffle, Mrs. Hobbs.” Tears press behind my eyes. “He didn’t hurt himself last night slicing an apple. He did it on purpose. He cut his own hand until I promised not to go to Rome.”

  “Dear God.” The blood rushes from her face. Her hand covers her mouth.

  “And it’s not the first thing he’s done to hurt himself. He spilled wax on his arm.” Tears overflow with the relief of saying all of this out loud. I brush them away with my fingers. “He needs help, Mrs. Hobbs. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him like this before, and I was hoping you would know. That maybe he’s done something like this before—”

  “Hurt himself?” she says, interrupting. “No. Never.”

  “But he told me that you took him to a therapist.”

  She looks startled. “It was just an evaluation.”

  “You must have seen something. I thought maybe—”

  “It was precautionary. His father had just died.” Her hand flutters in the air and makes me think of a hummingbird, not sure where to land. “He was always sensitive, and to lose a father like that at the age of fifteen…of course he went through some…struggles…but he was fine.”

  “What does that mean? What kind of struggles?”

  “Nightmares. Some outbursts. The psychologist said he needed stability, a sense of safety. And he had that, and he was fine.” Her eyes narrow with accusation. “He was fine until you told him about that internship.”

  “What? No.” I fight for breath. I want to stand up and shout at her. I want to tell her she’s wrong and it’s not my fault. But deep down a part of me wonders, What if it is? For almost two years I’ve lived with the guilt of what happened with my family—what I saw, what I said, started it all. Have I somehow done it again? Would none of this be happening if not for me?

  “Dillon needs stability, Emma. He needs love. Understanding.” She moves from the chair to sit beside me. There’s mascara smeared under her eyes now and I can see all the tiny lines around her mouth. Her lips are trembling and there’s so much fear in her gaze I have to look away. Instead of regal Mrs. Hobbs, she’s suddenly a too-thin woman who looks dazed. “Do you love him, Emma? You’ve always said you love him.”

  “I do.”

  She reaches for my hand. Her skin is thin and cool—mottled with age spots. The bones pronounced. An old hand. A weak, grasping hand. I shudder and she grips me tighter. “When you first started dating, I warned him about you. Did he ever tell you? I said to him, ‘Be careful. She has no stable home life. She’ll break your heart.’ And you know what he said?”

  I shake my head.

  “He said, ‘No, Mom. She understands what it means to be left. She would never do that to me. The same way I would never do that to her.’ ”

  I pull my hand free and shift away from her on the couch. “I wasn’t trying to leave him. It was only an internship.”

  “Not for him,” she says. “For other boys, yes. Other boys would drive you to the airport and wish you well. But you didn’t choose other boys. You chose my son, and Dillon can’t survive another goodbye right now.”

  I nod emphatically. “That’s why he needs help.”

  She slides closer again. “And we’ll help him, however we can. But you have to be there for him. Give him time to work through this.”

  “What if it happens again?” I cry. “What if I can’t save him?”

  “You can.” Her voice is low and intense. “You have to love him that much.”

  I move to slide away from the pleading in her eyes, but I’m at the end of the couch, pressed against the arm.

  “You’re not like your mother, are you, Emma? You wouldn’t walk out on someone who loves you. Who needs you?”

  Her words sting like a slap across my face. How dare she—she doesn’t know the first thing about my mother. But she’s also chosen the perfect words. Because I’m not like my mother. I can’t be like her—not if I want to live with myself.

  “I’ll contact the doctor,” she says, and there’s new strength in her voice. “I’ll talk to him and we’ll make a plan. But for now, I need you to do this one thing. Stay. I know it’s a big thing. I understand that. But if he can regain his balance, then everything will fall into place. Can you do that, Emma? Can you help me take care of him? Both of us, together?”

  Slowly, I nod. Just this one thing. I can do this one thing for Dillon.

  She reaches forward and pulls me into a hug. I feel us, bone against bone. Two skeletons, brittle and breakable. “We’re family now, Emma. More than ever.”

  Fresh tears well up, hot and full. I don’t know if I’m crying for Dillon or for me or for the internship. No, not the internship. One day that will hurt, but right now I can stand to watch it die.

  Dreams don’t bleed.

  It’s all been arranged. I sent Mrs. Lyght an email last night so she’s expecting us before first period this morning. It won’t take long and then it’ll be over.

  “Emma!”

  Startled, I turn around and see Jace jogging through the parking lot toward me. I’m standing by the flagpole in front of the school, and it reminds me of the other morning when he was waiting for me. That feels so long ago. His backpack bounces against him loud enough to make a smacking noise, but he doesn’t slow down. The sky is gray behind him, the sun blocked by thick clouds. The air has that heavy feeling like a monsoon storm is brewing.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you. I read your essay about the serpent ring,” he says, breathing hard as he reaches me. “It’s killer, Em.”

  It takes me a minute to remember that I wanted a fresh set of eyes to read through my application, so I emailed it all to Jace on Monday before the baseball game. It’s like time
split in two from the moment Dillon pulled out that knife two days ago. Everything else is Before. And this is After. Jace, with a purple cheek and a split lip, is After.

  “I mean really good,” Jace says. “No way you don’t get this.”

  I glance out at the parking lot. Dillon dropped me up front and went to park. He likes the far corner—less chance of door dings. As if Jace knows who I’m looking for, his voice lowers and he says, “It’s fine, Em. We talked. We’re cool now.”

  “About the application,” I say. “Delete it.”

  “What do you mean, delete it?”

  “I’m not going to apply.”

  His face pales. “What? Why wouldn’t you? Your app is amazing. You have to turn it in.”

  “I’ve decided not to.”

  Above my head the flag is flapping and snapping in a stiff breeze. Jace steps closer, ducking his head so his brown eyes can really look into mine. “Even if you want to defer, you still need to—”

  “I’m pulling out,” I say sharply. “Dillon and I are going to tell Mrs. Lyght this morning.”

  His gaze shifts and I know Dillon must be striding toward us. “Is he making you do this?” He lowers his voice. “Emma, don’t.”

  “It’s done.”

  I turn as Dillon walks up and give him a smile. Leaves skitter over the pavement and around our feet. “Hey,” Jace says, barely meeting Dillon’s eyes. The tension is as heavy as the air, filled with the threat of a different kind of storm.

  “Hey,” Dillon replies.

  “Well.” Jace shifts his pack to the other shoulder. “I’ll let you guys go,” he says, then looks at me pointedly. “Run tomorrow?”

  “Emma’s driving in early with me,” Dillon says. “Friday, too.”

  I am?

  “Saturday?” Jace asks.

  I slide a hand around Dillon’s waist. “Okay. Sure.”

  Jace nods, hesitating as if he wants to say something else. But Dillon drapes an arm over my shoulder and tugs me into movement. “Later,” he says without turning.

  As we walk toward the main doors, I can feel Jace watching us and I wish I could stop and go back. Go back to Before…I’m so focused on that thought that at first I don’t really hear Dillon. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “What?” I tense beneath the weight of his arm.

  “You guys running together. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  My mouth drops open but I’m speechless. It feels like the alphabet is floating in front of my eyes and I have to pick my words carefully. “We’ve been running together for a year.”

  “But things are different now.”

  A tiny beat of fear pulses in my throat. “I thought you guys were okay.”

  “Yeah, we are.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  “Then—”

  “Just for a little while. Okay?” He tilts his head and gives me a little smile. “Will you do this one thing for me?”

  One thing. His mother’s voice echoes in my head. “I already told him I’d meet him Saturday morning, but that’ll be the last time. I’ll let him know then.”

  He drifts a kiss over my temple. “If that’s what you want.”

  A scream works up my throat and I bite it back.

  Dillon needs me right now. He needs to feel secure—shouldn’t I be able to give him that?

  —

  Mrs. Lyght smiles when we walk in, but I see the question in her eyes as she adjusts her glasses. “Good morning,” she says.

  Dillon looks around. He’s never been in here, and it’s a pretty cool room. Three walls are decorated with a timeline of the world’s history. It starts in the corner by Mrs. Lyght’s desk with TIME and EVENT and is rolled out like a long scroll of parchment with dates and places printed in black script. Above and below, she’s tacked up pictures of people and events that correspond to the times. My seat is in the front row but at the opposite side of the room, where the timeline ends. I sometimes daydream about what will come next. In a hundred years, what will be on the wall? Who will have been important enough to earn a spot?

  “You must be Dillon,” Mrs. Lyght says, and the future and the past dissolve into the present.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I’ve always been so proud to introduce Dillon as my boyfriend. I love the impressed look on people’s faces when they know that this smart, athletic guy with the compelling eyes and sexy smile is mine. Now I can barely meet Mrs. Lyght’s gaze.

  “I came to tell you that I’ve decided not to apply for the internship,” I say. I wince at the sound of her disappointed gasp. “Thank you,” I force myself to add. “For thinking of me. It means so much, but…”

  “But?” she asks.

  Dillon squeezes my fingers. “But I’ve decided to stay here next fall. I’ve already made so many plans.”

  “I see,” she says evenly. But the pinched look at the corner of her mouth says she doesn’t see at all. “Have you spoken to your father about this?”

  “Her father wants what Emma wants,” Dillon says.

  Tension crawls over my skin as they stare at each other.

  “Anyway,” I say. “Thank you again.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Lyght nods. “If that’s your decision, Emma, I’ll respect it. You know the application is not actually due until Monday, so if you change your mind—”

  “She won’t.” Dillon smiles as if he’s relaxed, but his fingers are vibrating against mine, pressing in and out like some kind of machine.

  The early bell rings, startling all of us. “I better get to my locker,” I say. “I’ll see you later in class.”

  Outside the room, Dillon and I both let out a breath. “She’s probably calling your father right now,” he says.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say numbly. “It’s done.”

  He pulls me into his arms as the hallway begins to fill. “I need to go,” I say.

  “I know that was hard for you.”

  “It’s okay.” I sound like a kindergarten teacher. “There will be other opportunities.”

  “I’m going to make it up to you.” He lets go and I step back. “You’ll still have history, but I’m going to give you the future, too.”

  “You don’t—”

  “Shh,” he says, cutting me off. He grins. “That’s a great line. Let me walk off to it.”

  He backs down the hall, his eyelids half closed. My beautiful boyfriend in jeans and a gray V-neck and a suggestive smile. I can hardly stand to look at him.

  It’s like a dust storm has passed and we’ve put all the furniture back, swept everything clean. The air is clear. But once you’ve seen what can happen, do you ever forget?

  I think of Mount Vesuvius and how the volcano destroyed entire cities. It wiped out thousands of lives, not once, not twice, but many times. Even today, Vesuvius is active and a million people live in Naples, Italy. Willingly. Knowing what they know. They live in its very shadow.

  I once asked Dad how people could do that. He got that dreamy look in his eyes as he said, “Behind every shadow lies the sun.”

  Jace is waiting when I get to the trail Saturday morning. His hair is mashed under a black cap, but I’d recognize his shoes anywhere—they’re the neon green ones from the day we all met.

  “You okay?” he asks as I jog up.

  It’s another cloudy day, but the sun is making an effort and hazy light streaks over the hills.

  “I’ve been better.” I tighten the rubber band around my ponytail. “I thought I looked like total hell, but that was before I saw you.”

  “You don’t like the color of my bruises?”

  The swelling of his lip has gone down but there’s a black stripe where it’s scabbed over, and the bruise across his cheek is softening from purple to a yellowish green. “Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I press on it to see if it still hurts.”

  I smile and start down the path at a slow jog. Jace slides in beside me, the smell of his soap so familia
r it’s like a part of the trail.

  “I’m listening,” he says. “In case, you know, you want to talk.”

  “Let’s see,” I say with fake cheeriness. “Should we talk about my dad, who’s been working for two weeks on a memory book for the woman who left him? Should we talk about how I have to deliver the book today and have lunch with my mom and her new family?” I drag in a tight breath. “Should we talk about my sister, who I’ve been dodging and who thinks it’s because of my dad but doesn’t know the half of it? Or how about my friend Marissa, who I’ve let down, again, and Sarah, who thinks I’m a crappy friend and as it turns out is right? Or how about the internship I just passed on? What should we talk about, Jace?” I sound as out of breath as if we’re sprinting and not jogging. I also sound bitter and whiny. I’m a little ashamed that I’m taking this out on him. He’s been a good friend, and the truth is I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  “Did I say talk?” Jace deadpans. “Because quiet is good. I like quiet.”

  I smile and let some of my tension go as my breath settles into an easier rhythm. “I love those shoes,” I say.

  “Good memories, huh?” I feel the smile in his words.

  “The best.”

  The mourning doves are up ahead again, crying, their brown chests just visible behind the leafy screen of the tree.

  “Why do they call them mourning doves?” I ask.

  “Probably because they’re the most hunted bird in America.”

  I turn to look at him, surprised. “Are they really? How do you know that?”

  “Dillon told me,” he says. “His father took him bird hunting a few times.”

  “Of course,” I mutter.

  “We have to talk about him, Emma.”

  “Do we?”

  Jace sighs. “He’s freezing me out. Pretends like everything is fine, but if I even mention your name, he cuts me off.”

  I duck to avoid an overhanging branch. “He doesn’t want me to run with you anymore.”

  “What?” He turns sideways to stare at me and then stops altogether. “Emma!”